No, they knew Drake would never give up looking for his sons and they intended to be there when he found them.
The thought filled Drake with insurmountable dread.
Sighing heavily, he sat behind the desk and pulled up his computer through the hidden compartment in the desk.
It was a security feature which Drake found insufferably annoying as it took at least sixty seconds for the flat screened monitor to appear.
He took a sip of his scotch while he waited and cringed slightly.
When did I become a man who drinks 100-year-old single malt? What ever happened to drinking Bud and watching the Huskies play the Buckeyes?
He didn’t remember Drake Conway, husband and neighbor of Bob anymore.
He was starting to feel very old suddenly.
Sitting back, he opened his personal email and read through the almost one hundred new notifications.
The same messages, charities asking for donations, politicians asking for campaign pledges, colleagues seeking his assistance in open cases but Drake’s eyes scanned over everything, landing on the nameless, origin-less email sitting half way through the screen, as he knew it would be.
Shakily, Drake reached for his glass and took a sip before clicking on his mouse and opening the message.
How about this? It read.
He knew who it was from, and he steeled himself for more disappointment.
Drake took a deep breath and played the video, the hairs on his arms beginning to rise as he stared at the man on screen.
The man lounged against a retaining wall, drinking a bottle of beer, his seaweed colored eyes scanning the party indifferently.
Another man entered the frame, pushing the original playfully.
“You’re a party pooper at your own birthday party!” the newcomer declared. Drake’s heart stopped entirely as he leaned forward to stare into the screen, studying every angle of both men’s faces.
“You’re having enough fun for both of us,” the sullen one replied. “Let me enjoy my peace and quiet.”
The closer Drake’s face got to the computer, the more his pulse began to race as he stared at the twin boys, both in their late twenties.
Could it be? Have Zander and Aiden been found finally?
“You’re boring,” the cheerful man declared, shrugging his shoulders and spinning to leave.
“Happy birthday, Zach and Ari!” someone yelled from out of range. One twin waved while the other grunted in response.
Drake could not breathe.
Their names were Zach and Ari, similar to Zander and Aiden. They had the same pale green eyes of his twins, of all his boys. The age was right. There was one stoic and one playful in personality, just as his boys had been.
Yet Drake knew inherently that the men he watched were not his children.
He sank back into his chair, the life depleting from his body.
How many videos had he seen over the years? How many driver’s licenses and security camera screenshots had fallen into his lap?
All of them had potentially been Ryder, Xavier or the twins but not one had proven so.
Did Vance lie to me? Did he send them overseas so I would not go looking? Did they die in the attack and he wanted to spare me?
Drake had no way of knowing, as the man who held the answer to that question was dead.
But Elise is not.
Slowly, Drake raised his head, shocked that he had not thought of it before.
There had not been a shred of paperwork pertaining to the Conway boys’ whereabouts when Vance had died.
Drake had lived in constant fear that Oculus had stolen the information when they had murdered his friend all those years ago but as time passed, Drake could still feel that his sons were very much alive wherever they were.
Even so, he had lived in a state of limbo, never truly knowing until the phone had rung earlier that day.
The Contact had spoken for the first time in years.
There had been another Oculus attack. In Berlin, this time.
Oculus was still searching for something or they would not have made themselves known.
If Oculus had never discovered the boys’ whereabouts when they killed Vance, he must not have documented their movements. But he likely told someone. Like Elise, his wife.
He nodded slowly and swiveled in his chair to stare out of the back window of his office.
Night had fallen into an eerie inky blackness which seemed accentuated in the silence of his surroundings.
He wondered what the boys were doing, if they had any idea who they were or what they were capable of yet.
They must know, Drake thought, a mixture of exhilaration and fear overcoming him.
He should have been there to guide them.
It was not too late, provided they were still alive...and had not conformed with Oculus.
Shirley pulled a knife out and began to cut the pie in pieces and Drake was suddenly overcome with a sense that he had been there before.
Oh no, he thought, his heart beginning to thud dangerously in his chest.
A strange feeling began to emanate through Drake and time slowed as he watched the scene unfolding before him.
Deja vu.
Fear gripped his heart and he backed up the chair, rising to his feet as the doorbell rang.
“Who could that be?” Shirley asked, glancing at the grandfather clock in the corner.
Drake opened his mouth to respond, panic sweeping over his body as he reached for the twins, snatching them from their chairs. Instantly they began to wail in protest as their father kicked over the table.
“Don’t answer it!” he cried out as his wife hurried toward the front door. She turned to stare at him in stunned surprise.
It was too late.
The door flew inward and they drew in, like a swarm of buzzards on a corpse. Their leader smiled coldly at Drake, raising his weapon to fire once between his wife’s eyes, ending her scream before it had a chance to start.
Drake had no chance to think, only react, throwing the twins into Ryder’s arms as he scooped Xavier from his chair.
Their wailing filled his ears as he reached into his ankle holster and began firing at the half dozen men dressed only in black.
