14 BOOK 2 (28 page)

Unknown

Monday, December 22

1:00 p.m.

Two men sat at a table in a corner of a quiet neighborhood restaurant. One had come in through the front, the other through the back. They hadn’t met in person in many years.

One was known in many circles. His employees called him L’Uomo, quite simply, the Man. Gray-haired, cultivated, dapper, he gave all the appearances of being a successful businessman.

The other gentleman had a face that was easily recognizable everywhere he went, which is why he rarely went anywhere anymore. But L’Uomo had summoned him. Threatened, actually, with a widely disseminated contract hit if he didn’t show his face. After the debacle earlier this year, he’d had no choice. It was either surface or be hunted and killed.

And he’d already died once.

They sat facing one another, the dapper man politely dabbing his mouth with a starched linen napkin between bites. His lips were moist from sipping a vintage red, his everyday wine, a 1985 Châteauneuf-du-Pape. He ate with gusto but delicately, carefully relishing each morsel of food.

His guest didn’t drink or eat. Fear coiled in his stomach, making digestion impossible. So he watched, picking at his plate of salade niçoise, wondering why he’d bothered to order anything. French wasn’t his preferred choice of fare, but he hadn’t had a say in which restaurant they dined in. It was foolish enough for them to be seen together.

L’Uomo enjoyed his meal thoroughly, wading through the three courses and finishing with a cheese plate. Wiping his mouth carefully, he politely belched in gastronomic appreciation and finally looked his dining companion in the eye.

“So. Lazarus returns from the dead at last. I was wondering when you were going to surface. You’re like a bad penny. Never know where you might turn up.”

“That’s not entirely fair,” he protested. “You were the reason I needed to disappear. And putting out a hit on me was rather impolite, don’t you think?”

L’Uomo flicked a hand in annoyance. “Yes, yes, I’m the source of all your ills. The contract was necessary. You’re sitting here with me now, aren’t you? Just business. You know that. There has been a development. We need you to have a heart-to-heart with someone. Resolve this situation for me and I’ll consider the debt even. You can disappear again, with my assurances that you won’t be hunted by my people any longer.”

A nice offer, one worth careful consideration. Of course, nothing about L’Uomo was ever that simple.

“Who?”

“You’ll see soon enough. Are you finished?” L’Uomo looked with derision at the pathetically full plate. He had no tolerance for weakness. “No appetite?”

“No, I guess I don’t. Shall we go, then? I’m not comfortable being here. I’d like to get this over with.”

“Fine. I have a little present to show you. Perhaps then you’ll understand the seriousness of the situation. The limo will pick you up in thirty minutes. Do try to eat.”

L’Uomo stood and quitted the room, smiling benevolently at each patron as he walked out.

His companion uttered a single word at his old friend’s back.

“Bastard.”

Unknown

Monday, December 22

1:30 p.m.

Taylor shifted in the wooden chair. Her arms were tied tightly at the wrist to the back legs, arching her back and straining her shoulders. She could bend her wrists up toward the ceiling, a mistake on her captor’s part. She used her long, dexterous fingers to work on the knots. She was wishing for a blanket—the room was freezing and they’d stripped her down to her panties and bra—when she realized she wasn’t alone anymore. Her fingers stopped; she closed her eyes, feigning sleep. A scent drifted to her nose—cedar, lime, a touch of mint. A man’s scent.

“I know you’re awake. I’ve been watching you. Industrious little thing, aren’t you?”

Taylor opened her eyes. A middle-height gentleman stood before her. His gray worsted wool suit was a chalk pinstripe Saville Row, the knot in his burgundy tie just so, a crisp white shirt with platinum cuff links in the French cuffs.
Dad had a suit like that once.
The thought nearly undid her. He was wearing a ski mask. Incongruous, the terrorist chic and the British finery.

“Fuck. You.”

The man laughed. “Oh, aren’t you the little lady? I should wash that filthy mouth out with soap.”

“What do you want?”

“There, a much more important statement. Say please, and I’ll tell you.”

Taylor stared coolly.
Never.

The man stared back at her, blue eyes burning behind the mask, then arranged his lips in an unpleasant grin.

