Chapter 7
Ryder
Black didn’t suit Violet. Her dress and oversized jacket, which clearly wasn’t hers, made her look like she was about to attend a funeral. Which evidently was the theme of this gallery, because the art was boring me to death.
Not that I could gain access, because apparently you had to have an appointment. Good thing I could casually watch through the cameras, their system so pathetic a child could hack it.
Sipping my coffee, I sat back in the booth, having taken the seat right at the back of the cute little café that happened to be almost directly opposite the pompous gallery. With my headphones in and phone propped up, I was able to flick between the camera feeds and watch her.
“Violet, remember to smile,” the man hissed over her shoulder, his voice crystal clear. For such shoddy security, the camera and microphone quality was actually top notch. “And make sure you keep that jacket on. I don’t want our clients to see your arm.”
What the fuck was wrong with her arm?
“Yes, sir,” Violet responded with an obedient nod.
“We have an original Devereaux being delivered today, and you must represent the gallery. Mr Devereaux rarely allows his work to be seen, so we need to show his wife that we’re worthy of featuring such an extraordinary piece,” he continued, reaching up to adjust his unfortunate-looking toupee.
A little light seemed to return to Violet’s gaze at that, all while I pulled a face.
No way did the fucking ‘Beast’ create art, not unless it was with his fists and blood.
My hand had never entirely recovered since our last meeting, and even now I felt a phantom twinge where he’d broken three of my fingers.
“Ah, it looks like Mrs Donn has decided on the Bulliard original,” the man commented in what had to be a fake posh accent because Christ, no one naturally sounded that pretentious, did they? “Go wrap it carefully while I process the payment.”
Violet’s smile tightened, and I followed her across the gallery to where she carefully removed a black and white painting of a man looking out to the sea.
So, I think it was safe to say I was not an art person.
Shifting in my seat, I zoomed in on Violet, watching her as she carefully carried the framed piece through a door to where there were boxes and packaging supplies. Swapping cameras, I watched her place the painting down before taking a seat on the closest box and pulling out her phone.
Pressing my palm to my ear, I turned up the volume.
“Hi Bug, I don’t have long, but I just wanted to see whether you still have the number of that psychiatrist?
The one you were dating?” There was a pause as Violet listened to her friend reply.
She’d somehow found a pen and was doodling on one of the packing boxes.
“Oh, I thought you said she was the psychiatrist, not the nurse?”
I clenched my jaw, frustrated that the other half of the conversation couldn’t be heard.
“Really?” Violet’s voice quietened, almost exhausted even as her fingers continued to sketch. “Yes… that would be perfect. I just… Yeah. Mum’s getting difficult, and her current doctor isn’t helping.”
I sat a little straighter.Fucking bingo.
“I don’t think her meds are working and I just… No, she’s at home. Can you text me the details so I can book—”
I didn’t bother listening to the rest, immediately pulling out my headphones and grabbing my shit. For two weeks I’d been following Violet and hadn’t found a single trace of her mother. I’d already searched her one-bedroom flat and found nothing to indicate there was a second person living there.
Jesus Christ. They were either really good at hiding, or I was losing my touch.
Stepping outside, I made my way around the back of the café to where I’d parked my bike, only for a hench fucker to be leaning against it. He straightened when he spotted me, and I put on my most charming smile.
“Can I help you there, mate?” I casually placed my hand in my pocket, feeling the coolness of my favourite butterfly knife.
“Ryder Finn?” The voice came from behind me.
I turned just in time to feel a hard jolt slam into my stomach, knocking the air from my lungs. My brain didn’t have time to recoil at the physical touch when another fist came fast, cracking against the side of my ribs.
Luckily, this time I managed to twist out of the way and swing a right hook.
My knuckles screamed in protest as they connected with the sharp edge of his jaw, the momentum throwing him to the side at the same time a vicious kick caught me square in the back of the knees.
It sent me crashing down without enough time to recover before both the men were on me.
“Not the face!” I grunted, holding my arms up to protect my head just as the first foot came down. Then another. And another.
My ribs screamed in protest, each breath a jagged knife in my side. Then, just as suddenly as the beating had begun, rough hands hauled me upright and slammed me down into a confined space. My shoulders scraped against the frame as they forced the lid shut, sealing me in darkness.
I barely fit, my knees jammed up awkwardly against my chest, the cramped space making it hard to move.
