Drive: Cougars, Cars and Kink, Book 1 (17 page)

Chapter Twenty-One

Neil figured they weren’t having a real fight. Stress and sub-drop had conspired to make Suzanne’s brain explode and, well, maybe stress and top-drop had made his not work as well as it should have, either. Janice would smack him for trying new games with a justifiably stressed-out sub, even games he thought of as pretty mild, games she’d suggested herself on a less totally fucking weird occasion.

Still, he needed to distract himself from worry about her off on her own, even if, as she’d pointed out, Mayhew Technologies was probably the safest place in the greater Boston area at the moment. It didn’t help that he suspected he’d been an idiot, hadn’t taken care of Suzanne in the right way. For that matter, maybe part of the issue was that, much as she was enjoying the kinky sex, she wasn’t feeling the same level of connection to him that he did to her. He truly didn’t want to think about that too much.

Doing something useful would help. He grabbed a set of keys, jingled them in his hand. The weight and familiar noise soothed his nerves as he ran down the stairs and headed outside. There wasn’t a door connecting the two halves of the house, so he knocked on his father’s back door. “Want to take a look at the Mustang?” he asked without preliminaries when his father answered.

“Hell yeah.”

Of course, in order to look at it, they had to take it for a drive first, though they didn’t make it a very long one.

And it was a good thing they did because on that ride, his dad caught a slight rattle in the passenger doorframe. Neil should have heard it before, but every other time he’d been in the car, he’d been distracted by Suzanne.

A pretty damn good reason for missing that tiniest of off sounds, even his father agreed.

“Let’s check it out,” Joe insisted. “Any other car, I’d say it was nothing. But this Mustang was her husband’s baby. It’s as shiny and perfect as the day someone drove it out of the dealer’s lot.”

“Yeah…so why didn’t he do something about that noise unless he wanted someone to hear it?” Neil was already turning the Mustang around as he asked the question.

They made it back to the house in record time.

* * * * *

Neil was good with cars, but this one was special in many ways. The property of a woman he was just a little crazy about. A heirloom from a dead husband who might have been a rat bastard but was also a genius and, if not a hero, someone who helped heroes do their jobs. Potential evidence in an investigation that involved murder, espionage and God only knew what else. And leaving all that aside, one of the sweetest cars he’d ever seen. Neil was confident, most of the time, but Neil was nervous about touching the car.

Luckily, his father had no such compunctions.

Probably because while he respected the car and the whole spies-and-killers-and-treason situation, his dad wasn’t madly in lust with the car’s rightful owner.

In lust and maybe a little in love. Which was definitely not
going to come up in conversation because Neil was having a hard time admitting it to himself, let alone to his dad or God forbid, the woman herself.

His dad could be calm about investigating that rattle, and that meant Neil could too.

They had to take the interior door panel off, but when they looked, they could see where it had been done before. Certain screws appeared to be replacements, not matching the ones on the other side. There was a tiny scratch near one of the replacement screws, in a place where you’d never see it unless you were looking to take the door apart—but given how pristine everything else was, it stood out.

Once they got the door apart, they discovered a small box from a jewelry store in the doorframe. “The man went to a lot of trouble to hide Christmas gifts,” Joe grumbled.

“You’ve talked to Suzanne. She’s sharp. You’d need to go to this much trouble.” Neil smiled as he said it, but he felt anything but jovial. He was excited in the same way he sometimes was when he found some seemingly insignificant clue that, to a trained eye, promised to be a key to a case, but anxious at the same time. Whatever was in this box had gotten a man killed, might have gotten Suzanne killed too if he hadn’t stopped to check out the Mustang and its beautiful owner.

He and his father both reached for the box, then stopped and said, in chorus, “Gloves!” Evidence found when “fixing a friend’s car” would still be admissible—you didn’t need a warrant to do a favor for a friend. If anyone asked, they’d say they hadn’t necessarily been looking for anything other than the source of the rattle, but once they saw the unlikely box…well, they were trained officers and they knew about Frank Mayhew’s missing documents.

Neil grabbed gloves from inside before he lifted the box out of its hiding place. He set the box down on the red leather passenger seat.

The phone rang, but he ignored it at first. It wouldn’t hurt to let her stew a little bit and besides, if he waited a few minutes and called her back, he’d have real news for her. Not all the answers, but possibly the source for the answers that everyone needed.

Right. Time to get those answers. He opened the box with exaggerated care.

It was full of foam padding, and nestled inside was a flash drive.

He held it up, let his father see it. His dad nodded, asked, “Gonna look at it?”

“No way in hell. Guy was an übergeek and this is national-security type stuff. I’m leaving it for people who know what they’re doing.”

“Point. It’s probably encrypted to self-destruct or something.”

