Chapter 60 Bongos in My Brain
bongos in my brain
Lorien
My head pounds. It has its own heartbeat… or its own bass drum. When I first moved to Denver and was massively dehydrated, it didn’t hurt this bad.
The constant boom-boom-boom is hard to think past. I fight to, though that’s instinct alone. I’m in the cargo area of a massive SUV. The emblems everywhere indicate its luxury and expense.
There’s talking, but I strain to listen over the bongos in my brain. For a split second, I think my sister, Sam, would be disappointed my brain didn’t conjure steel drums, but it’s only because the hollow twang of that would be welcome against the throbbing currently clobbering my skull.
What a stupid thought when I’m in the situation I’m in.
And I’m in one for sure.
I don’t know the man who was on Ayla’s back deck. But he surely wasn’t on their payroll, as is evidenced by my current trunk position.
What I do know is he underestimates Liam’s protectiveness, and the devotion his siblings and in-laws have for him. That combination becomes a man on a mission with resources and manpower.
He also underestimates me, which I can use to my advantage. I’m neither bound nor gagged. Did he assume that whatever’s making me want to pull my head off my own neck would actually kill me?
Or did he think I am too stupid or too weak to fight if I did wake?
The first I can’t control. The second, though… he’s in for a rude awakening.
As quietly as possible, I feel the area where I lie.
It’s rubbery and has ridges. An all-weather mat maybe?
There are no tools or anything I can use to defend myself.
I’m tossed around as we make a sharp exit at speed, before halting completely.
I hold my breath, making no sound, listening past the throbbing.
“Turn right.”
“I know where I’m going and I know how to get there.”
Great. There are at least two, and they sound like they dislike each other. Or at least are vying for control.
“How long should she be knocked out?”
“Don’t know and don’t care. Are you worried about the girl?” Is that the man I spoke with on Ayla’s back porch?
“I don’t want her dead.”
“Are you suddenly developing a conscience, old man?”
“She’s bait.”
The hell I’ll be—I know what happens to bait. Besides, the only person I could be bait for is Liam, right? And I’ll make sure he’s not hurt again. His family needs him.
The car comes to a jarring halt, and I allow my body to be thrown forward with it, not fighting to brace since that would tip off my captors that I’m awake, and look around the space.
I need a weapon. The ballpoint pen in my pocket will only work if I need to write out a chemical formula and I doubt that’s much of a threat to these men.
“Shut the fuck up. I’m tired of your commentary.”
I know that voice. Or I’ve heard it. But I have no clue where. Home? Work? I haven’t gone anywhere else lately.
“Look, I’m not dealing with your shit. Let’s go.”
“Or what?”
“Or I kill her… if she’s not already dead. And I’ll frame you so fast your head spins.”
“I’m the one—”
A gun racks. Or that’s what the sound reminds me of.
“You’re the one what? Who’s in control? That’s rich. Now drive. And shut the fuck up.”
Two homicidal pricks. Neither with any regard for me or each other.
The car slides forward but not enough my body would’ve been thrown.
The only weapon I have now is my mind. In a lab, I’d go toe-to-toe with either of them. But outsmarting two maniacs is a battle where brains don’t factor in.
I’m afraid no matter what, I’m going to get hurt.
Liam
Fitz drives. I ride shotgun, thumbs flying over the screen as I watch my fuckface father drive south. He left Denver at least thirty minutes ahead of me and is in Colorado Springs, heading west before we escape the suburbs.
He’s a dumb fuck… I have that going for me.
He’s also a heartless fuck, which is my bigger concern.
His phone location grinds to a halt twice in rapid succession.
There are a few restaurants nearby, but no indication of anything that would cause a stop.
The area is populated with tons of shops and restaurants.
It’s not a place you’d take an incapacitated woman. Now, if they’ve already dumped her bo—
I will not think like that. I cannot think like that.
She will be okay.
And those two fuckers will pay.
Because if she’s not, they’ll pay in flesh. And I don’t mean a pound of flesh like Shakespeare did. I mean in the way that I will slice into it, peel it back from the muscle below, twine it to a skewer, and roast it to fill their nostrils as they wail.
That is, until I end them both and their blood coats my skin. But that will be after pain dances upon each nerve ending and fear pools so deeply in their minds that it would be a mercy to end it.
They’re not to Manitou Springs yet. “Where the fuck are they going?”
The question is rhetorical, but Fitz responds regardless. “What did your searches on Roger Briggs pull up? Did you do the searches on the rest of us as I asked?”
I’ve had exactly zero minutes of free time since his request. Except for the time I used clearing my head this morning.
“Your phone,” I say, extending a palm. He puts a nice new foldable device in my outstretched hand, and I immediately get the Escalade’s coordinates on screen for him to see.
With mine, I flip to a deep search and begin pulling at the threads weaving the story of Briggs Barnett and Roger Briggs. The Durango house is easy to find. Interestingly, the house isn’t registered to him, but to a corporation—LolaBee Crafts & Designs.
Bold choice, when her “crafts and designs” were on children’s corpses.
The dot on the map starts moving again.
“What’s northwest?” Fitz asks as he accelerates to cut the distance between us.
“Woodland Park, but there’s nothing there.” Data trickles in. “Now Cripple Creek? There’s an option. Briggs, or rather, Roger has a house there.” Well, the company that owns his homes does.
“Nothing like a wild goose chase on winding roads where speeding lands you in a gully or sailing off the side of a cliff.”
“Wild goose chases better in Texas?”
“Everything’s better in Texas,” he snarks.
“Except the mountains.”
We’re on I-25, one exit away in the Springs just as the car with my father, Barnett, and Lorien—God willing—makes it to Woodland Park.
I flip to my phone app and call a biker buddy who lives near Woodland Park. I don’t know why I didn’t think of him earlier. “Boz, Murphy. Yeah. You home? I need a favor.” He chats way too damn much, using too many words as I watch the car on the map.
“Boz, can you go create a traffic problem? Any problem. Any at all on 24?”
The talking continues.
“Yep. Westside and westbound if you can make it happen.”
He’s still talking but I’m not listening. If he doesn’t get his ass in gear soon, there’s no point in having listened to this.
“Did you hear me, Murphy?” the disembodied voice comes through the phone.
“No. Sorry. Repeat?”
“I got you. You owe me.”
“Done.”
I disconnect but can feel Fitz’s eyes boring holes through my cheek. “Do I want to know the type of favor a man named Boz might call in?”
“You do not.” I say to my phone as I go back to researching.
There’s no time for the full sweep that Fitz wanted. Hell, all roads could lead to me as a terrorist and I’d never know. That’s a tomorrow-me problem. Today-me needs to save Lorien and end this shit once and for all.
I don’t hear back from Boz, except for a text.
Boz: Handled. I’ll call my marker when the time is right.
Great.
And what does handled mean?
OnStar has the same signal as my father’s phone. So long as they didn’t separate…
Zooming in, I notice something unusual. The vehicle is moving in the direction it had been but is now taking side streets. Far more stops. A bob and weave. It’s avoiding the main street. If we buy five minutes of catchup time on this, I’ll give Boz a two-for-one.
So long as we don’t have to do the same.