Outrage (Faith McMann Trilogy Book 2)

by T. R. Ragan

  “Is Beast talking to you?”

  Faith nodded. “Why do you ask?”

  “He was pissed off with you at the bowling alley for keeping him in the dark. You should have seen his face when he grabbed his bowling ball and took off. I was surprised he didn’t kill someone.”

  “I guess I’ll get a lecture from him later.”

  “What about the woman who attacked you in the parking lot?” Jana asked. “Have they questioned her?”

  “She hung herself within hours of being arrested.”

  “Unbelievable,” Rage said.

  There was a long pause before Faith glanced at Jana and said, “We came to share some good news with you. I think Jana should be the one to tell you what’s going on since she did all the work.”

  Jana sat up tall in her chair, suddenly all fidgety and nervous-looking. “Oh, well,” Jana said, off to a poor start, “it’s just that, umm, I had some connections with certain people, and thanks to these people, who shall remain nameless, I was able to locate your son.”

  Rage looked at Faith. “Is she serious?”

  Faith nodded.

  “I, umm, I met his adoptive parents, and they’ve agreed to bring Callan to meet you.”

  “That’s his name?”

  Jana nodded as she drew in a deep breath.

  Rage rubbed a hand over her bald head. She’d recently decided to shave off her Mohawk. She had one of those heads that looked good without hair. She was a pretty young woman, with or without hair. Rage deserved so much more than life had given her so far. She was much too young to die.

  “Wow,” Rage said quietly. “This is a lot to take in.” She kept her gaze on Jana. “Did you meet Callan?”

  Another nod.

  “I bet he’s cute.”

  “The sweetest boy I’ve ever met,” Jana said. “He looks just like you.”

  Jana reached into her purse, stood, and brought the picture she’d sketched of him. “It’s not my best work, but I drew this picture of him for you soon after I met him.”

  Rage stared at the picture a long time before a barely audible sob escaped. She held the picture to her chest, closed her eyes, and let the tears come. Jana couldn’t stop her own tears from flooding forth, so she quickly left the room.

  Faith went to Rage, wrapped her arms around her, and held her close, rocking her in her arms just like she used to do with her own children.

  Less than twenty-four hours later, Rage stood before the mirror in her bedroom looking at her reflection. Hoping to look normal when she met her son, Rage had thought it might be a good idea if she had a full head of hair. For that reason, Beast had bought her a wig.

  She turned toward Beast and Little Vinnie, who were both sitting on the edge of the bed. “How do I look?”

  “Beautiful,” Little Vinnie said at the same time Beast said, “Not good at all.”

  “You two are no help.” She pulled off the wig. “I don’t think I can do this. You need to cancel the whole thing.”

  “Not a chance,” Beast said. “You’re going. I don’t care if I have to pick you up and throw you over my shoulder.”

  “You wouldn’t dare.”

  “Try me.”

  “The truth is, I don’t want to put my little boy in danger. We’ve got every drug and sex trafficker in the county and beyond looking for us. This is not a good idea.”

  “I already told you, it’ll be fine. I’ve got friends outside waiting to escort us all. They’ll provide plenty of security while you visit with your son. Callan will be safe.”

  “What if he hates me?” She tossed the wig to a nearby chair. “What if he sees my bald head and gaunt face and starts crying?”

  “If that happens, then you’ll know how I feel every time a two-year-old sees me coming.”

  She laughed. She couldn’t help herself.

  “Just be yourself,” Little Vinnie told her. “He’s going to love you.”

  She grabbed a red bandanna from her dresser drawer and tied it around her head. “Better,” she said. “Ready to go?”

  “Just give us a minute,” Beast said. He poked Little Vinnie in the arm. “Come on. Time to get dressed.”

  Ten minutes later, Rage was standing by the door waiting for them when they came out wearing suits and ties.

  “Wow, don’t you boys clean up nice.”

