Chapter Thirty-Seven
Bobbi
I sputter at the splash of icy water on my face. I try to wipe it, but there’s an unnatural stiffness in my shoulders and arms, preventing me from moving. The ringing in my ears adds to my disorientation.
Water drips from my face and soaks into my hair. A groan tears from my throat. Although I’m forced awake, I want to close my eyes and try to block out the splitting headache. It feels like an ax is wedged into my skull.
But that would be unwise. The last thing I remember is getting texts from Victor and blacking out. I blink, trying to clear my bleary vision and the fogginess clouding my mind. Something scratchy rubs against my cheek. A rug. Familiar couch and table.
My living room?
I realize I’m on my side. Duct tape is around my wrists, biding them together. My ankles are also taped and bound.
The home invasion incident with Reggie and Floyd slides into my head. Is this the same culprit?
No… Probably not. No bullets. And no tranq, based on how much the base of my skull throbs. Somebody swung something at me—maybe a sap… Or a baseball bat.
My thoughts start to unfurl in a torrid mess. Victor. Is he okay? He’s waiting for me. I don’t know how long I’ve been out, but he might try to reach me again. If I don’t respond, he might text TJ because I told him to get in touch with my cousin if he needed something and couldn’t get ahold of me.
And Noah… I asked him for some space, so he won’t be dropping by to come to my rescue. The notion leaves me oddly bereft. Do I want him to save me like some action-movie hero? If I didn’t know he was an agent, I’d be terrified of him getting caught in a situation like this. But—
“Wakey, wakey, Bobbi girl. Come on, now. No time for beauty sleep.”
That voice… Trey? What’s he doing here?
He looks down at me, holding an empty glass in his left hand and a gun with a silencer in his right. He’s wearing a black Angels cap, a stretchy black top with long sleeves and jeans that are—naturally—black. His black sneakers have some dirt on the sides. “I didn’t think I hit you that hard, but you were out for a while so I helped you along. Hope you don’t mind.” He gives me an I’m-such-a-nice-guy smile, which I’m dying to wipe off his face. Only if I weren’t tied up. I’d love to face off with him right about now.
“If you hadn’t hit me, this could’ve all been avoided.” My voice is heavy with sarcasm. “Why don’t you untie me and face me like a man?”
He smiles as he puts the glass on the coffee table. “It’s an idea. But your dad said you were good at judo.”
He knew my father? Some of Dad’s colleagues and friends visited while he was alive—and at his funeral, but I don’t remember ever seeing Trey.
He continues, “You act like you can take on anything. You are a pretty big girl after all. But Bobbi, I don’t want anything to happen to you. You see, I’ve been waiting for this moment. Just two of us. Alone. Private.” He smiles like I’m some kind of treasure.
What the hell? I’ve seen that look on a lot of the creeps my former clients hired me to keep away. “You’re a stalker?” I can usually recognize them when I see them. They’ve got that unsettling vibe you can’t ignore. It’s different from the feeling you get when you are around other types of lowlifes. I can’t believe my stalker radar failed with him.
“What?” He laughs. “Don’t flatter yourself. You aren’t my type.” His eyes roam over my body. There’s no particular heat or interest.
“Then why are you doing this?”
He leans forward. “Information.”
“Care to be a little more specific?”
“The dossiers.”
Time stops for a moment. Air sticks in my throat.
“Where are they?” he asks gently.
“What dossiers?” My response is calm with just enough faux irritation despite my racing heart. He might be one of the assets on the documents and wants to make sure his secrets are safe. But my gut says I need to play dumb. Besides, Noah said he was tasked to retrieve the dossiers. The government wouldn’t assign another agent the same mission…would it?
“Otto’s dossiers. Drop the innocent act. I know you have them.”
“I still have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“That so? Well, let me jog your memory.”
He takes a step and punts me halfway off the ground. Pain detonates in my gut. Air whooshes out, and I roll away as best I can, feeling like my intestines are turning black and blue underneath my skin. I haven’t been kicked this hard in a while.
