Page 50 of Straight Shooter

Ice coated her skin, chilling her to the bone. She sucked back the plea that burned her tongue. Beanie wouldn’t care what she had to say. He’d make her suffer and would relish every minute. His henchman passed him a black T-shirt, and Beanie mopped up the blood then pressed the material to his forehead.

“Get her inside, Len. Take her straight downstairs. I’m going to give this cunt what she deserves—immediately.”

Len’s arms looped under her armpits, and he hauled her to her feet. Her toes glided over the cobblestone drive leading up to an old plantation-style house. White clapboard covered its exterior, and black modern facia and soffits revealed the home had been recently renovated.

“Move!” Len’s palm shoved her between her shoulder blades. She climbed the steps of the front porch. Smooth cedar dragged across the bottom of her foot, alerting her to the fact that she’d lost a flip-flop along the way. “Stay there,” Len said, shoving her against the wall beside the door.

She scanned the property, searching for a clue as to who owned it, while he fumbled with the keys in his hand. Beanie sat on the back of the car, the shirt pressed to his head and his phone to his ear. Vomit hitched up her throat, and she coughed and forced down the retched taste.

The door creaked open. “Inside.” Len shoved her in front of him again, and the scent of lemons drifted toward her. White tile covered the foyer’s entrance, cooling the sole of her sandal-less foot. They entered the living room and his phone chirped. He cursed and pulled it out.

“Don’t move.” He let his hand fall away from her as he surveyed the screen in front of his face, but she didn’t dare run. She’d never make it to the front door, and even if she did, she’d have Beanie to contend with.

She bounced her gaze over the living room. A cabinet full of sleek nickel picture frames dotted the shelves. An image of a smiling older man with a younger man in a black suit and ramrod-straight posture stuck out more than the others. Something about his eyes was familiar. She narrowed her focus, scanned the man’s face, and flipped through the rolodex of politicians in her head but came up blank. The man’s stance screamed authority more in line with someone in law enforcement or the military. She inhaled sharply as his grin matched with that of a guy in her memory bank: Eric.

“All right, move.” Len nodded toward the kitchen at the back of the house. Marble countertops glistened in the immaculate space, which appeared to have never been cooked in, let alone been the scene of a murder. First time for everything.

Len opened a door to reveal a stairwell, flipped on the light, and brought his nose close to hers. “Be quiet going down the stairs. You don’t want to wake our friend.”

Sirens of dread screeched in her head. Questions made her tongue flutter. She backed up involuntarily, but he caught her shoulder and pulled her forward. Unmaintained wooden steps filled her vision. She circled her hand around the railing and dragged her fingertips along the cement wall as she descended.

“Hurry up. Beanie’s going to be here any minute, and like he said, he doesn’t want to wait.”

Acid burned a trail of fire down her esophagus. She focused on her breath to slow her heart rate and keep the bubbling panic in check. At the bottom, Len reached around her and hit another light switch. She blinked and looked away from the glow that was much too close to her eyes, thanks to the low-lying ceiling. Her gaze fixated on the drip marks marring the chipped and beaten concrete. She followed the crimson route and the droplets became full, wet splatters.

Fresh blood.

Chapter

Eighteen

Rhett slammed his hand into the glass door that was the entrance to his team’s rented office. “You motherfucker!”

Three desks took up most of the space. Mandy jerked her gaze away from her computer and got to her feet. “You’re shot!” She bustled around her desk.

He didn’t want to acknowledge the searing pain of the bullet that had hit below his clavicle. Thank god for adrenaline, otherwise the pain would have slowed him considerably. On top of that, his lungs still ached from holding his breath underwater and dragging his ass out of the marina. Thank god someone had heard the commotion and helped pull him out of the water. He’d lain on the cement and coughed fishy water out of his windpipe until his throat went raw. Then he’d gotten himself to his car—ignoring the man who’d helped him, who kept yelling at him to stop—and headed straight to the office to confront the only sonofabitch in reach who might know where Peyton had been taken. He couldn’t be wrong about Eric. Peyton’s life depended on it. With her cell phone in his car and no tracking device on her, or Moretti, there was no other way to find her in time.

Rhett held out his hand to stop Mandy’s advance. “Thanks for the observation. Where is he?”

Her green eyes turned huge. “W-Who?”

Ignoring her question, he stormed toward the room divider that separated the desks from their brainstorming area, but Eric came around the corner before he could get that far.

“Dude, you’re soaking wet—and shot. What the⁠—”

Rhett bared his teeth and launched himself forward. Grabbing Eric by his shirt, he flung him against the wall. “I know you’re involved in this, you fucking snake,” he said, crushing his forearm against Eric’s windpipe. “Peyton’s gone. Beanie has her. Don’t make me beat the information out of you.”

Eric’s hands hovered near his ears, and his body shook like a leaf in the wind. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” His voice broke.

“Bullshit. You were at Max’s apartment right after Vicky was murdered. Why’d you go there so quickly?”

“Vicky was connected to our case. You’d just asked me to get Max’s information, so I had it fresh in my mind. When I heard about what happened at his building, I knew it was related.”

A seed of doubt planted itself in Rhett’s gut. Peyton’s terror-filled face loomed in his mind’s eye. Beanie had smashed his gun into her skull, nearly knocking her out, seconds before Beanie’s man had shot him. The wound above his heart throbbed threatening to sap his strength, but he wouldn’t let it. Not until Peyton was safe. But fuck, the pain was setting in. He searched the pasty-white skin around Eric’s eyes. The agent’s shirt collar was damp, and the fecal scent of fear wafted to Rhett’s nostrils.

The chambers of his brain clicked into place. “Bullshit. How’d Moretti know to send Beanie to Stone’s boat? Someone on the inside told him.”

“I’m telling the truth. Maybe your girlfriend’s playing you, dude.”