When Neil heard “Mustang Sally” blaring from his phone for the second time in less than five minutes, he grabbed it. “Suzanne?” he said quickly, maybe too quickly.

He was answered with what sounded like screaming and the sound of struggle.

He took a deep breath, hung up the phone, and met his father’s eyes, now a stormy blue gray. Shit, before he’d said anything, the old man had sensed trouble. “They’ve grabbed Suzanne,” Neil said simply. “I’m going after her.” He wasn’t sure where he was going, exactly, other than toward Mayhew Tech’s headquarters. But he sure as hell wasn’t sitting still. With any luck she’d be able to hang on to her phone long enough for the tracking software to do some good.

“Shit.” His father nodded tightly. “I’ll grab my gun.”

Neil called the police immediately, trying to sound like a professional dealing with a situation, not a scared-shitless boyfriend. But he
was
a scared-shitless boyfriend. He understood fear did strange things to a person’s brain, but as it turned out, knowing that didn’t necessarily prevent the way terror made you babble. At least he had some idea of what they’d need to know on the other end of the phone. Knowing that calmed him enough to think through what to do next.

He ran inside to grab his own gun, rummaged through the papers on which he’d made notes until he found the name and number of the FBI agent Suzanne had spoken to. Thank goodness Suzanne had taken notes. He had the DoD contact’s number too, but that would be a later call. Ms. Chang would have contacts and probably intel the local guys would need, but Delvecchio was law enforcement; he and Neil would speak the same language.

Not to mention, they had something the FBI needed, so maybe the FBI would play nice.

Neil hadn’t actually intended to bring his father with him, just let him know what was going on. But why had he imagined for a second his father wouldn’t assume he was coming along?

When Joe strode out the door, his gun holstered at his hip, barely concealed by a light jacket, he looked better than he had in several years. More focused. More determined. A cop on the case, or maybe something more dramatic, like an older but very competent action hero, Liam Neeson maybe.

Well, cop or action hero, only an idiot went up against an unknown number of mysterious enemies alone. Even though Joe Callahan was Dad to him, the depressed, retired widowed dad he normally had to fuss over and motivate, Joe Callahan was first and foremost a decorated Boston police officer who’d been a cop longer than Neil had been alive
.
And right now he looked plenty motivated. “So what are we waiting for?” his father asked, heading toward the garage. “We taking the Charger?”

Neil tossed the keys to his dad. “You get us up out to Walton—it’s the next town over from Bellwood. I have calls to make. I’ll take over once we get there.” At least he knew where he needed to go for now. Suzanne’s call had definitely come from Mayhew, or near it. Thank goodness he’d insisted on that software, although right now he wasn’t getting a clear reading from it. He’d so hoped she would be right, that he was worrying too much. Unfortunately for them, his instincts had been good.

His father still drove like he had a siren on top of the car. What the hell? Luckily, Neil had his police ID on him and they were both licensed to carry concealed.

While his father drove, Neil called Bellwood and filled them in—they’d be sending an officer too—and then his own department. Not that there was a hell of a lot they could do yet; it wasn’t Boston’s jurisdiction. But he wanted them to know something was going on that might involve terrorists.

The sergeant on duty listened to him, asked the right questions, then paused before she said, “I know you, Callahan. I know your dad. I’m not even going to ask where you’re going or what you’re planning to do, because if I know, I’d have to try to stop you and I doubt I could without actual shooting.” Neil could picture her shaking her head. “Just do me a favor and don’t do anything too stupid. And keep an eye on Joe.”

Despite the tension—no, because of the tension—he laughed. “Right. You know how well that works. I’m his son. He’ll listen to me even less than he did to you and the lieutenants.”

Joe took one hand off the wheel long enough to smack him.

Neil was glad for that blessed bit of normality in a mad world, because the next call he had to make was to the FBI.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Don’t shoot me. If you shoot me, you’ll never get the information.
Maybe, if she thought it often enough, the two men would subliminally understand. Or not. After they shoved her in the back of her own car, duct tape over her mouth and more duct tape binding her wrists behind her back, and, rather confusingly, buckled her in, they’d ignored her. Ignored each other, for that matter. Suzanne kept hoping they’d talk to each other—maybe drop clues as to where they were taking her. Unfortunately, they maintained a stony silence.

The quiet was enough to make Suzanne want to scream and beat her fists on something just to make some noise. Only she couldn’t scream, thanks to the magic of duct tape, and couldn’t beat her hands on anything, at least not in a satisfactory way, for the same reason. This is not the fun kind of bondage, she thought, and laughed into the duct tape. Clearly she was close to hysteria, her mind wandering to all sorts of crazy places.

Neil would get those messages, and he’d find her. Somehow. He’d known where she was going. She had to have faith.

