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“Don’t fuck with me, Dad. You do not know how much I know. Calling the police might get June killed, but I doubt the same is true of calling the IRS.”
His eyes bulge, and before he can say a word, I stomp out of his study, slamming the door behind me. It was a good bluff, if I say so myself. I do not know what Dad is really doing behind the scenes, but everyone fears the IRS, so it was a solid guess. But given his earlier intimations, it’s not just tax evasion he’s worried about.
Something else much bigger is going on, and June was taken because of it.
I march out of the apartment, ignoring the caterers as they finish the last parts of cleaning. Once I’m in the elevator, I take a breath and try to figure out my next steps. Only, nothing comes to mind other than the sight of June, tied to a wooden chair in a random basement somewhere I don’t recognize. The sight of her like that is enough to make every other thought vanish without a trace. Just like June.
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Chapter 41
ANDERSON
I’m so angry that I keep gripping my steering wheel too tightly and driving too fast. I have to slow down, or I’ll get pulled over, and if I get pulled over, I’ll spill it all. I know I will. The idea of speaking to a police officer without telling them exactly what’s going on? Madness. I’d spill it all, and right now, I cannot afford to be that messy.
Dad was right about one thing. Police mean I will not be in control of the situation. They introduce too many moving parts. They have protocols they have to follow, no matter what. I, however, do not. I will do whatever it takes to get her back.
Part of me wonders if I shouldn’t have pressed Dad. But he wasn’t going to crack. That man never cracks. No matter how tough the negotiations, he doesn’t budge. It is simultaneously frustrating and admirable and a quality I do not share with him. I have a strong spine, but right now, I’d give the kidnappers whatever the fuck they want.
Where am I even driving to?
The truth is, I don’t know. I got into my car and started driving. Movement feels better than sitting around. Feels like progress, even though rationally, I know it’s not. What are the odds I’ll just find her walking along the side of the road? Zero. But movement still feels better.
Trying to think of what connections I have at the firm doesn’t help. I’m the son of the man in charge, the heir apparent. But I’ve never been included in whatever the fuck Dad is actually up to. It’s like I’ve been shielded from all the useful contacts, which makes me distinctly useless in a situation like this.
June has been taken, and I have no way of getting her back. I have never felt so goddamned helpless in my life.
I’m the guy who fixes things. Who makes things happen, even if I never get the credit. Shit like that doesn’t matter to me. I like to help, no matter the circumstance. I do my best to take care of what needs to get taken care of, and now I’m the guy who sits around waiting for someone else to do what needs to be done. This is maddening.
When a text buzzes in, I slam on the brakes. Thankfully, at four in the morning, there’s no one behind me. Hell, I don’t even know what street this is. But I pull over and look at my phone. I don’t trust my car to read it out loud—what if someone has my car rigged to scan my messages? What the fuck can I trust at this point?
The message reads, “Be at easterly side of Hell Gate Bridge tonight at ten. Wait for a red car.”
That’s it? That’s all they have to say to me?
I text back, “What do you need from me?”
“Be there.”
No ransom request. No payment of any kind. Not even art or someone else in exchange?
Maybe that’s it. Maybe I’m the exchange. Okay, good. I’ll go with them, and June can drive my car back to Boston and get as far away from these people as possible. She’ll go to my Dad and they can handle this from there. This is progress.
Not that I want to be taken, but it’s a hell of a lot better than June being taken. But why not take me in the first place? They probably knew I’d put up more of a fight than she could. They had to take her to soften me up. To make me pliable. Fine, whatever. They win. I don’t care, so long as she’s safe. That’s all that matters.
Should I call Dad to update him? No. If he thinks I’ll be taken next, he’ll have a fit and fuck this up. He was right about one thing—the more people involved, the worse the outcome. Even if he wouldn’t be upset about them taking me, he’d be angry if someone moved against the family so boldly. My kidnapped fiancée he can take in stride, apparently. But taking his son would be an insult to his pride.
Good. Let’s insult him.
Now that we have a time and place to meet, I could call the police. Get some backup … but it still feels like the wrong thing to do. And I don’t have the kinds of friends one needs in a situation like this. Call Tag? I almost laugh at the thought. Tag is a lot of things, but backup in a hostage situation? Hell no. He’s barely backup in a buffet situation. Cole? Equally laughable.
This is all on me. Just how I like things to be.
Heading home, I need to grab a few things. Oh, I’ll let them take me. But that doesn’t mean I’ll be a pleasant guest while they have me. My apartment is on the other side of Boston from here and the urge to speed hits again. I want to get there and get to the bridge right now so I can be there early.
But I can’t risk speeding. No cops. In fact, I’m half-tempted to call a driving service for the trip to Manhattan to ensure I don’t speed my way there. But if I did that, it would be another pair of eyes on the situation, and that’s not an option. So, a lot of self-control is in order.
When I get home, I ignore the call of my bed. I’m exhausted and wired and shaky right now. Never been good at staying up all night, and by the timing of things, I doubt I’ll get any sleep tonight, either. But, maybe grabbing a few hours would make me more clearheaded. God knows I need to be.
