Eventually, he’d met his wife and started a family, an ideal step along his path. Nothing was more important to him than continuing his proud Irish bloodline. He’d never been happier than when his twins arrived. He remembered running through the halls, shouting to anyone who would listen, of his healthy baby boy and girl. From that instant, he had their destinies mapped out. His daughter would be a princess, never wanting for anything, and his son would be groomed to ultimately take his place.
Dean looked at the framed photograph sitting at the corner of his desk, an unsuspecting and blissful family stared back. He wanted to grab it and yell at them, warn them of the impending danger. It was too late. With the death of his son, Dean Jr., came a darkness that he had never experienced before. Hate and fury filled his heart, turning him into the dark and sinister monster he was now. All he could think about was vengeance, wanting to punish anyone who dared to live a life free from hurt, especially Dr. Daniel Fallbrook.
This man and his faltering surgical skills had taken Dean Jr. from him, and retribution would be paid. Dean had worked out a plan, a devious, life-altering scheme. It took patience and manipulation, but it had worked out so well.
Fallbrook had taken his son, so Dean would take Tristan.
It was a joyful day when he had learned of Tristan Fallbrook’s interest in his daughter, Fiona. It took convincing, but in time she agreed to see the boy. Dean didn’t want him dead; that would be too easy. Instead, he wanted to take him from his charmed life. He wanted to rip him from his family and destroy every piece of his future. At the time, Dean had no idea that it would work so well.
Before he knew it, Tristan had fallen in love with Fiona. After that, it was easy to lure him into Dean’s world. It was the best result he could have hoped for. Everything had worked out perfectly—except for Fiona.
She resented her father for making her stay with Tristan. When she was younger, she didn’t really mind. Dean kept her well paid, a sort of bribe for her part in the scheme. When they relocated to California, she fell in love with another man. She begged her father, pleaded with him to let her break it off. But he would not agree.
Dean got what he wanted. He’d destroyed Tristan, but at the cost of losing his daughter. Fiona rarely spoke to her parents these days. She married a man her father never met and they lived in Northern California somewhere. His need for revenge had destroyed them. Sure, there were e-mails and photos, but it was not the family he’d dreamed of.
Now that Fallbrook had left the organization, he would have to be dealt with. Dean had kept him around for a while, waiting to see if he would be of use. His patience had worn thin and now the boy represented one more loose end that needed to be tied up.
When he received the photos of the girl from Mort, he almost didn’t believe his eyes. Tristan was with her. His unmistakable tattoos giving him away.
Dean drummed his fingers on the top of his desk and wondered how he’d never connected the two before now. When he’d been after Earl Delaune, they would have been children. Dr. Fallbrook hadn’t shown up on his radar until two years after the chief and his daughter fled. Another six months went by before Fiona came home talking of a boy named Tristan Fallbrook.
He’d never known that Fallbrook knew the Delaune girl, but once he learned that they were hiding out together, he dug into their past and was delighted with what he found. Now that he knew they were connected, he could use the girl to hurt Tristan. It was almost too easy. He grinned and bowed his head in amusement. The thought was so satisfying he almost screamed with joy. Of course he didn’t. He was a man of restraint.
A knock at the door broke the silence of the room.
“Enter,” Dean said.
“We just received word that Mort will be arriving in three hours with the girl. I’ve instructed him to take her to the South warehouse for holding.”
Dean nodded.
“Thank you, Barry.”
He waved his hand, dismissing the man, and sat back in his chair
20. Magnitude
The brightness of a celestial body.
After making the call to Tristan, Alex told Monica that he was heading to New Orleans. They had no idea if Josie left on her own or if she’d been taken. Either way, he had a gut feeling that Josie was still alive. Monica couldn’t stand by and do nothing. She decided to accompany him.
