by Sophia Gray
But even though it was one of her favorite stories, she found that this time, she could barely focus. She was too nervous and excited about her part in Brock's plan.
It seemed like it would work, and based on Brock's confident tone when he outlined it for her, she had no problem believing he'd executed similar schemes on countless occasions and they'd all gone smoothly. He'd assured her if it were truly dangerous, he wouldn't dream of involving her. And she trusted him, mostly because of the trust he'd shown in her by confiding that he wasn't who he'd pretended to be.
Still, she'd never done anything like this before, and the thought of getting caught gave her a scary thrill so intense that it rendered her light-headed and nauseous. There were times when seriously considering the risks—and the rewards—made her feel like she might actually faint. If they pulled it off, her father would be utterly ruined, and she'd never have to see him or her mother ever again.
But if they failed...
The photos of Daniel floated to the surface of her mind, no matter how much she tried to push them back down. Brock's fate would surely be something like that. Would her punishment be the same? Lighter, since she was a member of the family?
Or even worse, since she'd betrayed it?
Maggie tried to bury herself in the book again, but no matter what position she was in, her body didn't feel comfortable. Her own skin seemed strange to her somehow, like her body belonged to someone else—she tried to make sense of these vague and disquieting sensations, but understanding seemed just beyond her reach. Jitters crawled through her body in waves like armies of insects, and there were frequent, intense cramps in her abdomen. It felt like she was getting sick, but she was sure these were just symptoms of anxiety.
The book brushed against her breasts as she shifted positions again, and she was surprised to discover they were sore. She frowned. Had Brock pinched them or bitten them the last time he'd made love to her? She couldn't remember, but even if he had, it seemed odd that they'd still feel so tender.
And the more she thought about it, the more she was sure he hadn't actually touched her breasts at all.
There was something else, too. Ever since Brock had come through her window three nights ago, it seemed like her parents were looking at her differently. Her father barely spoke to her, and her mother barely looked at her. It was another reason she'd sequestered herself in her room so completely. Their eyes seemed hard, flat, and suspicious whenever she was in the room.
But surely, they couldn't know what Brock was planning, or that Maggie was involved? If they did, they'd have confronted her about it instead of giving her the cold shoulder.
Wouldn't they?
Maggie shook her head, trying to clear it. These thoughts were tying her brain in knots.
No...not her brain. Her stomach.
She tossed the book aside and got up, running to the bathroom down the hall. She barely made it to the toilet before she threw up, sinking to her knees on the chilly porcelain tiles.
As she flushed the toilet and brushed her teeth, she took this as confirmation that she was coming down with something. That made sense—stress, both positive and negative, could lower the immune system enough for some stomach bug to slip in. And between her delight at the prospect of running away with Brock and her dread of being caught, this was definitely the most stress she'd ever felt in her life.
Then she made a mental list of her symptoms, leaned over, and vomited again.
No, she thought. No, no, no. This can't be happening. Not now. Not in the middle of all this.
Maggie had often fantasized about having a baby—in a different world, as a different person from a different family. The father would be someone she chose for herself, who she loved with all her heart. They'd give their baby all of their adoration and attention, filling its life with joy. They'd play with it and hold it and kiss it and listen to it, and they'd do anything to help it make its dreams come true, no matter what. Deep down, Maggie believed the only real way to erase the damage her parents had done to her would be to ensure that when she had a child of her own, it would be happy, and free to live its own life.
But in those fantasies, she was married to the baby's father, and her life was stable and sunny. In real life, she was involved in a conspiracy to defraud her own father, and she was about to run off into a perilous and uncertain future with a wandering con man.
The circumstances were hardly ideal.
And when she told Brock, what then? Given the choices he'd made in life, she had a hard time believing he'd be delighted by the news. It was unlikely that someone who made a living roaming the country and scamming people would be eager to settle down and start a family. What if he decided to leave her behind once the con was over?
She thought of the look in his eyes when he'd told her that he came from a background that was similar to hers. She wished she had pressed him for more information. It would make it easier for her to believe that he really would take her away from all this, even if he knew she were...
God, could she even bear to think the word, let alone say it?
...pregnant. Even if he knew she were pregnant.
Stop being silly, she chided herself. Even you don't know you're pregnant. Not really. The signs seem to point to “yes,” but plenty of other women have probably been wrong before.
For her part of the plot against her father, Maggie would have to sneak out of the house anyway. Not easy, but not wholly impossible, either—she'd managed it a time or two, when it was important. Before she went to the address Brock had written down for her, she could duck into a drugstore and buy a pregnancy test.
Then she'd be sure. Then she could tell him, if she needed to.
Maggie washed her mouth out, splashed some cold water on her face, and returned to her bedroom. As she passed her parents' room, her mother glared out at her for a moment before slamming the door.