They were driving a fairly straightforward route and weren’t making any effort to hide their direction, which freaked her out
a
lot
. Did that mean it didn’t matter if she knew where they were because she wasn’t going to survive this encounter?

Maybe that was what they thought, but she was going to get through this. She wasn’t sure how, but she would get the best of whoever was behind this and live to testify against them. She was not going to die this way, killed by idiots looking to steal secrets she didn’t even have.

First step: don’t panic and, even though she had a cop on her team, don’t sit around waiting to be rescued like the kind of movie character she always wanted to dope-slap. If her kidnappers had used zip ties on her, she’d be in serious trouble; you needed scissors for those, and sharp scissors at that. But duct tape…with duct tape she might have a chance. The flexibility gained from years of yoga extended to her wrists as well.

Quietly, trying to make her movements as tiny as possible, she began to pick at the ends of the duct tape.

She might not get far, she admitted to herself, but at least she wasn’t sitting on her ass being a passive victim. She was trying to be self-rescuing.

The odd thought occurred to her that both her late husband and her new lover would approve of that sentiment. Apparently they had something in common besides a fondness for vintage cars. Figured this would dawn on her at a time it was totally useless, instead of when it might have pulled her out of a bad drop and prevented her from storming out on Neil like an over-dramatic teenager.

Right. Love is grand and all that, but focus on the damn tape. And once you get your hands free, figure out how if it’s safer to fling yourself from the car than to ride along with people who might be planning to kill you.

The driver turned off the highway. Made a few turns. Headed down a high-end suburban street, the kind that made the one where she and Frank lived look middle-class. Frank had liked his creature comforts, but he was ostentatious only with the cars. This neighborhood was definitely Conspicuous Consumptionville.

Suzanne realized with a horrified start that she’d been there before.

She’d played right into her kidnapper’s hands.

* * * * *

Neil and his father burst into the lobby at Mayhew, only to find something that might or might not be a crime scene. At first they tried to brush him off, but he showed his badge.

“Your friend’s car’s not here,” the Walton cop said, “but the man she had a meeting with has been out sick for a few days. It’s possible she went to his home, since the receptionist said they knew each other.”

“Ly Vo?” The other cop nodded. “That has to be a mistake. Mr. Vo contacted Ms. Mayhew this afternoon and asked her to meet with him here at seven. She called me right when she got here.” Neil stressed the name, reminding the officer who the missing woman was: not just his friend, but the wife of this company’s founder. He only wished he could tell the whole story, make it clear why he was so frantic. “Are you sure we’re talking about the same man?”

The cop nodded. “That’s the name. The CEO. I guess everyone’s concerned about him because he’s not the kind to call in sick, and if he has to, he’s calling and Skyping in all the time. This time, not so much. Several people mentioned he and Ms. Mayhew know each other from when her late husband ran the company, so we’re hoping maybe he called to change the meeting to his place. Only all the security cameras for the parking lot are down, which is suspicious.”

Neil’s heart stopped for a second, then started up again double-time. “She was saying they pride themselves on their security here. There was screaming on the phone.”

“I’d really like to believe it was just some weird background noise that we’ll figure when we analyze it. But if you guys are Boston PD I’m sure you can tell the difference. Hard to believe a kidnapping happening in this town, but that’s probably what we’re looking at.” He met first Joe’s eyes, then Neil’s. “Plus, I got a call from Bellwood, so I know about that incident. Not all the details, but that Bellwood’s sending out detectives to join us.”

Neil nodded. “You should check out Ly Vo’s house.”
And I’ll check out where the software’s telling me to go.
P.S. Frank Mayhew was murdered by Iranian spies, the FBI knows Suzanne’s disappeared, and someone from their Boston bureau will be in touch with your office, but I’m not at liberty to tell you that.

Soon, Neil and his father were leaving Mayhew, Neil frantically Googling for a home address for Ly Vo to see if what the tracking software hinted matched his suspicions.

It did.

“The good news,” Neil said, sounding more blithe than he felt, “is Suzanne has tracking software on her phone.”

His father sputtered, “And you didn’t tell them? Why?”

“I hoped they’d have a lead and we wouldn’t have to use it. She knows it’s on there, so it’s legal, but it was bound to lead to awkward questions and I didn’t want to hang around explaining myself when we can go get her. Walton’s still clueless, and the FBI isn’t here yet, so it’s up to us.”

Which translated to infiltrating someone else’s case.

Sometimes you had to do what you had to do. He was a cop, and his father had been a cop, to protect the innocent. This time protecting the innocent might involve bending a few laws. Maybe in potentially career-ending ways, depending on who he pissed off with this maneuver, but why quibble about details when Suzanne was in danger?