They flew out the next morning. They spent an entire day with Tristan working out plans from downright stupid to borderline suicidal. Alex watched Tristan, who bounced haphazardly between grieving for Josie and insisting on her survival. He resembled a tiny boat being thrown about in the middle of a raging sea. They did their best to comfort him. Bitsy and Daniel gave their son and the two strangers space in their home, offering anything they could to help.
It wasn’t until Tristan received a call from one of Moloney’s men that he was able to regain control of himself. Barry had called to let him know that Josie was still alive and being held at Moloney’s Tchoupitoulas warehouse. The trio were in the car and on their way before the phone call ended.
“How far is it?” Monica asked.
She sat on the edge of the backseat, her fingers gripping the seat in front of her. Tristan took a sharp turn quickly and she flew against the door.
“Twenty minutes,” he answered. “Put your seat belt on.”
Monica nodded and buckled up. She squeezed her eyes shut and held her breath when they flew through a red light. After they cleared the intersection, she exhaled and said a prayer.
“What’s the plan?” Alex asked. “I don’t have my piece, man. Couldn’t get through airport security, you know?”
Tristan’s fingers curled around the steering wheel as he eyed the upcoming intersection. He pressed harder on the gas and ignored the horns and screeching tires left behind.
“There’s a pistol under your seat.”
“¡Simón!”
Alex reached under the seat and pulled out the gun. He checked the clip and slid it back in.
“What about me?” Monica asked as they reached the Crescent City Connection.
The wide Mississippi River stretched beneath them as Tristan and Alex gave each other knowing glances.
“You’re staying in the car, mami. We can’t be worried about you and Jo,” Alex answered.
“What? That’s crap! I could help. I’m great at distractions.”
“No,” the two men answered in unison.
Monica crossed her arms and looked out the window as they entered New Orleans. It was a beautiful city and she wished that she’d come here under better circumstances.
“I’ve been to this warehouse before,” Tristan said. “There are two doors. One at each end of the building and a large loading dock on the street side. Our best bet will be to enter the farthest door since that one is blocked from street view.”
“Okay. Then what? How many men you think they got?” Alex asked.
“I don’t know. At least three. They’ll all be armed. I hope they’re still there.”
“What if they’re not?” Monica asked.
Tristan blew through another intersection, barely avoiding a moving van.
“Then we’ll be too late.”
The silence enveloped them and the interior of the car felt like it was shrinking. The outside world flew by in a blur of cars and buildings. Tristan’s muscles ached from the intensity. He needed to be there now.
They parked a block away on a residential street. Tristan placed his own gun in the waistband of his jeans and turned to Monica.
“Thank you,” he said. “For everything you did for her.”
Monica shook her head, freeing the tears she’d been holding back.
“And thank you,” Tristan said, turning to Alex. “You took care of her. No matter what happens, know that Josie cares about you both.”
“Stop that,” Monica cried. “This isn’t good-bye.”
“‘Don’t be dismayed at good-byes. A farewell is necessary before you can meet again
,’” Tristan quoted. “Richard Bach.”
“‘Unless someone like you cares a whole awful lot, nothing is going to get better. It’s not,’” Monica said, giving him a half smile. “Dr. Seuss.”
Tristan crawled out of the car. Alex followed. Before shutting the door, Tristan stuck his head back in.
“Stay here. If we’re not back in an hour, take my car and find the police.”
Tristan dangled his keys in front of her and she took them without meeting his eyes.
“Be careful,” she said.
Both doors slammed closed and Monica jumped at the sound. She felt entombed as she watched the two men jog off down the street. She followed their progress through the dark, each becoming more like a transparent shadow, until they turned the corner and were out of sight.
* * *
The smell was grease and metal and stale air. She could hear the tugboats as they passed, so she knew they were close to the river. In a dark warehouse, Josie sat tightly bound to a metal chair. Her arms and shoulders cramped from the pull of the ropes even though she had given up her struggle long ago. Just in case she survived, she took in everything about her surroundings. She counted the number of skylights high above her head. She tried to make out the printed words on the hundreds of boxes and cartons stacked around her. Her mind raced with so many questions and not enough answers.
