Deadly Lies
Page 8
Prefer to be with her.
“You want me to look…” Monica asked, her voice husky from sex and sleep, “or are you getting it?”
Shit. They didn’t have the luxury of ignoring calls. Not with their life.
Even damn doctors got more sleep than they did.
Luke rolled over and turned on the lamp. The soft glow spilled over the bed. “You think they’ve already taken another one?” Fully awake now, Luke growled the question as he reached for the phone. They. The kidnappers who were hunting rich prey.
Monica didn’t speak, but then that was an answer, wasn’t it? Hell.
He touched the screen on the phone. Sam. No, that didn’t make sense. If someone else had been taken, the call would’ve come from Hyde, not her.
“Luke? What is it?”
He scrolled over the screen and pulled up the message.
K has another. Stand by.
“What the f**k?” K—that had to be the kidnappers. They had another victim and that was all Sam was telling him? What was this shit?
Soft fingers pressed on his shoulder. A light breath eased against his ear. “What’s she doing?” Monica asked as she leaned in close to read the message.
“Hell if I know.” And that scared him. “This isn’t procedure. Sam knows—” Sam knows better than to screw with FBI protocol.
The bed squeaked as Monica eased back. “She does know. Sam knows a lot that most people don’t realize. Take a breath,” she ordered, “and figure out why she contacted you this way. She knows you’re here, so she could have just called the house line.”
He glanced over his shoulder and found Monica watching him with her bright eyes, glinting in the dark. “She… couldn’t talk.” So she’d texted him.
“Because maybe she’s not alone.”
Not again. Not to her. His left hand knotted in the bed sheets. “You think they’ve got—”
“No, Sam’s not the kidnappers’ type,” she immediately reassured him.
But Luke shook his head. “She’s from money, baby. We both know that. Old Boston money. If the perps found out about her, if they know what she’s worth…” Sam had turned her back on that rich life to take the job with the Bureau, but that life was still there, reaching out to her. What if the kidnapper had found the link? It wouldn’t be the first time the perps watched the hunters. Not the first, not the last.
“They take men,” she said quietly, and not a flicker of worry showed on her face. “Sam’s not the target. If she’d been taken, they never would have let her text you.”
He sucked in a deep breath. “Her phone.” If he wanted to find Sam or if Sam wanted him to find her, it would be easy enough.
Monica raised a brow and nodded. “Hyde put those handy tracers in all our phones after the Watchman case. To find her, you know all you have to do is activate the trace.” Whether the phone was on or off, the tracer would still work.
Damn straight. He punched in the number for the SSD. While he waited for an agent to answer, Luke’s left hand reached for Monica’s. His fingers curled around hers.
The elaborate house rose before them, huge and stark, as it waited on the hill just beyond the black, electronic gates. Max braked hard, making the car squeal, and he punched in the security code for the gate with hard stabs of his fingers.
“Maybe you should have called first,” Sam said quietly as her gaze scanned the perimeter. A big wall, yes, but no guards, no one actually outside to protect anything. There were two security cameras that she could see perched up on the entrance gates, but those would be easy enough to bypass.
“He wouldn’t have answered.” Hollow. Cold.
Sam frowned. That didn’t sound like Max. Not at all.
The gates opened with a low groan. The Jeep lurched forward, narrowly missing a slash on each side from the gates’ long poles. Somewhere in the distance, dogs snarled and growled.
The vehicle shuddered to a stop in front of an ornate entranceway. Max jumped out and she was right behind him, hurrying up the marble steps as he pounded on the door. “Beth! Jesus, open the door!” he yelled.
Lights flashed on inside the house. Sam eased back so she could look above them.
Max’s fist crashed into the door. “Now!”
But the door didn’t budge.
Sam licked her lips and tightened her hold on her bag. Her ID was in there, her phone—her only way to be traced. “Max, we should—”
The door opened. A tall woman wearing a gauzy blue robe glared at them. “What the hell, Max? Do you know what time it is?”
His gaze raked her. “Wake him up.”
“You know what he takes at night.” A long sigh filled the air as the woman stepped back. “That’s just not gonna happen.”
Max strode over the threshold. Sam followed close behind.
“Brought… company, did you?” The woman asked softly. “Well, isn’t this just—”
Max was already on the stairs.
“Wait, no, you can’t—”
He paused halfway up the steps. “I got a call thirty minutes ago, Beth. Quinlan’s been taken. Some a**hole wants Frank to ransom him.”
Beth’s eyes widened, and she staggered a bit. “T-taken?”
Max raced up the rest of the stairs.
Sam hesitated. “Who exactly are you?” She needed to figure out all the players in this game.
