Chapter 39
This isn’t happening. This cannot be happening.
But the security guard plays the tape again for me, because I am beside myself. It shows June on the street after I leave her there. She looks so small by herself that it guts me. A black sprinter van pulls up, and a man in all black comes along, keeping his face turned. He knew where the camera was to avoid it. The amount of planning … how did they know she would be there alone?
Or worse—were they watching us the whole time?
When he reaches for her, my fists clench. She fights. God, she fights, and a surge of pride shoots through me. But it’s no use. This was too well-executed.
He pulls out a knife, and I want to scream. I want to kill him myself. The back of the van opens, and he manhandles her into it. Another person inside pulls her in, and the knife guy hops in after her, closing the door. No license plate. No nothing.
I’ve watched the video over a dozen times, trying to figure out what to do next. My first instinct is to call the police, but I know better. If this is a simple kidnapping for money, then calling the police is the last thing I should do. Most kidnappings fare better without their involvement. But I want them involved.
I want the damned army involved.
The Pentagon. Anyone who can get her back for me. I want to rain hell on these people.
The scent of stale coffee and staler donuts permeates the security office of the building. It’s a dreary little room with some of the best trained people in the field. A table, monitors with live feeds, recording equipment, everything to keep the wealthy of Boston safe.
A lot of good it did June.
I force myself to ask, “Who knows?”
“Just me and Mike,” George says. He feels guilty—he should—but these people are professionals. They knew when George took his break, and they knew when Mike called his wife. It was the perfect time to grab June, and it just so happened to be when I lost my fucking phone.
Yeah. They are definitely watching us. Maybe even now.
“Any cameras in here?”
“No. That’s against protocol.”
Doesn’t mean they’re not watching. But if they’re piped into the system, it’ll make it harder to see into here. “What other rooms don’t have cameras?”
“The residences, the bathrooms, and this room. That’s all.”
Mike jumps in, “But some of the residences have their own systems. They have their own personal security.”
I’m familiar with that. Mom and Dad have their own private system. Huh. I’d forgotten that in the library. Doesn’t matter. Not now. “Could someone tap into the private systems?”
They both shrug and George says, “Depends on the system, but yeah. I’d think so. If someone were motivated enough.”
“Clearly, they are.”
“Mr. West, how can we help?”
How can anyone? “I’m not sure. I’ve texted them back over a dozen times. No answer. Why send a picture and no ransom request? It makes no fucking sense!” I slam my fist into the wall, and thankfully, I picked the drywall and not the brick right next to it, or I’d have more than bloodied knuckles right now. But I don’t even feel it. Just the trickle of blood down my fingers. “Sorry.”
“Understandable,” Mike says, probably thinking of his wife.
George suggests, “I know you said no cops, but have you thought of telling your father? He has a lot of friends in high?—”
“Yeah. I have. But I keep thinking that the fewer people who know about this, the fewer people who can screw this up.”
Mike nods. “True. But that’s also the fewer people who can help.”
“I know, but … I can’t risk her. This is damn near the worst thing that could happen, and every move I make could be the wrong one.” It’s not just that. It feels like all my luck has turned to shit.
First, I have the most amazing night of my life with June at the auction, and then everything after that has flung itself off a fucking cliff. June, storming my office, rightfully demanding her money. My account being frozen because our CFO is being a jealous asshole, and then, my dad backing him up on it. The humiliation of having to tell her that my account is frozen because my father still thinks I’m a fucking child. And now, this.
I am not trying to make her problems about myself, but every problem she has is my fault, and I can’t fix any of them, and I am so frustrated that I might actually strangle the next person who gets between us.
In short, my luck has run out.
So, I have to figure how to operate without it. “Play it again … maybe we missed something. This time, watch the edges of the screen.”
They nod, and Mike plays the video again. No shadows at the edges. Nothing we missed. Fuck. It plays out the same every time. No one sees a damn thing. If someone had, they would have called the police by now. Or their own private security. Either way, nothing.
As much as I hate doing this, I have to tap Dad in. He has more resources than I do and far more money. Especially right now. Hell, maybe he has a clue as to what is going on. I almost laugh at the thought.
Our family has been in the entertainment and law industry for generations. We have always kept our noses clean and done things by the book. Elliot West is as likely to know about this as he is to know about the Yakuza. But he has friends who might be able to illuminate the situation. Entertainment is never that far from the seedy underbelly of the world.
A lot of deals go down at entertainment venues—clubs are great for being seen in public while not being heard. Same for concerts. Celebrities like to source bodyguards from less reputable sources, because those people are usually willing to do things others will not. Keeps them safe.
Right now, I’m wishing I had one of those disreputable bodyguards on June.
“Alright. Gentlemen, what do I need to do to ensure your absolute silence on this matter?”
They exchange a glance. George weakly says, “Don’t get us fired?”
I almost laugh, but then Mike says, “We just found out my wife is pregnant again. I can’t afford to lose this?—”
“No one is getting fired, so long as you both keep your mouths shut. Don’t even mention this to your wife. We don’t know what’s going on. I’d hate for anyone else to suffer the consequences.”
He quickly nods. “Not a peep.”
George agrees. “I won’t say a word to anyone.”
“Thank you both. Text me a copy of the video. I’m going to speak with my father.”
“Will do,” he sets about the task, as I run out of the security office for the elevator. As soon as the door closes, I slump on the wall. I know George and Mike can see me, and I don’t fucking give a shit. Exhaustion has gut punched me, and I’m just done.
It’s not the physical kind of exhaustion—I’m too wired for that right now. But my soul has been run over and backed over by a semi-truck. I cannot believe this is happening. I don’t want to believe it. All I want to do is crawl into bed and spoon June until I fall asleep with my arms around her, so I know she’s safe.
But none of that matters right now. Right now, I have to think about who would do this. That will tell me more about my next move than focusing on anything else.
Which begs the question, why the fuck kidnap a tax attorney?
Could it be a client of hers? Someone who didn’t get the outcome they wanted? Pretty sure that’s not the case. Otherwise, why text me her picture? Fuck, that picture grows rocks in my gut every time I look at it.
There is nothing in the picture to distinguish it from any other basement. Can’t even see the walls, which has to be on purpose. Just a bright light shining on June, and she’s tied to a wooden chair. Cement floor. No boxes or crates, no trash or debris. Only her.
This isn’t sexual. If this was just about money, they would have sent a ransom request. This is personal.
Who the fuck did I piss off enough to do this?
I sniff and shake myself out of my self-pity spiral. Whoever did this for whatever reason, they’re wrong. There is nothing I have ever done to warrant this as recompense. Maybe they have the wrong woman. Right now, I’m not sure if that would be better or worse.
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