by Chris Mooney
But he couldn’t ask. Ava had already hung up.
Sebastian gripped the steering wheel with both hands as a cold, hard, and inescapable truth drilled into his marrow: Ava was suffering because of him. Grace, too. And Paul, the psycho son of a bitch, had no intention of returning her.
His daughter was in the hands of a sadist, and Paul, Sebastian was sure, had already arranged something that would kill Ava. Or maybe he wanted her to suffer a bit longer. Maybe Paul had engineered something that would make her wish she were dead.
And I’m the only one who can stop it.
He had to find Paul—fast.
* * *
* * *
He returned home, finding it deathly silent.
Sebastian figured at least one of the two guys who had been living here around the clock would have returned by now. Sebastian knew their first names, but he didn’t have their numbers. He dealt only with Ron. Sebastian jogged up the steps, walked down the hall to his home office.
All of Ron’s equipment was gone.
Sebastian thought back to what Ron had told him last night about how he had a lot of money, more than he could spend in several lifetimes. Ron was telling him he’d had enough, and Sebastian had told him—practically begged him—to stay on. Only Ron didn’t give me an answer, Sebastian thought, dialing the number for Ron’s burner. Just stared at me from across the table.
Ron didn’t answer, and his voicemail didn’t pick up. Had he thrown out the burner?
Sebastian called the direct number for Ron’s secretary.
The number, an automated voice said, was no longer in service.
I’m going to pick them off one by one, Paul had said. Ron. His people—
“Sebastian.” Faye’s voice was calling from downstairs. Not nervous or scared or anything, just loud. “There’s something down here for you.”
He left the room on shaky legs, riding waves of anger and fear, rage and terror, trying to keep the emotions from reaching his face. If Faye saw a trace of anything, she might bail. She was smart, okay, but that didn’t mean she’d sign up for some suicide mission. If she found out Ron and his people had abandoned him, she might, too.
Faye stood in the kitchen, coffee percolating. “I was making coffee and found that,” she said, pointing to a white envelope with his name written on the front, in big, bold black marker so he couldn’t miss it. “It wasn’t there this morning—I’m sure of it.”
The envelope rested up against the bottle of Scotch Paul had brought to the house. Sebastian had left the bottle next to the coffeemaker, wanting to see it every day and give it the finger, prove how strong he was.
He didn’t feel strong now. He felt weak. Frightened.
Sebastian opened the envelope. Inside was a folded piece of paper—the nice stationery he kept on a shelf in his office down the hall. He recognized the handwriting.
Some famous writer from a long time ago said either you’re busy living or you’re busy dying, Ron had written. If you’ve checked your email, you’ll see which one I had to choose, and why. I’m sorry.
No, you’re not, Sebastian thought, and wondered if Faye had read the note. The envelope hadn’t been sealed. He’d check the cameras upstairs, on the computer.
Faye got mugs from a cabinet. “Everything okay?”
Stop asking me that. “Nothing we can’t handle,” he replied, his voice soft.
She looked at him, silently analyzing his words.
“The reason I got into this thing,” Sebastian said, picking up a mug from the counter. “At some point the government is going to get involved, take over the blood business. Regulate it. They have to. Cat’s out of the bag, people are being snatched, people are dying. The real money is going to be in real estate. In a decade, maybe even sooner, you’re going to see carriers living together in special neighborhoods, with their own schools and grocery stores and doctors. And they’ll be living behind these great big walls to keep the noncarriers out.”
“That’s why you picked real estate as your cover.”
Sebastian nodded. She was smart—and quick. Like Ava.
He picked up the bottle of Scotch and poured some into her mug. “They’re going to be living in these properties. I’m going to build a world where people like you are safe. Where you’re not hunted.”
He poured some Scotch into his mug—just a little, just a taste—and raised it to her and said, “To the future.”
“The future.”
The mugs clinked together.
Sebastian brought his mug to his lips. He tilted it back, about to drink a healthy amount, the booze hitting his lips when his mouth simply clamped shut. Some of the Scotch was in his mouth, and he wouldn’t swallow it. He didn’t know what was happening, but his brain provided an answer in the form of a picture—the one of Grace that Paul had sent him. Grace needed the best version of her father right now. She didn’t need a drunk who was afraid to see what was waiting for him in an email. She needed a man, not a frightened little boy.
Sebastian covertly spit the booze back into the mug. He put it down on the counter and said, “Help yourself to whatever. I’ll be right back.” He headed upstairs, to his home office, and sat in front of his Mac laptop.
He found the email easily. The subject line read, “Maya.”
Not a picture this time, a video.
She’s not dead, Sebastian told himself. God had brought him this far. He wouldn’t let him down now. He wouldn’t. He double-clicked the file.
Maya Dawson was tied down to a dining room chair, her mouth gagged. She was in her home—her living room. Sebastian recognized the couch in the background.
Maya was sobbing, her eyes pinched shut and her head turned away from whoever was holding the phone, recording whatever was about to happen. It didn’t take Sebastian long to figure it out. Someone moved behind her chair, and he saw a blue-gloved hand grab Maya by the hair and yank it back, exposing her throat. Sebastian looked away when he saw Paul’s tactical knife.
