“From what I can remember of Preston’s trial, he hates a loose end,” Holmes says, tapping Dad’s shoulder with the sideof his fist. “And then Truett shows up on some security camera at Brantley’s house, and all of a sudden, they’ve got a problem.”
“Or a solution,” Silas says darkly.
“Why would they kidnap him though? Why not kill him in the parking garage?” I ask. It doesn’t really make sense unless…
“Preston hates a loose end, but he fucking loves leverage,” I say, answering my own question. I tighten my jaw as I find my father in the rearview. “What does he know about Wimberley, Dad?”
Dad’s lips thin. “More than he should.”
He doesn’t offer anything else, hitting the accelerator instead, leaving Baba’s SUV in the dust.
28
TRUETT
Despite the yearsof going after shitheads who like to hurt the most vulnerable members of society, I’ve never received more than the occasional broken nose. I’ve never had my skull cracked before, and certainly never with a weapon. Gotta say…not a fan. The pain I understand, but the dizziness is pissing me off. Also, this black bag is fucking suffocating.
Does anyone even know I’m missing yet?
Stop catastrophizing, Valentine.
Even if Holmes didn’t hear me shout, he’d know something was wrong as soon as he got to the shop and I didn’t show up. Having seen some of the Wildlings in action, I have to believe they’ll call up the cavalry as soon as they suspect a problem.
Unless whoever this is managed to get a team up to the penthouse.
Horrified that they might have gotten to Rami, I kick and punch out, twisting my body. That’s accompanied by another gun butt to the head, but this one doesn’t quite land. Hurts like hell, but I’m still in it, so I kick out like a donkey. The high-pitched moan tells me I may have actually hit crotch.
“I’m gonna kill this motherfucker.”
“No, you’re not. We’re being paid good money to bring him in alive.”
My question is answered seconds later.
“Boss wants to send a message.”
“Who’re we sending a message to?” asks a guy off to the side.
“The fuck do I care? Boss says to pick someone up, we pick someone up.”
Who the fuck is their boss?
“See that’s where you fucked up,” I say, my voice stronger than I feel. “My man’s father is Anders Bash, and he’s not the kind of man you fuck with. I’d love for you to imagine what he’d do to someone who kidnapped his son’s favorite person.”
I don’t know if I’m his favorite person yet, but I hope to be.
“My boyfriend’s daddy’s gonna save me,”mocks the guy closest to me in a high, little girl voice.
The passengers in the van—four by my count—laugh, certain that I’m delusional.
“Wait. Is this guy’s boyfriend really the son of Anders Fucking Bash?” asks a man in front of me, his voice going up on Anders’ last name.
“Yeah. Isn’t he that experimental surgeon billionaire who made his kids do charity in order to get their trust funds?” says another.
“Yes,” says the first guy, his voice higher and more urgent. “But he’s alsoAnders Fucking Bash, who started taking body parts when the oligarchs got a little too full of themselves.”
“What are you talking about?”
I grin to myself. “Ever notice that some of those rich old fucks are missing their pinkies?” I ask, kicking out and hitting a cushion.Fuck. “Ever think it’s weird that so many of them are missing that specific body part?”
