Oxblood (12 page)

When I asked Ian what the products were, he laughed. “Honestly? It could be anything from prosciutto to olive oil to more cash than one is allowed to carry into the country.”

“Cold cuts and olive oil? Really?”

“You'd be surprised about the regulations regarding importing cold cuts from a foreign country.”

“So why would the Scarpones let Gil go? I mean, if he's such an asset . . .”

“They're not a family looking to branch out. They like their illegal import/export business just the way it is. So, once Gil got them set up, they could have easily referred him to a brother family in need of Gil's expertise, like the Cappolas,” Ian explained.

“The Scarpones aren't so much the problem as is their youngest son, Lenny,” he continued. “He's become known as a bit of a sleaze, willing to hire himself out for anything from shakedowns to kidnappings. If Gil went snooping around for a way into the mob, it's likely that Lenny was his contact and the one who invited your brother to come to Italy. The fact that Lenny showed up this far into the journal is a little worrisome. I'm going to have Damon look into it.”

Ian stood and picked up his phone from the coffee table. Damon answered quickly, and Ian went directly into his instructions. Damon was to find Lenny Scarpone and ask what he knew about Gil.

“So he's been bouncing from one mob family to another, advising them on US customs laws,” I said to Ian as he sat back down.

“Yes,” Ian said after a beat. “At least that's how it started.”

“But now he's following leads to try and find Paolo and his mysterious boss.” I sat down next to Ian and tried to wrap my brain around my brother having decided to become some sort of contract worker for the mob. I couldn't make sense of what Gil had been doing, but mostly
why
he was doing it. “So he's been climbing his way up the mobster corporate ladder?”

“Essentially. Word gets out on the street about the business needs of a family and people get referred out. The problem is that the higher up the pyramid he goes, the more dangerous it gets. We stop talking about cold cuts and olive oil and start talking about drugs, guns, and other things.”

“That means Gil is in danger,” I said, my voice shaking. I was trying not to be, but I was scared. I didn't want to think about the things the mob did to those who crossed them. But the more Ian told me about these families, the more determined I became to find the crucial information Gil had hidden away in the journal.

“Why don't we take a break?” Ian offered. “We've been at this for hours, and I think I just saw actual steam seep out of your ears.” He smiled the friendly smile that made me involuntarily reciprocate. “Why don't you go downstairs and get a soda or something? I'll follow up with Claudia and Damon.”

I changed my clothes, pulled my hair into a ponytail, and strolled to the elevator. There didn't appear to be any alcove with soda machines, not that I knew what kind of money to insert anyway. I walked through the lobby and noticed it was strangely empty. Neither of the hotel clerks was at the front desk.

I entered the lounge, contemplating something stronger than a soda despite the fact that it wasn't even noon. That wasn't stopping the other patrons in the bar, either. I guess in Italy a glass of wine for breakfast is totally cool.

As I waited for the bartender to return, I scanned the lounge: An older couple sitting and chatting with each other. A few men drinking wine. A man reading an Italian magazine and another man playing with his phone.

All perfectly normal, and yet . . .

The guy in the corner wearing a T-shirt and jeans hadn't been turning the pages. The man sitting opposite him was focused on his phone, but instead of holding it in his lap, he was holding it up, in front of his face, the camera aimed in my direction.

I'd played a game with Tiffany at the mall: Pretend you're looking at something on your phone when really you're taking pictures of a hot guy. Was that guy taking pictures of me?

In Miami, maybe I'd be flattered
, I thought
.
No, I'd still be creeped out. And after all my training, I couldn't help but get worried—especially when the magazine guy quickly glanced up at me.

I turned back to the bar, breathing fast. Was I imagining things, or were those guys surveilling me?

That's when I saw the old woman from the day I'd arrived. She was wearing the same dress and a scarf over her head, still knitting her heart out—or was she? That was three days ago, and it didn't look like she had made any progress.

My gut started doing flips. Were these people associated with the mob families that Ian and Gil had been trying to infiltrate? But Ian hadn't said anything about their cover being blown.

On the other hand, Gil
had
disappeared. If he'd talked . . .

The thought of Gil being tortured made my stomach, already aflutter, drop to my toes.

I couldn't think about that now. Whoever these people were and however they came to be here, they were watching me. Something was off. They might not be after me, but they would certainly be after Ian.

Breathe, Vic. Just breathe. Let Ian know what's going on ASAP.

I waited another minute or two before I shoved my hands in my pockets and walked to the front desk. There was still no one there.

