Whiskey Sour (Crow Bar Brute Squad Book 3)

by Abby Knox

She looked around sheepishly. "I'm, like, scared to drive there myself, though. He put this tracker thing on the car." A single tear leaked from the outer corner of the woman's eye, smudging her heavy black eyeliner. "I'm sorry," she said, casting her eyes down and dabbing her tear away with the back of her hand. Harper caught a closer glimpse of the bracelet and saw by the lettering it was Tiffany. Harper's mind automatically filled in the gaps of the story: some rich, controlling boyfriend thinks that showering his girlfriend in expensive jewelry gives him the right to yank her around violently —or worse— and monitor her every move.

  Harper didn't need to hear any more. She pulled her phone out of her bag. "Oh, honey. Okay. Here, use my phone; call your sister."

  Harper handed the woman her phone and watched as she made a call. She held her breath. Maybe it was a bad idea to let someone handle her phone like that, but she'd handed it back to her.

  "He went up to the woods over there to take the dog to the bathroom. If you drop me off at my sister's house, I'll give you gas money."

  Harper jumped into action. "Let's go."

  She didn't even stop to get her shoes.

  As the two women walked up the beach toward the public parking lot, Harper kept an eye out for the man. She didn't know what finally convinced the woman to reach out for help, but she was glad she had done it.

  "Sure you don't wanna take off your boots? Might help you walk a little faster," Harper suggested. "I'm Harper, by the way."

  The woman shook her head and laughed. "I'm sure. It's so cold. You can call me Pearl."

  "That's a lovely name," Harper remarked, decided it was best to make small talk instead of asking probing questions that might spook the woman into changing her mind about getting help.

  "Thanks," Pearl said. "He told me not to ... I mean, she, my sister, told me not to use my real name because anybody who, uh, helps me, would be, like, bullied into telling him where I was. Or something like that.

  Harper tried to make sense of the woman's nervous babbling, which spilled out faster and faster as they approached the car. Well, of course, she's scared, Harper told herself. Who wouldn't be after asking a stranger for help?

  When they reached the car, Pearl gave her an address.

  "Okay, great, lemme just find the directions," Harper said, quickly typing in the address into the map all on her phone. The address was on a street not far from there but in one of the more desolate areas in the warehouse district. Then she noticed that somehow, the location services on her phone had been turned off.

  "That's weird," she muttered, getting an odd feeling in her stomach.

  "Oh, it's real easy," Pearl said hurriedly. "I'll just tell you how to get there."

  Something about that made Harper pause. "Hang on," Harper said. "Let me just turn on—"

  Pearl gripped Harper's wrist in a panic. "Oh my god he's back. He's by my car; he's looking for me. We have to go!"

  Her heart hammering in her chest, Harper set aside her confusion, dropped her phone to her floorboards, locked her car doors, threw the car into drive, and sped from the lot.

  As they headed down the road, away from the beach, Pearl exhaled loudly and laughed. "Oh my god, I'm free! I can't believe this is happening."

  Harper's hands gripped the wheel; she was nervous enough for the both of them. "Listen. When you get to your sister's house, make sure you call this number." Harper rattled off the emergency number for the local women's shelter that, of course, she had memorized in her steel-trap community-organizer brain. "They will help you put a no-contact order in place and accompany you to retrieve your personal effects.

  Pearl, however, wasn't listening but was clicking through the buttons on Harper's car radio, looking for something to "lighten the mood."

  Harper had to work to keep her eyes on the road as Pearl's long, manicured nails clicked loudly on the buttons. The painted-on rhinestones created a prism effect around the interior of the car. Harper thought Pearl's nails looked terrific, but also wondered just who she was, exactly. Expensive boots, jewelry, high-end manicure, but no winter gear?

  "Do you have a coat, hat, gloves? What are you in need of?" Harper asked.

  But Pearl waved her off. "Oh, no. It was just a last-minute decision to take a walk, and hats ruin my hairdo."