She got back into bed, picked up the book, and stared at the words on the pages without reading them.
Chapter 27
Brock
Brock stood on the waterfront at the end of St. Peter Street, watching the steamboats paddle back and forth in the Mississippi River.
He wondered if he'd ever be able to visit New Orleans again once this con was over. He supposed he might not, and the thought made him sad as he remembered all of the trips his family had taken to The Big Easy when he was a kid. Since then, he'd seen just about every city America had to offer. Some were beautiful, some were thrilling, some were dangerous—but none of them had ever seduced him the way New Orleans had, with its jazz and voodoo and tall tales. To him, it would always be the most magical place in the world.
But as long as he had Maggie with him wherever he went, he figured he could still be happy.
Crack was positioned at Brock's right side, and when Brock saw him shift his considerable weight, he turned and saw Turo and Adamo walking toward them. Turo was still disheveled, but he didn't look confused and unfocused anymore.
If anything, he looked pissed as hell.
I don't like that, Brock thought. Whatever gave him that look, it definitely wasn't part of the plan. And this is too late a stage to start dealing with surprises.
“Thank you for meeting with me,” Brock said. “I have news.”
“Oh? And what might that be? Some new complication that will require me to blindly hand over even more of my money?”
Well, that didn't sound good, for starters.
Brock frowned, trying to look confused. “I'm not sure why you would say something like that, but no. I heard from the Burmese militia members last night. They've released my father. He's finally coming home.”
“I'm so happy for you,” Turo replied in a steely voice.
Brock slowly allowed his expression to shift from confusion to irritation. “There's a tone in your voice that I'm having some trouble deciphering, Turo. Have I done something to upset you?”
“Several nights ago, my wife saw you sneaking out o
f Maggie's bedroom.”
Shit.
Brock hoped Turo's cell phone would ring soon. He felt like it already should have happened, but he couldn't risk checking the time to be sure.
“Don't try to deny it,” Turo continued. “I should have been suspicious when you insisted on spending a few hours alone with her after your first date, but after the shoot-out with the bikers, I was too turned-around to think anything of it. You seemed like such a gentleman, a man of honor. And now my wife tells me she's heard Maggie getting sick in the mornings. You've betrayed me and defiled my daughter, you lousy, filthy Judas.”
Brock's mind raced. It was bad enough that Turo had found out about them. But could Maggie really be pregnant?
Of course she could, shithead, his mind answered. You didn't wear a condom, remember? You took Sex Ed in high school. You knew what could happen, and you went charging in anyway.
Please, God, let Turo's cell phone ring. Now. Right now. Please, please, please.
“Don Ricci...you're right,” Brock said, trying to sound humble and contrite. “I won't deny it. I've had an inappropriate relationship with Margherita behind your back, and your anger is entirely justified. But you must believe me when I tell you this hasn't been some meaningless fling for me. I'm in love with your daughter, sir, and that's the truth. Now that this business with my father is over, I want to marry her. I want it more than I've ever wanted anything in my life. And if she is, indeed, with child, I will dedicate my life to making sure your grandchild is the happiest and most beloved kid in the entire world.”
Brock couldn't be sure, but he thought he saw Turo's eyes soften, just a little. Before he could say anything else, Turo's phone chirped. He checked the caller ID, but Brock already knew what it would show him: “UNKNOWN CALLER.”
Turo answered, putting the phone to his ear. “Whoever you are, you're not supposed to have this number.”
He listened for a moment.
Then his eyes bulged in terror, and his jaw went slack.
“Yes,” Turo whispered hoarsely. “Yes, he's with me.” After another moment, he lowered the phone, staring at Brock. “They know you're here. They want me to put them on speakerphone. They...Jesus, they say they've got Maggie.”
Brock allowed all the breath to leave his body, adopting the expression of someone who'd been punched in the chest. Inwardly, he celebrated. The call had come at just the right moment.
Turo hit the button on the phone, holding it out in front of him.
“Who is this?” Brock asked.
A high, reedy voice with a clipped Asian accent emanated from the phone. “This is Commander Bogyoke of the Kokang Independence Army, Mr. De Luca. Surely, you remember me from our discussions regarding your father.”
“What is this?” Brock demanded. “I paid your ransom, and you've released him. Our business is concluded.”
“Perhaps,” the voice admitted, sounding amused. “Perhaps it has. But once we became aware that Mr. Ricci was the one holding the abundant purse strings which secured your father's freedom, we decided that our business with him had just begun. So I have traveled to New Orleans with several of my officers, and now we have Ricci's daughter in our possession.”
“Bullshit,” Brock snapped. “I know how your organization operates, bluffing big and shaking people down with your terrorist tactics. I'm really supposed to believe you dirty jungle bastards traveled over a thousand miles across the world just to grab some girl for ransom?”