The stacked pallets obscured her view, but she could hear murmured conversation and approaching footsteps. Josie fought to keep her breathing under control while her racing heart created a countdown tempo against her chest. She couldn’t help but feel robbed by this. After finding Tristan and the first inkling of happiness, she was going to lose it all.
Jarred from her reflection, she felt a hand grip her shoulder. Four men stood before her, including her kidnapper. She looked them over carefully, trying to assess which one of them would do the job. Her mind was shutting down and laughter almost bubbled out of her as she took in the sight before her. It was a scene straight out of a mobster movie, complete with damsel in distress.
“McKenzi Delaune, it’s so good to see you again. Welcome home,” the man dressed all in black taunted as he began to circle her. “Please excuse our lack of fanfare.”
Josie followed him with her eyes for as long as possible, memorizing the scowl on his face and the venomous words that dripped from his thin lips. He was short, with a wide chest and a shirt that didn’t fit his muscled arms. His skin was pale, sickly almost, and stood out beneath his black hair and beard. Icy blue eyes glared at her. His voice carried so much hate and contempt she felt as though his words alone could cause damage.
He had that dominant, soul-crushing air about him. This had to be Dean Moloney. When he was standing directly in front of her again, he grabbed her chin and roughly turned her face toward the overhead light.
“So beautiful,” Moloney sneered. “You do look just like Earl, though.”
Josie bit down on her lip to keep from screaming. She wanted to tell him to keep her father’s name out of his evil mouth.
“Why am I still alive?” she asked.
“Because you’re the grand finale,” Moloney answered.
“What did I ever do to you?”
“Your father shut down my operation for six months.”
Josie’s gaze flickered over to the other men. They all seemed bored and unaffected by his dramatics.
“He’s dead. How much more punishment could you need?”
“His punishment was the loss of your mother. Though it did look like an accident. Right, Barry?” Moloney asked.
“Very unfortunate, sir,” Barry answered.
Moloney’s face held a devious smirk that, had her hands been free, Josie would have slapped clear off. The anger and hurt expanded in her until she felt like she would burst from it.
“You killed my mother,” she whispered, dropping her head to hide her tears.
“Of course,” Moloney answered. “Your father thought he could outrun me. I found out he was talking to the feds. That is why Earl is dead. He couldn’t keep his mouth shut.”
Tears blurred Josie’s vision but did not diminish the hateful glare she had on him. This man was the reason for everything tragic and wounding that had ever happened to her. She felt sick just being in his presence.
“Why me? Why now?”
“You know too much,” he answered. “You watched as we tortured truths from your father. You begged us to stop. You cried when we killed him. And then you escaped, making a fool of me and my men.”
“I have amnesia! I don’t remember anything before being sent to a home in California. I don’t know anything! You killed my fucking family and now you want me? Well, do it, you coward! Do it!”
Moloney laughed, his wicked cackle rising up through the building and echoing off the metal walls. Her tale of amnesia was humorous yet inventive, a smart attempt at self-preservation.
“As you wish,” Moloney said, smiling. “Barry.”
The oldest man nodded and pulled his pistol from its holster, raising it toward Josie. Her eyes searched his face for any sort of hesitation and found none. This was it for her. Resigned to her destiny, Josie took a deep breath and closed her eyes, waiting for the end to come.
“I love you, Tristan,” she whispered, her lips barely moving as she spoke her final words.
“Drop the fucking gun,” Tristan shouted.
He appeared behind Rob and Barry, his piece pointed at Moloney. He stepped forward, making his intentions clear. If Josie dies, so does Moloney.
“Right on time, Tristan,” Moloney said.
Frank reached for his gun, only to feel the press of metal to his temple.
“Don’t think so, cabrón,” Alex growled.
