Page 7 of Lone Star Hostage

“One of the kidnappers,” Ruby supplied. “I didn’t give them either of your contact info.”

So, they were resourceful since only a handful of people had her number. That didn’t help with the knot already in Billie’s stomach.

“Trace and recording activated,” Ruby said a moment later. “Take the call on speaker.”

Billie did, and she didn’t have to wait long before she heard that irritating fake voice. “I see you followed instructions. Good job. No one’s died on your watch today. Not yet, anyway. Let’s keep it that way.”

“We’re here at the park,” Billie stated. “Where are you?”

“Not at the park.” He laughed as if that were a hilarious joke. “I’m, uh, elsewhere with the lovely Victoria. Here’s what you need to do to get her back. Come to 637 Barlett Street on the south side of the city.”

From the corner of her eye, she saw Presley’s shoulders snap back. They turned toward each other, their gazes colliding, and Billie knew something was wrong. Really, really wrong.

“Probably no need to put that address in the GPS,” the kidnapper added. “Because Presley will know the way. Hope it doesn’t bring back too many bad memories for you.” The jerk laughed. “Be there in fifteen minutes, or you know the drill—cut off body parts.”

The second he hung up, Billie blurted, “What’s going on? How do you know that address?”

A muscle tightened in his jaw. “It was my childhood home until I was ten.” Presley threw the SUV into reverse and backed out of the parking lot. “And it’s the house where my father murdered my mother.”

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Chapter Three

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“Shit,” Presley muttered. “Shit, shit, shit.”

And he kept saying it while he tried to tamp down this mental firestorm. Images and memories of one of the worst days of his life.

Yeah, this was not going to be fun.

“I didn’t know that about you,” Billie said, her voice making it through the loud buzz in his head.

“A lot of people don’t know,” he settled for saying.

Ruby did though, but while she could no doubt hear every word of this conversation, she was staying quiet about it. Probably because she knew what was most important right now was mapping out the new location. Or working out the possible kinks. Maybe, too, figuring out what the hell to do with an operative who might be falling apart.

But Presley wouldn’t do that.

Not with a life at stake.

A personal crisis would just have to wait. He would suck it up and deal, and he kept mentally repeating that as he drove toward a house that he’d vowed never to see again.

“Two plain-clothes cops are heading to the address now,” Ruby finally spoke up. “Angel will get there as fast as he can. I’m pulling up a street view and information about the house,but, Presley, tell me about it. About the interior, about the neighborhood. Where is a hostage likely to be stashed here?”

He needed a couple of breaths first and to do a hard shake of his head to clear it. He even bashed his fist on the steering wheel. Then, he answered her while dragging himself right back to that pit of hell.

“One-story brick in what was once a middle-class neighborhood that I’ve heard has gone straight downhill over the years.” He kept his tone as if this was a routine briefing. “Three bedrooms, two baths. Eleven windows,” he added, doing a quick mental count, “and two doors. The backdoor feeds into a large yard with a greenbelt behind it.”

Which meant unless things had changed, there were no neighbors to see what the heck was going on.

“My guess is the kidnappers would hold Victoria in the bedroom at the far back of the house. That’s on the right as you face it,” he added as he drove. He didn’t glance at Billie. Couldn’t. He didn’t want her to see the emotion that he knew would be in his eyes. “There’s only one window in that room, and it faces the side yard where there used to be a high fence.”

It’d been his room.

And also where he’d found his mother dead.

That’d happened when he had come home from school. Seconds later, Presley had found his dad, dead from a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head, in the main bedroom on the other side of the house. Presley had no idea what his mother had been doing in his room, and since she was dead, it was one of those mysteries that would never be solved.

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