by Zoe Blake
Reckless Surrender
The Surrender Series, Book Three
Zoe Blake
Copyright © 2018, 2021 by Zoe Blake & Poison Ink Publications
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All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the
author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover Design by Dark City Designs:
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Epilogue
About Zoe Blake
Also by Zoe Blake
Chapter 1
Hush now, Phoebe, do not you fear
Never mind, Phoebe, the Mad Monk is near
* * *
The sickly sweet sing-song voice echoed around her empty bedchamber. Phoebe’s mouth opened, the lower lip trembling in a macabre pantomime of a silent scream. Fear kept her immobile. A fear so intense it struck straight through her, making her very bones feel brittle and weak. A cold sweat broke out over her brow as she searched the darkness in vain, trying to peer past the moving shadows. Every outline was suspect. Every hint of sound, real or imagined, a cry of alarm, but there was nothing. Through the distorted glass of her window, she could see the burnt orange and crimson glow from the macabre dance of flickering flames as black-cloaked figures ran about with torches, the earlier torrential rain doing nothing to dampen the morbid celebration.
Casting a glance to her left, she could see a faint halo of light surrounding the cracks at the edges of the door. Through it was the dark outline of a heavy bolt. The door was locked tight. Of course, someone had managed to get into her locked room before this.
It had been a warning.
A warning to stay away, to leave this place.
A warning she was putting herself in danger.
A warning she had ignored.
It was a small, single-room chamber with just enough space for a bed, desk and cozy chair in the corner. Barely larger than a student’s dorm room. Surely she would know if someone had entered the chamber.
Leaning over, she flicked the switch to the dome ceiling light. Phoebe both craved the security the brightness would bring and dreaded what it might show.
Nothing happened.
Darkness still reigned.
She felt a fresh wave of terror. It took Phoebe a moment to recall she had removed the light bulb herself earlier in case he had tried to search her room looking for her. She’d wanted the darkness to shield her, to hide her from his prying, intense gaze, but now she wondered what else the darkness was hiding. Had someone else learned of her true purpose for being there? Learned about the lies she’d told to get to the truth?
Again, she scanned the darkness. The chamber was silent and still save for the distant shouts and cries from those outside.
Maybe she was just imagining it?
Her nerves were already strung tight from hiding from him…from lying to him. It only made sense her imagination would lean toward the dark and forboding, that her mind would conjure up monsters under the bed and a mad monk specter to go bump in the night.
Hush now, Phoebe, do not you fear
Never mind, Phoebe, the Mad Monk is near
The raspy voice was definitely coming from inside her bedchamber.
Phoebe launched herself at the door. Throwing the bolt, she ran into the hallway. She was halfway down the long corridor before the chill of the flagstone seeped through her thin socks. In her haste, she had not even grabbed her boots. Throwing a nervous look over her shoulder, she saw the corridor remained empty. The darkness was broken by shafts of weak, bloodstained light. Its source a row of tall, cathedral windows along one wall. Each window had a ruby red cross of Saint John in its center, a remnant from the school’s monastic past. A luminous full moon shown through each cross, bathing the space in an eerie red glow.
Keeping an eye on the empty corridor, Phoebe reached into her back pocket for her phone. Needing a sense of safety no matter how meager, she leaned against the cold stone wall, protecting her back. She pressed the power button and waited for the screen to come to life.
No bars.
The earlier storm must have knocked out what passed for cell service in this remote area. Phoebe didn’t even know who she would call. The police? Would they even dare to cross through the gates onto the property? Probably not. Worse, they would probably just call him and expect him to handle the situation. At that very moment, she wasn’t certain what she was more afraid of…the possible murderer haunting her…or his wrath when he found out she had disobeyed him.
One thing was for certain, she needed to keep moving. Needed to find someplace to hide. Someplace no one would think to look for her.
For a brief moment, she wondered if she dared to return to her chamber for her boots, but then thought better of it. She would go to the gymnasium. The locker room would be a bright open space and perhaps she could borrow a pair of shoes from one of the open lockers.
With at least an immediate plan in place, Phoebe headed off down the corridor, feeling more confident the further away she got from the twisted rhyme and whoever was singing it. Stopping before a somber-looking portrait of some old man in a white wig who seemed to be staring down at her in disapproval, Phoebe tried to remember where the gym was in the labyrinth of old hallways and buildings.
The moment’s distraction cost her dearly.
A strong arm wrapped around her middle as a large hand covered her mouth, stifling any hope of a scream for help. The hard, unrelenting form pressed along her back radiated masculine strength. Phoebe kicked out as her nails clawed at the hand covering her lips. Desperate to escape, she tried twisting and turning her body. The band of muscle wrapped tightly across her stomach squeezed harder, pressing painfully into her ribs, cutting off her air. Wrenching her head to one side, Phoebe tried to break his grasp. Her stockinged toes scraped along the flagstone for purchase as, with his superior strength, he easily lifted her off her feet.
