Chapter 41
I’m so angry that I keep gripping my steering wheel too tightly and driving too fast. I have to slow down, or I’ll get pulled over, and if I get pulled over, I’ll spill it all. I know I will. The idea of speaking to a police officer without telling them exactly what’s going on? Madness. I’d spill it all, and right now, I cannot afford to be that messy.
Dad was right about one thing. Police mean I will not be in control of the situation. They introduce too many moving parts. They have protocols they have to follow, no matter what. I, however, do not. I will do whatever it takes to get her back.
Part of me wonders if I shouldn’t have pressed Dad. But he wasn’t going to crack. That man never cracks. No matter how tough the negotiations, he doesn’t budge. It is simultaneously frustrating and admirable and a quality I do not share with him. I have a strong spine, but right now, I’d give the kidnappers whatever the fuck they want.
Where am I even driving to?
The truth is, I don’t know. I got into my car and started driving. Movement feels better than sitting around. Feels like progress, even though rationally, I know it’s not. What are the odds I’ll just find her walking along the side of the road? Zero. But movement still feels better.
Trying to think of what connections I have at the firm doesn’t help. I’m the son of the man in charge, the heir apparent. But I’ve never been included in whatever the fuck Dad is actually up to. It’s like I’ve been shielded from all the useful contacts, which makes me distinctly useless in a situation like this.
June has been taken, and I have no way of getting her back. I have never felt so goddamned helpless in my life.
I’m the guy who fixes things. Who makes things happen, even if I never get the credit. Shit like that doesn’t matter to me. I like to help, no matter the circumstance. I do my best to take care of what needs to get taken care of, and now I’m the guy who sits around waiting for someone else to do what needs to be done. This is maddening.
When a text buzzes in, I slam on the brakes. Thankfully, at four in the morning, there’s no one behind me. Hell, I don’t even know what street this is. But I pull over and look at my phone. I don’t trust my car to read it out loud—what if someone has my car rigged to scan my messages? What the fuck can I trust at this point?
The message reads, “Be at easterly side of Hell Gate Bridge tonight at ten. Wait for a red car.”
That’s it? That’s all they have to say to me?
I text back, “What do you need from me?”
“Be there.”
No ransom request. No payment of any kind. Not even art or someone else in exchange?
Maybe that’s it. Maybe I’m the exchange. Okay, good. I’ll go with them, and June can drive my car back to Boston and get as far away from these people as possible. She’ll go to my Dad and they can handle this from there. This is progress.
Not that I want to be taken, but it’s a hell of a lot better than June being taken. But why not take me in the first place? They probably knew I’d put up more of a fight than she could. They had to take her to soften me up. To make me pliable. Fine, whatever. They win. I don’t care, so long as she’s safe. That’s all that matters.
Should I call Dad to update him? No. If he thinks I’ll be taken next, he’ll have a fit and fuck this up. He was right about one thing—the more people involved, the worse the outcome. Even if he wouldn’t be upset about them taking me, he’d be angry if someone moved against the family so boldly. My kidnapped fiancée he can take in stride, apparently. But taking his son would be an insult to his pride.
Good. Let’s insult him.
Now that we have a time and place to meet, I could call the police. Get some backup … but it still feels like the wrong thing to do. And I don’t have the kinds of friends one needs in a situation like this. Call Tag? I almost laugh at the thought. Tag is a lot of things, but backup in a hostage situation? Hell no. He’s barely backup in a buffet situation. Cole? Equally laughable.
This is all on me. Just how I like things to be.
Heading home, I need to grab a few things. Oh, I’ll let them take me. But that doesn’t mean I’ll be a pleasant guest while they have me. My apartment is on the other side of Boston from here and the urge to speed hits again. I want to get there and get to the bridge right now so I can be there early.
But I can’t risk speeding. No cops. In fact, I’m half-tempted to call a driving service for the trip to Manhattan to ensure I don’t speed my way there. But if I did that, it would be another pair of eyes on the situation, and that’s not an option. So, a lot of self-control is in order.
When I get home, I ignore the call of my bed. I’m exhausted and wired and shaky right now. Never been good at staying up all night, and by the timing of things, I doubt I’ll get any sleep tonight, either. But, maybe grabbing a few hours would make me more clearheaded. God knows I need to be.
Not like I could sleep right now, anyway.
I bank the idea for later and flip out the painting on my wall. My wall safe sits behind the painting, and I press my thumb to it to unlock the door. It pops open. Inside is a load of cash and a selection of handguns, and I grab my favorite—the Sig Sauer P226. It’s light enough not to weigh down my jacket, but heavy duty enough to make me feel better. It’s also the one I’m best with at the range.
I’ve never considered myself a gun nut or into the culture of it at all. They’re for protection, nothing more. Which means I also have a custom-made ankle holster for a pocket pistol. I prefer pocket pistols for ankle holsters because a pat down is more likely to not notice something that small, especially if it’s tucked into my boot.
Though it’s not the most comfortable thing I’ve ever worn, comfort is the last thing on my mind right now. I also grab the bear spray—it shoots farther than pepper spray and has the same effect on people as it does bears. I tuck the Sig into the internal pocket of my coat and the bear spray in the outer pocket, so if I get a pat down, they’ll feel the can and think that’s all there is.
I hope.
All of this preparation may be moot, though. If June is possibly in the line of fire, I won’t take that chance. She is everything in this. I won’t give them any reason to harm her any more than they already have. I’ll go peacefully, if I must. But if I can defend myself once she’s gone, I’ll do it.
I dump my gym bag onto my bed and go around my apartment, stuffing it with anything useful. Protein bars, bottles of water, cans of Red Bull, an extra scarf for June, a small first aid kit I keep in the bathroom, a telescoping baton, all the cash I have on hand, my passport—should I break into June’s place to get her passport?
In what world do I think a passport will be useful right now?
I shake my head at myself and dump the bag again. I’m freaking out, not thinking clearly. Okay. Breathe. What do I need right now? It’s then that my stomach growls, and that sensation fills me with a strange shame. How can I eat at a time like this? Has June eaten? Have they given her water? Fuck!
I rake my fingers through my hair and try to calm down. Repacking the bag, I keep everything but my passport. If they search me and find that, they’ll think I’m going to take off. Though that’s not a bad idea, if this situation is going to drag on—and I think it will—if I take off or if June does, I do not know how they will respond to that. Chase us down? Take my mother hostage? Hurt someone I care about?
The ball is in their court in all of this, and I can’t rattle them right now.
With my bag packed and on my shoulder, I glance back at my apartment. Wonder if I’ll see it again. Time’s wasting. I want to be at the drop before they are, so I can scope out possible exits and get a feel for the place. I don’t think I’ve ever been to Hell Gate Bridge before, but it’s appropriately named.
But if I’m going to Hell tonight, I’m taking them with me.
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