  Little Vinnie’s eyes were glossed over as if he might lose it at any moment. He was the complete opposite of Beast. All sensitive and mushy. She wasn’t sure how he’d be able to handle all the emotions when they met her little boy, but she was glad he’d agreed to come along. She went to him, reached up and cupped his head in her hands, and pulled him low enough so she could kiss his forehead. “Thanks for coming.”

  “I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Neither of us would.”

  Beast led the way out the front door, where three men, each one bigger than the next, waited to escort them to the sedan with the tinted windows parked at the curb. All three of the men wore aviators along with dark-camouflage cargo pants and long-sleeved field shirts.

  “Are you going to introduce us?” Rage asked Beast under her breath.

  “No,” he said. “It’s better if they stay focused.”

  One of the men opened the back door. Rage slid inside. The leather was creamy and soft. Little Vinnie climbed in beside Rage, and Beast sat in the front passenger seat.

  The ex-military guy shut the door, then headed to the front of the vehicle and slid in behind the wheel, while the other two men made their way to another car parked nearby.

  “Your son and his parents are already in a secured building waiting for your arrival,” the driver told her.

  “Thank you,” Rage said.

  “Not a problem. Anything for a friend of Charlie’s.”

  Charlie. Rage couldn’t remember the last time she’d heard anyone call Beast by his real name. He must have thought it sounded odd himself, but she was staring directly at him and he hardly flinched. Rage watched the road as they headed off. Butterflies flittered around inside her belly at the thought of seeing her son after all this time. Beast and Little Vinnie were being nice when they said she looked beautiful. She knew the truth. She looked downright gaunt. Her skin was pale, and no amount of foundation could hide the dark shadows under her eyes. Letting her son see her like this was a bad idea. She inhaled and was about to call it off when Little Vinnie reached over and covered her hand in his. “It’s going to be OK,” he said. “Everything’s going to be all right.”

  FORTY-FOUR

  Aster marched across the parking area, kicking up dirt and gravel as he went along. He used a beefy fist to pound on the steel rollup door. “It’s Aster. Open up!”

  The door rolled open.

  He growled as he passed the man standing guard and headed for the back room, where his clan of idiots stood waiting.

  “Still no fucking table and chairs,” he said. “Which one of you is in charge of fixing this place up?”

  Nobody said a word.

  “For those of you who haven’t heard, they found Craig McMann’s vehicle.” He waved a hand through the air. “Old news, I know, but maybe at least one of you worthless pieces of shit might be interested to know they found prints all over the interior. If they get a match, it’s going to lead them straight to one of Richard Price’s men—one of the two goddamn men I told Price to send away. And if that happens, you better hope they keep their mouths shut.”

  “And you, asshole,” he went on, pointing to the man he’d brought with him to the motel to take care of Diane Weaver. “The bitch is still alive. What did you do to her, slap her around a little and figure she would die from fright?”

  “I quartered her insides. You saw her lying there with your own eyes. I don’t get it. That woman won’t die.”

  Aster pulled out his gun, fired one shot.

  “Jesus Christ!” Patrick said, jumping out of the way as the guy crumpled to the ground.

  Aster shook his gun at another
man standing close by. “What’s your name?”

  “Harold.”

  “The bitch is at Sutter Medical in Roseville. Get it done, Harold.”

  “Yes, sir,” he said before marching off.

  “And you,” Aster said, his attention back on Patrick. “Mr. Fucking Big Shot, coming around my house uninvited and making my wife uncomfortable, why don’t you tell me why Faith McMann or anyone else in her fucking family isn’t dead yet?”

  “Maybe you should just let it go. Forget about the schoolteacher and her kids and move on. Going after Faith McMann so doggedly isn’t helping business.”

  You piece of shit. He couldn’t stop the fury from rising from his toes to his face. He wanted to kill every one of these men on the spot, starting with Patrick. “I’m the boss! I’m in charge! And it’s my fucking reputation that’s at stake!”

