Severed Threads (11 page)

“
So, no explanation, huh?” she charged. "Honestly, Chase, do you realize whatever you find on this project can be confiscated? The State can take everything you own?"

He shook his head, trying to make sense of it all. Rachel was traveling on a different track. His challenge was in figuring out which one. "What are you talking about?"

"Your rights to the
Wanli
...or rather your
lack
of them."

How’d she find out?
He considered asking that very question when his attention was drawn to the redheaded guy in parking lot.
Skylar Zane.
He was revving the engine in his black Beamer. Chase had no idea
Legend’s
captain had attended the event or why he would be here in the first place. For years, the cunning bastard had plagued his life – dating the women he knew, buying up supplies he’d ordered, showing up in restaurants where he’d stopped to grab a bite. More than once Chase has spotted him dropping anchor off his starboard bow, as if knowing the exact location of his dives. It was as if the man was trying to steal his life!

When their eyes met, Skylar’s devil-may-care smile left his stomach churning. At the creep’s side sat the same flirtatious woman he’d seen in Doc’s company an hour earlier. Only now she was cuddling and nuzzling against Skylar’s thick neck. Something smelled bad as they drove off and it wasn’t gas fumes or the drifting odor of day-old fish.

“
Chase!” Rachel snapped.

He looked back and found her looking particularly annoyed. Her arms were crossed, her nostrils slightly flared. Her right hip was braced against the handrail. "Are you going to deny it's true?"

He remained silent, wondering if Zane and his female conspirator had come here to discredit him.

“
Well?”

His eyes brushed over her lips. "No matter what you think, Rachel, I’m not stupid. I’ve already contacted a lawyer regarding our claim. But you can’t get exclusive rights until you have valid proof.”

“
But what about the plate you found and the wooden lid Dr. Ying had analyzed?”

“
Not enough. The plate has no markings and that piece of wood, you’re talking about, came out of a junk shop.”

“
Really? Then how am I suppose to present your case when its all based on conjecture?”

“
I just need a little more time, is all.”

"For what?" She huffed.

“To get in a few more dives.”

"Oh, you’ll have plenty of time for that after tomorrow."

"Just what is that supposed to mean?"

"The board approves grants twice a year," she said. "Tomorrow at 10:30 A.M., they’re expecting me to defend your reputation, your credibility and your legal rights. Even if you kiss Mrs. Van Dozer’s backside a hundred times, it wouldn't matter. You can’t claim to own something that doesn’t belong to you."

Just like her.
His eyes fell to the ground. Even though it had been the hardest decision he’d ever made, he had no choice but to leave town. It was the only way to keep his past hidden. To protect the love they shared. She would have never understood. Just like she didn’t now.

"I don’t know if my father was simply a dreamer," she said, recapturing his attention. "Or if given time he would have found his fortune in gold. The only thing I do know for certain is that he always played by the rules."

Chase clenched his fists at his sides. "And you think I don’t?” His voice rose. “We're talking about a stupid piece of paper. A claim that vultures like Zane couldn’t care less about."

She looked away, shaking her head. She bounded down the stairs then froze on the last step, as if having second thoughts.

“
Rachel…”

She looked back up at him. "I don’t even know why you’re here. Maybe you should cut your losses and go back to wherever you came from.”

Her callous words slammed into his gut. Scorched the last thread of hope he’d held out for her. He watched with blurred vision as she continued on her way, heels clicking purposefully across the pavement. Heading toward her car at the end of the dark parking lot. Leaving him behind, more angry and frustrated than ever.

Damn it!
What happened to the woman he loved? The spunky, fun-loving mermaid who never let anything stand in her way? Only the polished, hollow shell remained. He jerked the tie from his neck and shoved it into his coat pocket, knowing deep down inside he was to blame.

As he rounded the corner of the museum, he heard Rachel’s car peel off, and found himself wondering why he had bothered to come here. Why, given the chance, he hadn’t lied to her about his Admiralty Claim. With one condemning look, one nullifying question, he was left questioning his values, his beliefs. His self worth.

Throughout his childhood, Chase had to vie for approval – never measuring up in school. He paid his dues to earn respect from the men he surrounded himself with. Yet the opinion of one woman could topple his world and ruin the dream of a lifetime. Chase closed his eyes and shook his head. Rachel Lyons or not, he simply had too much on the line to walk away.

* * *

One moment Rachel was reaching for her car door handle, the next a damp cloth covered her nose and mouth. She kicked wildly, blasting muffled screams.

Still the stranger held tight. She twisted desperately trying to free herself, trying to see the face of her attacker. But the man’s muscular arms tightened more firmly around her, pinning her thrashing body against his bulky frame.

Why is this happening?

A sweet, intoxicating scent filled her nostrils. She struggled to keep from inhaling, but the next breath turned her brain into mush. Strength drained from her arms. Her knees shook beneath her. She blinked repeatedly, trying to clear her blurred vision, trying to keep her eyes from rolling back in her skull. She managed to steal a glance at the museum’s lit landing. Chase was nowhere in sight.

Her assailant covered her mouth with duct tape and opened the car door. He flung her face down onto the back seat.

“
Tie her up," a deep, gruff voice ordered from the front.

In an instant, her hands were gathered and cinched behind her. The door was slammed shut, cramming her farther into the confined space. The engine turned over and the car sped away, swerving and rocking her from side to side. Within seconds, she felt nothing – only numb, fuzzy and disconnected. She was heading to a hellish place, that was the only thing she was sure of, and the two demons bickering in the front seats were on a mission to take her there.