  Harper wanted to follow up on that, but at that moment, Pearl cranked the radio and started singing along to the music.

  By the time Harper's car reached the woman's sister's house, Harper was both fascinated and confused by Pearl's behavior.

  Maybe the adrenaline rush caused by escaping that man is making her feel euphoric and acting strangely. But then, her gut feeling told her there was much more behind what was going on.

  By the time Harper paid attention to that gut feeling, Pearl had leaned into her personal space, too close, and said, "I just want to hug you and say thank you."

  Conflicted, still harboring that compulsive need to do the right thing for someone in need, Harper let Pearl hug her.

  At that moment, Harper knew she should have never gone to the beach at all that morning. Pearl hugged her tight with one arm, and with the other, shoved something hard against Harper's side.

  "Turn off the car and come with me, or I put a bullet in your spleen."

  Chapter Twenty

  Dash

  * * *

  "Where the hell are you?"

  Harper's phone went straight to voicemail for the third time in a row that day.

  He'd called her twice over his lunch break at the factory, and it had gone to voicemail both times too. The third time, he'd called 30 minutes after his lunch break because he could not stop worrying and needed to put his mind at rest.

  After that third phone call, Dash left work early. He clocked out and stormed out of the building, ignoring the questions from his coworker and shift supervisor.

  "Fire me," he growled.

  As he made his way to his car, he thought of who else he could call.

  He burst through the front door of Harper's house when he arrived and called out to her. "Harper! Are you here? Why aren't you answering your phone?"

  He waited, prayed, for her smart-ass reply as he rushed through the small kitchen and living room, then bounded up the steps to the tiny attic bedroom, calling her name. But he already knew deep in his guts that she wasn't going to answer back.

  "Where the actual fuck?"

  Maybe she's having a crazy day at work, he told himself. Dialing information, he eventually tracked down her boss at the newspaper, Greg. "No, I'm sorry, she hasn't been in at all today. I've left several messages because we've got lots to cover today and a story she might like. If you hear from her, could you have her call me right away?"

  Dash promised to do that and hung up the phone with his heart in his throat. This woman was going to get a landline installed in this house as soon as possible. He redialed her, but this time, her inbox was full. He continued to look around her space for clues but found none. Everything was as they had left it that morning before they went to have breakfast at Crow Bar.

  All except one thing. On the back stoop in the slush—the one spot he'd neglected to shovel—was a set of boot prints that were about five sizes bigger than Harper's. "What the fuck?"

  Calm down, buddy. It could have been a delivery driver or a neighbor. Or Fr. O'Brien.

  Something told him that was not the case. Feeling somehow both ultra-paranoid but also inadequate, he photographed the boot prints in the slush.

  "Not gonna do me any good. But I'm desperate at this point, Harper."

  Great. Now I'm talking to my girlfriend as if she's here with me.

  She hadn't shown up for work; she wasn't answering anybody's phone calls. Time to talk to her moms, he decided.

  He bolted through the still-open front door just as Fr. O'Brien was crossing the yard carrying a dish of food in a disposable aluminum container.

  "Father, have you seen Harper today?"

  "No, son. I was just dropping off some
pot pie. I tried a new recipe, and I thought she might enjoy it…is something wrong, Lynwood? You look out of sorts."

  Dash filled the priest in on his concerns about Harper.

  "Oh my. Son, I'm sure she's just fine. But if you need my help, just say the word."

  Dash pointed behind him toward Harper's house. "Can I get you to stay here for a little while in case she shows up? I'm going to go look for her."

  "Of course," Fr. O'Brien said.

  Not knowing where her moms lived, Dash kicked himself for not finding out this information and then got in his car. He drove like mad to get to the distillery and prayed that her moms would be there. The man had never prayed so much in his life. Or ever.

  Upon arriving at the distillery, Dash bolted out of the car and tugged on the door handle.

  He cursed upon discovering it was locked and then shouted when he saw movement inside.

  The feminine shape, startled by his shouting and banging on the glass, jumped backward and grabbed her chest. She then went behind the counter, grabbed a shotgun, and approached him cautiously.