CHAPTER 44
THE WORST HANGOVER Grace had ever experienced occurred the day after she celebrated her twenty-first birthday. When she woke up at the crack of noon, her stomach feeling like the greasy water found at the bottom of a dumpster, her throat scratched raw from the hours spent throwing up, her head pounding as though a car had backed up over it, she could still recall, without effort, almost every single detail from her birthday party.
That wasn’t the case now.
She remembered the van sliding up next to her and she remembered seeing the armed men. One of them smashed the driver’s-side window—with a crowbar—because she had been frantic, fumbling at her seat belt buckle. She managed to free herself, but it was pointless; a man, maybe more than one, had grabbed her by the hair and pulled her out through the window. Yes, there had been more than one; she remembered several hands on her. She remembered being thrown into the van and being pinned against the floor, screaming for help against the cold steel, and she remembered the stab of a needle in her neck, and that was all. She had no idea what had happened since, or how she’d arrived here.
Here was a blow-up mattress with a pillow and blanket in a room she guessed had once been an office—low-pile beige carpeting coated in a film of dust, the fibers dented in areas where furniture had sat on it. No windows. On the white walls small holes left by nails used to hang whatever. The door was closed and, she assumed, locked. She didn’t know because she hadn’t gotten up from the bed to check—knew she should but it was too much of an effort. She couldn’t summon the energy.
Has to be the drug or drugs they gave me, she thought, and drifted back to sleep.
The next time she opened her eyes, her environment had changed slightly. A small lamp had been brought in and set up on the floor, and in the dim light she saw a bright yellow pail with the word toilet written across it in black marker.
There was stuff in there; she could see a couple of rolls of toilet paper peeking over the top. She tried to reach for the pail—it was right beside the mattress, maybe a foot or so away—but she couldn’t hold her arm up; it flopped back against the mattress.
What did they give me? Why can’t I move?
It wasn’t exactly true that she couldn’t. She could move her fingers. She dug them into the carpet and worked her hand across the floor and up the pail and knocked it over, revealing the bounty inside: rolls of toilet paper, a bag of vinegar potato chips, a can of warm Diet Coke, and the kind of prewrapped sandwich only the truly desperate bought at convenience stores, the inside of the cellophane dripping with moisture and mayo. The thought of food repelled her.
Where am I?
Where am I where am I where am I? The question kept repeating itself over and over, trying to fire up her anxiety, to get her to act. She was fully aware that she was in serious trouble—she had been bloodnapped, her worst nightmare—but her mind calmly told her there was no reason to lose her shit, because she had a surgically implanted tracking unit. She hadn’t had a chance to activate it, okay, but her mother had been on the phone with her when it all went down. Her mother would have called the police, and the people there would track her. All she had to do was wait for the police to arrive. They were probably already on their way here—maybe were already here, about to—
The door opened.
She heard footsteps.
Someone was coming for her.
The police. Thank God. She turned her head slightly.
The man standing next to her mattress could have easily been a cop—he was a big tattooed guy—but he wasn’t dressed like one. He wore workout shorts, and his tank top, stretched across a chest swollen and rippled with muscle, was drenched in sweat. He was barefoot and had pale skin, and he left the door open.
He sat down in front of her and crossed his legs. Grace, lying on her side and curled in the fetal position underneath the blanket, could see his tattoos clearly now—the noose around his neck and, on his massive left arm, the gingerbread man with a knife clamped between its fanglike teeth. He had more tattoos along his arms, these colorful, bizarre-looking skulls with jeweled eyes and teeth.
The combination of tattoos and his pale skin made him look like a clown—a big, handsome, but mean clown. He had to be mean, and dangerous, to carry off tattoos like that.
And yet she didn’t feel any anxiety or fear or terror. Those things were there in her mind, absolutely, but she couldn’t feel them. She was fully and completely disconnected from all her emotions. It was as if they had packed up and gone away on a vacation or something, leaving this shell of a body that could only sleep and drool onto the pillow. She felt a whole lot of nothing, which explained why she didn’t jump or scream or turn her head when he brushed the hair away from her face.
“How you feeling, baby girl?” He had a warm smile and kind, attentive eyes.
Her mouth felt as dry and rough as sandpaper, her tongue a block of wood.
“Tired,” she said, the word a rasp.
“Totally natural.” He nodded in understanding. His damp skin gave off a musky but not unpleasant odor—the way men smelled after vigorous exercise. Or a fight. “Give it another day or two, and you’ll feel settled,” he said. “You cold? Can I bring you another blanket?”
Why is he being so nice to me? So kind and considerate? It scared her, but she couldn’t really feel it, and that scared her more, and she still couldn’t feel it, and it was becoming difficult to keep her eyes open—she was so, so tired.
“I’m sorry about the accommodations,” he said. “You won’t be here too much longer. I’m going to take a—”
“You gonna hurt me?”
