Page 125 of Girl in the Water
Chapter Twenty-Two
Ian
Ian whistled as he walked to his car. Okay, maybe he swaggered more than he walked. His phone pinged with a text message from Daniela.
And the next instant, the bubble of happiness popped. The goofy-ass grin he’d been wearing all morning slid off his face as he read the screen.
The first text was an address, followed by,Come alone or the girl dies.
He dialed her immediately. The call rang and rang, but she didn’t pick up. This was not something she would joke with. Not her. She’d been in plenty of danger; she wouldn’t make a game of it. She didn’t think danger was fun, like someone who’d had a safe life and played with danger for adrenaline. She didn’t even like roller coasters.
Worry gutted him in an instant, cutting him to shreds. Hot fury built him back up.Nobodywas going to touch Daniela.Nobody.
He slammed into his car, put the address into the GPS, and peeled out of the gas station.
Who would take her?
She hadn’t been taken for money. Ian didn’t have any. He’d spent his saved-up combat pay on Daniela’s college tuition. He’d donated Linda’s life insurance to an organization that helped young mothers with postpartum depression.
She’d been taken by someone who wanted to hurt Ian. Maybe even by someone who wanted to hurt her too.
His mind raced.
The only case they’d worked together had been Lila Heyerdahl’s in Brazil. Another kidnapping. But Ian shook his head even as he thought of Carol and Essie—both in prison.
Marcos Morais was dead.
Because his father was so high profile, Marcos’s death had made the Brazilian news. Ian had kept track.
But Goat Man?Since Ian never knew his name, he couldn’t be certain what happened to him, couldn’t follow up.
Ian had a feeling he was about to meet the bastard. Acid bubbled in his stomach at the thought that Daniela had met him already.
In twenty minutes, he was in one of the worst neighborhoods of the city: graffiti, broken windows, cracked sidewalks overgrown with weeds, abandoned houses.
The GPS led him to a boarded-up store.
Padlocked front. He went around and checked the back, found a window that had been busted.
He cursed himself for not having his gun, but he’d only run out to pick up flowers for Daniela, stopped to put gas in his car on the way.
At least he had Finch’s pocketknife. At a minimum, Ian always carried a knife and a lighter, basic emergency preparedness he’d kept up from his army days. He pulled the knife, opened it, had the blade ready, but hidden by his side.
The sun blinded him, reflecting off the whitewashed bricks. The inside of the building gaped dark. He peered in through the broken window, keeping his body to the side, in cover. Looming shadows waited in there, a bunch of dusty shelving.
Whoever hid inside would be able to easily see Ian’s head outlined against the light. Could shoot him if he wanted. He had to be standing ready, had to have heard Ian pull up in the front. No element of surprise.
So Ian called in, “Whatever you want from me, I’ll give it to you. Just let her go right now.”
And a heavily accented voice called out, “Come in.”
The voice came maybe a few feet from the window, to Ian’s left, from behind tall shelving draped with plastic.
Ian stepped in but didn’t stop. He ducked and rolled in the opposite direction, and as he heard something crackle and buzz by him, he pushed to his feet the next second in a fight-ready stance.
He smelled mold and dust and rats.
He could see the guy now, around five-eight, thick waist. The Taser in his hand would take time to recharge.
