The Southern Comfort Series Box Set

by Clark O'Neill, Lisa

  After concluding her business with the dispatcher Kathleen dropped the radio. She slid her hand to Anthony’s carotid. His pulse was strong, thank God. She risked a glance, saw the nasty gash along his left temple.

  Nearly had a heart attack when her cell phone trilled against her hip.

  It was the special ringtone she’d set for Sadie’s cell. Back when they’d been awaiting another kidnapper-orchestrated call, they wanted to make sure they had plenty of warning. It hadn’t sounded before because Sadie’s last call had been from a payphone.

  Because Brady Marshall had been in possession of her cell.

  Which meant she had little doubt as to who’d just taken a shot at them.

  “Hello,” she said without ceremony. The noise outside had grown to chaotic levels. Blue and red lights flashed as splintered shadows though broken glass, meaning the cavalry was at hand.

  The bastard was trapped, and he knew it. But typical of vermin, he’d try to chew his way out.

  “Detective Murphy. I trust you’re not too badly injured.”

  “I’m still kicking,” she told him coolly. And depressed the button on the radio so that Dispatch could listen in. “I would inquire after your own health but it’s already apparent I wouldn’t like the answer.”

  His chuckle made her temper flicker to simmer before she got herself back under control.

  “It figures you and Ms. Mayhew are friends. You’ve both got sassy mouths. Although on you it’s considerably less appealing, given that badge you have to back it up.”

  “Get to the point, Marshall.”

  “Not a fan of foreplay?”

  “Not when the main event is likely to require a healthy dose of Vaseline and an inoculation.”

  There was a pause, then a burst of laughter. That she’d given him any kind of enjoyment made Kathleen sick.

  “A cop with a sense of humor. I didn’t realize they made such an animal.”

  “My humor is fading fast, Marshall, then all you’re going to be left with is the cop. If you’ve something to say you better get to it quick. I’m fixing to lose all patience and suggest the friendlies go ahead and shoot.”

  “I’m fairly certain that wouldn’t be all that easy, Detective, given the fact they might miss and hit one or the other of my three guests.”

  Kathleen’s stomach executed a somersault. She knew what the bastard meant. Somehow he’d acquired three hostages.

  And she didn’t need to be a mind reader to figure who at least one or two of them might be.

  Please, no, she thought, her non-professional emotions bubbling to the surface. Please let the people she loved still be alright. Still tucked safely within the confines of the hospital. And because she had to consider that as a possibility – that he was alone, just bluffing to try to gain some leverage, or that whomever he held prisoner wasn’t one of her near and dear – she had to approach this as she would any other hostage situation.

  Namely, keep a cool head until the negotiator appeared. She knew better than to assume. And if she let her personal fears get the better of her, the consequences could be a whole lot worse than merely making her look like an ass.

  “Were any of your guests injured in the accident?”

  “One’s looking a little… pasty.”

  “You should let me make a call, get the paramedics in to give him or her some medical attention. Like a good faith gesture on your part.”

  “And I suppose I’ll get something in return?”

  Shit. This was why Kathleen wasn’t a negotiator, because a nice long stay in a six by eight wanted to roll off the tip of her tongue. But that wouldn’t get her very far in establishing a rapport. And the cardinal rule of hostage situations was that you didn’t piss off the hostage-taker. “You have a list of demands, Mr. Marshall?”

  “So it’s mister now, is it? Funny how having a few friends in high places garners a man respect. And since you’re bein’ all chummy, I guess I might as well take advantage: I want a million dollars and a helicopter with enough fuel to take me south of the border. There’s a Marine base around here, isn’t there? How about getting me one of theirs? Oh, and I’d like… let’s say Jenna Jameson to accompany me on the trip.”

  “You’re saying that you’ll consider releasing your hostages if I get you a U.S. military aircraft and an adult film star?”

  “And the money,” he reminded her cheerfully. “Don’t forget the money.”

  He was so totally full of shit. “That particular package is going to be tricky to swing, Mr. Marshall. It’ll take some time to see what we can put together. Why don’t you release the injured party to the care of the hospital staff while I see what I can do?”

  The bastard broke out in laughter.

  “You think I’m some kind of moron, Detective? That I don’t know how these things work? Don’t insult my intelligence again. But as a good faith gesture I will tell you that the other two seemed to have weathered our little accident just fine.”

  Kathleen’s breath eased out in a hiss. She thought of this guy sitting in the MPPD interview room – right under their freakin’ noses – and had to suck back the need to start shooting and ask questions later.

  So instead she dug through her memory for the hostage negotiator’s list of objectives and tactics which every cop had to learn. Keep things calm was the first priority, followed by ensuring the safety of the hostages. As much as it pained her to do so, she needed to determine exactly who he had. And which one of the three was injured.

  “Look, Mr. Marshall, you seem to understand the process, so you must know I’m going to need some kind of proof that you’re not yanking my chain. Let me speak to one of the hostages.”

  “I’m afraid that’s just not possible. They’re rather… incapacitated at the moment.”