Bogyoke laughed. “We have managed to fight back against the full force of the Burmese government and their military for over a decade without being captured or killed, Mr. De Luca, despite being dramatically outmanned and outgunned. Do you truly believe it is beyond our capabilities to purchase a couple of airplane tickets to Louisiana?”
“Fine, then prove it. Put her on the phone.”
“Very well.”
There was a pause, and then Maggie's voice came through the phone. She was sniffling and sobbing, and her voice was ragged with panic. “Dad? Gabe? Can you hear me?”
Brock tried to look shocked and horrified, noting Turo's expression as he did. Turo's eyes were full of tears, and the muscles in his face sagged. His face was as white as his hair.
“No,” he whined. “Not my baby, please. Not my only child.”
“We're here, Maggie.” Brock tried to put a heroic, take-charge edge in his voice. “Can you tell us where you are?”
“They...they have a blindfold on me, and...God, they've hurt me so bad...they keep hitting me, and they broke two of my fingers...they...they say if you don't pay them, they're gonna...do things to me...I'm so scared, I've never been so scared, please, get me out of here...”
Bravura performance, Brock thought. This girl's a natural. Maybe once this is all over, she'll make a good con artist. He felt a sudden burst of newfound pride and affection. She was beautiful, she was smitten with him, she was dynamite in the sack...but best of all, she was smart.
“We'll get you out of there, sweetheart,” Turo insisted. “I promise, whatever it takes, we won't let them hurt you anymore.”
Bogyoke spoke again. “The price is fifteen million American dollars. You will meet us in Metairie Cemetery tonight at ten o'clock, in the mausoleum marked with the name 'Fournier.' Only you and Mr. De Luca are invited, and you are both to come unarmed. If any of these instructions are not followed, the girl will be made to suffer a series of unspeakable violations before she dies. Do we understand each other?”
“Yes,” Brock said. “We understand. We'll be there.”
“I'd like to hear it from Mr. Ricci, too, if you don't mind.”
“Of course.” Turo was weeping openly now. “Anything. Just please don't hurt my little girl.”
There was a click, and the line went dead.
“You're not going in there without me,” Adamo said immediately.
“Look, I know you're a tough guy,” Brock assured him. “No one's disputing that. But you heard what they said. If they see someone else with us, the deal is off. Bogyoke wasn't fooling around when he said his rebels have been fighting the army in Myanmar for years. These aren't a bunch of goombahs in silk shirts we're dealing with. They're hardened soldiers. They don't value life, not even their own.” He turned to Turo. “Can you get the cash together in time?”
“I suppose I can,” Turo replied in a small voice. “But after the fifteen million I've already paid...I'll have to use everything I've got. All my savings, all my businesses, all the money the crews who work for me have brought in, everything I own. My entire operation will be ruined. I'll have nothing left. Nothing.”
“We can't worry about that right now. The only thing that's important is making sure Maggie is safe. After that, my family can keep yours afloat until the heroin shipments start coming in. With everything you've done for us, it's the least we can do.”
“I can set up a sniper rifle nearby,” Adamo said. “Fire at them from cover.”
“You're not listening,” said Brock. “These are jungle commandos we're up against, trained in guerrilla tactics from the time they can crawl. Whatever you can think of, believe me, they've already thought of it.” He addressed Turo again. “As long as we do what they say, everything should turn out fine. Just meet me outside the gates of the Metairie Cemetery a few minutes before ten. Make sure you bring the full amount, because that's the first thing they'll check. I promise you, Turo...we'll get your daughter back.”
The look of pathetic gratitude on Turo's face was almost enough to make Brock feel sorry for him.
Almost.
Chapter 28
Brock
Brock gave the secret knock, and Maggie let him into the warehouse, smiling. “How'd I do?”
“You were perfect.” He kissed her, ignoring the dirty looks from the bikers behind her. “Are you sure you never worked a con before? Because seriously, wow. I'm in on it, and you almost convinced me!”
She laughed. “Come in. Everyone's getting ready f
or the big finale.”
Brock followed her inside. Hammer was in his black commando gear again, except the skull mask had been replaced with a balaclava. Brock leaned in to inspect Hammer's face and saw that his skin had been painted an olive hue, and his eyes had been given a vague almond shape.
“Nice,” Brock commented. “As long as the mask stays on, it should fool Turo.”
“I wasn't exactly planning on whipping it off in the middle of the deal,” Hammer grunted. Clearly, he was still angry. It didn't surprise Brock, but it still stung.
A few feet away, Ben worked on Greg's makeup. He'd fitted a convincing bald cap and added a long scar to Greg's face, and he was in the process of applying a short gray Fu Manchu mustache. Greg wore a camo ensemble.
