Page 90 of Stolen Rival
I shake my head. “Can’t find Dan or Jeff either. I’m going to call Rosanna.” My fingers tremble as I scroll through my contacts. I find her details and wait for her to answer. “Rosanna, it’s Patrick. Is Sorcha with you?”
“No. I was about to call Garrett and ask him to get in touch with you. She never turned up for lunch.”
An iciness enters my veins.Fuck.
“Patrick.” Her voice wavers. “Is everything okay?”
“No, it isn’t.”
“Do you need me to send Garrett over? Can I do anything?”
“Yes, tell him to come. Just stay there in case she shows.” It’s late afternoon, so unlikely, but I’m clutching at straws.
“I will.” She pauses. “She’ll be okay. She’s smart and tough.”
“Yeah.” My voice grates like sandpaper. I hang up before I show one of my captain’s wives how fucking terrified I am right now.
“Liam, stay with Darragh. I haven’t checked my study yet.”
I can’t see why either bodyguard or Sorcha would be there, but it needs ruling out. As I open the door, my stomach plummets to the floor.
On the wall directly opposite the door is a photograph of Sorcha, and the eyes have been crudely cut out. I round my desk and rip it off the wall. There’s a note on the back.
Play nice and you’ll get her back. Play nasty and I will take her eyes first, then her teeth, then her fingers and her toes. I’ll drag out her death for days.
I recognize the handwriting immediately. That fucking bastard. He’s dead.Dead.My vision goes red, a hot, suffocating haze that narrows everything down to Sorcha’s face and the roaring in my ears. I sprint back to the gym. Darragh’s awake, but he’s still slumped on the floor, and Liam’s crouched beside him.
“Andrew’s got her.”
“What?” my brothers cry in unison.
I hand the photograph to Liam. “Motherfucker is dead.”
“Jesus Christ,” Liam mutters.
Darragh grimaces, rubbing his forehead. “Shit. I’m so sorry. I fucking let you down.”
“You didn’t let me down,” I growl. “This is my fault. I should have put that bastard out of his misery in New York.” I fish my phone out of my pocket and stab at the screen. Andrew’s phone rings. And rings. Goes to voicemail. Fucker is playing games. I needed an excuse to off him that would fly with the Americans, and this is it. No one takes the boss’s wife and expects to live.
I call again. On the third ring, the call connects.
“Where the fuck is she?”
“Ah, you’re home I see. Did you like the photograph?”
“You’re dead, motherfucker.”
He chuckles. “I don’t think so. See, I hold the trump card, and there’s a price to pay to get her back, mainly in one piece.”
He laughs again. I’m going to kill this bastardslowly. It doesn’t matter what he asks for, he won’t get it. But I’ll play the negotiation game until I come up with a plan to rescue her and put a bullet through this cunt’s brain—after I’ve carved out his insides and shoved his intestines down his throat.
“And what is that?” My voice is glacier cold, menace threaded through every word.
“Dylan’s business. That belongs to me. I worked for it. I’mowed it.Sign it over to me, and you’ll get wifey back. Don’t, and well, you read the note I’m sure.”
Vibrating with rage, I take a deep breath. I’m going to enjoy watching this cunt bleed out. “That will take time. There are complications.”
“You have twenty-four hours. After that, little Sorcha here starts losing body parts.”