“I hate hurting women.” Trey’s voice is full of regret. “It’s not very gentlemanly.”
You motherfucker. “Then don’t,” I wheeze.
“But you’re being a bitch, Bobbi. And bitches get beat.”
Shit.I roll some more, bringing my knees up, then twist my arms a little until I can reach my boot. The small paring knife I hid is still there. Guess Trey didn’t search me for weapons. Or maybe he doesn’t think it will matter because he has a gun.
I grab the blade and shift my body so I can hide cutting the tape around my wrists. It is difficult to maneuver because I’m trying to make sure he doesn’t realize what I’m up to. Once I cut my wrists free, I’ll need to do the same for my ankles before I can make a move. Let’s see if he’s still as smug after he gets his ass kicked by a woman.
“You ripped the floor out, and I bet you found something. Your idiot boyfriend didn’t look too happy when he left yesterday and he didn’t come back today. You were probably trying to protect him from the fallout. How much did you read? Find anything interesting?”
I glare at him, sawing away at the tape. He’s twisted the duct tape multiple times, until it’s like a rope and difficult to cut through. The skin around my wrists stings from the nicks I leave every time the blade slips in my sweat-slickened hand.
“Otto was so good at digging up secrets. Preternatural, almost. I greatly admired his talent. A shame he died the way he did.”
“Obviously, since he worked for the State Department. How do you know my father?” I ask, pretending that I know nothing about what my dad really did.
“I worked with him. Helped him broker some lucrative deals.” Trey is smiling, but his eyes are soulless.
He was Dad’s partner in treason. Did Noah know Dad didn’t work alone? Did his agency look for Trey and somehow miss him? “So you never served in Afghanistan?”
“What, and waste my life away in that hellhole? Not bloody likely.”
Damn it. I’ve been too gullible, believing the lies about his military service.
Regardless, there’s no point in playing dumb now. If he worked closely with my dad to sell our country’s secrets, he knows about the dossiers. “I’m not a traitor like my father,” I say. The tightness around my wrists loosens. I just need to cut my ankles free without him firing at me.
Trey laughs. “Wait, you’re doing this out of some misguided sense of patriotism?” His eyes sparkle with evil amusement. “No, it’s simply too rich.” He laughs harder, throwing his head back. “My dear, you aren’t even American.”
“Of course I am.” He’s insane if he thinks I’ll believe such a ridiculous lie.
“No. You’re actually British although it’s true you don’t sound like it.”
“Because I’m not British.” I say it dryly, without too much sarcasm, because provoking him too much wouldn’t work out. My belly doesn’t need another kick. Regardless, I don’t understand what he hopes to gain by calling me British. He might just be crazy, which would be very bad. You can work with the rational. Not so with the insane.
He chuckles. “My dear, your father was a British diplomat, and your mother was from London. That does, I believe, make you British.”
“My mom was born in Los Angeles.” Not gonna let him mess with my head with his bullshit.
“Unfortunately, no. Your father was not, as you’ve been led to believe, Otto himself, but Otto’s best friend. They golfed together, spent time together, conversed over aged Scotches and French cheese. You see, your father was from a well-to-do family, although obviously not an aristocrat or anything of that sort. He left a nice flat in London worth quite a bit of money, but sadly, that won’t be yours. His younger brother took it and sold it off. He’s a little shit with money problems. Never seen a horse he didn’t want to bet on. But at least he’s popular with the ladies. He would’ve liked you. You’re his type.” He rakes his eyes over me again, making my skin crawl.
Although my main focus is on freeing myself and finding an opportunity to overpower him, part of my head is struggling to process what he’s saying. Is any of it true? The story he’s spinning is outrageous. Besides, I just can’t picture Mom having an affair.
He adds, “But to continue about your father and Otto—their wives were tight, too. Always having their tea parties. Earl Grey and scones. Very British and civilized. But then Otto liked to wear a veneer of respectability, and your daddy was one of many props.”