The blonde swallowed. “B-Beth Dunlap. F-Frank’s… personal assistant.” Light blue eyes narrowed. “And who are you? The latest girlfriend?”
“Uh…”
An older man with stooped shoulders walked from the shadows. “Beth, what’s happening here?” The man asked in a quiet voice.
Beth belted her robe. “Max is here, Donnelley. He says—he says Quinlan is missing.”
No, he’d said that Quinlan had been taken.
“I think—” Sam began.
There was a roar from the floor above them, loud and enraged.
Sam ran for the stairs with Beth right on her heels. “Frank!” The other woman screamed. “Frank!”
They reached the landing. Sam spun to the left, then the right. There. Broken wood in the hallway. She ran forward, racing under the giant chandeliers and darting around the wood. Max was in the room, shaking another man, a man with silver-streaked black hair. A man whose body was slack and whose eyes were closed.
Still closed?
You know what he takes at night.
“Wake up!” Max shouted. “Wake the f**k up! Your son is gone, do you hear me? Gone!” He shook him, sending the guy’s head flopping back.
Sam lunged and grabbed Max’s arm, stilling the rough movements. “Don’t…”
His head whipped toward her, and there was agony in his eyes. “I didn’t want to come back to this damn house,” he muttered. “Didn’t want to see—”
“M-Max?” Bleary eyes opened.
“What’s he on?” Sam demanded. The older man from downstairs had come into the room. He was watching everything, but staying back.
“Sleeping pills,” he told her in that same quiet, calm voice. “He always takes some at night.”
That’s why the kidnapper called Max and not this Malone. He knew what Malone did every night. Knew that he couldn’t talk with them.
That meant the kidnappers had to possess an intimate connection to the family, one that had allowed them access to this knowledge.
“You’re his damn doctor, Donnelley,” Max fired at him. “Get Frank up!”
Donnelley swallowed. “I-I’ll do what I can.”
Sam kept her hold on Max. His stepfather’s eyes had already closed. She pulled Max back from the bed, tugging hard and curling her fingers around him. His body was tense against her.
A small chime sounded from her purse, a faint vibration of sound.
Her breath caught. Oh, hell.
Max shook his head. “Beth, has anyone been by tonight? Did you—”
Beth’s hands were balled into fists. “I don’t think so. I was here, but asleep. I didn’t—”
“What did he say when he called, Max?” Sam cut in. A message. He’d mentioned something about getting another message.
The phone on the nightstand began to ring. Long, hard warbles of sound.
Frank flinched, and his eyes opened again, but everyone else froze.
Max exhaled on a hard breath. His gaze was on the phone. “He said they’d be contacting Frank.”
The phone rang again.
“They wanted you to get him up,” Sam breathed the words. “They knew, and they wanted—”
Beth sprang forward and grabbed the phone.
Max locked his fingers over hers. “No.”
Another ring.
“Answer it!” Beth cried.
Max glared at his stepfather. “Bastard. He needs you.” He shook off Beth’s hold and picked up the phone.
“We’ve got her location,” the cool voice said in Luke’s ear. “She’s at 1000 Rightmont Lane. It’s the home of Frank Malone, the guy who—”
“I know him.” Everyone knew about Fuck ’em Frank Malone. The guy had made his fortune by leveling the small business district just outside of D.C. Luke huffed out a breath. “Frank has a son, right?”
“Right,” Ramirez told him, seeming way too awake for a guy who was still in the office at three a.m. “His son is Quinlan Malone, age twenty-three. Until pretty recently, Quinlan was a student at Georgetown.”
Now they were talking the kidnappers’ type. “Pull up everything you can on the Malones, got me? Everything.” Luke didn’t know how Sam had found out about this guy. Usually the SSD found out too late. With the two survivors, they’d only discovered the kidnappings after the young men were back home.
But for this case, if he was right, if she was right, and they were on this thing from the start—
We could take the kidnappers down.
Max’s hands were sweating when he lifted the receiver. “Hello.” Max didn’t identify himself this time. Maybe he was wrong; maybe it wasn’t—
“You moved fast, Ridgeway,” the same low whisper rasped in his ear. “You moved fast, but you can’t get the bastard to wake up, can you?”
“How the hell—”
“This is my game,” the man grated. “My show. I’ve known everything about your family for weeks now. Weeks.”
Max’s gaze lifted. Donnelley had Frank sitting up on the bed, and his stepfather blinked owlishly as he struggled through the drugs and layers of sleep.