  Upon getting a closer look at him, she squinted. "Do I know you?"

  Dash shouted, "I'm Harper's boyfriend! Are you Desiree?"

  He only knew them vaguely from around the neighborhood and knew that Lori was the one who often accompanied Harper when she was on one of her missions to collect signatures around the area.

  The woman's eyes widened.

  "What's your name?"

  "Dash Fitzgerald."

  He began to dig inside his pocket for his wallet to prove his identity, but Desiree opened the door and let him in. As she locked the door behind him, he asked hurriedly, have you heard from Harper today?"

  Desiree spun around to meet his gaze, once again gripping her shirt. "No! Why, what's going on?"

  Dash could see that this was the most likely parent to freak out before having all the facts, so he tried to remain calm. "I've called her several times today, and no answer. I was just wondering if she was here. No big deal, I'm sure everything is fine."

  Desiree arched an eyebrow at him.

  "Young man," she said, "Did you and she argue? Because she's not going to tolerate much of that. Maybe she just wanted some alone time."

  He swallowed. "No. We didn't argue. But…she didn't show up for work today."

  He waited for the shouting and the crying that never came. Instead, Desiree, a shotgun still in one hand, dialed Harper on the business phone and then from her mobile phone. "No answer." She turned her eyes up at Dash. Even though she was more than a foot shorter than he was, she flattened him with her gaze. She had the look of a witch about to put a hex on him. "If you are lying to me, and you're hiding something, I swear to Goddess, I will put you down."

  Dash put up his palms. "I understand why I'd be a target, and I am sorry I didn't introduce myself to you earlier. You don't have any idea what kind of person I am, and that's on me. But the real matter at hand here is we need to find Harper."

  She narrowed her eyes again and picked up her phone. "Calling my wife… Hi, have you talked to Harper today? …No… I'm here with her boyfriend Dash, and he says she didn't show up to work today."

  Lora's voice was calm but terrified. "I'm calling the police."

  Dash said, "I'll follow you to your house to help answer any questions from the police."

  Moments later, the three of them sat together in Lora and Desiree's living room, Lora speaking to the police dispatch. She hung up and looked defeated. She shook her head and informed the group that the police would not execute a missing person's search until the adult had been missing for 48 hours.

  "Fuck," Dash said, punching the sofa cushion and standing up.

  He took a deep breath and made another call.

  "Who are you calling?" Lora asked. Her voice again sounded weak, like a ghost.

  "Holden's fiancée might be able to pull some strings with the police department."

  He watched Lora and Desiree exchange a look and shrug. "I'll take whatever help anyone can offer," Lora said. "We just need to make sure she's okay."

  While he waited for Holden to answer, he asked for the two of them to think of any place she might have gone. Any business that she frequented. Lora got up and grabbed a notepad and a pen, and the two women began compiling a list of Harper's favorite haunts.

  "Holden, it's Dash. Listen, I have a situation." Dash filled in the details for his best friend, hoping he or Katie would have an idea of what to do. Dash was slowly starting to see himself losing it.

  Holden replied, "Shit. Hang on; I'm gonna let you talk to the lady in charge."

  He heard murmuring on the line, and then Katie picked up. "Dash? Tell me everything you know; I'm already in the process of putting my security detail on top of it. And the police are right, they can't legally begin a search right now, but Mike will do anything I need him to do. Don't you worry. We'll find her."

  "Too late, I'm already sick with worry. Thank you, Katie. Thank you so much."

  He was too sick to his stomach to care about the way his emotions showed in his words. He had to get Katie back, and that's all there was to it. He would make sure she was okay. If she had just disappeared to be alone for a little while, then they'd have to have a serious talk about her letting him know when she needed space. If she was leaving him, that was her choice, but she needed to speak up.

  If someone had taken her somewhere, that someone had just signed their own death warrant. Dash would find them and unleash such an unholy rage, they will have wished they'd jumped off the pier into the frigid sea rather than die at the hands of Dash Fitzgerald.

