Chapter Two
Ash
Three and a half years ago.
Ishifted the SUV into park, trying not to scoff at the ridiculous mansion sprawled out before me. From the looks of it, it most likely had two wings: one for Red Snake’s client and the other for his guests.
“Organized religion,” I muttered, leaning back in my seat. “That’s where the money is.”
Dominic, Red Snake’s weapon specialist, chuckled, filling the cab with the sound. I glanced down at the screen on the dash, noting the time. “We should expect you back soon, then?” he asked, brushing off the clear judgment in my tone.
“Within the next twenty-four hours,” I confirmed, my body aching for a bed that could actually fit me.
The beds I slept in while on jobs were always too short, leaving my feet hanging over the edge of the mattress.
I fucking loathed it, but I was willing to deal with it because the work I did was fulfilling.
I was a bounty hunter and private investigator for Red Snake Investigations.
Before that, I had been a SEAL, but that job wasn’t something I had the mental capacity for, let alone the strength to do long term.
After retirement, Hayes Mitchell, retired Air Force pilot and co-owner of Red Snake, heard I’d been looking for work through some mutual friends and reached out.
I met him and Grayson at the office a few days after that, which led me to today, waiting for a client to arrive for payment.
“I have no idea why he couldn’t just wire the damn money,” I drawled, settling into my seat, my fingers tapping on the steering wheel.
“He’s an old man who isn’t caught up with the times,” Dominic replied.. “We also don’t want to piss him off, so be nice.”
A grunt left me then. Usually, I didn’t handle these kinds of jobs—Hayes did. He was better at dealing with high-profile personalities, giving them peace of mind, but since Grayson was gone, Mitchell couldn’t leave the office.
“Have you heard from Grayson?” I asked. A few weeks ago, Red Snake had gotten a call from some old contacts in St. Louis, asking Grayson for help in finding a woman who’d escaped a rehabilitation center.
This woman, Carrie Hale, ended up being Grayson’s soulmate—no one else could see it, though.
I didn’t have to see it; I’d heard it in his voice the night he saw her in person for the first time.
It was magic, a powerful force of nature and fate that linked two unknown souls together.
Another chuckle left Dominic, this one softer. “He’s keeping an eye on Ms. Hale. She’s apparently told him to tell our client to stop trying to drag her back home. She’s started a new life in Astoria, Oregon.”
“I’ve been there,” I murmured, eyes on the front door of the mansion. “It’s a nice town.”
“What were you there for?”
“Visiting my Nonna. She used to live just south of it, down on the coast,” I told him.
The sweet smell of oranges washed over me suddenly as the memory of her raspy laughter hit me.
I smiled to myself, then lifted my eyes, scanning the mansion again.
“Anyway, you should see this place—” I stopped short, my eyes landing on the far-right window on the second floor. “Son of a bitch. He’s home,” I growled.
“He is?”
“Yes, and I’ve been sitting out here, wasting time and talking to you.
” I shut the vehicle off, ended the call, and got out, grabbing the duffel for the cash.
As I made my way across the bricked driveway, irritation crawled up my spine, balling up at the base of my neck.
I’d finished the job hours ago, and when I contacted the client, Alan Benson, he’d told me that payment would be made at his home.
I took in my surroundings, jaw tight, body on alert.
This place was on the outskirts of Austin, hidden deep within the trees.
It was quiet out here. Something I’m sure Pastor Benson enjoyed, given he was the head of the biggest church in the capital.
In fact, before his accountant had run off with all the money in the church’s savings account, he’d been planning on building a second “campus” near Texas State University.
That was over six months ago. When Benson finally got in contact with us, it was suspected his accountant had already left the country.
He hadn’t.
The old man had succumbed to fear and had been holed up in the shitty motel in New Orleans.
By the time I reached the poor bastard, he had already driven himself half crazy.
To an extent, it was understandable. Pastor Benson was a famous man, and his church was a haven for thousands of people.
His church, The Light of God, was considered a megachurch.
When I’d gone there to meet with him, I didn’t know what to make of the sanctuary that resembled a football stadium, with a grand podium in the center, drenched in spotlights as if it were a throne.
Benson didn’t let me stay in there for too long before he ushered me into his office.
