“About two weeks ago, the family of Michael Drake received a phone call from someone claiming to be Michael telling them he was alive,” Angie said. “Jonathan, Michael’s father, thought it was a scammer or troll trying to get money out from them by pretending to be Michael. Until the person on the line said, ‘Tell Nana I want a peanut butter and mayonnaise sandwich when I visit.’”
“What’s the significance of that?” Addison asked.
“Michael’s grandmother made it for him when he was a kid,” Paige said. “He hated them.”
“The line went dead before Mr. Drake could ask for more information,” Angie said.
“Did they report the call?” Addison asked.
Graham nodded. “They contacted the local police who said it was probably a scammer. They tried the Navy, who fed them the same line. Eventually they got ahold of us.”
“Any idea how he was able to call?” Addison asked.
Paige shook her head. “None.”
“I served with Jonathan’s uncle,” Graham Senior said. “I asked Junior to look into it.”
Addison caught more than one short-lived smirk at the name Junior.
“With the Drakes’ permission, I was able to trace the call,” Angie said. A satellite map of eastern Europe and southern Ukraine appeared on the screen.
“It originated from a coastal location on the Crimean Peninsula. Once I had a general location, I dug some more and was able to find proof of life for Michael Drake.” She paused and licked her lips. “And Braedon Foster.”
She clicked a key on her keyboard, and two more pictures popped up.
Addison inhaled sharply, tears springing to her eyes. The picture on the left was grainy, but it was Braedon. His bottom lip was swollen and bruised, as was one eye, and lacerations dotted his face, but the set of his mouth and fury in his one visible eye was unmistakable.
“When was this taken? Where is he? Why hasn’t anyone notified the Pentagon?”
“Based on the pictures’ metadata, they were uploaded about two weeks ago—around the time the Drakes received the phone call,” Angie said.
“We haven’t notified anyone because, by the time the cogs of the big government wheel get going, it will be too late,” Graham added. “If we go public with this information, they’ll disappear, and we may not be able to find them again.”
Addison tore her gaze from the picture. “Why?”
Graham looked at Angie, who clutched the keyboard to her chest. “I found the information on Michael Drake and your brother on the dark web. It led me down a really ugly, super-dark rabbit hole of human trafficking—men sold in auction for their perceived genetic superiority.”
“You mean sex trafficking?” Addison asked.
“Um…I think so. Most likely. Yes.” Angie winced.
Taking pity on her, Paige continued, “Two U.S. Special Operations personnel would be an extremely rare commodity. As far as we’ve been able to learn, your brother and Michael are being held by an organization called The Cooperative.”
Addison licked her lips. “The Navy reported five members of the team were killed. What about the other three?”
“There’s no chatter on them. Either they’re being auctioned at another time or they’re…” Angie’s voice broke at the end.
“Dead,” Addison whispered.
“Yeah.”
Addison’s gaze flitted around the table, stopping on Devon’s. His gaze was intense—fierce, protective, and determined. At that moment, it was too much to handle with everything else she was feeling.
She pressed her lips together and pushed her folded hands against her forehead. She didn’t know what was worse—knowing her brother was alive and being held captive by a black-market slave ring or being told he was dead. A small part of her wished he were dead. At least then she’d know for sure. Know he wasn’t in pain or scared or hurting. This…this was horrible. She pulled her bottom lip into her mouth to keep it from trembling. This was worse than she could ever imagine.
Sitting two seats down the table from Addison, Devon watched her process the information that her brother was alive and being held captive. Everyone at the table remained quiet, even Angie, whose ADHD usually resulted in her talking to fill the silence. She still shifted from foot to foot, pain and empathy etched on her face, but she stayed quiet.
The urge to push back from the table and gather Addison in his arms was almost overwhelming. It wasn’t his right or his place and she didn’t seem the type to accept such overt, public comfort. Not from a virtual stranger anyway.
Knowing that didn’t help tamp down the rage burning inside him. His palms itched to touch her—had itched to touch her since the moment he’d walked into the conference room. A strand of hair had fallen at her temple, and he wanted nothing more than to cradle her head, push that lock of hair away from her temple, and tell her it would be okay. Take all the hurt and pain she desperately tried to hide and promise her he would make it okay. They were going to help her and get her brother back—whatever it took.
Addison rubbed her hands against her forehead twice before lowering them to the table. Her cheeks puffed out as she blew out a breath before sipping her coffee.
“So, they’re in Crimea?” she asked.
“We believe so, yes,” Graham said softly.
“How did they get there from Syria?”
“We’re not sure how the events in Syria played out, but they were probably moved overland to the Black Sea,” Paige said. “Crimea is a hotbed for black market activity.”
“If the military isn’t going to help, what about the State Department?” Addison asked.
Graham shook his head. “They have no presence in Crimea and they’re prohibited from traveling there, so there’s no help on that front.”
“Then what?” Her voice caught at the end, and Devon clenched his jaw, watching her struggle to stay calm. “What good is knowing he’s alive if there’s no way to get him?”
Searching the room as if looking for an escape, or a lifeline, her gaze found his. If he could only touch her, but he wasn’t close enough. All he could do was convey his support through his gaze and provide a stable anchor.
