“I need to make some calls,” I bark into the phone. “Grab a few men you can trust and meet me at the motel.”
After I hang up, I call Officer Bryant, telling him to put out an unofficial APB on the women and explaining what we know so far. “One more thing,” I add. “Maybe it’s best if Napa police stay out of the vicinity of the Vintner Motel tonight.”
“Understood,” Bryant says. “Talk soon.”
Donovan’s crestfallen expression fades as I turn to him, but not quickly enough that I don’t catch it. I know what he’s thinking. He failed in his job to protect my wife. All his years of loyalty are down the toilet.
Yes, I could think of it that way, but it wouldn’t be fair to him. This isn’t his fault.
“This isn’t on you, my friend.” I clap him on the shoulder. “But I do need you to help fix it.”
“Of course. Anything.”
“Call Farman and tell him to start getting together some manpower. We’re gonna need to coordinate a raid on the motel.”
Donovan’s already got his phone out, scrolling through his contacts. “Yes, sir. On it.”
That’s when my own phone vibrates with a text from a blocked number. Huh.
I open the text, watching something download slowly, and then a photo finally appears on my screen—and suddenly the whole world goes sideways.
“Jesus fucking Christ…”
It’s a picture of Frankie and Charlie, tied up on the floor, a plain white wall behind them. Frankie has a look of fear and pain twisting her features, and Charlie’s expression is one of worry. There’s dried blood near Charlie’s ear, and my wife’s neck and cheek are blotchy and red, like someone has manhandled her.
“Boss?” Donovan says, his hand going to my shoulder.
I realize I’ve fallen to my knees on the concrete of the garage, the phone shaking in my unsteady hand. My temples pound, and my jaw aches from clenching it so hard.
A second text comes in:Pay Abbott’s debts or these two die after we’re done with them. Painfully.
If Abbott has my wife mixed up in some ransom gig…I’m going to fucking kill him. Hell, I might kill him anyway.
“Get the fucking car,” I tell Donovan. “We roll. Now.”
The Escalade squeals out of the garage as a steady stream of big black vehicles appear in my driveway. I throw open the door and climb in the back—seconds later, Armani bursts in and slides onto the seat next to me.
“Donovan filled me in,” he says, slipping a gun into the back waistband of his pants.
We don’t talk as we race to the motel. It’s all I can do to keep my composure. My body thrums with pent-up rage and fear for my wife and child.
I see Clayton’s group pulling into the lot just ahead of our contingent, black SUVs fanning out around the front of the motel. We fill in the spaces so no one can come in or out of this dump without being spotted by our brigade. When I get out of the car, Clayton is waiting for me, an automatic rifle in his hands and rage in his eyes.
“You get a text from a blocked number?” he says quietly.
I nod. “I don’t know what the fuck is going on, but this motherfucker better talk.”
He signs the number 12 and we take off across the parking lot, weapons at the ready as one of Clayton’s men kicks in the door.
We burst in and surround Abbott, who’s sprawled on the floor of the motel room with his face looking recently beaten, one eye swollen shut, a bloody scab formed over a gash in his temple. He’s clutching a nearly empty handle of cheap rye and is trying to maneuver it to his mouth without sitting up. Amber liquid sloshes over his face as we point our guns down at him.
“Where are Frankie and Charlie?” I demand, stepping one boot on his wrist so he has no choice but to let go of the bottle.
He laughs. Just once, and then again, longer and louder. “Lost your wives, eh?” He pushes himself up a few inches on one bloody arm. “For a bunch of big, tough men, sounds like you can’t control your women very well.”
Clayton lets loose a kick, square in Abbott’s ribs, that has him choking and coughing.
“The fuck are they, Abbott?” Clayton roars. “Talk!”