His eyebrows jumped in surprise, maybe anger, and he removed his hand.
“Why would you ask me a question like that?”
“Because I don’t know you—”
“I’m Paul.”
“—and because I don’t know where I am.”
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said.
She couldn’t keep her eyes open any longer. She stopped fighting, gave in, and shut them.
“That’s it—get some rest,” he said. “Everything’s going to be okay.”
She believed him. For some reason, she believed him.
The man named Paul stroked her head.
“I need to ask you a quick question,” he said, and Grace heard the smile in his voice as she drifted.
“Um-hum.”
“Any chance you know what time of the month you start ovulating?”
Grace didn’t hear him. Mercifully, she had fallen asleep.
CHAPTER 45
SINCE PAUL KNEW about the Jaguar and the other car in Sebastian’s garage, a Tesla that hadn’t been outfitted for security protection, Sebastian needed another ride. He called the company he had used to turn his Jaguar into a tank, got the owner on the phone, and told him he needed a new vehicle, best one he had, preferably an SUV, and the requirements he needed. Price wasn’t an issue, Sebastian said.
The owner said he had on the lot a Range Rover that would fit Sebastian’s needs. Sebastian didn’t balk at the price. He wired the money to the man’s account and then went to the garage, where the Jaguar was parked, and transferred the equipment he needed into the trunk.
Faye drove him to the real estate office, Sebastian thinking about Maya, what had happened to her. Everyone around him had left, and the ones who had stayed behind were getting picked off by Paul. It should have bothered him—should have sent him into a rage—but he had something far more important to focus his attention on, something to live for now.
Sebastian had come close to doing business with Wayne Dixon—close enough that they had gotten to the financial stage. He found Dixon’s information on the office computer. A property search revealed that Dixon was, in fact, the owner of a home in Santa Paula. Sebastian wrote down the addresses of all his properties, and all of Dixon’s phone numbers. He started with the private numbers, having to deal with secretaries who eventually got him in touch with Dixon’s personal assistant, a young-sounding guy named Hollis Little.
Sebastian explained who he was, told him he had to get in touch with Dixon regarding a property coming up for sale, one that Dixon had had his eye on for a long time. A property that wouldn’t remain on the market long.
“Mr. Dixon is unavailable at the moment,” Little said. “Does he have your number?”
“The reason why I’m calling is, I want to know if he’s up north, at his place in Santa Paula.” Sebastian gave him the address. “I need to drop off some information he asked for, and he’s not answering his phone.”
“Well, I’m sure if you leave a message—”
Sebastian had anticipated this. “The wildfires have knocked down a lot of cell towers, and reception is spotty up that way, I’ve heard. How is the wildfire situation up there—do you know? We talking mandatory evacuation or what?”
“No, not mandatory.”
“Look, I’m not trying to get you into any trouble. Wayne was insistent that I hand deliver this stuff to him, so that he can review the material and then ask me questions. I’ve got to do it now or he won’t have a chance to get in on this property. Just tell me if he’s there or not. I don’t want to take a drive all the way up there for nothing.”
“He’s been there all week,” Little said, “but you didn’t hear that from me.”
Traveling by helicopter would be the quickest way. He called the places Ron had used in the past—even dropped Ron’s name—but all the birds were spoken for. The ones that weren’t already booked for business were up north, the pilots pitching in against the wildfires, which left Sebastian with one option: traveling by car.
He took a Mac with a wireless Internet card from his office. Faye drove him to the car dealer who
specialized in turning cars into nearly indestructible tanks. There, he picked up the Range Rover.
In the garage, he transferred the equipment, loaded in duffel bags, from the trunk to a special compartment in the back of the Rover. Faye, seated behind the wheel, watched him in the rearview mirror.
After he was finished, he slid into the passenger seat. “You in the mood to take a drive?”
“Santa Paula, I take it. To see Wayne Dixon.”
“I’m told he’s at home. And like Candice said, the property in Santa Paula is very isolated. It’s the perfect place to keep carriers.”
“Besides Ava’s daughter, how many does Paul have? A dozen? More?”
“I don’t have an exact number. Frank and I . . . we thought it might be at least six.”
“Isn’t a wildfire raging somewhere up there?”
“Not directly in Santa Paula. One you’re thinking about—it’s sixty percent contained. I went online and checked.”
“Why are we going? That seems like a task more suited for someone like Ron Wolff.”
“He’s tied up with some other pressing matters. And we’re closer.”
Faye studied him for a moment. He could see her eyes working behind her sunglasses.
“Paul scared him off, didn’t he?” she said. “That’s why your house was empty this morning.”
“This is the most solid lead I’ve had in a while, and I plan on looking into it. I need to find him.” And Grace, he added privately. He had to be the one to find his daughter, deliver her to Ava.
“Showing up there, just the two of us,” Faye said. “What if he’s got a small army?”
“I’ve got us covered.”
“Bullets don’t work against wildfires.”
“We’re not driving into one. We’re driving around one. Huge difference. We’ll be fine. I checked the roads online, by the way. The ones we need are still open.”
