Samantha had always been the kind of woman to take her victories where she could get them. As for her losses? Well, she wouldn’t allow herself to think about those. She wouldn’t let herself think about…Ozzie.
* * *
Ozzie was having a great day.
First, there was waking up to Samantha in his bed. Second, there was her expression when he’d ventured to whip out that whole as you wish line again. He had wanted to see her face when he said it, to try to get a read on her response, and while she hadn’t jumped into his arms and professed her undying love, she hadn’t run for the hills either. And then, as if those two things weren’t reason enough to celebrate and mark this day one for the history books, there had been no line at Starbucks—unheard of—so the whole trip had taken him under ten minutes. Which meant he was that much closer to allowing Samantha to pull him into that storage closet.
Yes, indeed. Ozzie was having a great day.
He stopped in his tracks when he got to Samantha’s desk, tilting his head at the contents of her purse piled atop it. A quick scan told him the usual culprits were there, even her cell phone. The only thing missing was Samantha.
He glanced around the bullpen, trying to spy her dark head and black blouse. Nothing. A niggle of apprehension stole up his spine. He beat it down, telling himself she’d gone to the break room to grab a bottle of water, or else, despite her assurances to the contrary, she’d had to make a run to the bathroom.
Setting the bag of chocolate chip muffins—her favorite—and the tray holding their two cups of coffee on the corner of her desk—the only clean spot—he turned and headed for the break room. Smiling faintly, he lifted a hand at the sports reporter who called out a hello. Said, “Sorry, there’s something I need to check on,” to the dark-haired woman who kept trying to flirt with him despite him being completely convinced it was obvious to everyone that he was gaga over Samantha. And seconds later, he was standing in the break room.
The empty break room.
That niggle of apprehension morphed into a full-on gut punch of dread. Ignoring the pain in his thigh, he spun around and jogged back into the bullpen, checking to make sure Samantha hadn’t returned to her desk—nope—before making a beeline for the women’s bathroom.
A redhead in a blue silk shirt and baggy gray slacks exited just as he lifted his hand to knock. She jumped back and blinked at him.
“Sorry,” he said in a rush. “Would you happen to know if Samantha Tate is in there?”
“Samantha…” Red stared at him, her eyes traveling over him from head to toe. Usually, he enjoyed his effect on the ladies. Right now? He wished for buckteeth, bad skin, and a beer belly.
“Tate,” he gritted between his teeth. “Samantha Tate. Is she in there? This is kind of an emergency.”
“Oh!” Red blinked as if coming out of trance. “No. It was just me, but I could—”
He didn’t wait to hear what she could do. He turned and bolted for Samantha’s editor’s office. Charlie sputtered when Ozzie barged through the door, the aluminum blinds attached to the frame rattling crazily. But the man took one look at Ozzie’s face and knew something was up. “What is it?” he asked, adjusting his bifocals.
“I need to see the last ten minutes of surveillance footage for the elevators, the halls, and all the exits.” Ozzie cursed himself for leaving her alone. If anything happened to her, he’d never forgive himself. He’d never be able to live with himself.
“Why?” Charlie’s sharp green eyes looked huge behind the lenses of his glasses. “What’s happened?”
“I’m not sure, but I think—”
The door burst open behind Ozzie, admitting the whirlwind that was Donny Danielson. The man’s shirt was ripped, his hair mussed, and there was a patch of angry red skin in the shape of a rectangle covering his lips and cheeks.
Ozzie recognized the red pants Donny was wearing. He had seen them in the middle of a crowd of people when he’d been walking back from Starbucks. He’d thought it was a street performer looking for tips. Something along the lines of the dudes who liked to bang the bottoms of five-gallon paint buckets or paint themselves silver and pose motionlessly with tourists. But no. Now that he thought back on it, there had been a furtiveness to the gathering, a nervous sort of energy.
Right then and there, Ozzie’s great day turned to shit and started circling the drain.
When Donny yelled, “The Basilisks have Samantha!” Ozzie glanced around, wondering who was making that awful sound like a wounded animal caught in a trap. And then he realized…
It’s me.
* * *
“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.”
