Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Gunnar
The computer screen glows in the dim light of my father's workspace.
Lines of code scroll past, the facial recognition software doing its work, comparing the image from the spa's security footage against every database it can access.
Twelve hours.
It's been running for twelve fucking hours.
"How much longer?" I ask.
My father doesn't look up from the keyboard.
"Could be another day. Maybe two. The software has to cross-reference millions of faces. It takes time."
"We don't have time."
"We have as much time as we need." He finally meets my eyes. "Patience, son. The software will find him. And when it does, we'll have everything we need to move."
Patience.
He wants me to be patient.
While Ingrid is lying in my bed with broken ribs and a face she doesn't recognize.
While she wakes up screaming from nightmares every few hours.
While her ring—our ring—is in the hands of the man who beat her half to death.
"It's taking too long," I say. "Every minute he's out there, every hour we don't have a name—"
"I know." My father's voice is steady. Calm. The voice of a man who's been through worse and came out the other side. "But rushing this doesn't help anyone. We find him the right way, we take him down the right way. That's how we make sure he pays."
I pace the small room.
Can't sit still.
"He thought we'd stop," I said quietly. "By hurting her. He thought we'd back off. Get scared. Fall in line."
My father's jaw tightens. "He thought wrong."
"He thought so fucking wrong." I stop pacing, meet my father's eyes. "This doesn't end with us backing off. This ends with war. He hurt my family. He hurt the woman I'm going to marry. And now—"
The computer beeps.
We both freeze.
My father turns back to the screen, fingers flying over the keyboard. "We have a match."
I'm behind him in an instant, staring at the face that appears on the screen.
Him.
The man from the spa footage.
The man who beat Ingrid.
The man who took her ring.
Mid-forties.
Hard face.
Dead eyes.
The kind of face you'd pass on the street without a second glance.
The kind of face that hides monsters.
"Ted Tomlinson," my father reads. "Age forty-six. Address listed in Tallahassee." He scrolls through the information. "Married. Wife named Susie. No children. Works as a—" He pauses. "Independent contractor. That's vague enough to mean anything."
"It means he hurts people for money."
"Probably."
More scrolling.
More information appearing.
A house in a nice neighborhood.
A wife who probably doesn't know what her husband does when he leaves for work.
A normal life wrapped around something rotten.
"We need to take this to Runes," my father says. "Plan this properly. Get an emergency kirkja meeting, get everyone coordinated—"
"Yeah."
The word comes out flat.
Empty.
My father looks at me.
"Gunnar."
"I heard you. Take it to Runes. Plan it properly."
"I mean it. This needs to be done right. We can't just—"
"I know."
But I don't know, or rather, I don't care.
Because looking at that face—at Ted Tomlinson's unremarkable, forgettable face—all I can think about is what he did to Ingrid.
The bruises.
The broken ribs.
The cut on her arm.
The terror in her eyes when she wakes up screaming.
"I'm going to check on Ingrid," I say.
"Good. I'll set up a meeting with Runes for tonight. We'll move fast, I promise."
I nod.
Turn.
Walk out.
But I don't go to check on Ingrid.
I go to my truck, and I head for Tallahassee.
The drive takes about twenty minutes.
Twenty minutes of imagining every single thing I'm going to do to Ted Tomlinson when I get my hands on him.
I know I'm going against orders, know I should wait for the club, do this properly, follow protocol.
I don't care.
This isn't about the club.
This isn't about protocol.
This is about Ingrid.
This is about the woman I love lying broken in my bed while the man who did it to her walks free.
This is about war.
And in war, sometimes you have to move fast.
Move alone.
Move without permission.
The address leads me to a neighborhood that looks like every other suburban neighborhood in Florida.
Neat lawns.
Clean driveways.
Houses that cost more than most people make in five years.
The normalcy of it makes me sick.
A monster lives here.
Sleeps here.
Eats breakfast and watches TV and kisses his wife goodnight.
All while trafficking children and beating women half to death.
I park down the street and watch the house.
One car in the driveway—a white SUV.
No sign of Ted's vehicle.
The wife is home alone.
Perfect.
I check my weapons.
Gun.
Knife.
Chloroform and a rag in my pocket.
Everything I need.
I get out of the truck.
Walk up to the front door and ring the bell.
There are footsteps inside and the door opens.
She's pretty, in a tired kind of way.
Blonde hair going gray at the roots.
Lines around her eyes that speak to years of stress.
Mid-forties, maybe.
Wedding ring on her finger.
"Can I help you?" she asks.
I smile.
"Mrs. Tomlinson? Susie?"
"Yes?"
