Hawk (Sex and Bullets Book 2) (9 page)

There’s silence, and Christ, I’m going crazy like this, unable to see or hear what’s happening. There were never any papers in my dad’s office, or in the house. The police—and myself—scoured every nook and corner. There’s a reason I went down this suicidal path.

“With the guards I’ve set around the warehouse, you can’t escape,” the Boss says.

I frown, an icy feeling forming in the pit of my stomach. Did Layla make it out?

“Remove his blindfold and get out,” Sandivar goes on.

“Yes, Boss.” The thug who tied me up approaches and pulls the blindfold off, then bends behind me to undo my hands. “All done. Better not try anything,” he warns as he straightens and steps back. He’s young, his hair a blond tumble of curls.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” I rub my reddened wrists and take my first look at the Boss. George Harry Sandivar, owner and CEO of Sandivar Real Estate. The first member of the Organization I have met, apart from my parents. That I know of, that is.

He seems to be in his late fifties, with a trim moustache and short dark hair, shot through with silver. In a slick gray suit, red tie, black polished shoes, he looks distinguished.

He looks
old
. No wonder he calls me “boy.” I wonder if all the Organization heads are his age.

“Look at me,” he says, lifting his bushy brows. “Take a good look. Because this is as close as you get at this point. This is my contribution. Now, to see yours.”

Fuck.
“What do you want to see?”

He shrugs, smirks. “Proof of your decision to join us, a proof of faith and dedication. We need to convince the council of the Organization that you are loyal, like your parents. That betraying them is not a character flaw.” He winks, and my face heats even though it was all a lie that I turned them in for this. “That you are competent and trustworthy.”

He’s mocking me. He doesn’t believe I’m any of those things.

“Of course,” I say smoothly and lean against the pillar, struggling to get up. “Makes perfect sense.”

He’s going to force me into something. Something bad. I know it, and the hairs on the back of my neck rise. I’ve known it since I decided to go through with this plan.

“Then you won’t mind sharing the information you got from the papers your parents kept.” He’s giving me a steely stare, and although I’m a pretty cocky bastard, it sends chills through me.

“Not at all.” The grin stretching my mouth hurts, and not just because of my swollen jaw and split lip. “But it’s information I’d like to discuss with the council of the Organization, you understand, I’m sure. I have some questions about our investments.” There. I used “our.” It should earn me points, right?

But Sandivar’s eyes only get colder. “You want to question our investments. You, a boy who hasn’t even been accepted in the Organization yet.”

Wait a sec…
“I already said I’m in.”

“That simple, is it?” He taps his forehead with a thick finger. “You’re, what, twenty-one?”

“Twenty-two,” I growl, and try to dial it down, because I sound like I’m three. “And your point is?”

“Young.”

Right.
That confirms my suspicions that the rest of the Organization leaders are dinosaurs.

“I’ve been our company’s chief financial officer for the past three years. My father taught me everything.” And the thought makes me sad. He was a good father, albeit distant. “I’m good at what I do.”

“Are you now?” He stares at me for a long time, as if he can see inside my head. “We need more than your word for it, boy. We’re taking you for a test drive.”

“The fuel levels are low,” I grumble, my mind turning his words over, trying to guess what he means to do. “Some real food would be nice. And a drink. A shower. A bed. You know.”

“I don’t care about your comfort,” he says, and I believe him. “The Organization doesn’t care about your goddamn comfort. Oh, you’ll get power and money, but don’t ever think it’s about your needs. We have bigger plans than this city, this state. This coast.”

The muscles in my back stiffen, and I fight the urge to sit up and do something. This is info. This is a clue.

Bigger plans. Just how much bigger are we talking about?

Shit.

“Okay, fine.” I force my voice to be level, neutral, just shy of bored. “So what do you want from me?”

His smirk is lazy and sharp. It’s the smirk of a very large predator. Shit, I should practice it for future use.

“You will make a phone call. And you will set up what I tell you, exactly as I tell you. And when that goes through without a hitch, then… Well, then, boy, you’re in, like you wanted, and I’ll answer your idiotic questions.”