“If you knew,” Max snapped back, his rage bubbling over, “then why send me here? Why—”
“Because I had to see if you could follow instructions. You’re the one who’s gonna make the drop, Ridgeway. You’re the one that’s gonna save your brother, and I had to be sure I could trust you.”
A test.
“Didn’t want you goin’ to the cops. Didn’t want you making any phone calls you shouldn’t have made.”
Max’s shoulders were so tight that they hurt. “I followed your rules.”
Samantha pressed close. “Ask to talk to Quinlan.” He glanced up at her. She barely mouthed the words as she said, “Make him put your brother on the line.” Dark shadows lurked beneath her eyes.
“How much do you think your brother is worth?” The voice rasped over the line.
Samantha’s eyes bored into his. Max took a deep breath, and instead of answering, he ordered, “Put my brother on the phone.”
That damn twisted laughter broke across the line. “Quinlan isn’t quite up to talking right now.”
“Fuck—is he alive?” How long had Briar been held before the bastard had started cutting him?
“Quinlan is alive. And if you want him to stay that way, you’re gonna get five million dollars ready by ten a.m.”
“What? I can’t get that much cash ready by—”
“I know you can’t, but when the old man finally rolls those fat eyelids open, he can.”
Five million dollars. “We pay, you give us back Quinlan? Is that how this works?”
“You pay…” No more laughter now, just that dark rasp. “You don’t try to trick me, and yeah, you’ll get him back… mostly all in one piece.”
“I want proof!” Max ordered as his heart slammed into his chest. “Before I do anything, I want proof. I want—”
Click.
“Proof,” he whispered and tossed the cell phone into the closest garbage dump. They always wanted proof. He hurried back to his car, air puffing out in front of him. As he reached for the door, his gaze shot to the black gloves covering his fingers.
Proof.
He smiled.
He knew just what piece he’d send to the big brother a**hole. Just the proof the guy wanted.
“Call return,” Samantha said, and Max blinked at her. “Do star sixty-nine now,” she ordered. “You can get his number.”
He glanced over at the caller ID. “Unidentified number, there’s no way for me to—”
Sam spun away from him. “He could have blocked before he called, but I bet he’s probably calling from a disposable cell.”
Max frowned. His temples throbbed as he stared at her. Her shoulders were back, her strides tight and quick, and the way she was talking—
“Only on the phone for forty-two seconds.” Her gaze was on her watch. “He’s timing this thing, working it so that—”
“You want me to look…” Monica asked, her voice husky from sex and sleep, “or are you getting it?”
Shit. They didn’t have the luxury of ignoring calls. Not with their life.
Even damn doctors got more sleep than they did.
Luke rolled over and turned on the lamp. The soft glow spilled over the bed. “You think they’ve already taken another one?” Fully awake now, Luke growled the question as he reached for the phone. They. The kidnappers who were hunting rich prey.
Monica didn’t speak, but then that was an answer, wasn’t it? Hell.
He touched the screen on the phone. Sam. No, that didn’t make sense. If someone else had been taken, the call would’ve come from Hyde, not her.
“Luke? What is it?”
He scrolled over the screen and pulled up the message.
K has another. Stand by.
“What the f**k?” K—that had to be the kidnappers. They had another victim and that was all Sam was telling him? What was this shit?
Soft fingers pressed on his shoulder. A light breath eased against his ear. “What’s she doing?” Monica asked as she leaned in close to read the message.
“Hell if I know.” And that scared him. “This isn’t procedure. Sam knows—” Sam knows better than to screw with FBI protocol.
The bed squeaked as Monica eased back. “She does know. Sam knows a lot that most people don’t realize. Take a breath,” she ordered, “and figure out why she contacted you this way. She knows you’re here, so she could have just called the house line.”
He glanced over his shoulder and found Monica watching him with her bright eyes, glinting in the dark. “She… couldn’t talk.” So she’d texted him.
“Because maybe she’s not alone.”
Not again. Not to her. His left hand knotted in the bed sheets. “You think they’ve got—”
“No, Sam’s not the kidnappers’ type,” she immediately reassured him.
But Luke shook his head. “She’s from money, baby. We both know that. Old Boston money. If the perps found out about her, if they know what she’s worth…” Sam had turned her back on that rich life to take the job with the Bureau, but that life was still there, reaching out to her. What if the kidnapper had found the link? It wouldn’t be the first time the perps watched the hunters. Not the first, not the last.
“They take men,” she said quietly, and not a flicker of worry showed on her face. “Sam’s not the target. If she’d been taken, they never would have let her text you.”
He sucked in a deep breath. “Her phone.” If he wanted to find Sam or if Sam wanted him to find her, it would be easy enough.
