Chapter 19 The Cryptic Message
THE CRYPTIC MESSAGE
QUINTON
My suite feels like a fucking pressure cooker, and we're trapped inside—helpless and lost. Seven agonizing hours have passed since the message arrived on my phone, a message that shattered any illusion that we could find a solution.
The problem is bigger now. Catastrophic. Emery didn’t run. She didn’t leave. She was taken. Because of me. But why? We need answers. We need another update.
But whoever took Emery enjoys playing games. They enjoy the slow torture of the unknown. With every passing minute, my patience wears thin. And Damon is one second away from breaking.
Though he may be sober now, Damon’s entire body is consumed, drowning in rage and fear.
As we pace restlessly around my suite, his hounding questions threaten to fully destroy my already frayed nerves.
I have no fucking answers. I’m blind to the situation, just as he is, and yet he thinks I’m hiding something.
If he asks me one more time…
"You need to tell me what you know, Quinton," Damon growls, running a frustrated hand through his hair. "You must know something. Anything! Whoever did this is targeting you. Think, goddamn it!”
I stop pacing, my jaw clenching at his useless accusation. “If I knew anything, Cavanaugh,” I seethe, “do you honestly think I’d be sitting here, twiddling my fucking thumbs?!”
Damon’s lip twitches. “This is all your fault. If you just stayed the fuck away from Emery, none of this would’ve happened. Now she’s trapped in the middle of whatever the hell you’ve gotten yourself into!”
“I think it would be wise not to jump to conclusions,” I grunt, yet tacitly agree with him. “We don’t know who is doing this or why.”
Damon scoffs. “Clearly it has to do with the Diazenix scandal. Why else would they bring up Vincent?”
I inwardly shudder. “We don’t know that.”
Damon cocks his head. “I’ve heard whispers from the State Department that he didn’t drown.” My face pales. “Oh? Is this news to you?” Damon takes a purposeful step toward me, his red eyes blazing. “According to the autopsy, he was shot multiple times then tossed in the East River.”
I swallow. “And you think whoever did that to Vincent now has Emery?” Damon nods. “But why? What the fuck does she have anything to do with him?”
“You,” he snaps. “You’re the common denominator.”
And then, as if the universe has finally deigned to offer a reprieve from the agonizing torture of the unknown, the satellite phone pings. I snatch it up, my heart pounding in my chest as I read the message.
“Damon,” I say, calling him over.
Together, we hover over the screen.
Your greed has left thousands dead and mourning. You have five days to wire five billion dollars in Bitcoin to the following account. Five days, Dr. Marquis, or else she dies. After the payment is received, we’ll let her go. Here’s a little motivation in case you need it.
Attached to the message is an MP4 file.
“Open it,” Damon growls, his posture stiff, fists balled up at his sides. “Open it!”
With a shaky finger, I open the file. Damon and I watch the video with our breaths held, our nerves on the edge of snapping.
The screen is black, no sound, no movement. The suspense is too much. Too crippling. Too crushing. Too fucking real. Then, a faint click, and the screen flickers to life, revealing Emery, her face battered and bruised, and I die a little inside.
Emery's swollen eyes stare into the camera, but her voice, though fragile, still carries a flicker of defiance.
"Quin," she says, her voice trembling, "I’m… I'm okay."
Relief floods through me. She's alive. She's speaking to me. Us. But the truth hits me like a cold front. She may be alive…but for how long?
Emery swallows, taking on a subtly cryptic tone. "In five days, they will kill me," she says slowly. “I know it’s a lot of money, Quin, I know… But even if you need to fly to Japan to get it, I know you can solve this problem…this puzzle.”
Damon and I exchange curious glances at her choice of words. But Emery continues, "Solve it, Quin. You can—”
The video ends abruptly, plunging us back into the grim silence of my suite.
“Fuck!” Damon roars, ferociously raking his fingers through his hair. He paces for several seconds before snapping his head toward me, eyes narrowed and cold. “Send it, Quinton. Send it right fucking now.”
“I… I don’t have that much liquid cash, Cavanaugh,” I mumble, my grip on the phone tightening as I replay her message in my head. “Why… Why would she mention Japan? Why a puzzle…?”
My mind wanders.
“Who cares?!” Damon shouts. “She’s going to die, Quinton. They’re going to kill her if we don’t do exactly what they say.” He sinks down on the edge of the bed. “How much do you have, Q?” His voice falters. “How much—”
Japan. Puzzle. Japan. Puzzle.
It’s not random. Her choice of words was not random. She’s sending a message. A clue. But…
My eyes widen.
“No…”
Damon’s weary gaze flicks up at me. “What?”
I shake my head, refusing to believe it. “No…”
“What?!” Damon spits.
I look back at him and swallow. “I think… I think they’ll kill her either way.”
Damon’s jaw clenches. “What are you talking about?”
“Himitsu-Bako,” I mutter, staggering backward and joining Damon on the edge of the bed. “It’s… They’re going to kill her.”
“If you don’t start talking in full, coherent sentences, I will rip your fucking tongue out,” Damon seethes. My shoulders slump over, and he slams his fist against my tricep. “Quinton! Talk!”
My eyelids fight to stay open as I set the phone aside, burying my face in my hands.
“A few months ago, I gave Emery a Himitsu-Bako.” Damon stirs beside me.
I elaborate. “It’s a Japanese puzzle box.
You… You need to solve it, crack the code before you can access its contents.