  “Well, who the fuck hired the blonde bombshell to take McMann out at the airport?” Patrick asked. “Not me. Nobody gave me a call before hiring some two-bit assassin. At this very moment the FBI is probably getting all sorts of information out of that pussy.”

  “The blonde bombshell you’re referring to is dead.” Aster stepped closer to Patrick, the tips of their noses nearly touching. “She killed herself rather than face me. The FBI won’t hear a peep out of her. But I want you to listen to me, you little smart-ass.” He jabbed a finger into Patrick’s chest.

  Patrick’s chest puffed out, and Aster waited a second to see if the kid was going to start pounding on his chest like fucking Tarzan. Instead the kid remained silent.

  “I told you to keep an eye on McMann,” Aster went on. “In fact, if I remember correctly, I told you to get rid of her and her nosy-ass family. But then I get a call from one of my guys, and he’s wondering if I knew that Faith McMann was headed for Florida. So why don’t you tell me where the hell you were when she was flying across the country?”

  “I don’t have my calendar in front of me. As soon as I do, I’ll let you know.”

  In a flash Aster had a fistful of Patrick’s shirt. He dragged him a few feet away and pinned him against the wall.

  Patrick had the good sense to finally shut the fuck up.

  “If Armageddon wasn’t going on around me at the moment,” Aster said through gritted teeth, “I’d have your scrawny ass taken to that dark corner over there and have your tongue cut right out of that big mouth of yours. If you don’t want to be replaced by the end of the week, you better get your priorities straight. Do we understand each other?”

  Patrick nodded.

  “Say it so I can hear you.”

  “We understand each other.”

  He released Patrick, watched him stumble about before finding his balance.

  “You’ve all got two days to kill Faith McMann and every friend and relative she’s got. Got it?”

  “The FBI is all over her ass,” one of his men said, using his fingers to check off an invisible list. “They’re at the hospital, parked at her parents’ house, the farmhouse—you name it. They’re fucking everywhere.”

  “I don’t give a shit!” His face rattled with rage. “Kill her. Kill them all.”

  “What if we find the little girl—what then?”

  “Kill her, too. I’ve had enough of this shit.”

  Patrick pulled into the garage, hit the automatic button, and waited for the door to close tight. He entered his house through the garage. Coming home to this piece-of-shit place with its cramped kitchen and mismatched furniture depressed him. His nice suits and fancy car were all a facade.

  His confrontation with Aster gnawed on every nerve in his body. He knew he’d stepped over the line by being so flip with the man, but he hadn’t been able to stop himself, especially after he saw a couple of Aster’s thugs listening in and saw the respect in their eyes. Respect for Patrick for standing up to him, but also respect for Aster because their boss was right about one thing. Faith McMann needed to be stopped. She wasn’t afraid of guys like Aster. And to men like Aster, fear equaled power.

  Patrick raked his fingers through his hair. He needed to be patient. He needed to wait for the right time to make his move. Aster would make a mistake, and when he did, Patrick would be ready.

  He grabbed a frozen dinner from the freezer and tossed it into the microwave. Then he poured himself a glass of five-dollar chardonnay that his neighbor had given him as a Christmas gift. At this rate he’d never be able to afford a bottle of Domaine Ramonet Montrachet Grand Cru, let alone a glass.

  He’d been doing a lot of thinking lately, mostly about how he would run the business once he was the boss. That idiot Richard Price had everything, and yet he’d given it all up. For what? The guy suddenly got a conscience and wanted out? If any of his men ever told him they wanted out of the business after he was in charge, he’d have pliers ready and yank out every one of their teeth before shooting them in both kneecaps.

  Richard Price had got out easy.

  The microwave beeped. He scrounged around, grabbed a dishrag, then reached inside for the plastic dish and headed to the door leading downstairs to the basement. He juggled the food in one hand while he used his free hand to shuffle around inside his pants pocket, looking for the key to the door.