His bullets did not slow them and they drew closer as the children took cover beneath the buffet, quaking in fear.
When the first round hit him, Drake knew that it was his fault. He had brought a plague on his house when he had been warned time and again about the consequences.
His shoulder was on fire but it did not stop him from pulling the trigger again and again, hoping to take out at least one of them.
One less of them is one less threat, he thought as more ammunition riddled his body, but he knew he was outnumbered and outsmarted.
He had lied to his sons.
He could not protect them. He had unwittingly brought danger directly to their doorstep.
And the children would never be safe again.
He began to topple, his face falling toward the upturned table but some how he did not crash to the floor.
As if in a dream, he turned to look at Xavier whose liquid eyes seemed to penetrate his, the small face reflecting fear and confusion. Drake found himself suspended momentarily, as Oculus closed in on them until suddenly, Xavier wrenched his eyes away, dropping his father unceremoniously to the floor.
“No more hiding, Dray-ke,” the leader rasped, his face inches from Drake’s as he raised his pistol to shoot him between the eyes.
Suddenly, the leader’s head exploded into a million pieces, splaying blood and brain matter about the room.
In slow motion, Drake turned to watch his children, Ryder and Xavier were now in the arms of a soldier, while the twins sat cowering beneath the buffet.
He was losing consciousness, willing himself to heal as he had done so many times before but there were too many wounds.
Ryder’s dark head tilted and he stared up at the man gripping his arm.
Again, there was a splash of red against the room, the head of the soldier holding the older boys was suddenly…missing. As the twins shrieked in terror, Xavier seemed to study the situation. He looked terrified and in control at the same time. Confused, and yet thoughtful. His eyes squinted slightly as he regarded the scene.
The others froze in their spots, disabled by the three-year-old who had stopped them in their tracks.
A cold harsh reality seemed to settle into the militia as they realized that they were about to be overpowered by two children.
Drake’s eyes began to close, but not before he cried out to the boys silently.
Don’t stop fighting! Don’t let them take you! They are Oculus and you must fight against them!
He had no way of knowing if they heard his last words, before he faded into blackness.
He woke in a cold sweat, something he had long ago learned to expect.
The clock read four thirteen a.m.
Seventeen minutes before my alarm, Drake thought ruefully. Not that it mattered; sleep was always a fleeting concept with him.
The nightmare was not a nightmare. Not really. It had happened, and it could never be forgotten, regardless of how much time had passed.
It replayed over in his mind while he slept, as if it had only just occurred.
He threw his muscular legs over the side of the bed and pulled himself up from the lonely California King bed.
It was ridiculous to have such a large mattress for a man who had never gotten over the loss of his wife, yet the interior decorator had insisted that anything less would not fit the room and Drake had not bothered to argue. He had bigger battles to fight.
He made his way out of the back room, through the sitting area of the bedroom and opened the double doors leading to the hallway.
Heading down the floating staircase, he debated between warm milk and scotch.
Maybe both, he mused.
Slipping into the kitchen, he pulled open the stainless-steel fridge and pulled out a carton of milk. As he reached for a glass, he began to laugh.
Why am I reaching for a glass? He asked himself. I live alone. No one else drinks from this carton and no one else ever will. I am alone and have been for decades. When will I accept that the boys are gone, that I will never learn of their whereabouts?
His chuckle turned into choked sobs and he lowered himself onto a bar stool at the kitchen island, staring at the milk blankly.
It is time to let go. I cannot defeat Oculus alone and there has been no solid sign of the children. I am living day to day in an uncertain state of madness and fear.
He blinked to stave off the torrent of tears threatening to course down his cheeks and opened the carton, putting the cardboard to his lips.
Wherever you are, sons, I have never stopped loving you, he thought mournfully, a silent toast and tribute to them.
As he went to pour the cold liquid down his throat, a chiming noise caught his attention.
Drake lowered the carton, his eyebrows rising.
It was his cell phone, ringing in the library.
Sliding off the seat, he hurried to catch the call, wondering who would be trying to reach him at that hour of the morning.
Nothing good can come of this, he thought grimly, snatching up the cell from his desk.
The number was unknown and Drake felt his palms grow sweaty.
“Yes?”
There was a long silence and gooseflesh prickled Drake’s skin as he waited. Someone was on the other end, someone important. It was like the quality of the silence imparted a certain authority.
“I know you are there,” Drake said flatly. “Tell me what you want.”
“I have found your son.”
The news sent a wave of dizziness through Drake. His heart stuttered and his breathing stopped altogether.
“Are you there?” The Contact asked.
“Yes,” Drake breathed. “Which one?”
“The oldest one.”
Ryder.
Drake’s eyes closed as he conjured the image of his dark-haired boy. This time, the tears could not be stopped as they began to flow down his cheeks.
“Are you sure this time?” Drake asked, forcing himself to keep his composure. How many times had he heard those words over the past years, only to be sorely disappointed by the outcome.
“It is him.”
