Fearless: Complicated Creatures Part Three (30 page)

His hands moved around her waist and locked her closer, making her feel the hardness of his body. “I can tell the exact determination of how bad you are but how good you feel,” he responded, and Rox looped her arms around his neck, checking the time on her slim diamond wristwatch over his shoulder so she could see the time.

Bingo.
Ten o’clock on the dot.

Dichter’s phone vibrated in his pocket, distracting him.

“You’d better answer that,” she suggested languidly, moving away so he could reach into his pocket.

“It’s nothing—” he paused, noting the number coming from his home. A brief look of concern crossed his features before he turned away.

Dichter answered the phone, speaking quickly in Hebrew before he was interrupted. He listened closely before turning to face her, his mouth pulled tight like a bowstring as he held the phone to his ear. He saw the tranquilizer gun in her hand, roughly the same size and shape of a standard 9mm. His eyes raked over her as if he were seeing her clearly for the first time, assessing the extent of danger he was in.

“What do you want?” Dichter asked flatly, the magic gone.

“It’s come to my attention that a colleague of mine is in the market for the kind of weapons a man like you is willing to sell for the right price.”

He stood very still. “I don’t know what you’re referring to.”

“You will after you look at the video that’s being sent to you,” Rox told him, the hint of a smile playing at her mouth.

“What video—?” his phone dinged softly with the incoming message, right on time.

Dichter looked down at the screen, his eyes widening. Avi was in his home in French Hill, videoing his little girl watching some kind of children’s movie with the nanny in real-time. He watched in horrified silence as Avi shot the nanny with his own tranq gun, her body tensing, then slowly releasing as her head fell back against the pillows. The little girl continued watching the movie, utterly enthralled and unaware of the danger right behind her.

“Alright—
alright
,” Dichter snapped, a flash of panic skittering across face as he looked at Rox. “There’s no need to harm her—just tell me what you want.”

“There’s a man who is looking for access to a cache of military-grade weapons, variable-yield bombs specifically. Has anyone contacted you?”

“No,” he shook his head vehemently. “I don’t have access to those kinds of bombs anyway—”

“You’re head of Taas’s weapons research and manufacturing division, darling,” she tutted. “Do you honestly think I’m buying that you don’t have access to these weapons much less deal on the side?”

Dichter took a step back, glancing around, but Rox shook her head in warning. “Before you think of causing a scene, I’d like to remind you that my team is less than two feet away from your precious baby girl.”

He stood rigid, his face a mask of barely controlled fury. She had him pinned and he knew it. That didn’t stop the flame of hatred and the fantasy of revenge from blazing his eyes.

“A Frenchman,” he stated flatly. “He’s going by the name Phillipe Gerard. He contacted me two weeks ago about an acquisition.”

Phillipe Gerard
. That rung a bell. It was one of the aliases Lucien Lightner was using on his fake passports.

“And what is he looking to acquire?” Rox asked.

Dichter made a noise of frustration. “Heavy aerial weapons.”

“Be more specific.”

“Guided rockets, mortar and artillery,” he answered tightly. “Who are you?” he shot back, taking a step toward her.

“Not so fast,” Rox pointed the tranq gun at his chest. “I can make it so you never see your daughter again, Dichter. Better to cooperate at this point, don’t you agree?”

He paused. “You won’t hurt her.”

“Not unless you make me do something drastic. When are you meeting?”

“You might as well kill me,” Dichter told her harshly. “If you don’t, he will once he figures out I betrayed him. I’ll be finished.”

“Or you can meet with him as planned, get me the information I need, and leave Israel with your daughter intact,” Rox replied. “I think that’s the better alternative, don’t you?”

Another soft ding signaled a new message. Dichter looked down at the phone. He made an involuntary noise when he saw Avi’s gloved hand hovering over his little girl’s head, as if he were about to pet her. She was too enthralled with the movie to notice, cuddled as she was against the unconscious figure of her nanny, still unaware that something was horribly, horribly wrong.

