*
“What do you mean you lost track of the SUV?” Ozzie thundered into his phone while taking the ramp to the Dan Ryan at breakneck speed.
After Donny explained what had happened, the first thing Ozzie did was race back to Samantha’s desk and rifle through her pile of crap until he located her car keys. The second thing he did after pulling her Mustang from the parking garage was call Washington. In a single breath, he gave the police chief the lowdown, told him to get out an APB on a black Ford Expedition, and demanded that Washington check the POD and CCTV cameras around the Tribune Tower for footage of the vehicle. Then Ozzie turned south, heading for the down-and-out neighborhood the Basilisks liked to call home.
He’d barely made it past North Wells Street on his way to the highway before Washington called back to say they had caught the SUV on city surveillance and were tracking it. Then, not ten seconds later, Washington said, “Scratch that. It’s vanished.”
Like it was a fucking ninja Ford or some shit.
“There aren’t any cameras in that neighborhood.” Washington’s tone was defensive. “Every time we put one up, some criminal piece of shit tears it down again.”
Ozzie had zero time for excuses. Fear and adrenaline were a toxic mix in his blood, making his stomach queasy and his head feel so light, he would not have been surprised if it popped off his neck to go sailing out the open window.
When Donny had recounted how Samantha had shoved him from the SUV, determined to save him instead of herself, Ozzie had wanted to simultaneously kiss her and shake her. Of course, he couldn’t do either, since she was in the hands of merciless killers because he’d dropped his guard and left her alone when he should have been stuck to her side like glue.
It’s all my fault.
A ball of self-reproach clogged his throat. He had no time for any of that shit either.
“Where would they take her?” he demanded, running through the list of businesses and residences the chief had given him yesterday, trying to determine the best place to hide a kidnap victim.
Victim. The word stuck in his brain like a meat cleaver. His hands curled into fists around the steering wheel, his knuckles going white as skin stretched tight over bone.
“Their clubhouse would be my guess,” Washington said.
Ozzie darted around a granny in a Buick as big as a boat. She could barely see over the dashboard, which might have been why she was going twenty miles per hour under the speed limit.
“Where’s that?” he demanded, working the clutch, shifting gears, and pressing his foot on the gas. The Mustang’s tires ate into the asphalt. Never had he admired the horses under the hood of a classic muscle car as much as he did right then.
“Hell if I know,” Washington said. “That’s the thing. No one knows the location. It’s a well-guarded secret. Carver and some uniformed officers are headed over to their repair shop to crack some skulls together, but—”
Ozzie didn’t wait to hear what else Washington had to say before disconnecting the call. It was obvious the police didn’t have the first clue where to look for Samantha. Which left him one last option. He held down the number one on his cell phone and listened as autodial connected him with the shop.
Emily answered with a cheery-sounding, “What’s up, Romeo? I thought for sure you and Juliet would be getting busy in the storage closet by now. And before you accuse me of listening at doors, know that I was minding my own business in the hall this morning when I heard—”
“Damnit, Emily!” he growled. “Shut up and listen!” He could almost see her pulling back from the phone. The thing to do would be to apologize for his tone. But add apologies to the list of things he had no time for. “The Basilisks have Samantha.”
“What?” she squawked. “How?”
A muscle ticked in his jaw. I fucked up, okay? I fucked up! “Never mind that. Is Delilah around?”
“She’s sleeping.”
“Wake her up. Now.”
He didn’t have to ask twice. He could hear Emily’s feet clomping up the metal treads to the third floor. A door opened with a bang. Emily called Delilah’s name. A few muffled words were exchanged. And then Delilah’s croaking voice sounded on the other end of the line. “Ozzie? Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! Do the Basilisks really have—”
“Yes!” He cut her off. “So please tell me there was some clue in their accounts that might point to where they have their clubhouse.”
“Their clubhouse?” She still sounded groggy. Item number one million on the list! No time for grogginess! He needed her firing on all cylinders.
“Washington figures that’s where they’ll take her. But no one seems to know where—Sonofabitch!”
A man in a green Toyota Tundra, who obviously took driving lessons at Asshole School, blasted across three lanes of traffic to make an exit he had no business making. Ozzie slammed on the brakes so hard, the collection of handbags Samantha kept in the backseat slid onto the floorboard. He flipped the guy the bird, put a curse on the dude’s cock and balls, and checked all his mirrors for more idiot drivers before he once again gave the Mustang gas.
“You okay?” Delilah asked. He could hear her feet pounding down the metal treads back at the shop. The sound of her rapid breathing told him she was no longer half asleep. He wasn’t a praying man, but he sent up a word of thanks to whoever might be listening.
“Fine,” he told her, glancing down at his watch. Thirty minutes… It’d been thirty minutes since Samantha had been abducted. Fuck. Fuck! So much could happen in thirty minutes. So much he refused to think about, because if he did think about it, he’d puke all over the interior of Samantha’s beloved car.
“I think I might have something,” Delilah said, and his heart didn’t just skip one beat—it skipped a dozen. “About five years ago, a freakin’ big chunk of change was paid from the motorcycle repair shop account to a store that specializes in game room and bar furniture. It caught my eye for a couple of reasons. For one thing, it’s a store I know well. I bought my new foosball table and dartboards from them eighteen months ago. For another thing, even though the payment came from the motorcycle repair shop’s account, the delivery address on the order was for a flower shop. I did some digging. Turns out this flower shop is owned by one of the Basilisks’ cousins. What would a freakin’ flower shop need with barstools or pool tables?”
“That’s it!” Ozzie crowed, beating a hand against the wheel. “Delilah, I could kiss you.”
“Mac wouldn’t like that.”
He ignored her. “What’s the address?”