Fair enough. So far so good. This was the sort of demand I’d expected.

I pretend to think about it. “What would I be setting up?”

The smirk widens. “We just want the same thing your parents gave us when they joined: a little insurance.”

Yeah, I bet you do.

***

My parents went through the same process.

The thought angers me and saddens me and makes me want to punch a wall. Had they changed their minds at some point, but had no way out? What sort of “insurance” did the Organization demand?

See my earlier thoughts: nothing good. Something they can later hold over your head in case you change your mind.

Fucking awesome.

And what do I have to show for my efforts and my amazeballs plan so far? The name of one top member and a vague threat of gearing up to take over the country.

Or the world?

Doesn’t matter. It’s something.

Not good enough, Hawk,
I hear my grandfather’s voice in my head.
Not nearly good enough. Not for the heir of the Fleming Empire. Not for someone who can change the world.

No pressure, Grandpa. No fucking pressure.

The urge to rub at the roses inked on my chest is overwhelming, like an itch I can’t scratch. Roses hiding secrets, the roses Storm, Rook and I had inked on our bodies when we were teenagers, agreeing that there were things we couldn’t share with each other yet—but would do, some day.

Fucking flowers. Fucking secrets. Sometimes I wish I could take them off my chest—both ink and my past—but every time I tried, I couldn’t. Couldn’t tell my friends about my loss of hearing. About my grandfather. About the feeling my life isn’t worth jack, and that I carry responsibility for the whole damn world.

Sandivar is talking with someone—on the phone, probably. They are behind me, and no matter how I twist around, I can’t see them.

Motherfucker. He’s fucking with my mind. Not hard to see how badly not seeing them rattles me.

I can hear snatches of their conversation. Nothing that makes sense. I try my best to relax where I’m sitting on the floor, arms wrapped around myself, the cold doing great things to my bruised ribs. Trying to prepare myself for whatever this asshole is about to ask of me.

In my mind I picture the faces of Rook and Storm—my childhood friends, distant cousins, and partners in this crazy plan—and almost laugh out loud. Storm pacing and cursing up a blue streak, and Rook glaring a hole into the wall and polishing his gun.

Wait, that came out wrong.

Getting ready for battle, anyway. Shitting bricks, waiting for me to ping them, to know I’m still alive.

Hell,
I
am shitting bricks. I need to get out alive. Need to bring the information home. That signal from my watch had better work. It’s a unique watch, custom made. True James Bond gadget. That made me grin when I got it, now not so much anymore.

I was assured by the manufacturer that it’s fail-proof. Always delivers. It also has a built in recorder.

Not that I’ve been able to make any use of that, but who cares? Main thing is to get my location to my friends and get the hell out of Dodge.

My time to make a difference, to gather info, is running out, though, which means I need to step up my efforts to pester Sandivar and get some answers before it’s too late.

And yeah, the thought of leaving cheers me up and makes me reckless.

Chuckling to myself—because, reckless, who me? That’s my middle name—I twist until I get to my knees. It’s slightly better than being on my ass, and I straighten my back.

I need names, goddammit.

“Now that we’re about to seal the deal, so to speak…” I roll my neck, roll my shoulders. “I was serious about the investment problem. I doubt your fuckboys here know what I’m talking about, so let me state this: we really should expand into toys.”

Silence greets my words.

“You want to expand our business into toys,” Sandivar says, the rise at the end of the phrase letting me know he’s equal parts amused and angry.

“Yeah. Toys.”

“What sort of toys?”

I smirk. “Sex toys.”

Footsteps approach me, and I keep myself very still to keep from flinching as he appears around a stack of boxes.

“If you don’t know that the sex industry is in the palm of our hand, boy,” Sandivar says, stopping a few feet away from me, “then what the hell do you know?”

Ah.