"I'm a friend of your husband's. He asked me to stop by, pick something up for him."
She frowns. "He didn't mention—"
I move before she can finish.
One hand over her mouth.
The other grabbing her arm.
I push her inside, and kick the door shut behind us.
She's screaming against my palm—muffled, useless.
I spin her around, press her back against the wall, and pull the knife from my belt.
The blade rests against her throat.
Cold steel on warm skin.
"Don't scream," I say quietly. "Don't fight. Do exactly what I say, and you might survive this. Understand?"
Her eyes are wild with terror.
Tears stream down her face.
But she nods.
"Good. I'm going to move my hand. If you scream, I'll cut your throat. If you run, I'll catch you and make it hurt. Understood?"
Another nod.
I remove my hand.
She doesn't scream.
Just stands there, shaking, the knife still pressed to her neck.
"Who are you?" she whispers. "What do you want?"
"I want your husband."
"Ted? Why? What did he—"
"Call him. Tell him to come home. Now. Tell him it's an emergency."
"I don't—"
I press the knife harder.
Not enough to cut.
Just enough to remind her it's there.
"Call him."
She fumbles for her phone.
Dials with trembling fingers.
I can hear it ringing.
Once.
Twice.
Then his voice.
"Hey, babe. What's up?"
Casual.
Normal.
Like he didn't beat a woman half to death three days ago.
"Ted." Her voice shakes. "You need to come home. Right now."
"What? Why? I'm in the middle of—"
"Please. It's an emergency. Please just come home."
A pause.
"Susie, what's going on? Are you okay?"
"Just come home. Please."
She's crying now.
Real fear in her voice.
He hears it. "I'm on my way. Twenty minutes."
The line goes dead.
I take the phone from her hand and toss it across the room. "Good girl. Now we wait."
Twenty minutes feels like an eternity.
I keep Susie in the living room, seated on the couch.
My knife is within reach but not at her throat anymore.
No point in terrorizing her more than necessary.
She's not the one I want. "What did he do?" she asks eventually.
Her voice is steadier now.
The initial shock wearing off.
"You don't want to know."
"He's my husband. I think I deserve—"
"Your husband broke into my fiancée's workplace three days ago.
" The words come out cold. Flat. "He beat her.
Broke her ribs. Smashed her face so badly she doesn't recognize herself in the mirror.
Cut her arm from elbow to wrist. Took her engagement ring off her finger while she lay bleeding on the floor. "
Susie's face goes white. "No. That's not—Ted wouldn't—"
"He did. I have it on camera. Facial recognition confirmed it was him."
"But he—he's a businessman. He travels for work. He—"
"He hurts people for money. And now he's going to pay for it."
She shakes her head.
Denial.
Disbelief.
The foundations of her life crumbling beneath her.
"I didn't know," she whispers. "I swear I didn't know."
"I believe you."
And I do.
Women like her—they don't see what they don't want to see.
They ignore the late nights, the unexplained cash, the dead look in their husband's eyes.
They build a life on lies and call it love.
"What are you going to do to him?" she asks.
"Whatever I have to."
The sound of a car in the driveway.
An engine cutting off.
A door slamming.
He's here.
I grab Susie, pull her up, position her in front of me.
Knife back at her throat.
Human shield.
The front door opens.
Ted Tomlinson walks in.
He sees me immediately.
Sees the knife at his wife's throat.
His face goes through a series of expressions—surprise, recognition, calculation.
He knows who I am, knows why I'm here.
"You shouldn't have come here," he says.
"You shouldn't have touched her."
His eyes flick to Susie.
To the knife.
Back to me.
"Let my wife go. This is between us."
"It became about her the moment you walked through that door." I press the blade tighter against Susie's neck. She whimpers. "Close the door. Lock it. Then we're going to have a conversation."
He hesitates, weighing his options, looking for an angle.
"I have people," he says. "People who will come looking for me if I don't check in."
"Then you better make this quick. Door. Lock. Now."
He does as he's told.
Closes the door.
Turns the deadbolt.
Stands there with his hands at his sides, trying to look calm.
But I can see the sweat on his forehead.
The tightness around his eyes.
He's scared.
Good.
"Here's how this works," I say. "You're going to give me information. Names. Locations. Everything about the operation you're part of. And then you're going to give me back what you took."
"I don't know what you're—"
"The ring." My voice drops. Deadly quiet. "Her engagement ring. The one you ripped off her finger while she lay bleeding on the floor. Where is it?"
"I don't—"
I move the knife.
Just slightly.
Just enough to nick Susie's throat.
A thin line of blood wells up.