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“Have a seat,” Dare said to Haven and Cora, nodding to some chairs lined against the wall opposite the screens. At least she’d know more of what was going on from here.
“Marz is working on setting up a fourth camera,” Joker said, turning in his seat. “On the main concourse hallway.”
“Good,” Dare said. “Because what we need right now is an eye on faces, not cars.”
Joker nodded. “Can’t believe these fuckers might’ve been here all along.”
“Tell me about it,” Dare bit out. He headed for the door, and just when Haven was sure he was going to leave without saying anything to her—after all, he had much bigger things to worry about—he looked back over his shoulder. And then he reversed directions, crossed the room to her, and leaned down until he was planting a long, deep kiss on her mouth. “Stay here. I’ll be back. And don’t worry.” He kissed her on the forehead and rose, the movement revealing the holstered gun under his arm. It was one of two holsters she’d watched him put on this morning in her room, and it helped a little to know he was well armed as she watched him leave.
Cora took her hand but stayed uncharacteristically quiet.
Which was how Haven knew it was time to really worry. “It’s gonna be okay,” she found herself saying, as much for Cora as for herself.
A little while later, a new set of images flickered through one of the monitors, replacing the view of the mostly quiet driveway entrance.
“Now we’re talking,” Joker said.
“Maybe we can help,” Haven said, moving to stand behind the men. Blake gave her a nod and a small smile over his shoulder.
Cora followed. “We’ll probably recognize them even quicker than you.”
“Help yourself,” Joker said, keeping his gaze fixed on the screens. “The more eyes, the better.”
Since the ticket windows in the room next door were quieter now that the races had started, Haven mostly trained her vision on the busier concourse feed, where people were coming and going to get food or go to the bathroom or buy souvenirs. She couldn’t decide if she wanted to see her father’s face among the crowd or not, but God, how she wanted this to be over.
So many people. It was like looking for a needle in a haystack. And it made her heart absolutely thunder in her chest, because God only knew what her father was willing to do to get her back.
The screen providing the view of the ticket windows revealed that it had finally gotten dark outside. The races went on and on, the sounds of the roaring engines so much louder down here, drowning out even much of the cheering of the crowd and calls of the announcers. Combined with the way she’d been focusing on the video feed for more than an hour now, Haven was starting to get a throbbing headache behind her eyes. But it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered until they found her father—or he found her. At least she was safe here, in this windowless room that could’ve doubled as a bunker.
She’d no more had that thought than Blake froze, and then his right hand smacked Joker in the chest while his other pointed at the ticket window screen.
Haven gasped. Her father walked into the camera’s view, gun drawn, and began a muted conversation with the Raven at the window. Two of his men stood behind him, guns also pointed inside. At the Ravens.
Cora clutched Haven’s arm as the two men in front of them bolted from their seats, drew their weapons, and gathered on either side of the door that led out to the other room. Suddenly, her father’s voice came through the walkie-talkies sitting on the desks, drawing the men’s gazes as they debated the best way to approach the situation.
“I know you have her,” her father drawled, eyes and gun fixed on a Raven she didn’t know. “Want to know how I know?” It was a rhetorical question, of course. Her father liked nothing more than grandstanding and putting on a good show like the asshole that he was. He tossed something on the counter. What the heck? Haven walked toward the screen. Was that . . . a cookie?
All of a sudden the room sucked in on her. It is. Does that mean . . . please say that doesn’t mean—
“You see, I paid a little visit up the mountain and found these. And since my daughter has cooked her whole life for me, I know her fucking food. So now that we’ve established that you assholes have what belongs to me, let’s talk about how I’m going to incentivize you to give it back.” His Southern accent was thick and strong, much thicker than hers had ever been.
It. He hadn’t said her, but it. God, she hated him. She hated him so much that she could’ve strangled him with her bare hands and not felt an ounce of guilt.