As nonchalantly as I could, I picked up the phone and tried to figure out how to dial up to my room. I put my hand down on the desk, rummaging for instructions, and my hand slid as if it were in a puddle of water. I turned it over to look, and my palm was red and wet. A dark puddle of what could only be blood had pooled amid the pencils and receipts. It wasn't a paper cut amount of blood; it was like someone got her face smashed onto the stone countertop. I bit my lip to keep from screaming.

I wiped my palm on my pants and slowly walked toward the elevators, my eyes focused on my route. I saw movement in my periphery as I turned the corner into the elevator car. I punched my floor. As the doors slid closed, the magazine guy and cell phone guy came into view, walking quickly toward the elevator.

The car started up. I pressed the button for my floor over and over again, willing it to move faster. As soon as the doors opened, I squeezed myself through and ran to my room, all the way at the end of the hall.

Then I heard the
ding
of the elevator and did the most foolish thing: I looked back. It was the two men. We locked eyes, and I watched as they reached behind their backs. I turned and ran.

“Ian!” I screamed.

The door crashed open and Ian leaped out, a pistol in his hand. “Down!” he shouted.

I dropped to the floor and heard a
THUNK THUNK
as Ian fired twice. The gun's exploding sound was muffled by a silencer. Then Ian grabbed my arm and pulled me up. I glanced back as I stumbled into the room. Both men were sprawled out on the hallway floor, facedown.

“What happened?” he asked with no emotion as he closed the door.

“I was . . . I was . . .” I stuttered.

“Breathe, Victoria.” Ian took me by the shoulders and looked me square in the eye. “What happened?” he asked again, punctuating each word.

“I was just standing there at the bar, waiting. I noticed those two men watching me. And there was a third. A woman, I tried to call the room from the front desk—”

I lifted my hand, the palm still stained red.

Ian drew a sharp breath and gripped my wrist. “You're bleeding!”

I shook my head. “It's not mine. The poor girl behind the counter.” I began to cry.

“Was that it?” Ian asked. “Just those three?”

“Um . . .”

“Victoria!” he demanded.

“I think so!” I said. Ian narrowed his eyes at me, demanding a definitive answer. “I'm sure. Just those three.”

Ian looked at me then nodded. “Okay.”

I started to cry harder as the shock began to wear off. “Hey, hey,” Ian said, wrapping his arms around me. “It's okay. You're okay.”

“I thought I was prepared, but I'm not,” I wailed into his shoulder.

He stroked my hair. “I didn't exactly prepare you for this scenario. We had no reason to believe there was a threat here. Victoria, are you sure I can't send you home?”

I pushed away from Ian, struggling to control my tears. “No. You can't send me home. I can't go home without Gil.”

“Okay,” Ian said. He brushed the hair from my tear-stained face and steadied me. His eyes were strong, and as they locked onto mine, I knew in that moment that Ian Hale was a man I could trust.

Ian sat me down on the couch and then pulled out his phone. It was a quick call to Damon before he was addressing me again.

“Outside of the journal, is there anything in this room you can't live without?” he asked.

“My laptop.”

“Grab it, and let's go.” Ian shoved his laptop in his backpack and slung it over his shoulder, while I stuffed mine along with the journal into my backpack. He had changed while I was gone and was wearing jeans and a T-shirt.

With his gun in one hand and my hand in his other, we left the room and walked to the stairs.

The two men were still sprawled on the floor just a few steps from the elevator. Except now pools of dark liquid stretched from wall to wall.

He opened the door to the stairwell slowly, looking above and below. When it appeared empty, we stepped through and closed the door quietly behind us, taking the stairs down quickly. We reached the bottom and hurried from one door through another until we reached the service area of the hotel. Ian weaved us in between crates of food and industrial-size laundry carts before we made it through the back door and to his car.

We screeched out of the parking lot in the direction of the factory headquarters. Once we were sure no one was following us, Ian pulled his phone out to make another call.

He looked worried. Now that we were in the clear, he was trying to get in touch with the team, but no one was answering. If whoever was in the hotel had come after us, Adam, Claudia, and Damon could be in danger as well. Despite our entire conversation about friendship being a luxury he could not afford, it was clear Ian was scared for them.

I took his hand and wrapped both of mine around it. “I'm sure they're fine,” I said.

If I thought Ian could be comforted, that he'd accept it, I was wrong. The professional Ian who was able to shoot down my assailants was back, and he didn't need to be comforted. Without a word, Ian pulled his hand from mine and gripped the steering wheel.