I move the knife up and down faster. My impatience earns me two more nicks.
Suddenly, Trey wags his finger and my heart almost stops. “But then your dad had to ruin it all. He found out about Otto’s extracurricular activities, and instead of letting it go like a smart man would, he confronted him. Apparently, nobody taught your father that the way to go when you discover a scheme like that is to join in the profitable venture. There’s a demand for state secrets from Great Britain as well. Some of my buyers would’ve paid good money for them. We could’ve all been rich together.” He shakes his head. To this asshole, destruction and deaths of the innocent mean nothing. Everything’s about what’s in it for him.
“He did the right thing,” I say to keep him talking.
“No, he did the stupid thing. You see, Otto didn’t take it well. He thought their friendship should mean more. After all, nations…” He shrugs. “They’re so faceless.” He waves his gun and leans forward again. “They lack intimacy, if you get my meaning.”
If he expects me to nod and agree, he’s going to be disappointed. I continue to stare at him levelly.
He pulls back at my lack of reaction. “So…” He points the gun at me, and my pulse jumps. A fresh coat of sweat pools in my palms; the knife almost slips from my grip. “Bang!”
My heart in my throat, I flinch.
He smiles. “Goes the diplomat. And bang!”
This time I manage to keep still, but my skin is clammy all over.
“Goes the wife.” He sighs with a theatrical mournfulness. “Then you… You were just a little baby.”
“So where’s ‘bang, goes the baby’?” My voice is shaky despite my resolve to stay strong. This story has to be fake, but it’s still terrible.
He has the audacity to place a hand over his heart, but the unholy amusement in his eyes says he’s enjoying this entirely too much. “We aren’t monsters.”
“Right. How do I know you aren’t making this story up to get me to hand over the dossiers?”
He blinks. “But why would I lie? There are so many ways for me to get what I want without”—he waves the gun vaguely—“fabrication. If you play nice, I’ll even make your death quick and painless.”
We’ll see about that last part. Not letting him kill me without a fight. “Then how did I survive? Why didn’t my mom think it was weird that Dad brought me home from his dead friend’s house? Didn’t she know I was somebody else’s baby?”
“Oh, my innocent little child.” Trey tsks and shakes his head. “By coincidence, Sarah’s own daughter had just been killed. Blown to bits by a suicide bomber while the family was in Jenin. So when Otto brought you home, she was ecstatic. And if she thought something was weird…? Well…” A Gallic shrug. “Better to think her baby was alive than dead. For her own mental health anyway. She was never quite right in the head to begin with.”
I want to deny it, but Mom was always a bit weird. Sometimes smothering, but oftentimes distant and withdrawn. I thought she was just moody, but what if…?
“Not that that was a problem for Otto. He liked it that his wife didn’t have her shit together. Easier to lie and gloss over things. The kind of things he did aren’t so easy to hide if your spouse is observant and clever. Like you.”
No way. No freakin’ way.Trey is playing with my head. “You’re lying.”
He shrugs again. “Get somebody from your mother’s side of the family and do some DNA testing. Otto was an only child, but Sarah wasn’t.”
“Nope. You’re lying.” But doubt spreads like poison in my head.
“Believe what you will. No skin off my nose. But no matter what you tell yourself, you aren’t Otto’s, and you aren’t American.” All humor drains from his face. “Now. Where are the dossiers, Bobbi?”
“Like I said, I don’t know. And unlike you, I don’t lie.”
He regards me, still as a reptile. “Don’t make things difficult. If you keep on this way, I’ll really have no choice.”
“No choice but what? To kick me again? Take some neighbors hostage?” Just a little more time with my knife…
“How about your cat?”
I go still, trying to hear Se?or Mittens.
“Cutting off his toes would be motivating, don’t you think? Or perhaps his tail, say…an inch at a time?”
Outrage and dread flood through me. That poor cat already lost a toe. He shouldn’t have to lose more because this subhuman trash is a psychopath. “Stay away from my cat, asshole!”
