Known (27 page)

The older John Doe’s new clothing and the Hispanic victim’s old clothing spun in Nora’s mind.
Could they have been hired by the Sullivans? Or was one of them part of the family?
She was liking the theory more and more. “Let’s find out if any family members are missing and request their bank records. Maybe we’ll get lucky with a suspiciously large payout.”

“Will do. But I’ll warn you, these people are the type who also hide cash in their mattresses.”

“Any other people with an ax to grind against Gianna Trask? Or her daughter?” asked Nora.

“I’m looking into some of the daughter’s friends. I’m waiting for my calls to be returned.”

“Good. I’m headed in. See you in a few.”

“Pick me up an Americano with half-and-half,” Henry begged.

She hit End on her phone without replying, but grinned as she put her car into gear.

It’d been easy to slip the new tracker onto Gianna’s rental car.

Now he knew where she was at all times. While her car was parked in the garage at the hotel downtown, he’d taken the time to review the last few days.

So much to cover up.

Looking back, he could see each mistake. His father didn’t need to know about them. So far he’d managed to keep them from leaking out, but if he didn’t recover the thumb drive soon, his father’s questions would become more persistent.

He had to find the storage device.

She and her daughter had not been meant to survive the flames and smoke. After prematurely killing the old man, he’d panicked, worried his father would find out he’d lost their primary lead to the thumb drive.

He’d thought the fire would be a perfect way to eliminate all evidence and cover his ass. If both the old man and Gianna Trask had died in a fire, there would have been no way his father could blame him for not finding the thumb drive first. He’d hauled the man’s body through the snow to the other cabin, berating himself every step for acting in haste and not thinking. He’d been wrong to hit the old man. He’d been wrong to shoot Rafael. He’d made too many moves without thinking first. The hike through the woods with a dead body had been an exhausting trek, but his fears over his father’s anger had driven every step.

He’d cautiously entered the cabin, but once inside he’d realized Rafael’s drugs had put the women to sleep. Gianna Trask was passed out on a sofa, and he’d assumed the daughter was above in the loft. He’d been fully prepared to shoot if confronted by one of the women. The need had never arisen.

He’d touched Gianna’s hair and considered taking advantage of her drugged state, but the thought of taking her in the same room as a dead man repulsed him.

He’d regretted passing up that chance a dozen times.

He’d set the fire and left, believing he’d solved his problems.

The fire had been another wrong decision.

When he’d returned the next day, he’d gone to a window and peered in, hesitant to enter the smoking, crumbling cabin. The couch where Gianna had lain was empty. Tracks went between the cabin and her Suburban. He’d checked the vehicle and found it empty, smashing the driver’s door glass in his fury.

Where had they gone?

Then he’d heard the snowmobile and dashed back into the woods.

Hidden, he’d watched her and the other man, his mind unable to plan his next move.

He’d fired, simply wanting them both dead.

So many mistakes.

All his life he’d reacted before thinking.

It was one of the reasons he’d been sent to the States.

But he was still in the clear. When someone asked what happened to Rafael, he would play innocent and claim he had failed to show up one day. As long as he was able to get the thumb drive to his father, everything would work out.

He took a deep breath.

I can make this work.

The old man had claimed he hadn’t given it to Gianna. He didn’t believe that now; he’d searched every place the old man could have hidden it. The woman had it somewhere, and what was on it could destroy his father.

Should I ask for more money once I have it?

He let his thoughts go down that path, imagining dangling the precious information over his father’s head. He didn’t know what the information was; he knew only that his father wanted it desperately.

Could it be worth millions?

His father had expected him to climb the company ladder. He’d seen it as a waste of time. Why should he have to work when his father had already done all the work? He should be able to enjoy the perks of his father’s success.
I am the only son. Why do I have to prove anything?

But now he was in a situation where he had access to something his father desperately wanted.

How much would he pay to have the thumb drive returned?

He backed away from that train of thought. His father would send other men to take the thumb drive away. And they wouldn’t be gentle about it. His best chance to redeem himself was to hand it over as soon as he had it.

He swallowed hard, noticing his lower back had started to sweat, stunned that he’d even considered going against his father.
At least I thought that idea through first.

He eyed Gianna’s tracker on his cell phone. He’d watched from the home behind hers as she discovered the break-in, and wasn’t surprised that she’d refused to sleep in the house the last two nights. That’s where he’d first seen the scarred man; he’d soon discovered he’d rescued the women from the fire. Some sort of self-appointed protector. Now he went everywhere Gianna went, hovering at her side, studying her surroundings like he expected an assassin to leap out.

Chris Jacobs.

He didn’t know where Jacobs stood in relation to Gianna, but he knew he didn’t like it. Not only did the man create a barrier he had to cross to get the thumb drive, he was pissing him off. Jacobs kept touching Gianna. The small of her back. Her upper arm. Her hand, to get her attention. It was setting him on edge.

He wanted to touch her. She’d consumed most of his thoughts during the night. Her long dark hair, her eyes, her hands. He loved her hands. Some men were into feet, but he liked hands, and Gianna’s were spectacular. She talked with her hands, looking extremely Italian when she passionately discussed something. They arched and fluttered, and he imagined them stroking his chest and shoulders. Would there be an opportunity for him to see her in the lingerie he’d grabbed in her home?
I must make that happen.