We arrived at the old factory, and Ian jumped out of the car. Since no one from the team had answered his calls, he couldn't be certain that the building hadn't been compromised. He popped the trunk and pulled out a gun, loaded it, and handed it to me. He drew his from the holster behind his back. My nervous gaze caught his before we could move.

“You're going to be fine,” he said. I nodded and followed him. He pulled the door open slowly. We both winced as the metal door squeaked against the frame. When we reached the top of the stairs, Ian turned to me. He put his palm out like a stop sign and then put a finger to his lips. I was to stay put at the end of the hall and keep quiet. I watched him inch down the hall and through the door into the main office.

After what seemed like plenty of time to check the back office and all the nooks and crannies, Ian still hadn't returned. My nerves began to tingle, and I knew something was wrong. I couldn't leave him in a potentially dangerous situation, so I walked up the rest of the steps softly until I reached the door. I listened closely for commotion, but it was as silent as it had been since we arrived. Perhaps Ian had found something and gotten so involved in examining it that he forgot about me. I pushed the door open slowly and stepped inside. My gun was drawn, and I was hopeful that I was holding it in the way Adam had trained me.

When I walked into the room, I couldn't help but gasp. Ian was unconscious, his body spread across the floor, with a man standing over him. The man looked up at me, then at something—or someone—behind me. Then everything went dark.

Chapter 11

The only sound I could hear when I regained consciousness was the pounding in my head.

I tried to remember what had just happened. Ian on the floor, unconscious. Someone standing over him, looking past me . . .

Someone must have been behind me. Someone who then hit me over the head.

I tried to reach up to check the damage, but my hands were bound together. Eyes burning from the light, I glanced down.

Duct tape. My wrists were bound with silver duct tape. My ankles were also bound, and I was slumped in a corner at the back of Ian's team's headquarters. Next to me, hanging by his wrists with his feet just grazing the floor, was a bruised, battered, and shirtless Ian. His shirt was torn and crumpled on the floor.

He looked at me, his eyes intense. “Victoria,” he whispered.

The men who'd attacked us didn't appear to be in the room, but Ian was doing his best not to be heard.

“Victoria, are you okay?” he asked.

“I think so,” I said. “My head really hurts though. How long were we out?”

“A few hours from what I can tell.”

Ian's wrists were bound with rope, and the rope had been lassoed on a hook hanging from the ceiling. His wrists were rubbed raw. His sides were red and bruised, and there was a cut above his eye.

Whoever had ambushed us had worked Ian over.

The room was relatively empty. Were it not for the big-screen televisions hanging on the wall and the equipment on Claudia's desk, you would never know the place had been inhabited so recently.

There were no bags on desktops, no coffee cups, no coats tossed in the corner. Ian hadn't been able to get in touch with the team, but had they managed to get out before Thug One and Thug Two arrived?

Our backpacks lay against the wall behind Ian, unopened. I prayed that our laptops and Gil's journal were still tucked inside.

I rolled to my stomach then pushed myself onto my knees. Ian gave me a stern look.

“There's a hidden panel in the closet of the back room—”

“I'm not leaving you, Ian,” I declared.

“I'll be fine,” he argued.

“Oh yeah, because you're so comfortable hanging there? We're in this shitty situation because of me, and I'll be damned if I'm going to let those assholes come back and use you for a punching bag and then do only God knows what with me.”

“It's not your fault, Victoria,” Ian said.

“I had a gun. I could have shot the guy standing over you, but I froze.” I looked down, ashamed. I also couldn't stomach Ian's abused body. It broke my heart to see him like that, especially since I knew I was to blame.

“Look at me, Victoria,” he said. He wouldn't speak again until my eyes met his. “Things happen. We both entered an unknown situation. You'll recall I was the one lying unconscious on the floor when you walked in.” Even in his battered state, Ian had an uncanny ability to make me feel better. While I didn't think I'd ever relinquish responsibility, his words took the edge off.

“Okay,” I agreed reluctantly.

“Now, they left about twenty minutes ago and could be back any minute,” he said.

“Then I guess I'd better hurry.”

Ian opened his mouth to speak again, but I cut him off before he could utter a single syllable.

“I already told you I'm not leaving you here. I'm our only hope of getting out of here, Ian, so let me do everything I can to make that happen.” Here was my chance to make things right, and I hoped I could figure out and execute a plan before our attackers came back.

I pushed myself to my feet and hopped over to Adam's station. The secret panel to the weapons arsenal was voice-activated by Adam. I turned to Ian, who just shook his head and looked apologetically at me.

