Page 20 of On the Rocks
Not a soul in the hallway when we burst onto the top floor. My hand shakes like a fucking pussy ass as I shove the card against the reader. Red lights. Fuck this shit. I toss the plastic to the floor and kick in the god damn door.
Rage steals my sanity. My men sprawl on the floor. Joey with a bullet to the forehead. Nalin's shirt saturated with red. Wetness slushes in the carpet under our shoes, crunching the glass shards sprinkled by the couch.
Bedroom, kitchen, bathroom all fucking empty.
She's not here.
My wife is gone.
Trinity.
I think I'm having a fucking heart attack from the stabbing pain in my chest. Like a fucking mac truck sits on me, squeezing all the damn air from my lungs.
Her rings lay on the dining room table. Brilliant white stones catching the light. Sparkling brighter than stars in a clear night sky against the flawless ebony surface. Bands so tiny they only fit on the tip of my pinkie.
A huge smile graces her exquisite face as she holds out her trembling hand. Her gaze locked with mine as I slide them on her finger and kiss her delicate skin. “Never take them off.”
Her head tilts, confusion furrowing her brow. Love glowing in her gorgeous eyes. “Why would I?”
She trusted me. Believed in my vows to love and protect her. And I fucked up. So fucking bad. Worse than I ever imagined.
I will find her. I will put them back on her finger.
Dad’s hand curls over my shoulder. A reassuring squeeze that does fucking nothing to ease my fury. "He won't hurt her. It's just a ploy to draw you out. We'll play his game, destroy him, and get her back."
Fuck yes we will. We fucking have to. Because I have no other choice. I cannot live without her.
7
Chapter Seven
With my mencleaning the mess upstairs to keep the cops from turning into another fucking problem, I race down the hall and shove open the door markedSecurity. Passing by the office last night while searching for a place to fuck my beautiful wife. Panic wells up in stomach like I’m a motherfucking pussy. Never imagining that less than twenty-four hours later I would be here. Needing some wanna-be cop's help.
A tall man in a black tee and jeans steps out from the back room. His guarded expression reveals nothing as his gaze roves from me to my father and brother. "What can I help you with Mr. Deveraux?"
Good. He knows who the fuck I am because I don't have the time or the patience to explain myself. "I need to see the video from the past hour. Penthouse to driveway."
"I don't?"
"Pull up the god damn fucking video!"
He doesn't flinch from the Glock I yank out and ram into his forehead. With his chiseled body and calm demeanor, I'm guessing former military. Must have stared down death before. Maybe he has his own regrets. Right now I don't give a damn. I'm in the position I fucking loathe the most - dependent on another man. Either he helps me or he dies. It's that fucking simple, and we both know it.
His palms flip up. Acquiescing to my threat. A mutual understanding passing between us, and I stand down, allowing him space. He retreats to the room he came from, motioning for me to follow. Tucking my weapon back into my waistband while he navigates the keyboard. Silent and efficient. Which I appreciate on both accounts.
I can’t stop scanning the screens stacked four by six across the wall. Ready to fucking detonate from my sweet sunshine unconscious in that motherfucker’s arms as he carries her inside, trailed by the two dumb asses who let it happen and got what they so fucking deserve.
With a few more clicks, the images speed forward and the door swings open again. Butcher appears to be working alone, exiting our suite with only two gigantic black duffels the size of punching bags swinging from his hands. Relaxed yet focused, he hustles down the hall, bypassing the elevator to emerge from the stairwell into the bustling lobby. Side-stepping an overloaded bellhop cart and a group of women, surrounding a tour guide pointing to the tin ceiling, to glide through the glass doors. Looking side to side before jogging up to a white sedan parked twenty feet from the entrance. He casually tosses one sack inside the opened trunk before slamming down the lid.
The other one he sets gingerly on the back seat. Pushing the fabric firmly against the cushion to keep the duffel from tipping over.
Motherfucker.
Ire like I’ve never felt blasts through me. My beautiful, sweet, delicate wife is in that god damn fucking bag. Trinity’s waif-like body crammed into a nylon sack like fucking dirty clothes. “That son of a bitch.”
“I guess you got what you need.” The security guard spins around in his chair. Smart enough not to ask questions I won’t answer. “My visual coverage of the property ends about two hundred yards past the entrance gates on both sides. You’ll have to get your own team to track him after that.”
I nod. Well aware what needs to be done. Long, slow torture before I kill that motherfucking bastard.