She and Jacobs didn’t appear to be a couple. There was no apparent intimacy between them. But he knew the look of a man who felt possessive about a woman, and Jacobs was dead serious when he stood next to Gianna.

Stay back.

Either they didn’t care to demonstrate their relationship in public or Gianna wasn’t aware of how Jacobs felt.

To him Jacobs might as well be wearing a sign staking his claim.

He knew how to tell when a man had claimed a woman. He’d picked up the skill in the nightclubs of South Africa. The men were like sentinels standing next to the women they’d chosen for the night. The women would chatter with their girlfriends, often ignoring the man at their side, but the men were always looking around them, making eye contact with the other men.
Hunt somewhere else.

He’d been bored in the nightclubs, their novelty having worn off within months. His father’s business didn’t hold his interest and his father had given up hope that he would take over one day. He’d tried attending the university and failed. He’d worked a half-dozen different jobs for his father’s huge corporation, seeking a position or division he found interesting. It didn’t exist. He shared a last name with one of the biggest businesses in the country, and he hated it. So he’d looked for entertainment, hanging out with his peers. Other bored young men. Some of them had successful careers, while others preferred to live on their fathers’ dime. Like him.

Politics. He wasn’t interested in politics but his closest friend believed he’d discovered a path to a new future. And it was violent. His birth country had a brutal past that it’d tried to overcome for decades. His friend believed that violence was the only way to continue, and his friend’s vivid passion had held his attention.

Something new. A different direction in which to try his hand.

He didn’t care about the fringe group’s politics or its focus on skin color, but he was excited by its techniques.

It believed in using pain to convince and punish, a concept that excited him.

The group’s primary purpose was to be a thorn in the side of the current political regime, but he’d focused on the physical havoc the group created, not the beliefs. Essentially he’d been given a license to destroy. Instead of telling him to hold back and think before he acted, now people encouraged his anger. And it felt good.

For his first assignment, he’d worked with two other men who’d already proven themselves to the organization. Their target had been another young man; he didn’t know who or why and he didn’t care. Electricity had rocketed through his limbs as they waited for the man to leave his friend’s house. The prey had strolled down the street, a cigarette in his hand, appearing more cocky than anyone had the right to be. They’d pounced. The first swing of the bat to the target’s knees had knocked him to the ground. Adrenaline flowing, he’d stepped forward and swung his bat straight down into the man’s belly. The victim had gasped and heaved.

“In the head! Hit him in the head!” the others screamed at him.

He brought his bat up for another swing and met the gaze of the terrified man on the ground. He was on his side, his knees pulled up to protect his gut, but for one long second his eyes were visible between his hands clasped over his face. He swung at his skull and the shock of the impact shot up through the bat to his arms, jolting his shoulders. A split second later, the sound of the blow reached his ears—a muffled wet crack.

The other men cheered and the bats swung faster. Blood flew from their ends. He swung two more times and then stepped back, panting like he’d been sprinting. Power surged through him and slammed into his brain, an addicting high.

He needed more.

He stepped back into the circle, but the body on the ground had gone silent, its arms and legs no longer moving in reaction to their swings. A foul smell filled the air and the other men stepped back.

“What the fuck is that smell?” muttered one.

“Death,” said the other. “Let’s get out of here.”

He froze, his gaze locked on the still body as the smell assaulted his nose. He spun around and vomited away from the dead man.

“Pussy!” The other men laughed. “Let’s go!”

He wiped at his mouth with his shirt and tasted blood. He stared at his expensive shirt. Trails of blood had been flung across his chest from the swinging bats and he hadn’t even noticed. He looked at his friends and saw they were covered in the same. For a brief second terror replaced his exaltation.
What if we get caught?
The other men started to run, and he ran after them.

Days later he’d stopped looking over his shoulder, his worry replaced by an overwhelming need to feel that rush of power again.

Over the next two years, he’d had a hand in four more deaths. Each time, the exhilarating high had raced through his nerves. To give that level of pain. To watch. To destroy the life essence of another. It became an addiction.

He’d found success. With this group he was someone. His ability to act fast and not overanalyze made him a perfect addition. And he’d done it on his own. His father’s wealth and name hadn’t come into play; he’d risen in their ranks on his own skills.

Then the police got too close. His closest associate was taken in for questioning, and he realized he had to ask for help. Fighting every fiber of his new independence, he went to the most powerful man he knew. His father.

His father found out everything. About the women, his friends, their politics, and every beating he’d participated in. What he’d believed were secrets among friends were immediately revealed once his father waved his money around.

He took note; money buys anything and
everyone
has their price.

He’d had to sit and listen to his father rant and rave.
Ungrateful
,
social pariah
,
sadist
. The tone and utter disappointment more powerful than the words.

His father immediately sent him to the States. His words burning in his son’s ears. “Because you are my only son, I won’t turn you over to the police. I got you a job with a respectable company. This man owes me a favor. Don’t blow it, because no one will bail you out next time.”

Now he felt his body surge, craving the power.

He needed it again.