Something rumbled to life beneath me, and I quickly realised I’ve been stuffed into a boot of a fucking car.
At least my size kept me wedged in place instead of rolling around like a ragdoll. Small victories.
“Well, this is inconvenient,” I muttered into the pitch black.
With as much care as I could manage in the confined space, I fished out my butterfly knife, feeling along the edge of the boot for the lock.
A sudden sharp turn flung my weight towards my head, smashing my temple against the metal wall. Pain thrummed behind my eyes, but I gritted my teeth and forced myself to twist back around. My fingers found the lock again, and I jammed the blade inside.
I felt the pins moving, and with a flick of my wrist the boot unlocked just as the car slammed to a stop. Unpeeling myself from the side, I flicked the latch open—
Only to find a blond man dressed head-to-toe in black, glowering like some knockoff grim reaper. If I were a religious man, which I’m not, I’d have called it a bad omen.
“Mr Finn,” he greeted, stepping back so I could gracefully unfold myself. He was very much a short king, standing at a good foot smaller than me, yet he had the aura of a man twice his size. “Or would you prefer one of your aliases? Mr Baker, Mr Grimm, or Mr Evans, maybe?”
Shit.
“You seem to have me at a disadvantage.” I ignored the twinge in my poor spine, and instead attempted to brush some of the shoe-prints from my jeans. “Who the fuck are you?”
A rough hand grabbed my shoulder, shoving me down onto a chair.
“I’ve been asked to speak to you,” he simply replied with a relatively thick German accent.
I squinted at him. “By whom?” I’d been taken to an old warehouse, clearly abandoned by the lack of cleaning and the suspicious coppery stain directly under where I sat.
“The same man who hired you to find the USB drive.”
“And a phone call wouldn’t have sufficed?”
The blond was the smallest out of the three men, with the other two being the fuckers that had used me as a punching bag. My ribs ached, but I didn’t think any were broken. At least I caught the second guy’s jaw, a pretty bruise already blossoming.
“You can tell Mr C”—the cryptic prick—“that I’m currently working on it.”
“Not fast enough,” said the blond who was clearly the mouthpiece of the trio. The other two were just there for bulky decoration when they weren’t jumping me, both standing slightly behind so I could barely see them in my peripheral.
“You’ve got two choices,” Mouthpiece said, taking what I guess was meant to be a threatening step forward. “Either you do what you’re told…”
Something cold and hard was pressed to the back of my head. I didn’t need a genius’s IQ to know it was a gun.
“Or we’ll find someone more capable,” he finished.
“Karl, if you’re going to be this dramatic, I’ll just take the bullet.”
The gun clicked.
“Wait! Christ, it was a joke. You really don’t do humour, do you, Gunter? Wait, is that how I’m supposed to pronounce it? Goonter?”
Mouthpiece stared, dark eyes clearly unamused.
“Has anyone ever told you that you’ve mastered the German stare? It’s quite disconcerting.”
He sighed, as if he was already done with me. “Mr Finn…”
“Yes, Klaus?”
“My name’s Hans Jürgen.”
I dramatically winced. “I’m sorry.”
Jürgen’s lips pursed at the same time a vein pulsed in his forehead. “My boss is getting impatient. Have you found the USB drive?” he demanded.
“It’s only been a couple weeks. I’m good, but not ‘track-down-something-lost-twenty-years-ago’ good. You’ll have to give me a little longer.”
“But you’ve found Geraldine Hoffman?” His brow raised at my silence, the gun pressing harder into my head. “Where is she?”
“Look, I’ve found her kid, which means I’m closing in.”
Jürgen stilled, dark eyes narrowing. “Her kid?” he clarified.
“Yeah, you know… the cute blonde in the photographs?” A chill swept through the warehouse, and I was pretty sure we were being watched by crows. White specks of bird shit were everywhere.
“Where is she?” he demanded, his voice cracking like a whip. “Is she in this city?”
“Just tell Mr C I’m handling it.” I kept my tone even, though I knew the moment I gave up the answer, I’d lose all my leverage and maybe end up as the next stain on the floor. “He’ll get his USB drive, and I’ll be thirty grand richer. Win-win.”
Jürgen exchanged a glance with one of the men behind me before fixing those cold eyes back on mine. “Find the data, Mr Finn,” he said. “Or your life will be forfeit.”