by Tara Janzen
A bloody mess.
“Nate, boy, you listen to me now. You listen to me hard. You gotta call that cop buddy of yours in Atlanta. Tell him to call the Denver police and check if the kid got arrested. And the morgue, he better call the morgue, in case...just in case Liam ended up dead.”
“Dead? No frickin’ way,” Nate said. “I only tapped the kid. Tapped him two, maybe three times is all.”
“I don’t know, Nate. All you did was tap that guy over in Sugar Valley last year, and he still ain’t right. But you gotta call that cop in Atlanta, and you tell Bobby Lee to start calling all the hospitals around here. If that boy is still breathing, we gotta find him right now, and I mean right now.”
Or there was going to be hell to pay, a ball-busting, rat-nasty hell named Big Daddy Jack.
Chapter Six
Dylan slid his gaze from his wife back to the young guy in the bed and felt the knot in his stomach grow even tighter. There were damn few explanations for what he was seeing, and only one made sense. After all these years, after all he’d done and all he’d become, Margot, the faithless bitch known as his mother, had gut-kicked him again. The kid in the bed was undeniable, Dylan’s day of reckoning in the flesh.
Looking at him was like looking through a time machine. The arch of his eyebrows, his nose, chin, the shape of his mouth, even the pattern of beard stubble on his jaw, it was all so damned familiar and so damned disconcerting. Dylan saw the same face every morning when he looked in the mirror, only fifteen years older.
Unbelievable.
He glanced at Hawkins and saw one, single, crystal clear question in his teammate’s eyes – “What the fuck? Over.”
Yeah, that was the one, the same overwhelming question frying Dylan’s brain.
“No. I don’t know him,” he said. “But there aren’t a lot of options here.” He turned to Loretta. “Where’d you get the name Liam Dylan Magnuson? From him?”
That’s where this all started, in the exact same place where it had ended twenty-three years ago – with the name. He’d buried that name twice. Once for his father, Liam Dylan Magnuson II, the night he’d died in Geneva, Switzerland, and once for himself, Liam Dylan Magnuson III, two weeks later when he’d become Dylan Hart – and now here it was, after all these years, staring him in the face with his own face, a couple of tattoos, and a gold-hooped earring.
“No,” the lieutenant said. “From his driver’s license.” She nodded at Weisman, and the officer handed Dylan the guy’s wallet.
Dylan flipped it open and took another blow. The team’s address was handwritten across the back of a business card in the top slot – Uptown Autos, 738 Steele Street, Denver. He took the card out, turned it over, and glanced back up at Hawkins.
“Who do we know at the Calhoun Auto Auction in Florida?”
“George Peterson.”
“And what does he know about us?”
“Nothing. We’re auto dealers, classic stock, high-end cars, and we buy more than we sell. He’s the one who showed us that 1967 Ford GT500 EXP a year ago.”
Dylan swore under his breath. It wasn’t the first time a car had gotten him in trouble – not by a long shot. He put the business card back in the wallet, noted the thick stack of cash still inside, then did a quick calculation off the young guy’s driver’s license.
After a moment, he took a breath and handed the wallet to Skeeter.
“Check the birthday.”
His wife made the same lightning-quick calculation, and a soft flush of color rose in her cheeks.
“Your mother was two months pregnant when your dad died in Geneva.”
Two months pregnant, and she’d married Jack Dunstan, his father’s business partner, less than four weeks later.
Four of the worst weeks of Dylan’s life.
Suddenly, he needed some air.
“What’s Liam’s status?” Skeeter asked.
“He’s a little roughed up,” Hawkins said. “Nothing broken, the rest has been stitched, the knife cut on his arm and the gunshot wound across his thigh. He finishes that bag of saline, sleeps off the pain killer, maybe gets a shot of B-12, and he’ll be good to take home.”
“Gunshot?” Skeeter asked.
“Yeah,” Hawkins said. “Whoever got a hold of him was definitely fucking with him.”
“Dylan?” Skeeter turned to him. “Dylan,” she spoke a little louder, “Superman’s right. We need to get Liam out of here.”
