Page 66 of Dirty Gambit

His mother whimpered in the background. His father shouted something Jaxon couldn’t hear.

“Hurt them and all you’ll get is a shallow grave!” he snarled, resisting the urge to shatter the phone against the wall.

“Well, you better hurry then. And, Jaxon, I don’t think I need to tell you what will happen if you call the cops. Rest assured they will have a very hard time locating all the pieces that once belonged to your family should you fail this one rule. Do we have an understanding?”He barely let Jaxon respond when he barked,“Four hours.”And hung up.

The line buzzed against his ear, or maybe his brain was making the noise. It was hard to tell even after he hung up and the sound persisted. He turned to his aunt, hoping she would know what to do.

“What the hell are you doing?” she demanded, thin body swaying slightly side to side when Jessie shifted in her arms.

“I don’t know,” he confessed.

Thoughts flipped in rapid-fire, weighing and discarding every plan and idea that formulated. Jaxon moved past her to pace the length of the kitchen from counter to wall in eight stomping strides. His hand shook when he lifted it to rub against the prickle of his jaw. The bristle rasped under his nails, sounding much louder in the silence, but somehow, it comforted him some.

“I need to take one of the planes,” he croaked at last, gathering his wits and cementing his resolve. He met Frankie’s eyes from across the room. “I need you to take Jessie and Lena and hide in the shelter.”

The shelter under the house had been a running joke amongst the family. Whoever had built it had done so intending to start their own community. The place was a labyrinth of rooms carved deep beneath the earth. Over the years, since Frankie and Henri took ownership, they had built on it, adding plumbing and electricity, and fortifying its structure in the case of any disaster. It had become a pet project born from boredom. Jaxon had never been so happy about anything in his life.

“What are you going to do?” Frankie chased after him when Jaxon stormed from the kitchen.

“I’m going to talk to him,” he threw over his shoulder.

Frankie cut him off and planted herself in his path. “You’re going to talk to him?”

Jaxon didn’t balk under the doubt in the question. “Sure. We’re both reasonable men.”

One long fingered hand slapped into his chest, stopping him when he started pushing around her. “Don’t bullshit me, Jaxon,” she warned, voice deep and rumbling with authority. “You’re not going.”

“He has my parents,” Jaxon reminded her. “He’s going to cut them up into little pieces if he doesn’t get what he wants, and I would rather die than let him anywhere near Jessie or Lena. So, yes, I’m going over there. I am going to talk to him and make a reasonable offer.”

“And if that doesn’t work?” she countered hotly.

“Then I’ll kill him.”

Frankie’s mouth parted at the blunt honesty. “Jaxon—”

“It’s him or the people I love. Screw my soul. Let the devil take it, but I’m taking this fucker down first.”

She didn’t stop him the second time he pushed past her, but she followed him to the foyer. She stood back and watched in silence as he hoisted up the duffle bag of money and threw open the door.

People like Travis mainly understood the value of dollar bills. Anything could be bought or traded for the right amount, even people. Returning his money might be a good start to negotiating terms. If the man was reasonable, Jaxon might be able to buy Jessie and Lena’s freedom before supper time.

Jaxon took his aunt’s Robinson R44. It was his favorites, the one Frankie had trained him on and the one he’d picked up on the fastest. It was also the closest one to the door when he sprinted into the loading dock. He climbed in and wasted no time snapping on the controls. The duffle was tossed into the seat next to him as the blades started their spin. He closed his fingers around the collective stick and cyclic and pushed the machine off the ground.

The compact machine shot up with barely a nudge from him. It hit the air in a fluid lift that never failed to make his stomach pitch. He hung on as he pointed the nose in the proper direction and set off.

Unlike a car, driving a helicopter cross country meant a new set of rules to remember. Frankie wouldn’t even let him touch her planes until he could recite the manual backwards and forward. He could have flown to Paris with his eyes closed. But at that moment with panic a fitted noose around his throat, he struggled to remember his own name. A few times, he had to adjust his blades to keep from going too high or dropping too low. His torque dial fluttered at the hundred percent capacity, and he could hear Frankie’s voice telling him to tone back.

The two-and-a-half-day drive home was a tedious four-hour helicopter ride that spanned on for what felt like forever. He’d never been so happy to see the giant H on the roof of his parent’s house. It guided his soft landing, but he knew the people below would have heard it and know he was coming.

Duffle bag in hand, Jaxon hopped out. He’d expected at least one, armed guard to be waiting for him, but the rooftop was empty. He tried not to let the unease prickle at him as he crossed to the hatch leading into the building.

It was too quiet.

On a normal day, that may not have been so unusual. A house that large meant not seeing another soul for a while, but this silence was different. There was a pastiness to it that coated everything. Just walking across the upper floor to the stairway, his skin felt encrusted. But he kept his pace slow and calm. Whoever was watching his parents could have a gun on them. He couldn’t risk spooking them.

He saw the man in the torn jeans and filthy t-shirt first. He lounged in one of his mom’s white armchairs, ankles crossed on the coffee table. Chunks of dirt flecked off his battered boots and smeared across the glass. He beamed at Jaxon through two rows of crack-rotted teeth and a face littered in pockmarks and acne scars. Half of it was curtained by straggly gray hair that fell in lanky, unwashed knots to his shoulders. He raised hands littered with tattoos and dull, silver rings, and slapped them on the armrests.

“Jaxon!” He lunged to his feet, thin arms open wide as if expecting an embrace. The hem of his top rose up to expose a bloated gut drooping over his belt. “You made it. Perfect. That must be my money.”

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