But…” Damn it. “But the one I gave her… It was unsolvable. There was no correct solution. She had to… She had to smash it open. She had to break it.”
“And?” Damon’s irritation is palpable. “How is that relevant? So you gave her a stupid puzzle box. She’s fucking hurt, Quinton. She’s bleeding and you’re over there reminiscing over a gift? Jesus fucking Christ.”
“Damon…” I swallow, forcing myself to look at him. “She mentioned Japan and puzzle on purpose. She’s trying to tell us that this problem doesn’t have a solution. She’s trying to tell us that even if we pay the ransom, they will kill her anyway.”
His gaze burns with a livid fire. “We are paying the fucking ransom, Quinton. I don’t care if we have to steal the money, we will pay,” he spits. “I’m not going to lose her over your interpretation.” He pushes himself up, arms crossed. “How much do you have, Quinton? Liquid? Property? Assets?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“How much,” he fumes, “do you have?”
“We need to find her,” I whisper, gaze fixed on the hardwood floor, my chest tight. “We need to—”
“I have a little over two billion,” he states, cursing under his breath. “I’d have more but… But I stepped down from Cavanaugh Industries. My… My corporate accounts are—”
I tilt my head up, brows furrowed. “You what?”
Damon hitches a nonchalant shoulder. “I stepped down.”
I blink at him. “What? Why?”
“I don’t think now is the time to discuss my career choices.” His glares at me. “How much do you have?”
He doesn’t get it. He’s blinded by fear. “Around five hundred million in liquid and another 1.75 billion in stocks but—”
“Sell them,” he states. “Sell them right now. We,” his jaw locks, “we have five days. We can secure the rest before then. We—”
“We need to find her. It doesn’t matter if we transfer a trillion dollars,” I sigh. “We need to—”
“Listen to me, Quinton, and listen carefully.” Damon strides toward me. He stares down at me, expression flat and menacing. “We are going to wire the ransom, is that clear? We are going to bring her home.”
I snap. “In a body bag, Damon! Is that what you want? I’m telling you; it doesn’t matter if we send the money. If we don’t find her, the next time you see her will be in a fucking coffin.”
“We’re sending the ransom,” his voice falls eerily quiet. “Call your bank, Quinton. Call them right now.”
He’s relentless. He refuses to believe the situation. I don’t blame him. It’s so fucking grim.
“We’re still over five hundred million short.”
“I’m Damon fucking Cavanaugh,” he states. “I’ll figure it out. Get up, Quinton.” I remain seated, utterly still. “Get the fuck up!”
“Why?”
“Macau,” he says, pulling out his phone as he types out a message. “I hope you’re not averse to a little illegal activity.”
I blink. “Macau? We can’t leave, Cavanaugh. We need to find her. We need to—”
“How?” he asks. “How do you imagine we find her, huh? It’s been nine hours since she was taken.
She could be anywhere in the world by now.
Hell, she could be in fucking China for all we know.
This…” He nods a little too much. “This is the only thing we can do. This… This is the only thing we can control. So, get the fuck up, Quinton, and call your pilot.”
“Vivienne,” I mutter. “First we need to go see Vivienne.”
Damon’s nostrils flare. “Vivienne Delareux?” He scoffs, eyes blazing with incredulity. “They specifically said no fucking police! And you? You want to go see the president of Interpol? You’ve got to be kidding me, Quinton.”
“Former,” I swallow. “Former president.”
“I don’t think we’re in a position to play with loopholes,” he seethes. “We need to go to Macau. I can get the money, Quinton. There are a couple of brothers there who, fortunately, don’t hide their wealth.”
“Vivienne first,” I say, tone level as I stand up. “First, we go see Vivienne, then we can go wherever the fuck you want.”
“What is she going to do?! Huh? She’s a fucking madame now, Quinton! How is this possibly supposed to help us?!”
“Because she can help us find her! Because, in case your rose-colored glasses eventually fall off, we’re going to need a contingency plan!” I shout. “We can send the ransom, Damon, and we will, but if I’m right, then we’re going to need to do a lot more than that.”
“What makes you think she’ll even want to help us, huh?” he asks, arms crossed.
My teeth clench. “Vivienne’s always wanted one thing from me.”
“Yeah?” Damon raises a brow. “And what’s that?”
“Go pack,” I say, brushing past him as I stride to my closet. “We leave in fifteen.”
“Fine,” Damon grumbles as he disappears into the hall.
How did we get here? How did it all go so wrong?
I close my eyes and force myself to forget how it all started.
Heady house music pulsates through the club as I lean against the VIP railing, a drink in hand. Damon weaves his way through the crowd toward me with a sly grin.
“God, I love Fridays at Lux,” he slurs, the scent of bourbon lingering on his breath. He nods behind us to a blonde dancer wrapped in tiny pieces of leather. “Your turn, Q. She’s feisty. I think you’ll like her.”
“In a minute,” I say, gaze floating to the stage as a dancer emerges from the strobe lights. I nod down, lips pursed as the MC welcomes Ally Cat to the stage. “I think she’s new.”
Damon follows my gaze, his eyes lighting up with devious intentions. Ally’s inky black hair outlines her cloudy blue irises, and we’re both mesmerized. Damon and I share an amused, knowing smirk.
“Do you think she'd be interested in playing with us, Q?” he asks, chuckling under his breath.
“They always are,” I grin, holding up my glass. “To strays.”
I open my eyes.
Emery is not Alison.
She’s not.