“Come on, then,” his father said. “Tell me where to go. I’ll phone in an anonymous tip once you figure out where she’s likely to be. They can do the arresting.”

“And I’ll get her out of there.”

Neil hoped it worked: the part about someone getting her out, at least.

It would be satisfying to be the hero for Suzanne, but it didn’t matter, in the long run, who rescued her as long as someone did.

All he cared about was Suzanne’s safety.

* * * * *

Suzanne had been right about where they were headed. They’d be there in about five minutes if she remembered correctly. And she’d made almost no progress with the damn tape.

Shit.

Maybe it would help that her kidnapper had once poured her drinks in this same over-the-top suburban wannabe mansion, that she’d created his beautiful kitchen for him.

Or maybe not.

She’d been kidnapped on the behest of her husband’s successor at Mayhew and, she’d always thought, the closest thing Frank had to an actual friend—not just a colleague or a fellow car aficionado, but a friend. Her friend too, or at least friendly acquaintance, she’d thought. It sickened her to realize she’d basically set up her own kidnapping because for all her paranoia she hadn’t been paranoid enough, had listened to her own suburban instincts instead of to Neil’s.

White-haired Boy yanked Suzanne from the car and shoved her forward. She cursed behind the damnable duct tape as she stumbled, but caught herself before she fell. Thank goodness for small mercies, and for having really worked on those balance exercises in yoga; a stumble with bound hands could easily turn into a face plant and she had enough troubles without breaking her nose. To her surprise, Craggyface caught her arm, far more gently than she’d expected from someone who’d had a gun pressed into her back before and probably would again.

“Don’t damage her,” he barked at the younger man. His voice was as gruff as his face. He had a slight accent, Eastern European, she thought. “That is not part of the plan.”

“Not yet,” White-haired Boy said. His almost colorless eyes gleamed in a creepy way. From those few words, his English sounded almost too perfect. Suzanne suspected he too was speaking a second language, but had forced out all traces of an accent. His voice was startlingly affectless, flat.

She’d been more scared of Craggyface at first, still had a healthy amount of respect for his still-unseen gun, but the younger man had just risen in her threat assessment. Craggyface seemed a guy doing a job, but the kid sounded like a well-controlled psycho.

“Move,” White-haired Psycho Boy barked, yanking at her arm to guide her.

I know where I’m going
, she thought.
It’s a monster of a house, but Ly Vo will be waiting for me in his office.

Sadly, she had no way to convey that, not with duct tape over her mouth. Still, she forced herself to go into the faux-Tudor monstrosity with her head high, as if her fashion statement didn’t involve duct tape and a gun poking at her left kidney, not to mention, choking on terror.

One thing about being married to Frank: she’d gotten really good at pretending everything was fine when it wasn’t. Who knew it would come in handy under such dramatic circumstances?

She’d been right, though it was hardly a great victory. The thugs guided her through a familiar big open plan living room-dining room that opened onto a state-of-the-art kitchen she’d designed to amuse Ly’s mother when she visited, and down a wide hallway toward a room she’d seen while visiting or working on the kitchen but had never had a reason to spend much time in: Ly Vo’s home office.

She’d always suspected this was the room that suited his actual tastes best. It was grand and a bit Downton Abbey, but lived-in, comfortable, and most of the books that lined the walls looked like they’d been read many times. Ly Vo was behind a desk—not the steel-and-wood computer station where he actually worked, but the grand mahogany faux-antique that went with the Ye Olde Manor’s Library décor of the room. He usually looked imposing behind the vast desk, despite being a slight man, but he was slouched as if he were too exhausted to stay upright.
Crime doesn’t come naturally to him; I’ve seen him on a release day when I know damn well he hasn’t slept for thirty-hours and he looked better than this.
Unlike much of the geek elite, Ly tended to be a sharp dresser. Today, though, he wore a rumpled MIT T-shirt that looked like it had been slept in for more than one night. His hair stuck out in all directions, not in some artful avant-garde style but like he hadn’t washed or combed it.

He managed a smile for her when she was shoved in the door, and she thought it was genuine, if strained. “Forgive me if I don’t stand,” he said, “but I’m a little tied up right now.” He gave a cool, but angry nod to the two thugs, like a hero in an old spy thriller, in a precarious situation but still bantering. Suzanne couldn’t see Craggyface, but White-haired Boy did a double take. “This is what I get for hiring someone straight out of college,” Ly added, glaring at White-haired Boy. “It’s easy to get good references when you’re an intern. You’re not around long enough for people to figure out you’re a terrorist psycho as well as a decent mechanical engineer.”

And then she saw the dark ropes that attached Ly to his chair.

Shit. She might have been able to make Ly Vo see reason if he’d been the one masterminding this mess. But if he was a victim too…

Well, at least she had one of the smartest men in the country on her side.