“How can you be sure?” Drake demanded, refusing to allow his hopes to be raised by another false lead.
There was a mirthless chuckle.
“You will see,” The Contact replied evasively.
Drake paused, his heart beginning to hammer in his chest. The Contact had definitive proof. Drake had never heard him sound so sure of himself.
“Where is he?”
Again, The Contact laughed humorlessly.
“You’ll see. I will be in touch.”
Chapter Three
Istanbul, Turkey – Two Weeks Ago
“Excuse me, dost, do you have a light for my cigarette?”
The Turkish man turned his head lazily to stare at him and nodded without enthusiasm. Straightening from his languid pose against the side of a building on a deserted corner, he pulled a silver Zippo lighter from the depths of his jeans.
“Tesekkurler dost.”
The Turk returned his lighter to his pocket and stared at the non-native with a certain skepticism.
“You are not from here,” he commented in English. “You are American.”
Quinn shook his head, inhaling the cigarette in a long, slow drag.
“No,” he lied. “I am Canadian. Living in Istanbul.”
A wry, cynical smile appeared on his face.
“Yes?” he asked. “What do you do?”
“I am a head hunter,” Quinn replied conversationally. “I work for a major company searching for people who are beneficial to our cause.”
“And what cause would that be?” the Turk asked disinterestedly.
Quinn stepped forward, butting out the cigarette on Morcan’s unsuspecting neck. The American’s gloved hand held the Turk’s neck lightly at a slight tilt.
“The greater good,” Quinn replied, pulling a syringe from his pocket and inserting it in the fresh wound. Morcan’s facial expressions changed throughout the assault, but his body did not react.
Then Morcan’s muscles went loose and his eyelids drooped. He slumped slightly against Quinn. Effortlessly, Quinn propped him up and lead him through the streets.
Morcan weighed more than he recalled but it didn’t matter. He was well-equipped to deal with the chubby Turk and there wasn’t far to go.
If he had not been so tired, he would have simply forced Morcan to follow him through the streets but the travels had taken their toll on the soldier and he wanted to save his mental strength. He knew how dangerous it could be to run on empty, leaving himself exposed.
Quinn had been looking tirelessly for the drug trafficker for over three months, Morcan managing to evade his usual hotspots. It had been evident that someone had forewarned the seasoned criminal he was being sought again.
“Hey! You!”
Quinn cringed as he saw the police walking down the narrow street of the red-light district, their flashlights shining at him.
Great. You can never find a cop around here when you need one but just when you’re abducting someone, they’re like mosquitoes…
It was nearing dawn and very late for tourists to be wandering the potentially dangerous streets of Istanbul.
“Good evening,” Quinn said calmly in Turkish. “How are you gentlemen?”
They lowered the flashlight marginally and eyed the pair closely.
“It is very nearly morning,” the smaller cop replied. “And hardly a time for a foreigner to be dragging along a body.”
Quinn chuckled.
“I feel the same,” he agreed. “But Asam called me, drunk as can be, from the Blue Moon and the women did not want to tuck him in for the night. As you can see, h
e is not an easy man to move.”
There was a tense silence as the police officers assessed his story.
“Where are you taking him?”
“I will bring him back to my hotel. His wife has threatened unpleasant things if he should be caught again in the brothels and what can I say? I am a peaceful man.” Quinn grinned and shrugged, readjusting Morcan on his shoulder. “Of course, gentlemen, I would be grateful if you wanted to take over the task and bring him home. She has a vicious temper and is likely to shoot the messenger. I have been on the wrong side of several frying pans, I’m afraid.”
He flashed them a charming smile and noted the uncertain looks they exchanged.
“Oh, but don’t worry! I doubt that Fatima will harm you fine gentlemen; especially with the newborn there.”
The police officers snorted and shook their heads in unison, envisioning the wrath of a new mother whose drunk husband had just arrived home from a cathouse at dawn.
“I think not,” the tall one answered curtly. “Get him off the streets before you are met with trouble that is not his wife.”
“Are you sure…?” Quinn asked, his eyes wide and pleading.
“Get going!” they snapped in unison.
“Yes, sirs,” he replied with a resigned sigh. “Have a good night.”
The cops continued their beat toward the brothels and Quinn idly wondered if they were going to check with Alina and confirm his story.
He did not have time to worry about it as he half-dragged the bulky man toward the center of town. He would be gone before they could find him if his story was proved false.
It had taken much longer than he had expected for Morcan to show.
They better not be sleeping when I arrive, he thought grimly, trying not to grunt as he continued to lug Morcan along. I will not wake them pleasantly.
Suddenly, the man stirred and Quinn tensed.
An elbow flew up inconspicuously, landing squarely on the Turk’s jaw and Morcan was still once more.
Soon, they were at their destination, Quinn kicking in the door to the back entrance. All was unnaturally still but he could sense the others inside.
Instinctively he stopped, his pupils growing accustomed to the inky darkness.
Hard Instincts Page 3