“Good. You’re a strong one. That’s what I’ve heard. I have a business proposition for you.”

“Untie me first.”

“So you can escape? Not a chance. Not yet. I’ll let you go when the time is right. When I know you’re going to cooperate.And cooperate you will, Lieutenant. Trust me on that.”

“I seriously doubt it.”

The man traced a finger along Taylor’s jawline, slowly working his way to her collarbone. “There are ways.”

Taylor jerked her head away and the man laughed. “I love how feisty you are. You will cooperate, and I will make sure you get out of here unscathed. Fight, put up a fuss, and I’ll have you killed. That’s all. Now. You have a situation back home that I can help with.”

“This is about the Snow White case?”

The man turned and raised an eyebrow. “That peon of a killer? Hardly. You’re closer to him than you think, Lieutenant. But no, this has nothing to do with him. This is about family. And honor. Things you pretend to respect.”

He took a few steps backward, toward the door, as if a bit of distance would give him better perspective on his prisoner. He crossed his arms across his chest and stared her down.

“I don’t pretend to respect my family. I have no feelings for them at all. You’ve obviously misunderstood the situation,” she said.

“Hmm.” The man put his arms behind his back and cocked his head like a spaniel puppy trying to identify a new noise. “No feelings for your family? Maybe not your parents—that bitch of a mother of yours, that traitorous father—no. I can see you having a bit too much
integrity
to care for them.” He bit out the word
integrity,
making it sound sordid and misplaced. Taylor shifted uncomfortably.

“No, I mean your chosen family. Your compadres. Your comrades in arms, so to speak. Those men who hold you in such high esteem. Loyalty is a precious commodity, Lieutenant. But it should never be taken for granted. No, I think you have a great deal of feeling for those people, the ones you choose to share your life with. I’d hate to see something happen to any one of them.”

Taylor rocked back in the chair, nearly tipping over in her vehemence. “You bastard! You steal me away and threaten my life, threaten my friends. Who the hell do you think you are?”

He crossed to Taylor in a flash, grabbed a handful of her dirty hair and yanked her head back, exposing her delicate throat. A small knife flashed in her peripheral vision and pressed hard against her carotid, a cold and rigid reminder of how precarious the situation really was. It took every ounce of her being not to flail and struggle. That’s what he wanted. To put her in this vulnerable position. He caressed her scar with the point of the knife, and she felt nauseous.

“I’m the one who has you tied to a chair, and don’t you ever forget it. Now, stop reacting, or we’ll never get anything accomplished. You have a situation that needs to be handled. We can talk about the specifics once you understand the stakes. And if I’m not being clear enough, let me throw this in to sweeten the pot. If something happens to jeopardize my interests in your fair city, I’ll start taking your friends’ heads off, one by one. Now, you sit tight. Dusty will attend to you, get you some food. Then I have someone who wants to meet you. He’ll be here shortly.”

He turned the knob and strode from the room, the door slamming behind him with a brutal metal clang. Well. That was interesting.

The second the door shut, Taylor went to work on her bonds. A little more and she’d have them undone. Then he’d see just how much she was willing to cooperate. As she dug at the knots, she mulled the voice over and over in her head. Who is that man? What is so familiar about him? There was something, just out of reach, but the connection defied her tries to retrieve it.
The voice. Some
thing about that voice.

In her mind, a kidnapper had two purposes, extort money or get revenge. There had to be another agenda here. Family. This wouldn’t have anything to do with her biological family. The threats against Baldwin and Fitz, Lincoln and Marcus were clear. But why? What in the world had she done to cross this madman’s path? Had she wronged him in some way? An old case? He said he had interests in Nashville. What kind of interests would a man like that have? Perhaps he was talking about his own family. Powerful men were often betrayed.

She heard the New York in his accent. Long Island, maybe. Certainly a long way from Tennessee. She knew her share of New Yorkers, but she didn’t recognize that voice. Did she? No, that wasn’t it. Perhaps it was a ploy to draw out Baldwin?

