10. Rip
Rip
Islam the door behind me. “Has he talked?”
He’s at the desk, all focused on his computer, with his back to me. As Thomas crafts the next social media post, a clip of Kingsley speaking to the camera plays continuously. “Take a wild guess.”
My eyes flicker to the shut closet door. “Did you even try to get him to?”
He looks at me with a scowl. “Do you think I was sitting on my arse the whole time you were at the gym?”
“That’s what it looks like right now.”
“Fuck off, Rip,” my brother grumbles.
“Someone’s grouchy,” I chirp.
Between my room and Tommy’s is a storage closet. It’s what holds the broom, mop, and laundry board, and it’s roomier than our closets back home. Now it holds the guard from last night. He’s triple zip-tied to a pipe on the wall with a ball gag in his mouth to keep him from alerting the neighbors.
It was a challenge to sneak him out of the house and into the room—I was stuck carrying him while Tommy checked if the coast was clear. For a bit there, I thought we were totally fucked, but Thomas and I always scrape by somehow.
Since we’ve been at Beaumont Grand, it was the most action I’ve experienced, and I have to admit, it makes me want to continue chasing that freeing thrill rather than lollygagging with Kingsley.
Though lollygagging with the prince isn’t all that bad.
I chuckle to myself. Every time I call him a prince, he shudders. Out of everything I could say to him, that’s the word that gets a rise out of him, even if it is subtle.
I point to the gag in his mouth. “I usually like to get to know you before we go this far, but you seem to be enjoying it.”
The guard slumps against the wall, head down, wrists red from trying to yank himself out of the zip ties. Huh, I guess he didn’t find my joke amusing.
At least he’s calmed down. Last night, once he woke up in the cramped confines of our closet, he had a lot of unkind curses for Thomas and me.
Too tired to force information out of him, we gagged him, tied him up in the closet, and locked it with zip ties and a chair to hold him until we can get the items to secure it properly.
I crouch down to his level. “Okay, buddy. If I take this out of your mouth, are you going to be good?”
He doesn’t move a muscle. Despite not getting any confirmation, I remove the gag, saliva dripping off it. After that, I’ll take off the blindfold so he can see something other than darkness for a little while. Aren’t I so kind?
As his eyes open, I’m met with a disgusted glare, and the shivery feeling it sends down my spine is actually quite enjoyable. He’s mad, but underneath it all, he’s scared. He doesn’t know what awaits him, be it torture or death, and that alone makes me eager to talk to him.
“Okay, it’s been some hours, so let’s try this again.” I smile grimly. “What’s your name?”
“Fuck. You,” he seethes.
Everyone always wants to do it the hard way. I wind my fist back and let it collide with his nose, knocking the back of his head into the wall. The poor guy can’t even hold his bruised nose because his arms are tied.
I shake off the sting in my knuckles. “Try again.”
He wipes the blood dripping from his nostrils with his shoulder. “How are the social media marketers fucking kidnappers?”
“Jack of all trades,” I say. Instead of giving his name like I told him to, he rolls his eyes.
The guard must think we’re random amateurs who don’t know who they’re dealing with. I haven’t shown him how serious I am.
I reach into my sock, grab my camo Swiss Army knife, and open the blade. Inspecting it, I move closer to him. “I’ve been here for one long month, and in that time, do you know how much action I’ve gotten?”
“Sexually?” he smirks. “Probably none, but I doubt that’s unusual for you.”
Before he can react, I hit his jaw so hard I expected a tooth to come flying out. The wanker deserves it for how much he had to lie to even suggest that.
I wipe the blood off my knuckles onto my shorts. “By action, I obviously mean violence. Anyway, the answer is none because I’ve been too busy trying to figure out how to edit a damn video to advertise a bloody hotel.”
The guard pulls back as I get down on my knees. I flip open the pocket knife, showing the shiny blade with a smirk. Then, I delicately run the sharp edge down his face and across his neck, pressing enough to cut his skin.
“So, let’s just say I’ve been itching to get my hands dirty.” He swallows a cartoonish gulp. Leaning forward, I speak lowly in his ear. “Tell me, would you rather see how far my knife can dig into your skin? Or should I get it over with and kill you? I’m not picky.”
I have no intention of killing this man. If I take him out on a whim, it’ll complicate things for us and the mission. But all the other stuff? Like I said, I’ve been itching to.
Hearing my threats, Thomas stands beside me. “He’s not kidding.”
The guard stares at me wide-eyed, stuck somewhere between disbelief and sheer confliction. Seconds later, he sighs. “Ryland.”
Finally. “Was that so hard, Ryland?”
Ryland parts his lips to speak, but Thomas interrupts. “Tell us what you know about the Beaumonts.”
