Chapter Twenty-Four
Brock wasn’t at the house off Privett, and Rena had lost her phone in the crash. The reception had been so bad, what if she got it wrong? What if it wasn’t this house? What if she was supposed to turn left and not right?
She was in a near-full panic, but she had to get it together. For Sam.
Rena left him in the truck to make sure that the house was empty. She didn’t know if she had the courage to take another family hostage.
The door was unlocked, so she let herself in. This was definitely the right house. Brock had done a number on this place—everything had been gone through, drawers still open, file folders tossed about, pictures off the hooks in his search for a safe.
She went back to the truck and helped Sam inside. He was fading and even he wasn’t saying that he was fine anymore. Because he wasn’t fine, and they both knew it. In fact, he wasn’t saying much at all, only his occasional grunt or groan confirming he was alive.
She helped him into one of the bedrooms and stripped off his wet clothes.
The bullet wound had broken open again, blood seeping through the bandage.
She took the bandage off, it had gotten wet and disgusting.
She found a first aid kit in the bathroom and cleaned the wound, dressed it, and then put him in bed naked, piling on the blankets.
She brought him water and offered to make him something to eat.
He said he wasn’t hungry and closed his eyes.
For a minute she thought he’d just up and died, but as she watched, his chest went up and down, up and down.
She put her head down on the bed next to him and stifled a scream. Everything had gone to hell.
And Brock wasn’t here.
Five minutes later, when she was certain Sam was still alive and just resting, she went to the living room and found a house phone. She dialed Brock’s cell phone number.
He didn’t answer. But she was calling from a strange number, so he might not answer.
She left a message.
“It’s me. We’re here. Where are you? I need you, Brock. I need you.”
What else could she say? That she’d nearly killed two teenagers? That the redhead might be dead? That she hated herself and hated him as well? That she wished she never heard the name Mitchell Robinson?
Instead, she hung up, went to the kitchen, and looked for something healthy to cook for when Sam woke up.
Brock listened to his wife’s message. Her voice was full of frustration and deep fear that pained him.
He was the one who got her and Sam into this. He needed to find a way out.
Mitchell Robinson walked into the Verdacorp office, where Brock had been waiting for him. Waiting for more than fifteen minutes before the bastard came in.
“Am I keeping you from something?” Robinson asked dryly.
Brock pocketed his phone. He would call Rena back when he was alone.
“What do I need to do?” he asked through clenched teeth.
“Ellen McKenna has the Coulter contracts. Get them.”
Brock stared at him, incredulous. “And how the hell am I supposed to do that? They have a house full of people, a bunch of kids.”
Screw it, he thought. He didn’t need this.
“I have a plan,” Robinson said with an unpleasant laugh. “We’ll use the storm to our advantage. In fact, as soon as you get dressed, you can leave, get the file, and be back here in less than thirty minutes, if you’re smart about it.”
Get dressed?
Brock looked down at his jeans and flannel shirt. What did Robinson expect him to wear?
“I don’t understand,” Brock said. “What is the plan?”
Robinson ignored Brock and picked up the desk phone, dialed. A moment later, he said, “Get the utility truck ready. I’m sending Mr. Jones over to the garage to pick it up in five minutes.”
He put the receiver down, looked Brock up and down. “The uniform might be a little tight, but I think it’s close enough. This way.” Robinson left the office, then turned back when Brock didn’t immediately follow. “Now, Mr. Jones. We don’t have all day.”