The reason behind Medford’s killing was of no real importance to him. He had a job to do, and as usual he took great pride in his work. Knowing why his client wanted to off the wealthy and famous man mattered nothing to him. It was a job that paid him quite a bit of money. That was his only motivation.
With meticulous care, he gathered his weapons into a box. Nasty creatures, but quite effective. He would leave only the largest snake. To the authorities, it would appear that Medford had died from multiple bites from that one snake. They would never know the man had been attacked by a half dozen of the vipers.
He looked around once more to ensure he’d left no indication that he had been there. Satisfied with what he saw and with his night’s work, he let himself out the way he’d come in, through the back door.
Scaling the brick wall in the backyard, he hopped down and jogged the quarter mile to where he’d left his car. Only slightly winded, he dropped into the driver’s seat, pressed the engine button, and shifted into gear. Five miles down the road, he made the call.
“It’s done.”
“He’s dead?”
“Should be within the next ten minutes. He’ll be long dead before anyone finds him.”
“Excellent. The other half of your payment is on its way.”
“Good.”
“Stay close. It’s possible I’ll have another job for you soon.”
“Sounds good.”
He ended the call and set his eyes on the rising sun ahead of him. If he timed it right, he might be able to get in a quick swim before he was due on the set. Staying in shape was imperative for both his professions. Acting and contract killing had several things in common. One of those things was good physical health. Another was the opportunity to role-play. He had been everything from a waiter in a fancy restaurant to a middle-management pencil pusher at a CPA firm. Killing—at least the way he liked to do it—took talent and time. One couldn’t rush perfection.
Took a lot of work to be at the top of one’s game. He was already at the top of one. Wouldn’t be long before he was on top of the other.
Chapter Eleven
Los Angeles, California
It was the cold that woke her first. Tendrils, like icy fingers, crept through her limbs, spreading desolation, a deep, aching sadness that permeated her whole being. The pressure on her chest increased as if someone were sitting on her. She woke, gasping and wheezing for breath, shivering uncontrollably as if she were encased in ice.
Why was it always the cold and that chest-squeezing pain that came first? Why not the other horror? Not that she wanted those hideous nightmares either. The cold on its own was brutal enough…the way it slowly, insidiously slid through her whole body like a poison worm attacking inch by inch. Sometimes she wondered if perhaps she was supposed to have died, and this was Death’s way of reminding her that he was still around, still hovering.
She should be dead. No real reason she wasn’t, other than the sheer will to live. And that voice…that beautiful, masculine voice that called to her to stay alive. To wait for him because he would come for her.
Aubrey shook her head and snorted her disgust at her thoughts. One would think she would have given up on fairy tales and romantic nonsense. Sure she was a dreamer—that came with the territory of creativity—but that didn’t belong in the real world. The real world had bad people with ulterior motives and knives and fists. The real world was where she lived. Not in some fictional land where princes rescued damsels in distress. She’d learned long ago that if she needed rescuing, she damn well had to do it herself.
But late at night, when she was extremely tired or overwrought, the nightmare would come. The pain, the fear, the absolute agony. There was no hope, no chance of survival. And then she would hear his voice, calling her name, calming her, telling her to hold on.
It was a voice she’d lived with for twelve years. The voice of the man she loved. A man she’d never seen. A man who was long dead. Her heart didn’t care. It knew to whom it belonged.
She rolled over in bed and squinted at the bedside clock. Only five thirty. She’d come back to her hotel room and thrown herself into her work. The interview with Brenda had drained her, but her mind was too wired to rest.
When she’d crawled into bed at two thirty this morning, she had promised herself she would sleep late. Three hours of sleep wouldn’t cut it, but she had no choice. No way would she be able to sleep after a nightmare.
Promising herself a nap after her meeting today, she slipped from the bed. The cold still holding her in its grasp, she pulled on the thick hotel robe. Taking a deep breath to refocus, she padded into the small living room area. Her laptop sat on the table where she’d left it last night, the blinking cursor a welcoming sight. Writing was her number one way of overcoming the nightmares. She could lose herself in the story and for a time completely forget what haunted her.
Only those closest to her knew what had happened twelve years ago. She wanted neither the notoriety nor the attention that would come from publicizing her own experience. She did, however, want people to be informed. What they chose to do with that information was up to them. She had once lived in the darkness of unawareness, and her ignorance had almost gotten her killed.
This was her way of fighting evil. Some people wore a badge and carried a gun. She carried a camera and a microphone.
Her first documentary had been about human trafficking. The film had established her reputation as a hard-hitting but compassionate revealer of truth. It also won her several awards and more than a few enemies. When evil people’s livelihoods were threatened, they did everything they could to stop the truth.
The documentary had revealed that human trafficking happened, in every state and in every town, no matter how small. That it was an insidious, evil disease that destroyed lives and made greedy, vile people a lot of money.