Still, she fought.
Then she heard a deep, throaty chuckle.
Warm lips skimmed the shell of her left ear. She could feel the faint touch of his breath along the exposed delicate skin of her neck. Inhaling precious air through her nose, she caught the spicy scent of his cologne.
“I warned you what would happen if you defied me, princess.”
Phoebe’s bright green eyes grew wide at the darkly whispered threat cloaked in an endearment. Her pleas were muffled nonsense from beneath his hand.
Already lightheaded from her fevered gasps for breath, she failed to fight when he shifted his grasp to effortlessly lift her over one powerful shoulder.
“You need to learn that no one…no one…defies my command.”
She could feel him pivot. Just as he crossed a threshold and slammed the door shut behind them, she reclaimed her voice.
The faint echo of her cry was swallowed by the dark shadows of the cold, uncaring stone corridor.
Chapter 2
Two weeks earlier.
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Phoebe grimaced as the deafening screech of an out of tune saxophone blared in her ear. Casting a glare over her shoulder at the street performer dressed as Spiderman playing a disgraceful version of Amazing Grace, she stepped off the curb…straight into a
pothole. The unexpected jolt caused her ankle to twist as she spilled her mocha latte down the front of her black and purple pinstriped suit.
“Damn it,” cursed Phoebe as the right heel snapped off her black pump. As she bent down to retrieve the heel, a taxi horn blared angrily. “All right! All right! I’m moving!” she shouted in the direction of the New York yellow cab before hobbling across the crosswalk. Tossing the heel in her shoulder bag, she vainly rummaged around for a napkin or tissue to wipe off her suit. “Too bad people don’t carry handkerchiefs anymore,” she muttered under her breath as she swiped at the droplets of creamy chocolate liquid clinging to the fabric of her skirt. Tossing the now-empty coffee cup in the trash, she made her way down the block to the offices of the New York Ledger.
Emerging from the glass revolving door into the large, marble floored lobby, she tilted up her chin in greeting to the security guard. “Hey, Matt.”
“Morning, Phoebe,” replied Matt without looking up from the racing form he was studying. “They’re waiting for you in Henry’s office.”
“I know.” She pressed the button for the elevator as she took another rueful swipe at her still-damp skirt. At least it had missed her silk blouse, she thought with a pained smile.
Hobbling out of the elevator on the fifteenth floor, Phoebe gave the receptionist a quick wave as she walked past to her cubicle.
The receptionist covered the mouthpiece of her headphones and leaned over her desk to call out, “Henry’s waiting for you in his office.”
“I know,” responded Phoebe over her shoulder without turning around.
Limping to her desk, she sat down with a huff. Unbuckling both ankle straps, she pulled off her black pumps. Opening the bottom drawer of her desk, she surveyed the random selection of shoes: a pair of black high heels and a red pair of flats, some old worn sneakers and a pair of slippers. Selecting the black high heels, she was placing them on her feet when a bespectacled face appeared over the gray wall of her cubicle.
“What are you doing? Henry’s waiting.”
Jimmy was the assistant to the assistant editor at the Ledger. Basically, an all-around jimmy-on-the-spot, go-to man for the staff. Unfortunately, he looked like an even nerdier version of Leonard from The Big Bang Theory, complete with glasses and a rather eclectic collection of comic book T-shirts. He also looked to be about sixteen despite his age of thirty-two. Of course, the comic book T-shirts didn’t help.
“So I’ve heard,” quipped Phoebe as she rose out of her seat, grabbed her spiral notebook and followed Jimmy into Henry Cobb’s office.
“Helluva job, Wilson. Helluva job!” exclaimed Henry, the Chief Editor of the Ledger, as he lifted his considerable bulk out of his long-suffering office chair to greet her.
In the five years since she had been at the Ledger working her way up from intern to investigative journalist, Henry had never, not once, called her by her first name, Phoebe. She was always ‘Wilson’ to him. Phoebe figured it was his way of coping with the regrettable fact…at least to him…that she was a female. Despite his old boys’ club tendencies, Henry was an amazing boss and the closest thing she had to a father.
Laughing, Phoebe plucked the cigar from his fingers and snubbed it out in the ashtray, which was a permanent fixture on the right-hand corner of his desk.
“You don’t ever snub out a cigar,” he complained. “That’s sacrilege.”
Giving him an admonishing look, she said, “You promised no cigars before noon. You can at least wait till then before you completely ignore all your doctor’s orders for the day.”
Mumbling something about meddling females, Henry lowered himself into his chair behind his desk. Tapping one pudgy finger on the folded newspaper there, he repeated, “Helluva job! I hear the FBI is now getting involved.”
“It will take me another week to get the stench of fryer oil out of my hair but it was worth it.” Phoebe smiled with pride as she took a seat across from him.