In there, I discovered taxidermized zoo animals on his wall.
Everything from a lion head to a full giraffe.
When he saw my gaze lingering on the dead animals, he took that opportunity to brag about his hunting trips in Africa and the few times he’d nearly lost his life.
It was at that point that I lost all respect for the man.
Hunting for food was a survival skill; hunting for sport was just cruelty in my eyes.
I had to remind myself that I was there for a job, not to judge the man.
Though I knew he knew he could feel it, the weight of my judgment as he rambled on about senseless killing.
Eventually, he shut up and moved on. That was nearly two weeks ago.
I’d found the thief, brought him back to Austin, and handed him off to the police.
It would be some time before Benson’s money was returned to him, but that wasn’t Red Snake’s concern.
As I reached the grand double doors made of solid wood, I noticed the crosses carved into either one. “Interesting,” I muttered, ringing the doorbell. There was no answer, and after five more attempts, several knocks, and a few shouts, I was convinced the bastard had fallen asleep. “Fucking shit.”
I pulled out my cell, ready to call Hayes, but then I heard it.
The shrill scream of a woman.
It came from inside the house.
I backed away, stepping into the drive once more, my eyes snapping up to the lit window. I waited, holding my breath, and then—
“Help me! Help me, Please!”
Fuck.
Fucking fuck.
My feet were moving, boots to the ground as I ran to the window, ruining the pastor’s perfectly trimmed and maintained garden.
Her screaming continued as I double-checked the ammo in my pistol before sheathing it.
I looked up to the window, coming directly underneath it, scanning the vines and massive stones.
“Please help me!”
“I’m coming,” I pushed out, starting to climb.
Eventually, her screams morphed into cries, the sound of them seeping deep into my soul, forever changing me.
They were cries of hopelessness. When I made it to the second floor, I glanced around, listening for cars or other sounds.
Grabbing the window ledge, I peeked over it into the room.
My stomach dropped at the sight, and I hauled the rest of my body up, twisted, and planted myself, my chest heaving.
A mix of fury and fear, a detrimental toxin, coursed through my veins as I pulled out my gun and shot the latch.
I couldn’t risk cutting myself by punching the glass.
There was no time to worry about me. Only her.
Just her.
With a grunt, I pushed the window open. As I climbed through, a foul scent slammed into me.
“Please, don’t hurt me.”
My head snapped to the left, and I found a pair of honey brown eyes, wide with fear, staring back at me. I slowly raised my hands, keeping our gazes locked. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
The frail, dirt-and blood-covered woman said nothing.
The wretched sound of her exhausted pants filled the silence as I took in the room.
It was a beautiful room, and the bed she was chained to was large and expensive looking.
When I looked back at her, I finally had the balls to take in her physical state.
Her long and matted hair was hanging around her sweaty, blood- and dirt-stained face.
Her legs were curled up underneath her, her feet pushing her body as close to the headboard as she could get.
Her arms were hanging above her, shackles on each of her wrists, trails of dried and fresh blood trickling down her arms. My eyes narrowed as I studied her bindings, seeing a glimpse of exposed bone on top of the right shackle.
The chains, heavy and dark, were tight, hanging from a large railroad spike in the stone wall nearly six feet above her.
It was clear she’d been trying to escape, and I knew that her wrist was broken from trying to free herself from this shining prison.
My eyes dropped, scanning her for injuries, but what she was wearing forced me to start asking questions. A strapless black evening gown. The satin fabric had been ripped in various places, but my gut was telling me she’d been kidnapped.
“How long have you been like this?” I kept my hands raised and slowly took a few steps toward the bed.
“I don’t know,” she whispered, her voice faint and weak.
She hadn’t flinched or given me a sign to stop, so I kept moving, hands raised, eyes on her, voice soft.
“I’m going to get you out of here.” When I came around the bed, a metal bucket came into view, the stench stronger.
This was what was given to her so she could relieve herself.
Something dark, angry, and all-consuming burned in the pit of my stomach.
My hands started shaking, the fury having nowhere to go.
My eyes met her broken ones again, and she turned her face away from me. “I’m sorry,” she rasped. “It was all he would give me.”