Choosing human trafficking as the topic of her first documentary had been no accident. But for the grace of God, that’s exactly what would have happened to her. That was what they’d planned. She’d heard them. The British one—older and very much the leader of the group—had been talking. A lot of the conversation had been in a language she didn’t even recognize, but she’d heard enough English and French to get the gist. There had been a debate going on. Sell her or accept the offered ransom.
She’d been bleeding and beaten, so weak from pain and the breath-stealing pneumonia attacking her lungs, she could barely stay conscious, but she had been determined to listen, to know what was going to happen. Some man in Austria had made an offer. A ransom had been presented as well. Thankfully, the quick ransom money had been too hard to pass up.
But there had been others who hadn’t been as fortunate. She had seen them, heard them. Weeping, screaming, desolate, and hopeless. When she’d returned home, she’d told anyone who would listen that others needed saving. She’d insisted something be done about the ones left behind. Not only for them but also for the man she owed her life to. It had been weeks before she’d heard anything. She’d been unconscious much of the time, struggling to stay alive. When she had woken, finally cognizant of her surroundings, she’d asked. The news had been devastating. The prison had been decimated. Nothing remained.
But Lion had been there. He had existed, and he had kept her alive, given her the courage to survive. She had long accepted that he was dead but he still deserved justice. Who were those people who had captured them? Would she ever know the truth?
And those women had existed, too. What had happened to them? Had they been sold? To whom?
The evil that people could do to their fellow human beings no longer surprised her, and she was eons past being that innocent, naïve young woman. She had tried her best to not become hardened by that knowledge. Instead, she’d worked her butt off to try to change the world.
In that dark, filthy prison, she had prayed a thousand prayers and made a million promises. With fear, pain, and sorrow tearing and shredding her soul, she had faced d
ark truths and excruciating lies. At nineteen, she’d been a bit shallow and a lot vain. Not a bad person, but also not one who thought too deeply. Introspection had never been her strong suit, but when forced to deal with the possibility of her death, or worse, she’d done some major soul searching. That experience had changed her life and her focus.
She had vowed to do something of value, to make a difference. Even though acting touched a lot of lives, she’d realized she needed to do something more.
Many people had asked what inspired her, and she always gave a vague answer. The reasons she did what she did were many and varied. But in the back of her mind there was always the voice. The legacy of a man named Lion would live on through the work that she did. If she could do nothing else for him, she could at least do this.
She often wondered what might have happened if he had shown up that day at the library. Would they have gone to dinner that night? Seen each other the next day? And the day after that? Their connection had been real. She might’ve been naïve about many things back then, but not about this. They had connected on a level she’d never known existed. She doubted she’d ever have that kind of bond again. For the past few years, she had dated various men. Not one of them had ever given her the feeling of wholeness and completeness as her extremely short relationship with a man she’d never even seen.
In the dark of night, when demons hounded, she would often call up his voice in her mind. She wished she had told him that he had been an answer to one of her prayers. If he hadn’t been there, she would have just given up. She had been that lost, that hopeless.
The thought that he’d died without ever knowing what he had done for her, what he’d meant to her, hurt deep within her soul. How she longed for just one more moment so she could give him the words.
She was so lost in the memories that it took her several seconds to notice her phone was ringing. She glanced at the display, and her heart lightened. Her cousin Becca was one of her favorite people in the world.
Aubrey answered with a smile in her voice. “Hey, you. What are you doing up so early?”
“Early? It’s almost ten o’clock.”
Aubrey glanced at the clock on her laptop and verified the time. She also noted that she’d written almost seventeen pages. Sometimes her muse worked without her even being aware.
“Don’t tell me you worked all night again,” Becca said.
“No, just woke early and lost track of time.” Standing, she stretched her neck and back.
“Have you heard the news?”
“What news?”
“Lawrence Medford was found dead this morning.”
Aubrey dropped back into her chair, stunned. “What happened?”
“Believe it or not, he was bitten by a snake.”
“But where? We were scheduled for a meeting this afternoon. Where would he have encountered a snake?”
“Apparently, one crawled into his house.”
Without conscious thought, she lifted her feet from the floor. “That’s terrible.”
“I know. It just hit the news, but I heard about it before that. My stylist’s sister is married to his masseuse. He was the one who found him.”
“That’s just awful.”
She refused to think about what this would do to her own project. A life had ended. From what she could remember, Medford was divorced but had several grown children and a couple of grandchildren.
He was…had been an exceptionally talented producer, and she had looked forward to ironing out their differences and working with him.
“I know that puts a crimp in your plans for your next project.”
“It’ll put me behind, but I’ll find a backer.”
“You know that Daddy would do it in a heartbeat.”
“No, don’t even go there, Becca. Uncle Syd has done more than enough for me.”