Frustrated, I shoved my body as hard as I could against the wall. It didn't budge. As if my 130-pound frame would somehow open Adam's military-grade secret panel. Every weapon we needed to defeat our attackers was just out of reach, made completely useless by the impossible wall. At least I wasn't the only one who couldn't get to Adam's weapons. I didn't want to imagine what our attackers would do with this arsenal at their disposal.

I sat in Adam's chair and searched his drawers. They were empty. Of course they were. In high-tech, digital, and heavily armed headquarters, who needs scissors?

I lifted my hands to my eyes and rubbed them as best I could. Suddenly, I remembered a YouTube self-defense video Tiffany and I had found one night.

I raised my hands as high as I could and said a quick prayer that these guys used cheap duct tape. With as much force as I could muster, I thrust my hands down and sharply twisted my wrists.

With a rewarding shearing sound, the tape snapped in half. My hands were free!

Ian raised an eyebrow. “Impressive,” he said.

I shrugged. “I told you. I live in a gritty neighborhood. A girl's got to have survival skills.”

Ian looked at my ankles, then back at me, tilting his head skeptically.

Good point. That move wasn't going to work down there.

I hopped over to Claudia's desk, praying that
someone
would have a pair of scissors. Her drawers looked similarly empty. But as I started to close her top drawer, something glinted in the light.

“Thank you, Claudia, for caring about your manicure!”

Office supplies?
Nada
. Beauty products? Better bet. A metal nail file was wedged at the back of the drawer.

It seemed to take forever, but I was able to use the nail file to start enough of a tear in the duct tape around my ankles to rip the rest away.

“All right!” I said, starting toward Ian. Then I froze, and Ian and I locked eyes. We both could hear it. The sound of someone coming up the steps.

“Victoria, go,” Ian said. “The other exit—”

“No way,” I said, surprising myself, because frankly, all I wanted to do was to run and never look back. I grabbed Ian's legs and tried to push him up so he could free his wrists from the hook. “I'm not going anywhere without you.”

Ian struggled with the rope, but it was caught on the edge of the hook. The sound of footsteps reached the door.

“Victoria!” Ian hissed.

We were out of time. “Pretend you're unconscious!” I said.

“What?”

“Just do it!” I locked eyes with Ian. I had a desperate idea, but this was a desperate moment. It was time to put all that self-defense training to the test.

Ian glanced at the door, closed his eyes, and let his head hang.

I dropped my arms and kept my back to the door as it swung open. I heard Thug One or Thug Two come through the door and stop.

He said something short and harsh in Italian. He either swore or told me not to move. I decided to take it as the latter and stayed right where I was. My plan would only work if I didn't turn around.

“I don't speak Italian,” I said, willing him to close the distance between us. Meanwhile, I was rehearsing in my mind what I was about to do. A cold sweat rolled slowly down my back.

The man said something else and crossed the room quickly. I felt a hard grip on my shoulder—right out of the assailant handbook. That was my cue.

I pivoted hard and jabbed an elbow into the man's ribs, then immediately swung that fist down and into his crotch.

It was Thug One, the guy who I'd seen standing over Ian. He crumpled to the ground, both hands cradling his groin.

“Quickly now!” Ian hissed.

I grabbed Ian's legs and lifted again. Ian struggled with the rope on the hook.

I stepped back, and he dropped to the ground.

“Get his gun,” Ian said as he tried to free his wrists.

I glanced down at Thug One, who had gotten his knees under him but was still facedown, writhing in pain. There, tucked into his belt at the small of his back, was a pistol.

I reached down and pulled it free.

“Keep it on him,” Ian said, pulling his wrists apart.

Then Thug Two burst through the door, gun up and blazing. Bullets whistled through the air around us as Ian grabbed the gun from me. He pushed me to the ground and fired in the same moment.

I saw Thug Two stagger and drop his gun. Had he been hit in the arm? He spun and kept coming. Ian got off one more shot before Thug Two tackled him, and they both went to the ground.

Before I could think about my next move, I felt a steely grip on my calf. It was Thug One, leering at me.

I did what was only natural. I lifted my free foot and stamped it as hard as I could into that ugly face. I wanted to break his teeth. I succeeded in breaking his nose. I think. Blood was everywhere as Thug One's body went limp.

That's when I realized I'd heard another gunshot. My stomach dropped. Ian?

He was up and walking toward me, the gun in his hand. Thug Two lay motionless behind him.