She had spent the last month undercover as a hostess in Chinatown. It had taken forever to just get the job and even longer to sneak into the owner’s office to grab peeks at his financial records. Being suspicious of computers, Lee Woo had kept everything on paper, which had actually helped her investigation. Hacking into someone’s computer was a pain in the ass; she much preferred paper files. It was because of Woo’s anxiety over the government spying on his computer that she had been able to get copies of all the documentation she’d needed to prove he was cheating his employees. Paying them far less than minimum wage, and sometimes not paying them at all. Forcing the cooks in the kitchen to work long hours and failing to compensate them for overtime. Cheating the IRS by underreporting the revenue he brought in at his twelve, cash-only, restaurants throughout Chinatown. It was her article that had brought down the ‘King of Chinatown’ and led to the FBI raiding his offices earlier this morning.
“Associated Press has picked up the article. Should hit wide by tomorrow,” said Henry as he shuffled a large pile of papers from one side of the desk to the other.
“That’s great exposure for the Ledger,” observed Phoebe.
Henry smirked. “Even better for you. One of these days the Post or Times are going to steal you away from me.”
Phoebe looked about the office with its cheap mismatched furniture and faded artwork. “And leave all this luxury?” she joked, giving Henry a playful wink.
Henry snapped his fingers at Jimmy who had been standing patiently by his desk. Jimmy quickly handed him one of the files he was holding.
“I know you are working on that crooked cop from—”
“Florida. I was, but the trail went cold fast. We know he escaped from that prison in Florida and allegedly stole a car and is going after some ex-girlfriend. All I’ve really got so far is a bunch of conflicting witnesses stating they’ve seen him in their neighborhood. I guess I’ll have to go interview—”
“No, nix that. Everybody and their dog is chasing that story. Let them waste time and money running around all over the place in what will most likely be a wild goose chase. I’ve got a real story for you. An exclusive lead. This one comes straight from the top.”
Intrigued, Phoebe raised one eyebrow. “Is it juicy?” she asked, leaning forward to try to catch a glimpse of the folder in his hand, all the while smiling because she knew Henry hated the word juicy.
Giving her a grimace, he said, “Well, you don’t get any juicier than murder.”
Phoebe fell back into her chair with a disappointed huff. “I don’t do murder. Obituaries are Sam’s department.”
“Come on, Wilson. You know the old adage, if it bleeds it leads. Besides, this came straight from the top.”
“The owner? How is he possibly involved in a murder? Did an old fraternity brother stab his trophy wife with a sharpened oyster spoon?”
Henry tossed the folder on his desk toward her. “Two women were ritualistically murdered. Strangled and some weird satanic symbol was carved into their chests. One was the daughter of a close friend of the paper. He wants this story out and the murderer found, thinks some press on the issue would help.”
Phoebe opened the folder and looked over the memo from Grant Richards, the owner of the New York Ledger, as Henry continued to talk. Then, glimpsing some skin with dark brown dried blood, she snapped the file shut. The photos were a bit much to look at before her latte had kicked in.
“Whole matter is being hushed up. Police were barely even involved in the investigation. Rubber-stamped the military’s conclusions.”
Phoebe looked up. “The owner asked for me specifically.” She had wanted to sound nonchalant but there was no keeping the awe and excitement out of her voice.
“Welcome to the big leagues, kid.” Henry reached for another cigar and held a match in front of the rolled tobacco, heating it.
Phoebe watched the tip glow a bright, angry red as she quickly surmised what this could mean for her career. She had no desire to be a little fish in the big swirling vortex o
f the pond of those larger New York newspapers, but she so very much wanted to be a big fish in the Ledger pond.
Focusing on the matter at hand, she asked, “Why are the police not involved in the main investigation?”
“It happened on the grounds of the Puller Military Academy where one of the teachers was a victim. It’s a distinguished naval school with a lot of powerful alumni. Local cops didn’t stand a chance. They’re blaming some mysterious homeless man, the go-to story when no one wants to find the real killer. My money is on some senator’s son the military is protecting.”
Phoebe nodded as she took in the information. It was a fairly straightforward story. Influential, probably extremely competitive school would do anything to not have a salacious murder attached to their name. It also didn’t surprise her that the Navy would want to handle the matter internally.
“We’re moving fast on this one,” said Henry, interrupting her thoughts. “Jimmy, show her what you got.”
Eager to show off what he had accomplished, Jimmy straightened his glasses and rummaged through the remaining files in his arms. “Building off your own credentials of a Master’s in English Literature, we created a new identity for you and got you a position as an assistant professor of English at the academy.”
Her eyebrow quirked up as Phoebe huffed in disbelief. “I’m assuming this is a prestigious school, and they just hired me without an interview?”
“They’re desperate. You’ll be replacing the teacher who was just murdered. Not many clamoring for the position,” Henry interjected.
“Lucky me,” joked Phoebe.
