Page 98 of The Wolves Come at Night
“Jackson is here. Tell her what you just told me.”
Alan’s voice was strained; though she’d never spoken to him, she could hear the stress in his tone. “You know she’s been upset about how we’ve handled everything. Said she was going crazy locked in the house. I agreed that she could go for a run, and she was out the door before I could stop her. That was three hours ago. I got worried after hour one and took a lap, found her phone by the bushes at the end of the street. I pulled the cameras from the intersection. A black SUV stopped and snatched her. I couldn’t get the plates, they were covered.”
“Damn it. That means Game is in the States, while we’re chasing him here in Europe,” Taylor said.
“You’re assuming he’s working alone,” Santiago said.
“A dangerous assumption,” Angelie said quietly.
“So what do you want to do?” Alan asked.
“We get to the plane and get that damn painting. Santi and Alan will keep tracking Avery, see if she shows up anywhere. The pilots are gassed up and waiting for us. Stay in touch, Alan.”
The call ended, and without hesitating, Taylor shouldered three bags of gear and started for the door.
“What, you aren’t going to argue with me?” Angelie called after her.
She looked back over her shoulder. “Nope. Your show. I’m along for the ride to help however I can.” She clattered into the gravel drive and dumped the bags in the back of the waiting SUV. “Tell me what you want me to do, and I’ll do it.”
Angelie joined her at the tailgate, tossing in two more bags. She watched her briefly, then laughed lightly. “Uh-oh. I think I might miss the old Jackson.”
Fifty
Avery Conway came to with a blinding headache. Darkness surrounded her. She took a moment to figure out why—was she masked? Blind? Or was it simply an absence of light so complete it was like being inside a coffin?
Don’t think that. That was one of her worst nightmares, being buried alive. Her heart rate ticked up. Why had she gone there? She knew better than to give her fears free rein.
It was coming back to her now, in bits and pieces—jogging, being struck from behind, the sharp pinch of a hypodermic needle in the crook of her elbow.
Oh, my darling Carson.
Is this what her daughter had experienced as well?
She started to move, to struggle, and realized she was tied to a chair. She tried to shout—she was gagged. Impotent. Helpless. At the mercy of whoever had taken her—and she knew exactly who. That bastard Joseph Game had stolen her daughter and now had Avery, as well.
Why?
What was he trying to accomplish? What value did the two women have?
Anger filled her. In the years since Richard had died, she’d asked “why” a thousand times. Why her? Why him? Why was their family marked for tragedy? A ridiculous accident; a life snuffed out in a heartbeat. You never stop to think it might be the last time you have a chance to say something nice. I love you. Drive safe. Have a good day. She’d spent years bullying herself for not saying the right things the morning he left.
Now, all her anger was at him. What have you done to us? What have you done to your daughter? This is your fault. You have killed us all.
She heard a hinge creak and felt a draft. A door had been opened. She smelled yeast.
Yeast? The bakery? There was a proofing room in the basement, was she being held there? In her husband’s old business?
Alan. Oh my God, what have they done to Alan? She couldn’t lose any more people she loved. She just couldn’t.
She screamed behind the gag, but all that came out was a whimper. She heard something drag across the room, like the leg of a chair, scraping the cement with a screech. She could feel someone coming closer. Someone—or something—was down here with her, and she was deathly afraid.
Before she lost her head completely, she breathed in deeply through her nose. Her adrenaline was on overdrive, swamping her body with panic. She needed to keep her wits about her. She wasn’t going to go down without a fight. She owed that to Carson, at the very least. She knew in her heart her daughter was fighting. She would, too.
A sharp pain ripped across the top of her wrist, and she smelled her own blood. She began to struggle, screaming again behind the gag, her voice only making little “ugh ugh ugh” grunts.
“Scream again, and I will cut off your hand.”
That voice. So familiar. Amused. Yet so harsh, so cruel.