  “Incapacitated how?” Anthony’s head shifted when Kathleen’s body stiffened, blood flowing down the leg of her pants in a crimson trickle. She needed to get him some medical attention. She glanced up, trying to get an idea of what measures were being taken around them in the darkened parking lot, but couldn’t see much of anything through the cracked glass.

  “Now, now, now, Detective. You don’t expect me to give away all of my secrets, do you?”

  Kathleen was already sick of playing his game. But there were lives at stake, Anthony’s not the least among them, so she called up her patience reserves. Her head throbbed in a steady cadence, but whether from injury or irritation she couldn’t say. “I don’t expect you to give away anything, Mr. Marshall, but I do need to ascertain that there are other living, breathing individuals inside that SUV.” The back windows were deeply tinted, and unless the locals brought in some infrared technology there’d be no way of verifying his story without verbal confirmation.

  “Very well.” He sighed his annoyance. Although Kathleen suspected it was just part of his act. Brady Marshall seemed to be very skilled at playing whatever role suited his interests at the moment. Pretending to go along with the negotiation scenario would buy him some time while he came up with another plan.

  There was some background noise while he moved inside the vehicle. Some grunts and muffled groans. Kathleen’s nerves frayed with every second that elapsed, causing her to start when Anthony’s cell phone vibrated. Realizing she couldn’t afford to set aside her own phone, she reluctantly abandoned her hold on Anthony’s weapon. And eased him over gently until his phone was within her reach.

  The text message on the screen was both relief and heartache.

  DCLN OK. SADIE + COP MSSNG. KEEP TLKNG. SWAT ON WAY.

  The message had come via Kim. Kim, who had hostage negotiation training under her belt and could step in if Kathleen faltered. She closed her eyes briefly, saying a word of thanks that her brother was safe, and steeled herself to the fact that Sadie’s fate might rest squarely on her shoulders. Not to mention the other cop. Kathleen remembered the rookie that the BPD had left at her brother’s door and cursed herself for not demanding a guard with mor
e experience. They simply hadn’t thought that Marshall would be this bold.

  But given the fact that he’d come to the station, sat in that interrogation room for over an hour, she guessed they really should have known better.

  The bastard had balls of steel.

  The noises intensified on the other end of the line, bringing Kathleen’s focus back to the situation. The moans and groans were distinctly male, making her wonder if it was the cop she was about to speak with. Or the as-yet-unidentified hostage. A hospital worker, perhaps? But why wouldn’t Marshall have simply killed him? Unless it was his brother who had always done the dirty work.

  Her speculations were rendered null and void, however, as a cultured if slightly befuddled voice echoed across the line. “Who are you?”

  “Just say hello, Mr. Loafers.”

  “You’ll never get… away with this.”

  The shrill cry which followed made Kathleen wince.

  “If you’re going to be stupid about this, you could at least try for a little originality. Now identify yourself,” Marshall demanded, “or I’ll be forced to do that again.”

  But even before the man could say the words, Kathleen’s stomach had already plummeted. Because she recognized the voice of the other hostage.

  Marshall had kidnapped Richard Carlisle.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  “GET your hands off me,” Declan snarled at the uniformed officer who blocked his way.

  Rogan had turned his back on his brother for five seconds and he’d slipped past him, trying to move up near Kim. Kim’s psychology background added to her experience with hostage situations had made her real popular with the local police force. They’d even been willing to forgive her for being a fed.

  Rogan dragged his eyes away from the flashing lights of the police cruiser behind which his girlfriend had gone into full law enforcement mode. She was surrounded by a bunch of cops in militaristic combat gear, formulating strategy for getting both his sister and Sadie safely out of their respective vehicles.

  He looked back toward his brother, who’d lost what few marbles he had left.

  Sighing, because the last thing the situation needed was a drug-fogged, irate, half-naked lunatic earning the ire of a battalion of armed law enforcement officials, he elbowed his way through the crowd of onlookers who’d inevitably gathered to watch the show. His body tensed sympathetically over the look of sheer, furious terror on Declan’s face.

  Rogan paused a second to see if his feelings were simply that of commiseration or whether they were actually… shared. He felt both relief and a little stab of guilt when he realized that his emotions seemed to be his own. Being connected to Dec like he had been earlier was disconcerting, to say the least. And while he liked to think that what had passed between them may have helped his brother in some way, he wasn’t exactly signing up for that kind of weirdness to happen regularly.

  Plus, that shit had hurt.

  But seeing his brother so openly suffering was an ache he felt keenly nonetheless. Because Declan had rarely been open about much of anything. That he loved Sadie was abundantly clear. As was the fact that if he lost her it would likely kill him.

  So he kept his voice gentle even as he took a firm grip on his brother’s arm.

  “You need to let them do their jobs, Dec.”

  The look the officer shot Rogan was grateful. The look Dec fired his way was not.

  “I can’t just stand by and do nothing. If I’d stopped her from going off with that jerk in the first place, she’d be safe in my room right now.”