He purses his lips, thinking of an answer. Then, he blurts, “Who are you people, really?”
I grab my knife and slice down his forearm, making a long, shallow but definitely painful cut. His muscles tense, and he mutters a curse as blood starts oozing from the gash. “We ask the questions.”
“Fuck you!” he shouts. Jesus, I hope these walls are thick. “You’re asking vague questions. How am I supposed to answer that?”
Ryland, albeit annoying, isn’t wrong. We’re pressing him for answers we don’t know we’re after, which makes the interrogation virtually pointless.
Thomas looms over the man. “By telling us what you know about the Beaumont family.”
“Everything I know, you know,” he sneers. “I’m only a guard. You guys enjoy wasting your time?”
With my blood pressure surging, I get up and kick him right in the chest. He’s gasping for air, and I’m about to go in with the knife again when Thomas pulls me away. He slams the closet door, leaving Ryland in the dark, and shoves me aside.
“He’s right; we are wasting our time. We need Mother to tell us what we’re looking for, or we may as well let the bloke go,” he whispers. “I’ll get her on the phone.”
We were tasked with gathering information on the Crowncrest, but also specifically on Kingsley Beaumont. Nothing more, nothing less. They’ve given us so little guidance that it’s almost like they’re testing Thomas and me to see if we can figure out their ridiculous game.
What has the Requiem so interested in Kingsley specifically? Aside from inheriting his family’s company, speaking in short sentences, and the death of his fiancée, there’s little remarkable about him.
The most interesting of the three is his fiancée’s death. Could it have something to do with Sylvie? Not sure why it would, considering her family is part of an organization within the Italian mafia—they have nothing to do with us. Right?
Thomas tries to walk off, but I grip his arm. “Hold on. I have an idea.”
I open the closet doors, and Ryland squints at the sudden light. “Sylvie Crenshaw.”
Ryland’s brows furrow. “What about her?”
“She was Kingsley’s fiancée, wasn’t she?”
He looks from side to side, dumbfounded. “Yes.”
I move in tightly, violating his personal space, and he shrinks away. “Tell me about her.”
“She was murdered.”
“When?”
“A year ago.”
“And Kingsley,” I say. “What did he do about it?”
Ryland pauses, debating whether to speak. Even though everything I’ve asked so far is public information, he’s probably spoken more than he should.
He swallows. “Nothing.”
Thomas, intrigued, asks, “He didn’t search for the culprit? Interrogate everyone he could think of until he avenged Sylvie?”
“None of that. If anything, he hid.” Ryland’s body jolts as he shifts positions on the floor. I might’ve broken a rib. Oops. “It was an arranged marriage, and he didn’t even want it, but her death still fucked him up.”
An arranged marriage? Figures. The Beaumonts wanted to get close to the Crenshaws and form a tighter alliance, so they forced Kingsley and Sylvie to be their pawns. But someone killed Sylvie before they could live out their plans.
“Who killed Sylvie?” I interrogate.
“We don’t know. We’ve been trying to figure that out.”
“But not Kingsley?”
Ryland’s eyes go wide and serious. “I’m done talking. Beat me if you will.”
Interesting response.
It’s confirmed, he didn’t even try to find Sylvie’s killer, and he’s definitely taken a big hit emotionally.
But he’s Xavier Beaumont’s son. No way would Xavier have cowered away if that had happened to Mya, even if it was an arranged marriage he didn’t want. He wouldn’t have let it get to him the way Kingsley has.
So, what? Is he weaker than his father?
Kingsley is a lot of things, but none of him screams weak. Fuck, I’m so confused.
“Put the blindfold and gag back on him,” I tell Thomas, already walking away as I open my messages with Jordan. I have a fun task for my dim-witted rookie.
Rip
find out everything you can on Sylvie Crenshaw and her relationship with Kingsley Beaumont and get back to me by Saturday
Jordan
i can try but Emma has me working overtime packing orders of bread and I’m nowhere near finished
Packing orders of bread is code for packaging and sending off loads of drugs. It’s a repetitive and mundane task no one likes to do, so we pass it off to the young rookies. I was stuck doing it for four years, starting when Mum and Mother first adopted me at twelve.
Rip
did I ask how busy you are?
The typing bubbles appear and reappear numerous times before he sends the message.
Jordan
no. sorry I’ll get it done
I smile proudly. Good. He’s learning.
“Are you ready?” Thomas pops his head in, his hair slicked back neatly.
I look at him in the mirror as I knot my tie. “Looking sharp.”
“Thanks.” He lets himself in and eyes my outfit. “Hate to break it to you, mate, but your purple tie does not go with your navy coat.”
I let out a disbelieving scoff. “This is the navy one, I’m sure of it.”