He’s not a dramatic guy. Not someone I’ve pissed off recently or who is in the habit of playing elaborate jokes. I have to assume that he has either skipped town with my money or that something is very wrong. And if something is very wrong, what do my funds have to do with him? With his memo alert? Are the funds a tool of communication or a piece of the puzzle?
I have too many questions and no answers. Let me revise that. At the moment, I have too many questions, no answers, and am broke, an uneasy predicament to be in.
CHAPTER 72
MARCUS RETURNS TO the interstate, a fresh tank of gas giving him renewed vigor. Pumping gas. Such a simple act, yet one that—prior to this trip—he has no recollection of. Not since he was a teenager, before the money and the respect and the hired help. In some ways he misses the simple pleasures of handling his own affairs. In other ways, he hates the stench of gasoline on his hands.
Soon. Soon he’ll have her. It had been frustrating to discover that he had the wrong address. Had driven a thousand miles out of the way for nothing. But he’d gotten a million dollars out of it. Not a bad travel stipend. And… even more valuable, he’d discovered the boyfriend. A key that could turn the lock of Jess Reilly’s submission. A threat against her boyfriend—that would bring the pleas, the subservience. The willing participation in whatever he chooses to act out. The respect. Nothing gained respect quicker than the threat of loss. And to achieve maximum impact, you had to threaten what was dearest.
The man in the wheelchair was easy. It didn’t take hours of thought to figure out that attack angle. His hands. They were his lifeline. Without them, his mobility, job, and independence were limited. It took just the threat of removing digits for him to speak, fast lines of speech tumbling out, anything that might be useful thrust eagerly forward, as long as the wire cutters didn’t make the final squeeze that would claim a capable digit.
He shifts, settles deeper into the seat, his thought returning to the girl. As a female, her trigger points will most likely lie in relationships. The hacker had said her family was all dead, a statement he believed. So she is alone. The boyfriend most likely the most important person in her life. Jeremy Pacer. The ticket to her submission. Marcus will go to him first, then her. A little work to ensure that his reward is perfect. Her willing submission. Respect. Anything and everything he wants from the little brunette with the deflated attitude. He reaches down, pressing on the base of his cock, the hard-on coming fast. Tries to distract his mind from arousal and focus on an intelligent plan.
Jeremy Pacer. Age thirty-one. 23 Prestwick Place, Tulsa, Oklahoma.
That is all he has, all the cripple could provide. He needs more. He hates dealing with fucking men. This one had been easy. He’d known from the moment the door opened that he could handle him. This next boy, a muscular man. Probably stronger. His eyes flick to a passing billboard. Prepares for the next exit. He’ll call Thorat. Get some help. The ex-head of his security would assist. Owes him that. Marcus had stayed strong during the trial, kept his silence, had protected the man’s involvement with Katie McLaughlin. Now was as good a time as any to call up his old employee and ask a favor.
Fifteen minutes later. Pay phones, scarce before, have disappeared completely. The Waffle House sign above him casts a yellow glow on the interior of his Mercedes, turning the cellphone screen before him sickly. He stares at Thorat’s number, contemplates taking a risk and calling from it. Closes the cell before he makes a mistake. Puts the car in park and gets out.
“It’s Marcus.” He fights the battle between holding the phone to his ear to muffle the conversation and not wanting the germ-covered appliance that close to his skin.
Thorat’s voice warms instantly. “It’s been a long time.”
“Yes.” Marcus’s time in jail had lost the employee, the man moving on to more exciting opportunities than guarding an empty compound. Thorat had parted happily, with a hefty severance package, one that acted as insurance against the secrets he kept. Marcus clears his throat, moves away from the counter, shooting a look at the man behind the counter. You’d think a hundred-dollar bill would buy some fucking privacy. “Look, you got me something a few years ago. The injections. Remember?”
“Yeah. You need more?”
“Two. FedEx them to the Ritz in Cleveland. Just mark the package ‘employment contracts.’ Put the company name on it. Can you get it there tomorrow?”
The chew of silence for a minute. It was one of the things he always appreciated about the man. When he gave you an answer, it meant something. Not like half of the flappers in his employ, men who spit out “yes, sir” with no idea what it means. “Yeah. It’ll be there by noon. Just two?”
“Make it three. Also. You know how you took care of the Sandbar?” The Sandbar. Also known as Billy Littleton, a county commissioner who had made it his mission to stop every wave of forward progress on an airport they had constructed in Kansas City. Thorat had worked some magic with zip ties, a handful of contracts, and some piece of baking TNT. A half hour with Thorat, and the Sandbar had become an inward tide of forward progress.
“Yeah.”
“Include some instructions, telling me how to do that. Make ’em clear. I don’t wanna blow myself up in the process.”
“It’s impossible. You’ll be fine. Will be simple for someone as smart as you.”
“Watch that flattery, Thor. You’ve been around those yuppies too long. I’ve got to go. Get it there tomorrow.”
“Will do. I’ve missed you, man. Welcome back.”