Josie, shocked by Alex and Tristan’s presence, sat speechless as she watched the triangle of guns before her—Tristan at Moloney, Alex at Frank, and Barry still focused on her. Her eyes darted from one to another, finally staying on Tristan. The sight of him, no matter the circumstance, was comforting. Her eyes raked over his intense face and she willed him to look at her.
“I said to drop the gun or Moloney eats this fucking bullet,” Tristan shouted at Barry, but the man did not flinch.
Fearless, Moloney spun to face Tristan, a Cheshire cat grin plastered on his face. He assessed the boy and the passion in his eyes. His plan had worked perfectly.
“Tristan, what an entrance. Still trying to play hero? Of course, I knew you would come. You’ll never make it out alive,” Moloney said.
“I don’t care, as long as she does.”
Tristan finally glanced at Josie and his heart broke. He’d avoided eye contact so that he could remain focused, but now he was a mess. The love of his life sat at the end of a cold, impassive piece of steel.
“Barry, drop your goddamned gun,” Tristan repeated.
Moloney shook his head and the standoff continued.
Rob stood motionless, watching the situation play out before him. He knew he could draw his gun and take one of them out before anyone knew what happened. The problem was, he wasn’t sure where his allegiances lay now. The tiny bit of compassion that remained inside him was fixed on Tristan. Rob imagined Monica on the end of that gun and he almost crumpled from the vision. Still, if he betrayed Moloney, he wouldn’t get any of the money. He wasn’t willing to risk that just yet.
“What do we do now? You want to trade your life for hers?” Moloney asked.
“No!” Josie shouted, somehow finding her voice.
“Be quiet, Josie,” Tristan told her, avoiding her pleading eyes.
She fought hard against the metal chair, thrashing about to keep their attention on her. She would not tolerate them taking Tristan from this world.
“No, you can’t do that! Kill me, you fucking pussy! Me! Do it, please,” she screamed, tears soaking her face.
“Josie, shut up!” Tristan shouted back at her, shifting his weight from foot to foot.
“You’re not in a position to offe
r deals, Moloney. I’ve got the upper hand.”
“You’ve got nothing.”
Moloney grinned and whistled through his teeth. The sound shot across the building, but nothing happened. Everyone looked around and listened for approaching danger, but silence and empty space surrounded them. Confused, Moloney whistled again, his eyes searching the darkness.
“Expecting someone?” Alex asked.
Moloney turned to Barry expectantly.
“They were in place when I came in,” Barry answered.
“Like I said, upper hand,” Tristan said. “Now drop it.”
“Not anymore, Fallbrook,” Rob said softly, raising his gun to the back of Tristan’s head. “I need this money too bad for you to screw this up.”
Although Rob did not possess the ability to end Josie’s life, Tristan’s would not be an issue. He had no feelings for the boy and frankly believed he’d be saving Fallbrook from a torturous death at the hands of Moloney.
“Rob?” Monica’s voice shouted as she emerged from between two stacks of boxes. “Why? I don’t … What are you doing here?”
“Rob?” Tristan and Josie said in unison, turning their attention to the blond man now holding all the cards.
Monica had obeyed Tristan’s command to stay in the car for almost a full five minutes. She’d worked her way down the block, checking each building before finding the right one. From her hiding place, Monica had been listening to the men’s conversation, waiting for an opportunity to make her move. Sure, she was unarmed, but she had the element of surprise.
Unable to see everything, the sound of Rob’s voice had shaken her and she didn’t even think before emerging to investigate. Her mind reeled with the scene before her, and she fought to understand her lover’s place among these men.
“Monica? What are you doing here?” Rob screeched.
“Do we have a problem, Mort?” Moloney asked.
“You’re Mort? The Mort who’s been hunting Josie?” Tristan asked.
“No! It’s not true!” Monica screamed. Her hands flew to her head, pulling at her hair as her eyes scanned his impassive face. “Rob, tell them it’s not true!”
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