I stood up on rickety legs and grabbed our bags and Ian's shirt, then followed Ian to a back room that looked like it had once been a walk-in storage closet. He dropped an old-fashioned beam across the door, locking it, before pulling a panel from the wall. From inside the hidden space, he pulled a gun, a cell phone, and some cash.

“Is everything there?” Ian asked. I checked the bags. Our laptops and Gil's journal were still inside. I passed him his backpack, and he threw it over his shoulders.

I suddenly realized I was trembling and gasping. Ian looked as cool as a cucumber—he was a trained soldier. I, on the other hand, was a waitress from Miami who had barely survived by implementing YouTube self-defense training.

Ian cupped the back of my head and looked me in the eye. “Breathe with me, Victoria,” he said. It took two long, deep breaths before I was able to synchronize our breathing.

Ian smiled ruefully and gave a slight shake of his head. “That was very well done.”

“Did you kill him?”

“Yes.”

“Did I kill the other guy?” I wasn't actually sure if I wanted to know the answer.

He paused before replying. “No. But what you need to remember is that unless you defend yourself and your team, whoever it is that is coming for us
will
kill us once they get what they want.”

Ian was right, and I knew it. I couldn't focus on the condition of that man out there. My only objective was to find Gil, and I couldn't let anything get in my way.

I took a deep breath and pulled myself together. “And you said I was going to need more than self-defense moves to survive.”

Ian smiled again. “I stand corrected.”

“I'll be sure to alert the team to your confession.” I smiled bravely back. “So, what now? Unless we're going to play Seven Minutes in Heaven, we have to get out of this closet.”

“As tempting as that sounds, I'd like to get as far away from this place as possible.” Ian cocked his head at me. “How good are you with a pole?”

I raised an eyebrow. “I'm going to need a little more information before answering that.”

Ian grinned and reached behind the panels again. With a click, the wall at the back of the room indented, then slid aside to reveal a long silver pole that stretched to the ground floor.

I stared at it for a moment, then turned to Ian. “Just one? We don't each get a pole, Batman?”

“I'll go first,” he said. “It's a long way through the dark, but there are motion-sensor lights once you near the bottom, and they'll click on for you once I've made it down.”

“How far are we talking?”

“We'll be going down the equivalent of four stories,” he answered.

“Well, we haven't got all day. Let's go.”

Ian nodded. He wrapped himself around the pole and slid out of sight.

Trying to breathe steadily, I reached out over the dark abyss, grabbed the pole, and looked down. After a few moments, the lights Ian had promised clicked on. Forty feet down, Ian stepped away from the pole and looked up at me.

I repositioned my backpack and took a long breath, focusing on Gil.

It's now or never
, I told myself. I jumped onto the pole and began to slide.

Ian had a big smile on his face when he caught me at the bottom. “Tell me that wasn't fun.”

I twisted my mouth before I answered. “Okay, yeah. That was pretty badass.”

Ian laughed and led me down a long tunnel. All the lights were on motion sensors, and sections clicked on and off as we progressed. I could tell Ian was hurt, but he never winced or said a word about it.

“Do we have any idea who those guys were?” I asked. “What about the ones at the hotel?”

“I didn't recognize any of them,” Ian said. “It's hard to say who they work for, but we've made a lot of enemies over the years.”

The floor was uneven in some areas, and there were random rocks and pebbles that I kept stumbling over.

“But those two were part of the same crew that were at the hotel,” Ian continued. “I heard them say that their boss had to clean up the mess we left there.”

We walked for another few minutes before Ian noticed my silence.

“Do you feel okay? Want to stop for a moment?” he asked gently. It was nice of him to be sensitive to my unconditioned body, and I had no doubt I was still in shock from my first fight, but it was the vision of Ian's body, unconscious, bleeding, and hanging from the ceiling, that was bothering me.

“I'm so sorry, Ian. You counted on me to back you up, and I let you down,” I blurted.

“Stop it, Victoria. We've been over this.” He moved to face me, bringing us to a halt. I couldn't lift my head to look at him in fear of opening the emotional floodgates.

“I just can't get the image of you hanging there out of my head,” I told him.

“Hey,” he said softly.

“I know, I know. I'm being weak.”

Ian took my face in his hands and forced me to look at him. “You are not weak. You are human. And you're . . .
you. I would be concerned if seeing me like that hadn't upset you.” He studied my face for a moment before he spoke again. “You saved us in there. You followed your gut and were incredibly brave, and I will be forever grateful for that.”