“I was hoping you’d say that.” Because I really was. I expected the Organization to have its filthy fingers dipping in that jar of money. So I press on, needing to get a name. “I have some ideas to pitch to the council. I’ve got a guy working on some designs. Old-fashioned, very Victorian. Real leather floggers and whips, leather manacles, leather everything. Masks and gags and corsets.” There, I’ve given my mouth free rein. “And caramel-flavored lube. Much better than the fruity ones, or even that Pina Colada one that’s going out of fashion now. And I have an idea about a kinky hotel chain, with pain rooms and—”

“We have the hotel chain.” Sandivar’s face has gone kinda red. “That’s enough. You’ll speak to the council after we get our insurance.”

I shut my mouth and let out a slow breath, hiding a grin.

Yeah, baby.
I just got one more name for my list: Ian Cronin, owner of the Cronin Scarlet Hotel chain—hotels famous for their dungeon-like rooms, mirrored ceilings, sex swings and cages. High-end luxury spa hotels with a kink.

Two council members so far ticked off.

And still a few more hours to go. I’m pretty sure I can get some more names out of Sandivar. Wanna bet?

I did tell you I’m a cocky asshole.

Layla

Getting out of the warehouse is a piece of cake for me. Squeezing out of the bathroom window, I look out for the sadistic thugs I encountered inside, but it seems there’s nobody posted on this side of the building. It’s its blind site, the only windows too small.

For the thugs. Or Hawk. Not for me.

I need a hideout where I sleep and rest, and hopefully charge my cell phone. The battery is on red, almost empty.

Still enough juice to call the police. Or Dorothy.

And if these gangsters smell something and kill Hawk? Would they? He’d looked so serious when he’d said that. Plus, the police didn’t believe me the first time, why would they now?

Christ.

The thought makes me shiver as I stalk along the warehouse, going as quietly as I can. As for hideouts…

I think I know just the place.

I make it to the end of the building and check for suspicious movement or hulking shapes of men lurking. The coast seems clear, but just in case I opt for a detour behind a dumpster and a low fence, crouching down to keep from being seen.

Reaching the office building, I circle around the back, to a door with an old-fashioned lock. I have the key to this one.

Hey, I did say I know this place like the palm of my hand, right? And I have insider information.

There’s no access from here to the rest of the building, and Dad wanted me to have a place to wait and do my homework if he wasn’t around when I came here after school sometimes.

Feels like two lifetimes ago.

It’s the door to a kitchenette that’s been out of use in the past few years. It’s more of a storage room now, full of papers and folders. You’d think my father never entered the electronic age.

Oh God, Dad… what have you done?

Maybe there’s a good explanation for all this, I think as I punch in the code. Maybe he was forced into it. Maybe he doesn’t really know who is being kept in the warehouse and what is being done to him.

Maybe he was blackmailed into this.

Or maybe he wants power and money, like Hawk insists he does—although right now I don’t believe any of it. And I’m angry at him, angry at my dad, angry at all the stupid men around me.

I close the door silently behind me, lock it, and sigh with relief. There’s a bench and a table among the paper stacks, and I lie down on the bench, looking up at the ceiling in the dark. The only light comes from a small window over the door.

What am I going to do?

I could stay out of it, like Hawk told me to. I could walk away and leave him to finish whatever it is he started. I owe him nothing, he doesn’t owe me, either—but the image of him with his face in his hands and my name on his lips before I left won’t let me rest.

Like a veiled plea underneath the bravado. A despair beneath the cockiness.

What exactly is he playing at? Is he really going to join this shady Organization and become no better than the guys torturing him right now? What is this plan he mentioned?

Hawk’s a crazy guy. Riding his motorcycle at breakneck speed through town, having sex in public, hiding who he is behind his leather-clad, bad-boy persona.

I don’t trust him not to get himself killed over some stupid bet or business deal. It’s like he needs something from these people and won’t leave until he gets it.

The guy who put his parents behind bars to take their place in this Organization.

Or who put them behind bars because they were in the Organization—and now? Is he trying to put more people behind bars?

I sit up on the narrow bench, gather in my knees and hug them. “Shit.”

Is that what he’s doing? Trying to get a confession out of these people? Maybe the police already know about this and that’s why they haven’t been looking for him? Is he working with the cops?

In that case, I should really get out of his way. Shit, I’ve probably been jeopardizing his plan, his safety, by hanging around.