Monica raised a brow and nodded. “Hyde put those handy tracers in all our phones after the Watchman case. To find her, you know all you have to do is activate the trace.” Whether the phone was on or off, the tracer would still work.
Damn straight. He punched in the number for the SSD. While he waited for an agent to answer, Luke’s left hand reached for Monica’s. His fingers curled around hers.
The elaborate house rose before them, huge and stark, as it waited on the hill just beyond the black, electronic gates. Max braked hard, making the car squeal, and he punched in the security code for the gate with hard stabs of his fingers.
“Maybe you should have called first,” Sam said quietly as her gaze scanned the perimeter. A big wall, yes, but no guards, no one actually outside to protect anything. There were two security cameras that she could see perched up on the entrance gates, but those would be easy enough to bypass.
“He wouldn’t have answered.” Hollow. Cold.
Sam frowned. That didn’t sound like Max. Not at all.
The gates opened with a low groan. The Jeep lurched forward, narrowly missing a slash on each side from the gates’ long poles. Somewhere in the distance, dogs snarled and growled.
The vehicle shuddered to a stop in front of an ornate entranceway. Max jumped out and she was right behind him, hurrying up the marble steps as he pounded on the door. “Beth! Jesus, open the door!” he yelled.
Lights flashed on inside the house. Sam eased back so she could look above them.
Max’s fist crashed into the door. “Now!”
But the door didn’t budge.
Sam licked her lips and tightened her hold on her bag. Her ID was in there, her phone—her only way to be traced. “Max, we should—”
The door opened. A tall woman wearing a gauzy blue robe glared at them. “What the hell, Max? Do you know what time it is?”
His gaze raked her. “Wake him up.”
“You know what he takes at night.” A long sigh filled the air as the woman stepped back. “That’s just not gonna happen.”
Max strode over the threshold. Sam followed close behind.
“Brought… company, did you?” The woman asked softly. “Well, isn’t this just—”
Max was already on the stairs.
“Wait, no, you can’t—”
He paused halfway up the steps. “I got a call thirty minutes ago, Beth. Quinlan’s been taken. Some a**hole wants Frank to ransom him.”
Beth’s eyes widened, and she staggered a bit. “T-taken?”
Max raced up the rest of the stairs.
Sam hesitated. “Who exactly are you?” She needed to figure out all the players in this game.
The blonde swallowed. “B-Beth Dunlap. F-Frank’s… personal assistant.” Light blue eyes narrowed. “And who are you? The latest girlfriend?”
“Uh…”
An older man with stooped shoulders walked from the shadows. “Beth, what’s happening here?” The man asked in a quiet voice.
Beth belted her robe. “Max is here, Donnelley. He says—he says Quinlan is missing.”
No, he’d said that Quinlan had been taken.
“I think—” Sam began.
There was a roar from the floor above them, loud and enraged.
Sam ran for the stairs with Beth right on her heels. “Frank!” The other woman screamed. “Frank!”
They reached the landing. Sam spun to the left, then the right. There. Broken wood in the hallway. She ran forward, racing under the giant chandeliers and darting around the wood. Max was in the room, shaking another man, a man with silver-streaked black hair. A man whose body was slack and whose eyes were closed.
Still closed?
You know what he takes at night.
“Wake up!” Max shouted. “Wake the f**k up! Your son is gone, do you hear me? Gone!” He shook him, sending the guy’s head flopping back.
Sam lunged and grabbed Max’s arm, stilling the rough movements. “Don’t…”
His head whipped toward her, and there was agony in his eyes. “I didn’t want to come back to this damn house,” he muttered. “Didn’t want to see—”
“M-Max?” Bleary eyes opened.
“What’s he on?” Sam demanded. The older man from downstairs had come into the room. He was watching everything, but staying back.
“Sleeping pills,” he told her in that same quiet, calm voice. “He always takes some at night.”
That’s why the kidnapper called Max and not this Malone. He knew what Malone did every night. Knew that he couldn’t talk with them.
That meant the kidnappers had to possess an intimate connection to the family, one that had allowed them access to this knowledge.
“You’re his damn doctor, Donnelley,” Max fired at him. “Get Frank up!”
Donnelley swallowed. “I-I’ll do what I can.”
Sam kept her hold on Max. His stepfather’s eyes had already closed. She pulled Max back from the bed, tugging hard and curling her fingers around him. His body was tense against her.
A small chime sounded from her purse, a faint vibration of sound.
Her breath caught. Oh, hell.
Max shook his head. “Beth, has anyone been by tonight? Did you—”
Beth’s hands were balled into fists. “I don’t think so. I was here, but asleep. I didn’t—”
“What did he say when he called, Max?” Sam cut in. A message. He’d mentioned something about getting another message.