Paige did what Devon couldn’t—wrapped her hand around Addison’s. “We’re going to get him, Addison—him and Michael.”
“We who?” she asked.
Finally, Devon had something to give her—a promise he swore not to break, no matter the cost. “Us. TLC. We’re going to get him.”
Chapter 5
Addison shut the door to her room and leaned against it for several seconds before shuffling to the bed and flopping facedown. She was exhausted. Mentally. Physically. Emotionally. Despite that, she was keyed up—wound so tight she might explode at any second. She needed some calm.
Rolling over, she stared up at the underside of the blue chintz-patterned canopy. That matched the blue chintz bedspread and pillow shams. And the blue chintz wallpaper. And the upholstered chair. Anything that wasn’t blue chintz was tatted lace. The bed-and-breakfast on Queen Street was in the heart of historic Charleston, only blocks from downtown and more affordable than the chain hotels nearby, but the décor was…over the top. There was no way she was going to find any calm in the midst of it.
Lifting one leg at a time, she unbuckled the straps of her wedges, flipping them off onto the floor. So what if they weren’t red-soled, black patent leather, four-inch, platform heels? They were cute and comfortable and suited her.
Pulling her phone from the inside pocket of her purse, she searched for yoga studios around her. The third link down pointed to a daily yoga session in the Battery. Addison checked the time on her phone—she had almost forty minutes before the class started. More than enough time to change and walk there.
In less than ten minutes, she had her yoga mat slung over her shoulder by the stretching strap she used to carry it and headed down the stairs to the foyer, fighting the urge to slide down the gleaming wood banister à la Mary Poppins every s
tep of the way. She ran her hand over the polished wood and spotted Mrs. Little, the owner, sifting through envelopes at the desk. Maybe the day she checked out, after she’d paid the bill. That way she couldn’t kick her out.
“Headin’ anywhere excitin’?” Mrs. Little asked.
Addison stopped at the base of the stairs. “I found a yoga class in the Battery.”
“I remember when I was bendy. Good for you. There’s a nice café on the way back, on King Street, about two blocks north of the Battery.” In her soft, southern accent, it sounded like “Bat-tree.”
Being from Texas, Addison had worked hard to lose her drawl during college, but she would totally rock a southern accent if she could. How long would she have to live in the South before she developed one? Hopefully not as long as the Littles.
During her tour of the house, Mrs. Little had explained her family was new to Charleston, having only moved there in the nineteen-twenties. Apparently, anyone who hadn’t been living in the city when Sherman set fire to Atlanta was nothing but an interfering carpetbagger.
“Thanks, I’ll check it out on my way back,” Addison said.
“Enjoy your class.”
Addison pushed through the screen door to the covered porch, and it struck her again how idyllic the house was. Overflowing flower baskets hung across the front of the porch between white columns. A tall live oak provided shade for most of the side yard, where a large fountain trickled a steady stream of water over the lip of the upper basin.
It was picture perfect, and she wanted to smash it all into jagged little pieces.
Leaving through the wrought iron gate, she turned left before crossing at the corner and followed King Street south, dodging around clusters of people who obviously had nowhere pressing to be, judging by their meandering pace.
Her phone vibrated against her thigh, and she pulled it out of the slim pocket of her yoga pants. Wincing, she pressed the green button and put the phone to her ear.
“Hey, Mom.”
“Hi, honey.” She sounded weary. Not just tired, but worn down, dejected—all the words that could be used to describe a mother coping with the loss of her only son.
Addison’s heart ached to tell her mother the truth. To give her some sense of hope that Braedon was alive, but she couldn’t handle the same argument they’d been having since her return from Iraq, even though she now had proof.
“Where are you?” her mother asked.
“I’m in Charleston,” she said.
“West Virginia?”
“South Carolina, Mom.”
“Oh. What are you doing there?”
“A friend invited me to visit for a few days.”
“That sounds nice.” Her mom sounded distracted. “When are you coming home?”
Addison stopped at the corner, waiting for the light to change, and rubbed the center of her forehead. “I don’t know, Mom. I need to figure some things out. I’m going to look into a potential job with some companies my friend recommended.”
She hated lying to her mom, but she also didn’t want to tell her the truth. She couldn’t go home—especially not now. She couldn’t be around them as they wallowed in the loss of Braedon while she knew he was alive.
“We really need you home, Addison,” her mom whispered.
Swallowing hard, she said, “I know, Mom. I just need a few weeks. I’ll be home soon, I promise. How’s Dad?”
“He’s keeping busy. He and your uncle Steven have been going out on the boat almost every afternoon.”
“He’s not drinking, is he?”
“Addison…”
He was. Son of a bitch. She hated her uncle. Never mind his judgmental ass at Braedon’s service—she refused to call it a funeral anymore—he enabled her father, a life-long functioning alcoholic who’d been sober for more than a decade. She stopped walking and moved closer to the building so she was out of everyone’s way.
“Mom, I know this is hard. I know more than anyone how hard this is, but do not make excuses for him. He needs to get his ass to an AA meeting before I get home, or it will not be pretty.”
