Page 17 of Bringing Chelsea Home

“We’re taking him!”

“OK, ok,” Griff conceded. “You going to carry him like–”

The crack of a high-powered rifle and the crash of a bullet splintering a building’s concrete wall cut him off. A second shot, then another whizzed over them, setting off a cacophony of screams and pounding feet as desperate, frightened people searched for shelter.

“Pull yourself into ball,” Griff ordered, wrapping his arm around her as her chest rose and fell in rapid jerks, her breathing coming in short bursts.

“Got it,” she gasped.

A lifelong knowledge of this city directed Griff’s searching gaze toRandloph’s Family Pharmacy,a mere twenty feet up from them. Owner Henry Randolph stood holding the door open and waving at him like a crazed Neyland Stadium referee as other people poured inside.

“On three, rise, duck and run,” Griff commanded, taking his arm from around her. “One. Two–”

They hurled themselves forward, crouching low as they bolted into the pharmacy. Henry slammed the door, and dropping to a crawl, followed them. Shouts and weeping surrounded them and nearly everyone was on their phone. Griff led Elaine and her furry passenger–who was grinning like this was some splendid game–to a red-vinyl booth. Only after they were seated facing each other, did Griff realize just how hard he was breathing. “Are you okay?” he gasped.

Elaine propped her chin on the dog’s head. “Yeah,” she said. “Guess we better have Patrick take us back to the police station instead of the morgue. But I’m going to need a coffee to go ‘cause I have a feeling we’re going to be there a long time.”

CHAPTER9

Late Thursday afternoon

“Any way to get the girls here before Thanksgiving weekend? I might have more clients who want to meet and party with them.” Big Daddy lit up one of his Cuban cigars and puffed. He refused to use the word customer. It sounded tacky and low rent and he’d built his reputation on offering high class women to clients with expensive tastes and deep pockets to satisfy those tastes.

“I doubt it,” The Cadre’s representative said. “They’re booked out for shows almost every night until they arrive in Knoxville. My clients paid in advance for their services.”

“And if mine offered more money?” Big Daddy peered through the darkness at The Cadre’s representative, who had sent word he preferred to meet in semi-darkened rooms due to an extreme photosensitivity. His appearance did not jive with Big Daddy’s image of someone who worked for one of America’s biggest crime organizations. Short, thin, and wearing an oversize cheap suit that hardly did justice to his magnificent, old-fashioned fedora that completely covered his hair. A man with his kind of job should know to dress better. The engraved card he’d handed to Big Daddy simply read, D. Creed, in simple black letters.

Until you looked into his eyes. Even in the near darkness, you could see they were onyx, fathomless and utterly devoid of expression. They were the eyes of a stone-cold killer. Big Daddy had met such men–and one woman–in his rise to power. They worked from the shadows with a silent lethality, killing as needed, without hesitation or remorse. Creed would kill Big Daddy in a minute if he needed to do so and they both knew it.

“Depends on how much money you’re talking,” Creed said smoothly. “I’ll get back with you. Arrangements are in order?”

“Very nearly,” Big Daddy said. “Finishing touches are being made on the penthouse where my clients–and yours if you want them included–will be entertained by the women.”

“Make sure most of them are young. Very young.” Creed’s stare hardened and an unfamiliar fear flashed through Big Daddy.Killer’s eyes, he reminded himself.Killer’s eyes.

“I’ll see myself out,” Creed said. His gliding departure from the office was as silent as a cat. Big Daddy mashed his cigar into the ashtray and poured himself several fingers worth of Oban scotch from the Baccarat crystal carafe into his favorite cut glass tumbler.

Big Daddy knew The Cadre was dangerous. Very dangerous. But then, so was he. He’d been enlarging his base in Memphis and Nashville this past year and was frequently gone. He trusted very few people, so it was only this past summer he realized how strongly they’d settled here. But when the time was right, he’d show those sons-of-bitches who was the real power in East Tennessee and make them pay for their disrespect.

Right after he’d finished torturing and killing Elaine Prescott for taking Lulu.

Later that evening.

“I’m glad we found Amigo’s owners.” Elaine settled against the sofa’s pillows in the safehouse’s living room. “Or rather they found us.” The young boy and his mother had burst into the pharmacy while Miller and his men were questioning everyone there. “Easier to do it there than expect them to show up at the station,” Miller had explained. “Given the chance, they’d probably have headed for home.”

“You could tell by Amigo’s reaction he belonged to them,” Griff agreed as he joined her with two glasses of white wine. “And I’m glad Miller was able to cut us loose early so we could make it back here before dark.”

“And Amigo probably saved your life,” Patrick added from the kitchen doorway. “If you hadn’t bent down to pick him up, one or both of you would probably be dead by now.”

Elaine stared into her glass. “It was Big Daddy, wasn’t it? Or could it be The Cadre?”

“Either or both, working together,” Griff said grimly. “Someone is in a hurry to put you out of commission.”

“Or maybe because you’re a pain in Big Daddy’s ass,” Patrick suggested. “The dude doesn’t sound as if he likes women messing in his business affairs.”

“If it’s Big Daddy, I guess he’s back in town and knows that Roxie is gone too and thinks I helped move her as well,” Elaine said thoughtfully. “But I never imagined he’d try to shoot me on a crowded public street.”

The men exchanged glances and a simmering tension filled the room. “Who is Roxie?” Griff asked.

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