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“Yes, sir.”
“And don’t think we won’t hold you accountable,” Lance added.
I glared at him. “Do not follow me.”
“I won’t.” He glanced at Corbin, and I did not like the smile that passed between them.
I jabbed my finger toward Corbin. “You don’t follow me either.”
He gave me an enigmatic smile.
For the rest of the day, my concentration was even more fucked up than it had been for the last two weeks. All I could think about was seeing Henri that night. I thought through what I would say over and over, but I couldn’t make it sound right.
I continually checked in with Oswald, the man tailing Henri, and he continued to assure me Henri was at the florist. He kept his tone neutral, but I was sure he was questioning my sanity.
As if I hadn’t waited long enough, Henri stayed at the florist after it closed, not leaving until almost eight o’clock. Oswald’s best guess was that he was doing inventory. I knew he needed all the extra money he could get, but if he would just agree to be mine, that problem would disappear.
Finally, Oswald texted me that Henri was leaving. I checked my appearance in the mirror, grabbed my keys, and was about to walk out the door when my phone rang. It was Oswald again.
“Mr. Theriot.” His voice sounded weak, his breath ragged.
“What’s wrong?”
“They took him.”
I had to grip the doorframe to keep from sinking to the floor. “Who? Where?” I would find Henri and then I would kill whoever had dared to touch him. Henri was mine. I’d never been more sure of that.
“I think it was Landry. Charles Landry.”
No way. No fucking way. “Charles Landry is dead.”
“Looked just like him. Beard and all.”
Shit. Why hadn’t I listened to Henri? Why hadn’t I looked into Charles’s supposed death?
“You’re injured?”
“Shot in the shoulder, but—”
“Where are you?” He gave his location, which was about a block from Henri’s new apartment.
“I tried t-to follow, sir, but I… couldn’t keep up.”
“Stay where you are. I’ll have someone pick you up. Which direction did they go?”
He told me the direction, but that didn’t really mean anything. If it really was Charles, chances were he’d taken Henri to the warehouse where I’d seen him “die” the night I’d met Henri, the night my life changed.
I couldn’t believe this was happening. Why hadn’t I gone after Henri before now? Why hadn’t I listened when he sworn he’d seen Charles? I should never have assumed the threat was neutralized. I should have ordered my man to stick closer.
I pushed all those thoughts away. I couldn’t change any of that now. I had to focus on finding him. I called Lance. I wanted him with me, but I wasn’t going to wait. I was in my Ferrari before the call went through. This time, I didn’t care about discretion. I didn’t care if someone ripped my car apart piece by piece. All that mattered was Henri. I had to save him.
40
Henri
I had no idea how long I’d been lying on a concrete floor, shifting in and out of consciousness. Every part of me ached, and my eyes were so swollen I could barely see. I doubted I could identify my location even with perfect vision. When the men who’d captured me dragged me from the trunk, the best I could guess was that I was close to the street corner where I used to work.
They dragged me to a building that looked abandoned. Before forcing me inside, they took my phone and tossed it aside as if I could use it with my hands bound. Once inside, the bearded man—Charles Landry?—threw me over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry and crossed the warehouse floor to a cell in the corner. There was nothing in the cell. It was just concrete floor, cinderblock walls, and iron bars on two sides. Who the hell had a cell in a warehouse? No one I ever wanted to know.
Landry, or whoever he was, dumped me on the floor. I couldn’t brace my fall with my hands bound, and I hoped to hell I hadn’t cracked a bone.
I felt wider awake, but before I could make any sort of plan, I heard footsteps approaching. I didn’t recognize the man who entered, but I couldn’t see the details of his features, only that he had shoulder-length dark hair. He squatted next to me and ripped the tape from my mouth, making me gasp.
“So you’re Remington’s boy?”
“No.”
He slapped me so hard the world tilted, and I nearly blacked out. My cheek pulsed, and for a minute, I thought he’d dislocated my jaw.
“Don’t lie to me.”
I didn’t say anything else. My face hurt too much for me to speak anyway.
The man asked me all kinds of questions about Remington, about his business and his allies. I knew many of the answers, but I refused to tell him anything. When I remained silent, he punched me and twisted my arm until I was sure my wrist was broken. That didn’t make me talk, so he started burning my arms with the end of his cigarette every time I didn’t answer. I didn’t care what he did; I wasn’t going to break for him.