“He’s suffering, Addison.”
“So are you. So am I. That does not excuse him drinking again.”
Her mother’s sigh was heavy as it came through the phone. “He needs time, just like you do.”
“Mom—” Her voice broke, and she squeezed her eyes to hold back the tears. “I won’t do this again. I won’t.”
“I’ll talk to him tonight when he comes home,” she promised.
“He needs to stay away from Uncle Steve,” Addison said.
“He doesn’t have anyone else to confide in.”
“Who the hell are you?” she asked. “He should be confiding in you. He should be confiding in a grief counselor. He should be confiding in his sponsor. He should not be confiding in the guy that provides him with a case of beer every day.”
“We all deal with loss in our own way, Addison. Some of us bury it, and some of us deny it.”
Her spine went rigid at her mother’s dig. “I have to go.”
“Addison—”
“I’ll call you when I know I’m heading home.” She ended the call and slid her phone back into her pocket. She needed some peace and Nama-fucking-ste.
She reached the park and headed to the farthest corner where the website said the class would be. Assuming the twenty or so people with yoga mats were what she was looking for, she approached the woman standing in front, facing the group.
“Hi. Is this the Harmony Yoga class?” she asked.
“Hi. Yes. I’m Crystal. Did you sign up online?” the woman asked.
“I’m Addison.” Her shoulders sagged. “I didn’t. Was I supposed to?”
“No, not at all. I just didn’t want to charge you if you’d already paid online. The class is five dollars.”
“Of course.” Addison pulled out the bills she’d shoved into the pocket with her phone and ID and handed over a five.
“Do you need a receipt?” Crystal asked.
“No, I’m good.”
Crystal smiled brightly. “Great. Find a spot where you’ll feel comfortable. Please make sure your cell phone and any other electronics are set to silent, and we’ll begin in a few minutes.”
“Thanks.” Addison walked around the group and chose a spot toward the back and side. She could see Crystal but wasn’t in the thick of the group. She smiled at a few people who glanced at her, then unrolled her mat, kicked off her shoes, and dropped her phone, money, and ID on the grass in front of her mat.
“Welcome, everyone.” The small portable speaker next to Crystal amplified her voice enough that Addison could hear her clearly from where she was. “I’m so glad to see several new faces along with so many regulars. If you’ll take a seat on your mat, either cross-legged or in lotus position, we’ll begin.”
Addison sat and crossed her feet over her legs, resting her hands palms up on her knees and splaying her fingers before allowing them to relax.
“Let’s begin by linking our breaths with our motion. Bring your arms up and out to the sides as you inhale deeply, then bring them down through heart center as you exhale.”
She moved through the poses, trying to follow Crystal’s soft voice. Tried to focus on her breathing and clear her mind, but even as her body moved from one pose to the next, her mind and spirit refused to quiet. Instead it was as if each new pose released another tumbler on the lock that held her together. The more tumblers that unlocked, the weaker her hold became until her control slipped through her fingers.
Thankful they had moved into pigeon pose, she rested her forehead on her hands as the tears splashed to the mat under her. She barely contained the sob that racked her body, but she stiffened when a soft hand rested on her back.
“Addison, why don’t you move to child’s pose,” Crystal said softly next to her head.
She nodded and pulled her outstretched leg under her, resting her butt on her calves. She cradled her face in
her hands and let go. Shame joined fear, anger, and worry in their efforts to overwhelm her.
This wasn’t her. She didn’t lose control. Or…it hadn’t been her. Nothing had been the same since that compound exploded. It hurt too much to keep fighting. Until today, she had been close to accepting what everyone else had said—she was in denial and so desperate for Braedon to be alive that she latched on to the connection of their youth as a reason to believe he hadn’t been killed.
Relief, too, coursed through her. Relief that he was alive and she wasn’t crazy. She could face whatever came next, knowing he was alive.
A whine and a wet tongue licking her cheek made her raise her head. Which gave the small, floppy-eared dog the opening it needed as it bathed her chin and neck. Addison pushed up and swung her legs around, crossing them in front of her, and wiped her face with the collar of her shirt.
“Hey there, little guy.” She picked him up and looked between his legs. “Girl. Where did you come from?”
“I don’t know, she just ran over and made a beeline for you.”
Addison glanced away from the puppy to find Crystal sitting on a mat close to her. They were the only ones there, the rest of the class having dispersed. How long had she been curled up on herself?
“Hey. Sorry about…that. I hope it didn’t disrupt the class.”
“Not at all. A few people asked if you were okay, but I assured them I’d sit with you until you were ready.”
Addison nodded and rubbed her face against the puppy’s side. “Thank you. And again, I’m sorry, I don’t know what happened.”
“Don’t apologize. One of the things I love about yoga is that it causes us to be honest with ourselves. With our bodies, our minds, and our spirits. You were obviously in a place where you needed to release some bad energy.” Crystal tilted her head. “Is there anything I can help with? I know I’m a complete stranger, but I’m a really good listener.”
She clutched the puppy to her chest. “I…uh. I lost my brother recently, and it’s been hard.”
Truth In The Lie (The Leonidas Corporation Book 2) Page 3