Ten

Devon wrenched his bound wrists, hoping the drips on his palm were sweat. Across from him, Logan Tulles’ battered body dangled from the warehouse ceiling. His financial partner’s mutilated face was a bloody mess. His eyes were swollen, the bridge of his nose flattened. Blood was oozing at an alarming rate.

"Unnngghhh…" Logan moaned softly.

An evil grin crossed Marcos’s Latino face – it was the same menacing look he’d flashed before hurling Devon into the brick wall a week earlier. With his left hand holding Logan in place, Marcos sent his fist ripping into Logan’s belly over and over again.

Shit!
Devon’s heart thumped wildly in his chest. Fear held his eyes wide open. He twisted in the chair, wanting to vomit, but his stomach was empty.

Marcos took one step back. He set himself like a boxer and delivered a savage uppercut, exploding under Logan’s chin. The impact was so hard Logan’s head whipped over his shoulder, spraying an arc of sweat and blood across the concrete floor.

"Stop it!" Devon cried out. "You’re killing him." He felt the sharp edge of Viktor’s knife against his throat and immediately retracted his neck. Marcos’s Ukrainian cohort was no doubt enjoying the show. In Devon’s mind, he was the kind of guy who would shoot a neighbor’s cat with a Beebe gun just to hear it screech.

"That’s the whole idea, dumb ass," Viktor spat. He rolled a smelly wad around in his mouth and moved his blade up and down, dry shaving Devon’s throat – a sadistic technique he had no doubt perfected on his own shiny scalp.

Marcos grabbed a handful of Logan’s brown hair and jerked his head upright. After a quick survey, he let go, sending his bloody chin into his chest. He gave Logan’s hammered body a shove, and smiled as his listless form swung back and forth like a crumpled punching bag. Seconds later, he shifted his attention to Devon.

His black ominous eyes narrowed. Moisture glistened on his dark forehead.

Devon stiffened in his seat. His breath caught. Every stabbing, non-speaking moment tore at his nerves. Behind him, the sound of heavy footsteps approached and came to an abrupt stop.

"Back off,” the unseen man warned. With only two charged words, Devon knew immediately who had spoken.
Gabe Pollero.

The notorious hoodlum moved just beyond Devon’s vision and engaged three of his men in a muffled exchange. Just beyond them, a collection of exotic sports cars waited. At first, when he awoke, Devon had thought he’d been taken to a chop shop – a remote place for storing and dismantling stolen vehicles. But then, as his throbbing brain cleared, he realized there were no tool chests in the warehouse. Only a chainsaw and black plastic tarp on the large, adjacent workbench. The only implement necessary for dismembering bodies.

Pollero finished his conversation and stepped up to the plate in black slacks and a blue rolled-up shirt, revealing his formidable arms. Between his open collars hung a rose gold St. Christopher medal. It twisted on a fine gold chain, fighting a mass of wiry black hair.

“
Hello, my friend,” he directed at Devon. A twisted smile lifted the small scar on his left cheek, mimicking the expression Devon had seen on the news two years ago. Pollero had been arrested for possession of cocaine and marijuana after driving his black Ferrari into a telephone pole in West Hollywood. His sister Selena had persuaded him to go to rehab. During her interview, she had claimed responsibility in helping him sober up, sometimes drawing a knife and wielding a pistol in the process.

What a woman.
Devon wished he had taken her advice and left town before everything went haywire. By now he’d be across the border, enjoying an ocean view and a nice cold Corona. With a little gentle persuading, the love of his life might have agreed to come along.

Pollero blew out a toothpick. "My guys keepin’ you comfortable? Wouldn’t want ya to think we weren’t hospitable or somethin’." He jerked his head to the right – as an off-handed introduction.

Viktor took a few steps back and lowered his menacing knife. His thin lips curved downward, matching the discontent in his cold brown eyes.

"Nabbed your pal at the airport a few hours ago,” Pollero continued. “Suppose he was looking for the money you owe me?"

He was obviously referring to Logan. From across the floor, Devon’s friend could barely make eye contact, his lower lids red and sagging. The weight of his body pulled his bruised skin and broken bones even closer to the ground.

"Let me explain," Devon pleaded. "I’m not playing games…honest."

"Guys like you give me fuckin’ ulcers. I’m telling you, there's nothing worse than a hole in your gut. Ya know?"

Marcos bumped Viktor. "Or in your head.” The pair chuckled.

"Olivares, check on my package," Pollero barked. "I wanna hear what this goddamn liar has to say." He grabbed a chair from the floor and straddled it. Under fierce brows, his eyes took menacing aim.

Shit.
Devon swallowed hard. He needed an answer. Something convincing to buy him more time. "I’ll get the money I owe you. Even include interest. I just need to – ”

"What? Give me another lame excuse? Here I’m thinkin’ you gotta be laid up as ya sure as hell wouldn't be that dumb. Then my guys turn up and tell me the freak you gave my money to fuckin' ran off. Were you plannin’ on joining him, Lyons? Is that what you were gonna do?”

The truth had been beaten out of Logan long before they cornered Devon on the waterfront. Before he was dragged there unconscious. He was sure of it. But Walter Moten had to eventually turn up. He had a wife, a mentally challenged kid and a penchant for the finer things in life. Even after emptying five bank accounts and dummying-up returns to his shareholders, Devon’s boss couldn't stay hidden for long.