She pushed the thought of Baldwin out of her mind like it burned. He was looking for her, there was no doubt of that. Imagining him worried about her, all of the team frightened, wondering where she could have gotten off to, gave her a new spurt of energy. Her fingers cramped, got tired, but she pulled and manipulated the rope religiously. She had to get out of this situation, one way or another. Just as she decided to take a break, she felt some play on her right wrist. Tiredness forgotten, she picked, picked, picked, and suddenly, the rope loosened. Blood rushed to her fingers, making her hand go numb for a moment, then fire back to life as if shot with electricity. The rope fell away and she pulled her arm to her chest. Breathing hard, she smiled in triumph. She pushed her hair out of her face, took in the large room with exposed pipes, looked for avenues of escape. Being this close to freedom gave the room a whole new perspective. Definitely some sort of warehouse, she suspected. Where, she still had no idea. She reached around to the other wrist, tugged the knot open. Both hands free, she sat them in her lap, rubbing them to bring the circulation back.

When her fingers felt like they could work again, she reached down and untied her feet. Standing, she moved the chair out from behind her and stretched luxuriously, like a cat kept in a kennel too long. Taylor took a deep breath, calming and centering. She waited. If they were watching, they’d be in here immediately. Nothing happened, so she went to the door.

She made her way quietly, not wanting to draw the attention of the guard if he stood outside the entryway. She risked a quick glance through the window, realized that it was an inverted glass, meant to magnify the interior of the space. It distorted her view; she couldn’t see anything outside properly. She pressed her ear up against the steel but heard nothing. She put a hand on the knob and pushed, hoping against hope. She’d heard the set of locks thrown when the dapper man left. It was worth a try, though.

Locked. Figured.

She walked the length of the room, the ache in her back and legs subsiding with each step. There was a bank of grimy windows on the opposite side of the cavernous space. She went to them, tried to look out, but realized they were so dirty she could only make out the semblance of a river. She jogged in place in her underwear, unsuccessfully trying to get warm, speculating.

This certainly didn’t feel like Nashville. She didn’t know how long she’d been unconscious, but the lingering effects of the chloroform from earlier, or yesterday, made her realize it could have been much longer than she thought. She was still a little woozy, and definitely sick to her stomach. The movement was helping to sharpen her reflexes and settle her gorge. She decided to scout for a weapon, something she could use against the guard the next time he came in the room. And maybe, just maybe, she could use it to break the window. She jogged around the space, her feet growing brown and dusty. This room was obviously rarely used. There was nothing in it, either, nothing she could use against them, or to break free. There was the chair, but she felt certain they would come running at the sound of splintering wood.

She felt warmer and went to the door again, listening. There was a sound—a man’s voice. He was singing, and the tuneless chant was growing closer.

She’d only have one shot at breaking away, she was certain of that.

She ran to the chair, set it upright and sat in it. She put her arms behind her, mimicking the angle that would make the guard think she was still tied up. The locks clicked and the door opened. A new man came through the door, this one much smaller than the earlier guard. She’d have a chance at this one.

He had a stupid smile on his face, as if he knew a secret she didn’t. He had a tray with him; Taylor could smell the tantalizing fare. The aroma wafted to her nose—fajitas—she could smell grilled onions and green peppers. Out of place in the dirty space, it made her think of good times, drinking margaritas on the deck of her favorite little holein-the-wall in Nashville. The homesickness was overwhelming. She put it aside. At least they’d deigned to feed her, which meant they weren’t planning on killing her immediately.

She wouldn’t stick around long enough to make a difference.

“I need to use the bathroom.” Taylor tried for haughty but scared; the grin on the man’s face widened. She’d succeeded in tricking him so far.

“My name’s Dusty,” he said.

“Great. Hi. Seriously, I need to use the bathroom.”

Taylor spit the words at him, but he took it as teasing and smiled wider. Idiot.

“Do you like to read?”

Oh, wow. This guy wasn’t all there. He was smiling, arranging the plate of food, seemingly oblivious to Taylor’s request. She let him get closer.

“Yes, I like to read.”

“Do you like to touch?”

Jesus, what kind of freaks were these guys? The big one had stared at her like she was a juicy steak, but this one, with his dispassionate voice that belied his bravado—Taylor doubted he would do anything to her.