  “Okay A, you couldn’t have stopped her, because she’s your lover, not your pet. B, if he hadn’t snagged her when he did, it might have been a hell of a lot easier for him to get away with it. And C, you charging up here when you can’t even stand upright without bobbing and weaving is doing neither you nor Sadie any good. You think she’d be appreciative of you doing more damage to yourself by acting crazy? I know you want to get in there and keep her safe. And I understand better than you can possibly imagine how frustrating it is to have your own injuries holding you back. But this is one instance where the white knight can do a lot more to help the fair maiden by sitting his ass in the wheelchair that the nice EMT has thoughtfully provided.”

  Declan’s eyes bored into his brother’s for a second before flicking back toward the SUV, wherein a madman held the woman he loved.

  And then he lowered himself into the chair, resentment crackling around him like electrically charged mist.

  But when the EMT tried to wheel him away, Declan snarled a warning that suggested his cooperation was at an end. Rogan stilled the man’s hands before his brother went totally postal. “I’ll take over. Thanks.”

  He steered the chair away from the crush, seeking a better vantage point and less people. He knew Dec needed to be close enough to see what was going on, but figured the wild speculation and crazy commentary from bystanders would only add to his level of stress. At his best, his twin was short tempered and unpredictable. Right now he was a grenade missing its pin. When he blew was just a question of timing.

  Declan sat quietly after Rogan parked him, the fine tremors racking his body the only outward sign of distress. But Rogan knew a tsunami of fear and anger raged inside him. For several minutes they sat that way, frozen as the chaos particular to law enforcement reigned around them.

  Until Declan broke their tense silence with unexpected words.

  “It was you,” he said quietly. Rogan had to bend toward him to hear over the noise. “Earlier, today, when my pain would… let up, it was because you were taking some of it. That’s what the worry on Dad’s face was about.”

  “I, uh…” Shit. How had he guessed? It wasn’t like they had any sort of precedent for this thing.

  “Do you remember when we were eight and we got food poisoning from eating those stupid sandwiches we’d left too long in the tree house? And the mayonnaise had gone bad?”

  “We threw up for two days straight,” Rogan agreed, wondering at the change of topic but willing to play along. “I haven’t touched mayo since.”

  “I didn’t eat mine,” Declan told him. “I lied, told you I’d done it, but it smelled funny and I didn’t want to. So I threw it in the creek when you weren’t looking, acted like I’d done it because it was me who issued the dare. But I threw up anyway. I hadn’t eaten the dumb sandwich, but I threw up just the same. I thought it was God’s way of punishing me for goading you into doing something that stupid.”

  “You never…”

  “Told you? I know. I was embarrassed, because it was weird. And I didn’t want Mom to kick my ass.”

  Rogan had no idea what to say.

  But Declan did, surprising him further.

  “I don’t know exactly what happened today, and quite frankly I’m too terrified to talk more about it just now. But I wanted to say thank you. I wouldn’t have made it out of those woods under my own steam, and I wouldn’t be able to cope with this just now. Without you. Being here for me.” He held up one trembling hand.

  Rogan clasped it, his own appendage shaking, and blinked at the tears which stung the back of his eyes. “You’re welcome,” he said simply, afraid an overflow of speech would break the dam, releasing his sudden flood of emotion.

  Which was okay, because as he held onto his brother, he realized their communication went beyond words.

  SADIE watched helplessly while Brady’s fingers flew over his laptop’s keyboard, a frown of concentration on his battered face. He’d herded them all into the back of the SUV, a tightly bound Rick on one side, her on the other and poor Bainbridge against the door, with himself like a demented monkey in the middle. She gathered it was to make it difficult for the cops to take a shot at him without risking the other three. Bainbridge, of course, was beyond help. But Brady hadn’t been very forthcoming about that fact when he’d been talking to Kathleen. No doubt because he knew that there was little chance in hell of the authorities gathered outside
letting a cop-killer get by them. And the way he was laughing just now she felt pretty certain he’d come up with some kind of plan to do just that.

  He glanced up at her in astonishment, the facial swelling from the accident allowing only one of his dark eyebrows to rise. “Do you have any idea how much Mr. Loafers here is worth?”

  He’d been playing around with his laptop for the past fifteen or so minutes, ever since ending his call to Kathleen. Apparently they could now add computer hacking to his list of criminal skills. Seems he’d once worked as a private investigator, which needless to say was an unsettling thought. The idea of someone like him having a license to stalk people caused a shiver to roll down her spine. Her shoulders moved in an involuntary jerk.

  Whatever drug he’d injected her with earlier was slowly starting to wear off.

  She noted that he actually seemed to be awaiting her response, but all she managed was a furious squint.

  “There’s a cool five hundred grand in this account,” Brady commented, although it was difficult to hear him over the pounding music. He was playing music on Rick’s iPhone so that the cops couldn’t use some high-powered microphone to listen to their conversation. “And that doesn’t count all the stuff in his portfolio. Or his offshore account.” He turned slightly toward a cowering Rick. “It would have gone so much easier for both of us if you’d been honest about those passwords in the first place. Tsk, tsk,” he added before once again becoming engrossed in the laptop’s screen, missing the malicious glare Rick aimed at his back.

  Sadie tried not to notice the blood running down Rick’s cheek from the slice Brady had calmly inflicted. When he’d threatened to start on his eyes, Rick had finally given him the correct information.