“We’re meeting on Sunday at 11 p.m.,” he confessed in a rush. “There’s a warehouse at the Port of Ashdod.” Dichter looked at her pleadingly. “Please just tell your men not to hurt my daughter. I’m begging you—”

Rox shot him with the tranquilizer. Dichter gaped in shock, plucking the dart from his shoulder, his eyes burning as he held it up, already feeling its effects as he swayed toward her.

“You bitch—”

Rox watched as he stumbled toward her before falling to the ground in a heap. She stepped over his prone form, snatching the dart from his stiff fingers. He looked up at her, paralyzed and barely conscious.

“Your daughter will be safe until the transaction is over,” she told him in a low whisper. “As long as the meeting goes as planned, you will see her again. Don’t do it, and I’ll send you pieces of your daughter one by one.”

“I’ll kill you—” Dichter slurred, eyes closing as the Xylazine kicked in.

“Better men have tried,” Rox murmured as she took his phone and cloned it to hers before deleting the videos that Avi’d sent him, altering the call log so all trace of contact was gone. Then she slipped his phone back into his pocket as if nothing had happened, with a card that said, “
Keep your promises and all will be well.”

She touched her earpiece. “It’s done,” she said in a low voice. “Are you sure this will work?”

“Trust me,” Avi responded. “This is a father’s worst nightmare—to have the most innocent and precious thing in his life spirited away from him in the night. He’ll do whatever he needs to in order to get her back.”

*

April—Afternoon

Wyatt Ranch, Texas

J A C K

The two-hour flight
down to Texas from Chicago felt like one of the longest of his life. When they were less than a few minutes out from the small airfield near Wyatt Ranch, Jack stared through the window at the rolling amber plains that stretched out as far as the eye could see. The last time Jack had seen Wyatt Ranch from the sky, he’d been bringing Jaime home from Rio, angry and mourning the end of his relationship with Samantha. Now, as the jet approached the airfield and began its descent, Jack felt the tight bud of hope unfurling in his heart. He didn’t know what would happen—if she would forgive him—but he knew it was the best he’d felt in months.

When the jet landed, Jack saw Alejandro de Soto leaning against a dark SUV emblazoned with the Wyatt Ranch logo. Though they’d been speaking on the phone regularly, Jack hadn’t seen Alejandro since high school when they’d trained at the boxing gym in Little Italy together.

“It’s good to see you, man,” Jack told him sincerely as they shook hands.

“Wish I could say the same.” Alejandro inclined his head. “You got me into some seriously deep shit with Wyatt. She nearly put a bullet hole in me when she found out I was talking to you,
cabrón
,” he finished with a smirk.

Jack tossed his bag into the backseat. “How did she find out about our deal in the first place?”

“I told her, man.” Alejo started the truck. “You and I may go back, but she and I were soldiers together. We have history, and I can’t go against her on this.”

“Hopefully after today, you won’t have to,” Jack replied honestly as he took in the austere beauty of the prairie surrounding them.

It was a short drive to the ranch. After clearing a security checkpoint at the main gate, Alejandro steered the truck up a long gravel drive past big red barns. Jack watched Quarter Horse ponies trotting around a large corral, their flanks bristling with energy. Beyond the barns, he could see gated ranchlands dotted with steer as ranch hands baled hay on large tractors.

Jack was pleasantly surprised by the lovely Spanish Colonial home Alejandro parked in front of on a wide circular drive. Lush rose bushes surrounded fresh white stucco walls. Vibrant green ivy crawled up ornamental iron work to a baked terracotta roof, and a water fountain with colorful hand-painted tiles gurgled in the mid-afternoon sun.

“Wyatt just finished physio,” Alejandro told him as they got out of the truck. “She’ll be in the library.” He pointed toward a large patio where two guards dressed like cowboys stood at the arches of a lovely arcade, each holding semi-automatic weapons. The stark contrast was jolting against the idyllic backdrop, reminding Jack of the vigilance Sam had to live under while Lightner was still alive and out there… somewhere.

“How many men are guarding her?” he asked warily.

