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Of course, pride wasn’t my only reaction to that report. The idea of her going out to places where other men might hit on her is like a burning coal in my side. Sara is mine. The physical distance between us doesn’t change that fact. So far, the reports haven’t indicated anyone seriously sniffing around her, but that doesn’t mean it hasn’t happened. With the FBI constantly tailing Sara, my men have to be extra careful, and there are times they simply can’t get close enough to make sure some asshole isn’t begging her for a phone number or offering to buy her coffee.
If I could have a listening device on Sara herself, I’d do it in a heartbeat.
I’d plant a chip inside her brain if I could.
“You ready?” Yan says, and I realize I’ve been mindlessly cleaning my gun for the past minute instead of grabbing my bag and getting off the plane.
“Yeah,” I say, reassembling the gun and stuffing it into my waistband. “Let’s do this.”
Lyle Bolton, Wally Henderson’s first cousin, owns a small organic grocery store in Asheville. As far as his friends and neighbors are concerned, he’s a kind, peaceful man, with the requisite two-point-five kids—two preschoolers and a baby on the way. His pregnant wife is a stay-at-home mom, and to the outsiders, they seem like the perfect suburban couple.
Too bad none of them know what our hackers have uncovered.
We wait for him in the hooker’s mountain cabin, our SUV parked out of sight behind the shed. Technically, the girl is an escort, but sex for money is all the same as far as I’m concerned. Bolton comes here every Tuesday and Thursday on his way back from the local farms, where he gets produce for the store. His wife is completely clueless, and so is everyone else in the community.
Nobody would imagine that the quiet, churchgoing Mr. Bolton, who’s passionate about animal welfare and the environment, would pay a barely legal “escort” to let him defecate on her twice a week—after he beats her up.
Henderson has his buddies keeping tabs on Bolton’s home and work, which is why this cabin is a perfect place to question the fucker. His dirty little habit is a secret from everyone, his cousin included, and thanks to all the precautions he’s taken to account for this stretch of time, nobody will come looking for him until he doesn’t show up at the store some four hours later.
We can do a lot in four hours.
The cabin is empty except for us. Yan lured the hooker away this morning by pretending to be a high-paying client. Once he got her into a hotel room, he tied her up and left her there. If we have time, he’ll untie her later today; if not, housekeeping will find her tomorrow morning. Either way, the girl is not going to go to the cops, especially once she finds the payment on the nightstand.
Lyle Bolton is prompt, as usual, showing up at a quarter to ten. His truck rumbles into the graveled driveway, and I motion to the guys to get ready.
Nabbing our prey is child’s play. He has no idea what’s in store for him. The fucker walks in with a big, shit-eating grin on his chubby face, and Ilya steps out from behind the door and punches him in the stomach. He does it lightly—as lightly as someone that massive can—but Bolton still flops over on all fours, gasping and wheezing and trying to scramble away.
Yan kicks him in the ribs, and then I step in, pulling up the fucker by the back of his shirt as he starts to blubber and plead for mercy.
“Your cousin,” I say calmly, depositing him into a kitchen chair. “Where is he?”
He gapes at us, and I see a new kind of fear on his face. He realizes now this is not a mistake, that we’re not burglars who just happened to be here.
“I d-don’t know,” he stutters out, and I sigh before pulling out my gun.
“One more chance,” I say, putting the barrel to his forehead. “Where the fuck is Wally?”
He pisses himself. A dark stain spreads over the crotch of his corduroys, and I smell the acrid stench of urine. It annoys me nearly as much as the tears and snot running down his face.
“I swear to you, I don’t know!” he wails, and I lower the gun, squeezing the trigger twice in rapid succession.
His screams are deafening as he falls off the chair and rolls into a little ball on the floor. I just planted two bullets—one in each foot—and I wait a minute for the screams to die down before repeating, “Where is your fucking cousin?”
“I don’t know, don’t know, don’t know!” He’s hysterical now, holding his bleeding feet with both hands. “Please, I swear, I don’t know. He disappeared over two years ago, and I haven’t heard anything since.”