  He shouldn’t have to be doing this shit.

  He should be sitting by the pool of a big mansion in El Dorado Hills waiting for his wife to bring him his slippers and a finger of expensive Scotch on the rocks.

  Everything else was bullshit.

  After using the tip of his toe to push the door wide open, he made his way downstairs. He stepped onto the cement landing with a thud, hoping to frighten the kid, but she always appeared to be in her own little world. Nothing seemed to bother the little girl.

  As usual, she was lying on the cot he’d set up and was reading another damn book. She didn’t even look his way.

  “Remember that woman at the farmhouse?” he asked. “The one you were forced to call Mother?”

  Nothing.

  “Somebody beat her up good. She’s at the hospital and might not live for long. Does that make you happy?”

  Still nothing—not a goddamn peep out of her. “Answer me,” he said sternly. “Does that make you happy?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t care.”

  He tossed her dinner on the table in the corner. The plastic pitcher of water was still half-full. “You must care about something.”

  Another shrug.

  “Well, doesn’t matter anyhow,” he said. “Pretty soon, you and I are going to fly away, far, far away from here.”

  “People will recognize me,” she said. “And you’ll be put in jail.”

  That was the most she’d said to him since he’d brought her here. “They won’t recognize you because we’re going to play make-believe and cut your hair real short, dye it black, and make you look like a little pixie from one of those Disney movies.”

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  The question amused him. “I was thinking Cambodia, maybe Cuba or Malaysia.”

  “Oh.”

  “Sounds exciting, doesn’t it?”

  She sighed.

  “You want to come upstairs and watch TV?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “You’re just going to sit here and read forever.”

  She nodded.

  “Whatever, but you better turn off the lights before nine.”

  Nothing.

  “Did you hear me?”

  “Yeah.”

  He shook his head before heading back up the stairs.

  As soon as she heard the click of the lock, Lara got up and quietly moved the cot so she could make notes. She found the nail on the floor and began scraping more words into the cement: Cuba. Malaysia. Cambodia. She wasn’t sure anyone would ever see what she wrote, but she did it anyhow. It kept her busy. Gave her something to do.

  There wasn’t a moment that went by that she wasn’t afraid, but she knew she had to work through the fear so that when the time c
ame to escape she’d be ready. Every day she thought about how she wished she’d just jumped off the couch and run out the door of the trailer home instead of waiting for Trista to go to the bathroom. Trista was lazy. She never would have bothered running after her. If she had run after her, she would have given up before Lara reached the main road. If she’d done that, she wouldn’t be sitting down here in a cold, windowless basement.

  Her next thought was about Miranda. She had no idea what had happened to her. Did she ever get away? Was she back at the farmhouse? Lara had to admit she preferred the basement over the farmhouse. Mother was creepy and scary. Lara could still see her face in her nightmares. If what he said was true, if Mother was dying, then she’d never be able to hurt anyone again. The idea of the woman dying didn’t make her feel happy or sad. She felt nothing.

  Lost in thought, Lara kept digging into the cement. Her fingers were starting to cramp from holding the nail so tightly in her grasp. When she looked at her work, she was surprised to see LARA MCMANN written in all capital letters.

  FORTY-FIVE

  Faith had fallen asleep in the chair in her mom’s hospital room when her phone buzzed. It was Yuhasz asking her to come see him. He told her to gather whatever she had with her since she might need to take a drive.

  Mom had also fallen asleep, so she left without waking her, wondering as she walked to the detective’s room why he needed to talk to her.

  “What’s going on?” she asked the second she entered his room and saw him looking her way.

  “Maybe you should have a seat.”

  “No. Just tell me.”

  “They found Diane Weaver.”

  Judging by his tone, something was wrong. “And?”

  “And she’s been beaten up pretty badly.”

  “How bad?”

  “Stabbed repeatedly. Since she’s been admitted to this same hospital, I thought you should know. She’s in critical condition and might not make it.”