Of course, Superman was right. But Dylan was stuck on his mother being pregnant and him suddenly having a little brother – after all these years, a brother. No way did the boy in the bed have so much as a chromosome of Jack Dunstan in him.
No, the kid in the bed with the long hair and the gold hoop earring was definitely his blood.
He felt his wife move in closer. “Liam needs to be at Steele Street, Dylan.”
Sure. He understood, but...
“Whatever Liam Dylan Magnuson’s problem is,” Hawkins said, “the Calhoun Auto Auction card says it’s got something, maybe everything, to do with you, and given the shape he’s in, I think we’re the ones to take care of it, to end it.”
End it. Right.
But Dylan had already ended all of it years ago. He’d walked away from everyone and everything he’d ever known. He’d buried his past under a mountain of heartache and rage and convinced himself the pain had been conquered.
He’d been wrong.
The proof was lying in the bed, beaten to hell and back, and then someone had tortured him, cut him and tortured him – for what?
Dylan lived with violence, was a skilled practitioner of the violent arts – but that was warfare, combat. This kid was a civilian in a non-war zone, in the heart of the U.S.A. If someone had wanted him dead, he’d be dead. But the injuries weren’t fatal and they’d left all his cash alone.
Dylan knew a lot of bastards capable of casual, degrading violence. But he’d only been personally involved with one of those bastards, “Big Daddy” Jack Dunstan. Even thinking about the man made his gut churn, and that he reacted at all royally pissed him off. Jack Dunstan had been long behind him. Long gone from his life.
Until today, over two damn decades later.
Jack had shown up in Geneva within a day of his dad’s death. He’d wanted the money, the damn five million he’d accused his father of stealing, and Dylan had figured out very quickly that he would stop at nothing to get it. Absolutely nothing.
Now the worst of that awful time had come home to roost, all his memories looking exactly like what he was seeing – cruel brutality and physical violence. Déjà-fucking-vu.
Hawkins was right. The kid being here was about him – and the only things the two of them had in common were a name, a faithless mother, and the bastard she’d married.
He remembered what it had been like to be tracked by Dunstan and his crew of “business associates.” Jack Dunstan had wanted him dead, and his mother...his mother hadn’t cared enough to rein the bastard in. Or, as he’d sometimes told himself in those early years, she hadn’t realized what a scumbag Dunstan truly was. He’d gotten out of Switzerland and out of Europe by the skin of his teeth – which was more than this kid had managed.
Superman was right. No matter what in the hell was going on, or who was involved, there was only one place Liam Dylan Magnuson belonged tonight – in the SDF fortress at 738 Steele Street.
“Loretta?” he asked the lieutenant.
“Make it so.” Loretta nodded.
Chapter Seven
A smooth operating machine, that’s what Tommy had created. Between Nate and Bobby Lee, they’d tracked ole Liam down to Denver General Hospital, Room 320. All they had to do was go in and get him. Easy peasy.
Tommy parked in the hospital lot, then got out of the car, sliding out from behind the steering wheel of his Corvette. Leaning back against the door panel, he lit up a cigarette. Nate and Bobby Lee were half an hour behind him, closing in on Denver. Tommy figured the three of them cou
ld just pick the boy up and carry him out if Liam couldn’t walk on his own. And he wasn’t taking any guff from the nurses. Oh hell no. Tommy was the kid’s legal stepbrother, come to take him home to Georgia. Any problems, and he’d sic Big Daddy on them.
Life was good. He practically had Liam in his pocket. His phone had stopped ringing – thank, Gawd. And his boys were on their way.
He took a long drag off the cigarette and glanced up toward the main entrance of the hospital – and his brain stopped. Just flat-out stopped. The cigarette fell out of his fingers and hit the pavement, and all Tommy could do was stand there and stare at the people coming out of the main door.
He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t think. But he could see, and what he saw blew his mind.
Liam Dylan Magnuson – the first one, the slick one who’d stolen Big Daddy’s money. The five million lost, but out there, somewhere, unless the damn kid had spent it all.