“Or how about your boyfriend? He’s coming, you know. I texted him from your phone. Most men dread hearing their women say, ‘We need to talk,’ but he seemed eager. I imagine he thinks he’s getting you back.”
Oh shit. Noah is undoubtedly capable. An experienced, in-demand operative. But he doesn’t know he’s walking into a trap. Even if I scream, it’ll be too late.
I can’t let him be ambushed. My knife cuts through the last of the twisted tape. Finally!
“I didn’t come this far to fail, Bobbi. My buyer is an impatient man. One way or another, you’re going to give me those dossiers.”
Trey is watching me too closely. I’ll never get a chance to free my legs before he shoots me.
Time for Plan B.
I smirk. “Trey, that bit about being a war vet was pretty good. Gotta admit, I didn’t see you coming. But now you’re starting to disappoint me.”
His eyes narrow. ”What do you mean?”
“Oh my God, they all say, ‘I didn’t come this far to fail.’ It’s like in the B-movie evildoer training manual or something.”
“I warn you, Bobbi—”
“But people fail all the time. What’s the big deal? And why are you still chasing after some dossiers that don’t even exist? You must’ve made a fortune selling your country out. What have you done with all that money? Lose it betting on horses?” He frowns, and hopeful anticipation swells—along with a dread that this is really going to hurt. I brace myself. I’m not going to go quietly. “No, wait. I know—you squandered it all because you want to live larger than you’re capable of! Expensive cars and wine. Maybe expensive women, too… I mean, nobody would want you unless you paid. And now this is your one big shot. You think you can get back to where you want to be with one last big score. Right?”
“You have no idea what you’re—”
“You know what? Even if you’re right and I’m British and know where the dossiers are, I’m not giving them to a loser like—”
“Shut up!”
He kicks me in the gut again, hard. Holy fuck, it hurts! Raw adrenaline pumps in my veins. I curl up, and he keeps kicking everywhere he can reach—my hips, back, and head. I roll around to lessen the impact and to make it harder for him to see what I’m doing and cut at the tape around my ankles. Don’t have to be as careful with the blade since my leather boots provide protection.
As soon as my legs are free, I swivel on the floor like a break dancer and kick him as hard as I can, catching him behind the knee. Shock flares in his eyes, and he crashes down. A shot fires from his gun, and a hole appears in the ceiling above us.
I slash at his right wrist hard, making him drop the gun. I kick it away, then thrust the knife at his eye. He twists, and the tip of the blade cuts a jagged gash on his temple.
“Cunt!” he screams. “I’ll kill your boyfriend in front of you, make you tell me where the fucking docs are, then kill you and your goddamn cat, too!”
He grabs my wrist, his thumb digging into the cuts. Pain burns, and my grip on the knife loosens. It falls with a clatter, but before he can jump on it, I kick it away.
We both regain our feet. Blood dripping from his face, he swings. I duck, then kick, aiming for the same knee but getting the shin. He curses, then lunges at me, the limp completely gone. His fist connects with my face hard enough to jar my brain. Something hot drips from my nose, leaving a coppery tang on my lips. Great, a fucking nosebleed.
We close, and I get in a good hard shot with my elbow to his sternum. Grunting, he twists to take himself off center-line and tangles his legs with mine to limit my leverage. We struggle, lose balance and collapse on the floor in a bloody heap.
The second we hit, I use our momentum to roll him onto his back and unload another elbow into his face, all my bodyweight behind it. In my peripheral vision is the gun he dropped. It’s not close, but probably within reach if I lunge for it. If I grab it, it’s game over. But he notices where my eyes have gone, and sees the gun too. And his arms are longer.
We both pounce. His hand closes over it before mine as he kicks me away.
He rolls, the gun pointed at me. Deadly exhilaration lights his eyes, while my head screams, Fuck fuck fuck!
“Who’s the loser now, bitch?” he rasps.