Her cousin knew the gist of what had happened to her in Paris and Syria, but not the gory details. Becca would have blamed herself for not being there with her, and Aubrey didn’t want that in her head.
Her uncle Syd had paid her ransom. Without him, there was no telling where she’d be now. She already owed him her life; she refused to take anything else from him. As an Oscar-winning film director, Syd Green commanded well-deserved respect and influence. However, having him open doors for her went against every promise she’d made to herself.
Becca released a dramatic sigh. “All right. I’ll stop haranguing you about that, but I do have a small favor to ask.”
“What’s that?”
“Go to a party with me?”
“What kind of party?”
Becca wasn’t one to live on the wild side that some Hollywood stars were known for, so Aubrey wasn’t too concerned, but being around a bunch of pretty people wasn’t Aubrey’s idea of fun either.
“It’s a preproduction party for Feathers.”
Based on the book of the same name, by bestselling author, Maggie Rhodes, the movie was one of the most-talked-about projects in Hollywood this year. It was also Becca Green’s first starring role—and one that would make her a star.
“What about Chad?” Aubrey said. “Isn’t he available?”
“We decided to go our separate ways.”
“Oh, Becca, I’m sorry. When did that happen?”
“Last night.”
Becca and Aubrey were total opposites when it came to dating. Becca fell in and out of love every few months. After the inevitable breakup, she would be blue for a couple of weeks and then move on. Aubrey, on the other hand, was in love with a man she’d never met, who was no longer alive. Why else would he haunt her dreams?
Becca gave another long, dramatic sigh, reminding Aubrey of her responsibility as a cousin and best friend.
“Come over tonight and let’s do a girl thing. I’ll order takeout.”
“That sounds wonderful. I’ll bring the wine and dessert. We’ll have an old-fashioned sleepover the way we used to, Kat.”
Becca was the only person who still occasionally called her Kat. In her heart, that had been Lion’s name for her. It was an intimacy she wanted to share with no one else. Besides, when she’d returned from Syria she had been a different person. A different name only made sense. Using her middle name had been an easy transition.
Her family had gone along with the name change, wanting nothing more than to let her put everything that had happened behind her.
“But what about the party? Will you go with me? Please…pretty please?”
She had hoped to return home to Florida tomorrow, but now that she would likely need to meet with other prospective investors, that would have to wait. Still, attending a glitzy party held no appeal.
“There must be tons of guys who’d love to be your date for the party. Why not ask one of them?”
“Because I’m going to need all my focus to be on this movie. I don’t need the distraction of a new relationship.”
Becca was right. The last thing she needed was a new romance to take her focus away from this role. “Okay, I’ll go.”
“Thank you. I’ll bring you an outfit to wear.”
Aubrey ended the call on a laugh. Another thing they didn’t have in common was love of fashion. She’d always chosen comfort over style, and Becca was of the mind that if an outfit looked fabulous, it was worth a little pain.
Standing, she went to the window that overlooked the large hotel pool. Several people were already swimming or lying on the lounge chairs, soaking up the morning sun. She wished she were home so she could swim in the privacy of her own pool. When she traveled, she never bothered to bring a suit. She knew she wouldn’t be swimming. The scars on her body didn’t define her, and she wasn’t ashamed of them, but the looks and speculation were tiresome. She had learned to ignore them and the occasional rude question, but it was just easier not to reveal them to those who didn’t know her.
That last day, before her ransom had been paid, was a mind-blurring day of agonizing pain and terror. She had t
hought they were going to torture her, use her against Lion to get whatever information they thought he had. And it had been torturous, but what had happened to her had had nothing to do with Lion.
She’d been beaten and then left alone. That was when she’d heard that a ransom had been offered and accepted. She’d been in a near state of euphoria, knowing she would be going home soon. Then everything had changed. The man with the British accent had spoken again, and she’d barely comprehended his words before the new nightmare had begun.
He’d said, “We’re to send her home with a message.”
When she’d woken up in the hospital days later, she’d had multiple stab wounds all over her body. None of the wounds had been to vital organs, none intended to kill her. She still didn’t know who or what that “message” had been for.
She had told the men who’d come to talk to her, both from the FBI and the State Department. Though they’d been kind, no one had offered any concrete ideas on what those words had meant. She’d been told that it had likely been part of her torture. She didn’t think so, but without knowing who had taken her in the first place, she’d had to let it go. She doubted she would ever know the real reason behind it all.
The scars had healed. Some had almost disappeared, but several hadn’t. She rarely thought of them any longer. They were part of who she was. And though the scars on the inside were still with her, she’d learned to let them motivate her.
Had she made a difference? Yes. Was she through? Not by a long shot.
Lawrence Medford’s genius would have been invaluable and would be sorely missed. However, she was determined to get this film made. Nothing and no one would stop her from telling this story.
Chapter Twelve
Beverly Hills, California
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