From the looks of it, he might have spent it on the woman. She was oh-so-fine, unlike anyone Tommy had ever seen, except in a magazine, in the centerfold. Tight jeans, long legs, high heels, blonde hair piled high - good Gawd almighty. She was frickin’ hot, even with a kid on her hip.
But the prize, the prize was the man. He and Liam could have been twins, ‘cept this guy was older, and Tommy had found him. All those years of clairvoyants, private investigators, and high-end contractors with their tag teams of mercenary hunters had all failed, one-hundred percent.
But not Tommy. His life had just taken a hard right into “You Owe Me, Daddy Jack,” big time, for-fucking-ever.
The threesome coming out of the hospital were headed toward a 1969 Camaro Z28, blue metallic, a real classic – and Tommy had to wonder if hot cars ran in the blood. While they buckled the kid into a car seat, Tommy slid back in behind the wheel of his Corvette and got on the horn to Nate.
He and Bobby Lee could handle Liam. Tommy was going after the big fish. Ten percent, that’s the deal he was cutting with Big Daddy. If his father wanted the real deal, it was going to cost him.
Dumb Dunstan – that had been his nickname in school. But no more. He had the score of the decade.
He fired up the ‘Vette, then stopped to take a breath while he waited for Nate to answer. He was so excited, he was shaking.
“Settle down, boy, just settle down,” he whispered to himself. “And don’t screw this up.”
Alright. Okay. He was fine. “Just ease on out there, boy, and follow that bastard home.”
“What bastard?” Nate asked, picking up the call on the other end.
“Nothing,” Tommy said. “Just nothing. I got something I gotta do. So, you and Bobby Lee get here and get Liam out of this damn hospital. Hole up somewhere, and I’ll call you when I’m done. And no more tapping him, or shooting him. We’re done with all that, you hear?”
“Sure, I hear you. But you better tell me what it is you think you’ve gotta do, Tommy, because whatever it is, Daddy Jack gave you a job, and he expects you to do it, not go gallivanting around Denver.”
“I ain’t gallivanting, Nate. You just get here and get Liam.” He hung up and tossed the phone into the passenger seat – then followed the Camaro out of the hospital parking lot.
Screw you...the words died on Nate’s lips. This was stupid. He wasn’t busting into a hospital and getting Liam without Tommy. That was crazy. He wasn’t related to the kid. So how in the hell was he supposed to pull off this stupid plan? Just go in there and kidnap him?
Oh, hell no. He could see that going south in a heartbeat. Tommy was too damn dumb to breathe, let alone give orders, and Nate would be damned if he –
His phone rang, and one look had him swearing under his breath. His luck couldn’t be this damn bad.
The phone rang again, and he sank lower in the driver’s seat of the Escalade. He didn’t want to answer.
But he had to answer.
Looking out the passenger window, he gave Bobby Lee a “get-in-here-right-now-you-dumbass” wave of his hand. Bobby Lee was worse than a kid, slurping down sodas and needing to pee every hundred miles. Pathetic.
The phone rang again, and he knew there’d be hell to pay if he let it go to voicemail.
Bracing himself, he answered, “Yeah,” and a big ole wall of Daddy Jack Dunstan tore into him like a combine.
By the time it was all over, he’d told Daddy Jack everything he could think of and then some.
“Wassup?” Bobby Lee asked when he got in the car. “Who you talkin’ to?”
“Daddy Jack,” Nate said, giving the kid a long look. “I told him you shot Liam and put him in the hospital, and he ain’t none too happy about it. He is on his way, Bobby Lee. Getting on a plane to Denver.”
It was just a few words, but Bobby Lee’s face went whiter with every one.
“Now we got to get to that damn hospital and get that boy out of there before Daddy Jack gets here, or there is gonna be hell to pay, and you, boy, are gonna be the one writing the check.”
Bobby Lee started to shake, and Nate stepped on the gas.
Chapter Eight
Two blocks from the hospital, Skeeter took another glance in the Camaro’s side view mirror.
“Who do you know with a Crystal Red Stingray C7?”
“Only the guy who was hanging out in the hospital parking lot,” Dylan said. “The tubby backwoods boy with the curly blond hair wearing a green and black plaid shirt and a pair of shit-kickers that look like he might actually spend time kicking shit.”