“Far more than you can see,” Alejandro replied easily. “This ranch is locked down tighter than Fort Knox. The only reason you’re getting to Wyatt is because she’s allowing it.”

Jack released the breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. “I’m relieved to hear it.”

“I’ll get your bag. She has you set up in the guest house if you want to stay the night. The jet will be waiting, so it’s up to you whether you stay or go.”

“I’ll stay,” Jack responded firmly.

“We’ll see,” Alejandro replied with a shrug. “Go on through. She’s expecting you.”

The guards’ eyes passed over him, impassive at first, though he was eventually acknowledged with brief nods as he stepped past and into the shaded arcade through the open library doors. The room was long and rectangular, lined with floor-to-ceiling bookcases stuffed with volumes that looked like a well-read collection of everything from first editions to dog-eared paperbacks. The area was serene and lovely with cowhides and kilim rugs covering beautifully wood-worked floors. Plump leather chairs were situated in front of a lavish fireplace and an imposing desk rested at the far-end of the space, that could have doubled as a barge.

Jack wandered in front of a handsome glass case filled with memorabilia. The top shelf was covered in military medals and commendations that were awarded to her grandfather, her father, then her. The second shelf held silver-framed photos. Jack leaned forward to admire a photograph of Samantha as a tiny wisp of a thing. She wore a pretty floral dress as she gripped the hand of an older man who must have been her grandfather, his black hair shot with silver, his smiling face lined with age and character. Another picture showed her little brother holding up a bass about the length of his arm, eyes brimming with pride as he stood next to a towheaded boy that Jack guessed was Carey. A third silver frame held a picture of her father, darkly handsome in his Navy dress whites, his arms around a Japanese woman in a floral kimono on what looked like their wedding day. The woman he held was delicate and lovely, and Jack could immediately see resemblances of Samantha in both of them.

“Sammy got her daddy’s eyes and his temper too,” a deep voice said from behind him.

Jack turned, surprised to find a behemoth of a man who looked like a cross between the Marlboro Man and a Viking standing in the doorway. The man was dressed in jeans, boots, and a plaid cowboy shirt. He had thick blond hair with white wings at his temples and a strongly defined face that looked cured from years of toiling outdoors.

“You must be Grant.” Jack strode forward to clasp the man’s hand.

“And you must be Jack Roman,” Grant replied as he gave Jack a long, considering glance, his blue eyes deep set and bright as the summer sky.

“I am.”

“Carey tells me you bought out their top competitor.”

“I did.”

“Why?” Grant asked without preamble.

Jack smiled. He liked this man. He was protective, and Jack appreciated that.

“Because I’m in love with Samantha,” Jack replied candidly. “And I would do anything to protect her—including taking out anyone who would harm her. Or Carey for that matter,” he added tactfully.

“You in love with my son too?” Grant asked, brow raised.

“No, but I like him a great deal,” Jack replied, straight-faced. “It’s just he’s not as pretty as Samantha.”

Grant’s mouth lifted in a smile, his eyes crinkling with good humor. “Few are,” he answered, walking casually past Jack toward the built-in bar. He lifted a heavy crystal tumbler. “You drink?”

“Ah—no. Thanks.” Jack didn’t bother elaborating.

Grant poured himself a measure of whisky and took a slow sip as he mulled Jack over. He had a laid-back way about him, but Jack wasn’t fooled. He’d seen Samantha and Carey play the same Texan charm act, all affable allure and unpolished edges that drew you in with a friendliness that seemed easy and approachable when it was anything but.

“What are you doing here, Jack?” Grant asked, cradling the glass.

Jack faced him. “Samantha asked me here.”

“That’s not what I’m asking and you know it.”

Jack had never really gone through any meetings with the parents of his past paramours, and if he had, he certainly hadn’t taken any of them seriously. But the offhand amusement lurking around the corners of Grant’s mouth didn’t mask the penetrating intelligence in his eyes. He wanted to know who Jack was, and what the hell he wanted with the woman he considered a daughter. Jack respected the man all the more for it.