The phone on the nightstand began to ring. Long, hard warbles of sound.
Frank flinched, and his eyes opened again, but everyone else froze.
Max exhaled on a hard breath. His gaze was on the phone. “He said they’d be contacting Frank.”
The phone rang again.
“They wanted you to get him up,” Sam breathed the words. “They knew, and they wanted—”
Beth sprang forward and grabbed the phone.
Max locked his fingers over hers. “No.”
Another ring.
“Answer it!” Beth cried.
Max glared at his stepfather. “Bastard. He needs you.” He shook off Beth’s hold and picked up the phone.
“We’ve got her location,” the cool voice said in Luke’s ear. “She’s at 1000 Rightmont Lane. It’s the home of Frank Malone, the guy who—”
“I know him.” Everyone knew about Fuck ’em Frank Malone. The guy had made his fortune by leveling the small business district just outside of D.C. Luke huffed out a breath. “Frank has a son, right?”
“Right,” Ramirez told him, seeming way too awake for a guy who was still in the office at three a.m. “His son is Quinlan Malone, age twenty-three. Until pretty recently, Quinlan was a student at Georgetown.”
Now they were talking the kidnappers’ type. “Pull up everything you can on the Malones, got me? Everything.” Luke didn’t know how Sam had found out about this guy. Usually the SSD found out too late. With the two survivors, they’d only discovered the kidnappings after the young men were back home.
But for this case, if he was right, if she was right, and they were on this thing from the start—
We could take the kidnappers down.
Max’s hands were sweating when he lifted the receiver. “Hello.” Max didn’t identify himself this time. Maybe he was wrong; maybe it wasn’t—
“You moved fast, Ridgeway,” the same low whisper rasped in his ear. “You moved fast, but you can’t get the bastard to wake up, can you?”
“How the hell—”
“This is my game,” the man grated. “My show. I’ve known everything about your family for weeks now. Weeks.”
Max’s gaze lifted. Donnelley had Frank sitting up on the bed, and his stepfather blinked owlishly as he struggled through the drugs and layers of sleep.
“If you knew,” Max snapped back, his rage bubbling over, “then why send me here? Why—”
“Because I had to see if you could follow instructions. You’re the one who’s gonna make the drop, Ridgeway. You’re the one that’s gonna save your brother, and I had to be sure I could trust you.”
A test.
“Didn’t want you goin’ to the cops. Didn’t want you making any phone calls you shouldn’t have made.”
Max’s shoulders were so tight that they hurt. “I followed your rules.”
Samantha pressed close. “Ask to talk to Quinlan.” He glanced up at her. She barely mouthed the words as she said, “Make him put your brother on the line.” Dark shadows lurked beneath her eyes.
“How much do you think your brother is worth?” The voice rasped over the line.
Samantha’s eyes bored into his. Max took a deep breath, and instead of answering, he ordered, “Put my brother on the phone.”
That damn twisted laughter broke across the line. “Quinlan isn’t quite up to talking right now.”
“Fuck—is he alive?” How long had Briar been held before the bastard had started cutting him?
“Quinlan is alive. And if you want him to stay that way, you’re gonna get five million dollars ready by ten a.m.”
“What? I can’t get that much cash ready by—”
“I know you can’t, but when the old man finally rolls those fat eyelids open, he can.”
Five million dollars. “We pay, you give us back Quinlan? Is that how this works?”
“You pay…” No more laughter now, just that dark rasp. “You don’t try to trick me, and yeah, you’ll get him back… mostly all in one piece.”
“I want proof!” Max ordered as his heart slammed into his chest. “Before I do anything, I want proof. I want—”
Click.
“Proof,” he whispered and tossed the cell phone into the closest garbage dump. They always wanted proof. He hurried back to his car, air puffing out in front of him. As he reached for the door, his gaze shot to the black gloves covering his fingers.
Proof.
He smiled.
He knew just what piece he’d send to the big brother a**hole. Just the proof the guy wanted.
“Call return,” Samantha said, and Max blinked at her. “Do star sixty-nine now,” she ordered. “You can get his number.”
He glanced over at the caller ID. “Unidentified number, there’s no way for me to—”
Sam spun away from him. “He could have blocked before he called, but I bet he’s probably calling from a disposable cell.”
Max frowned. His temples throbbed as he stared at her. Her shoulders were back, her strides tight and quick, and the way she was talking—
“Only on the phone for forty-two seconds.” Her gaze was on her watch. “He’s timing this thing, working it so that—”