“Yeah,” Skeeter agreed. “That’s the only one I know, too.” She paused for a moment before adding, “He’s got Georgia plates.”
“I noticed,” Dylan said. He’d been born and raised in Georgia, and he’d bet the bank his mother and Jack Dunstan still lived there. If Grady hadn’t been in the car, he’d have slammed on the brakes, and he and Skeeter could have figured out the tubby backwoods boy damn quick. Instead, he was going with Plan B. “If he follows us home, we’ll shake him down there. If not, we’ll get Loretta to run his plates.”
“Agreed,” Skeeter said. “You do the shaking. I’ll take Grady upstairs and get Creed down on the street to do the welcoming honors.”
“That’ll put the fear of God in the backwoods boy.”
“Hell, yeah,” she said, slipping her phone out of the back pocket of her jeans.
SDF’s Jungle Boy had a war face guaranteed to strike fear in the hearts of lesser men and deadly respect in the hearts of his equals. But so did all the guys at SDF, and, admittedly, so did she and Red Dog.
“It’s been a helluva morning,” she said, punching up Creed’s phone number.
“Harrowing,” he agreed.
“What are we going to do about it, Dylan? How far are we going to take this?”
“I’m not going to kill him, if that’s what you’re asking,” he said, and she knew he was talking about Jack Dunstan, not the backwoods boy in the ‘Vette. “But, if Dunstan is involved in this, I’m going to destroy him. I left him alone all these years, because I didn’t want to think about him. But I’m thinking about him now. A smart guy would never have let that happen.”
Chapter Nine
This just ain’t right, Nate thought, getting into the hospital elevator on the main floor with Bobby Lee. But dammit, he didn’t have a choice. Daddy Jack had made that clear.
“That damn Tommy should be here,” he said. “We aren’t any kin to Liam. If anything goes wrong, we haven’t got a leg to stand on.”
“I’m Liam’s kin,” Bobby Lee said. “Second cousin twice-removed on my momma’s side.”
“Whatever the hell that means,” Nate muttered, hitting the button for the third floor. “Twice-removed, my ass. Here,” he took his comb out of his pocket and handed it to Bobby Lee. “Clean yourself up.”
Like that was even possible. Bobby Lee Raynor, a.k.a. Ratface Raynor was pure scrawny from his old boots to his greasy black hair. And Nate didn’t care what the boy said, Bobby Lee came by his nickname honestly. T
he kid was twenty years old and looked like a Georgia roof rat.
Nate tucked in his polo shirt, hiding a small blood smear, and “gig-lined” his belt buckle. One hundred percent shipshape, he assured himself - and yet, somehow, headed straight into the crapper with Bobby Lee.
God, he’d thought he was smarter than this.
He caught his reflection in the elevator’s chrome control panel and flexed his arms. Even with the reflection a bit woozy and distorted, he could see his muscles bulge and strain against the tight sleeves of his polo shirt – and he felt his mood lift a little.
Oh, yeah, some guys just had a knack for looking good – he glanced over at Bobby Lee - and some guys just didn’t.
“Straighten up your shirt, Bobby Lee. I can see your pea-shooter sticking out of your shoulder rig.” As if anybody carried a damn 1911 wannabe chambered for .22 in a shoulder holster. Bobby Lee rearranged the collared shirt he was wearing over his T-shirt, pulling the front two sides closer together to cover the holster.
Damn kid, shooting Liam on the leg. Tommy and Bobby Lee both needed their heads examined to see if they had any brains in them at all. How Big Jack Dunstan had fathered an idiot like Tommy was beyond Nate’s comprehension.
On the third floor, he shoved Bobby Lee out ahead of him, then checked the signs for directions, and turned left. They played it cool, just a couple of guys visiting a sick friend.
When they breezed past the nurse’s station, Nate’s confidence rose. Easy in, easy out.
At Room 320, he looked through the narrow window in the door and saw Liam lying in the bed. The kid was asleep and had some tubes stuck in him. Nate figured they could handle the tubes. But if Liam was out cold, it was going to look damn funny to have him and Bobby Lee carrying the kid out.