  The worst-case scenario, he could not bear to think of. If she was hurt, or worse, well… Dash just could not let that play out in his mind. He refused.

  "I'm gonna go back to her house and wait for her," he said. "If she turns up or if I hear of anything, I'll let you know."

  It took some doing, but Dash convinced Lora and Desiree to stay put in case Harper showed up at their house, for whatever reason.

  As he headed out the door, he called the only other person he could think of that might help.

  "Levi. Round up the squad and meet me at this address…"

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Harper

  * * *

  The first thing she noticed was the musty smell that reminded her of Horace Ross Whiskey's basement.

  Am I dreaming? Am I having a nightmare that Mom sent me down to the basement to fetch some crap, like some kind of sick exposure therapy? Surely not.

  So why was she in the basement of the distillery?

  Darkness all around her, she could not make out the familiar shapes of boxes of whiskey and fermentation supplies that were kept down there.

  Her consciousness and alertness finally took hold. Harper sat up straight with a gasp. "Mom! Why am I down here in the dark?"

  She felt around on the floor and soon realized this was not the basement floor of the distillery. She felt around for the French drain that was not there. The distillery basement had a stone floor, and this was smooth concrete, cold under her bare feet.

  Think, Harper. Think. She stood carefully, feeling a bit dizzy. Reaching around in the dark, she looked for the pull string for the overhead lightbulb, but again, there was nothing. Eventually, finding the stone wall, she felt her way along. It was oddly damp. This was not the distillery.

  She cast her thoughts back to that morning. She'd been at Crow Bar with Dash, and she'd been formally introduced to Dash's mom. They'd informed everyone vital to them that they were now officially a couple. The reception of that had been bland at best, except for Mrs. Fitzgerald. Afterward, she had walked on the beach but got sidetracked by a…wait a minute…a lady with a dog. Or a lady missing her dog?

  The barrel of a handgun in her side…a threat…and then she'd felt a pinch…and everything had gone hazy, fading into black.

  Oh my god. The house. I'm at some crazy person's house in a neighborhood I
don't even know.

  She'd been tricked, threatened, kidnapped, drugged, and tossed into a dark, unfamiliar space. She knew two things for sure: she was underground, and she was about to panic.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Dash

  * * *

  Leave it to Billy to show up with the contents of the Crow Bar safe: guns and ammo. Levi showed up with the headsets, admitting he had no idea if they would work or how they would use them, but he just panicked and grabbed them in case. Ricky brought a Sharpie and the legal pad. Holden and the rest brought muscle, and Katie brought in Mike. Dash had heard legendary stories of Mike's efforts to protect Katie—quite possibly the wealthiest person in all of Newcastle. Seeing the man in person gave him an odd sense of calm amid the shitstorm raging in his head.

  Also, there was his mom, Levi's grandmother, and Fr. O'Brien. Even Declan had shown up. A hard knot of pride formed in his throat. If he hadn't guessed that Harper was a great human before, he knew now just by the sheer number of people who were showing up to help find her.

  "Thanks, everyone. This means a lot," Dash said, swallowing back tears. "I could be overreacting, but—" Fiona, Levi's fiancée, cut him off. "Seriously, Dash. No. Trust your gut. The girl has a target on her back, and we need to find her."

  Dash nodded grimly. "Okay. First, we make a list of Harper's enemies."

  The list was long, but her list of friends was longer.

  Ricky, who was of much calmer and sound mind than Dash at the moment, delegated out the tasks to everyone. Billy handed each of the Brute Squad a firearm, bullets, and showed each one how to use them. The longer Dash knew Billy, the more he began to wonder if his real job was a super-spy or something. The dude knew too much about too many things, all of which were strangely handy in a crisis.

  Before they all split up, Fr. O'Brien placed a hand on Dash's shoulder. "You don't even need to ask. I'll stay here and wait for her in case she shows up. You go and do whatever you need to do. And take this."