“I told your employer. I have a bit of a problem on hand and need it taken care of.” I checked the mark, he was no one dangerous, no red flags and no priors. That’s why I refused the job. I don’t kill normal people or for shits and giggles. I kill the scum of the earth. Essentially, I kill people like myself.
From the corner of my eye, I see Gerald lowering his gun and I don’t hesitate. One bullet from the chamber flies out of thebarrel and carves a perfect circle in the middle of his forehead. I take a deep breath at the satisfaction of seeing red liquid oozing out and spilling down the sides of his nose before he even hits the ground.
“Well, that’s unfortunate.” I’m about to put a bullet through Cary’s skull when his next words stop me in my tracks. “If you kill me, she’s dead.”
Needless to say, I didn’t kill him, but I did knock his fucking ass out, drop him in the trunk of his car, and after swiping the keys of the car from the dead prick, I drove straight to my place.
To be clear, my people-ing skills have a definite limit and I reached it about five seconds into the conversation with Cary fucking Lindberg. His hand on me was the drop that cleared the way for the tsunami of what-the-fuck-up-ness that is my pure, unadulterated rage this very second.
When I reach the house, it’s clear that Berkleigh’s car isn’t where it’s supposed to be. And by that, I mean it’s not fucking there. At all. Not in the driveway, not in the garage—neither mine nor hers—not along the curb on the street. I’m surprised she left her vintage baby but I suppose the hybrid is more practical. My gut is twisting inside, a clear sign that something’s wrong. I’ve been trained to deal with stressful situations with a detached, analytical mind, but for some reason, those lessons are flying right out the window. There’s nothing detached or analytical about my erratic heartbeat and even less about the sweat on my palms. All I know is that I have to find her.
The rational part of my mind knows she’s not home. Still, I check every room in my house. Gritting my teeth as thoughit’s the only thing keeping me sane, I burst inside and freeze. Eyes closed, chin raised, I listen. Her pear scent is still there, lingering, but not strong like it usually is when she’s home. Not a sound is emanating from inside. Not the coffee machine, not the bath running, and definitely no off-key singing in the shower.
Because I’m nothing if not thorough, I run up the stairs to the bathroom just in case she was on the pot doing her business. When I reach the door, it’s closed, and for a brief second, I have hope. My mind comes up with reasons why her car’s not there. Maybe someone stole it? Maybe she got a call from a friend who needed to borrow it? Although I know better than most that she doesn’t have any. At least not close enough that she’d lend out her car.
Flinging the door open and not giving a fuck if she’s in the middle of taking a shit, I smash my fist into the nearest wall when I find it empty. This is not good. Not. Fucking. Good. Whatsoever.
Until now, I’d hoped Cary was just a lying piece of shit, but I can’t deny that her absence means that he’s had eyes on her. That he knows where she is. That someone…has her.
In the midst of my panic and rage-filled optimism, I forgot that I always plan ahead. It’s what I do. My training won’t settle for anything less.
As I’m running back down the hall toward the stairs, I freeze a second time in less than five minutes. My ears are throbbing in tempo with my knuckles and I can feel the blood draining from my face when the open door to my office registers.
My usually locked office dooris gaping wide open and mocking me with its flickering lights. The multitude of screens are showing different shots from Berkleigh’s house and my yard and when I walk inside, I let my gaze sweep across them. Everything outside is quiet, but that’s because the action has already taken place.
Racing to my computer, I reel back the footage to exactly the moment I left on my bike. Just after noon. Lifting my gaze to the appropriate screen, I slowly fast forward until I see the front door swing open and a very pissed off Berkleigh is stomping out with her car keys and purse. She’s barely dressed, her hair looks wet and her face—her usually smiling face—is marred with a very familiar emotion.
Rage.
“I feel ya, Sweet Bee.”
Before I leave, I check all of the cameras to see if she was taken or if she left of her own free will. I haven’t decided what’s worse. That she’s in danger because she found my cameras or because some asshole has taken it upon himself to fuck with our perfect little bubble.
Not that it matters. Someone’s going to die and it’s not going to be me. At least not until I’ve found her and I’ve killed everyone who’s had a hand in her pain. Every. Single. One of them.
I’m wasting time here, I need to hear her voice. Need to know that she’s okay.
Rushing back down to the kitchen, I grab my phone. I’d left it here because I didn’t want that kind of traceability while meeting with those assholes.
I thought my anger had reached its summit, but when I hear her ringtone upstairs, I lose my shit. With a dramatic swing of my arm, I sweep everything off the kitchen island and get a sick satisfaction from the noisy destruction of things falling and breaking. A lone water glass survives the carnage. I can’t have that, so in one fell swoop, I grab it then throw it against the nearest wall.
Glass is everywhere, but that’s a problem for later. The last solution comes from my phone app where I’ve got a tracker on her car. It’s state of the art, standard military issued, and as Ipull up her location, I’m gritting my teeth enough that I wouldn’t be surprised if I file down a couple of millimeters.
“Oh, Sweet Bee, when I catch you…” I’m talking to my phone, to the app, to the location pin that shows she’s in New Jersey, southbound and driving as fast as her hybrid car will take her.
By the time I leave the house, I’ve got Berkleigh’s phone with me and enough ammo to start a revolution.
If someone has my woman, I hope they’re ready for a war.
Because they’ll get nothing less than that.
Chapter Twenty
Berkleigh
Two and a half hours into my drive to Florida, my car already needs gas or a charging station. Either will do. I don’t like to wrack the miles up on my Firebird with this journey so I jumped in my Prius and, well…it’s obvious how well thought out this whole trip isn’t because I’m underprepared and my usual route now has to change. Visiting my parents’ house means making sure my Prius is fully charged up and fully gassed, having a dozen bottles of water in the back seat and a motel booked at the halfway point—always the same one. This way, I know exactly when and where to stop, each and every time. My journey is the same as my life; a routine of places I’m familiar with.
I suppose my life has been in such turmoil lately that this trip had to follow the same pattern. My parents aren’t even home, they’re still on their cruise. This drive was supposed to be a little normality and I’ve tripped on the first hurdle by being so unprepared.
