Kingdom come, p.8
Kingdom Come, page 8
“What did you hear?”
“What do you know?”
Fuck, Josie was my one and only confidant, yet I’d been burnt too many times to count. “You said you wanted to live.”
A smile curled her red lips. “The Dellingers—something is happening between them and Tiller. That’s why old man Tiller wanted to see you last night.”
“You’re coming to some interesting conclusions,” I said a second before I shoveled the eggs into my mouth. They weren’t the best scrambled eggs I’d ever had, but they tasted a hell of a lot better than anything I could cook.
“Interesting, maybe. Conclusions, yeah,” she said. “Putting pieces of a puzzle together has worked real well for me.”
“Before it landed you in prison,” I said with a grin.
Josie took it well, waving her hand at me. “Little interruption. That’s all that was. Gave me time to think.”
“Oh, did that thinking involve working your way back into the old business?”
“I keep my eyes and ears open. Some of my skills aren’t what they used to be, but” —she winked— “I still recognize a job when I see it.”
I lowered my voice. “Don’t tell me you slipped Jethro a mickey.”
“No, not him. You.” She nodded toward the coffee.
If I didn’t trust this woman as much as I did, I’d be scared shitless. “If it was truth serum, it was a waste of your time. You know I’d never lie to you.”
“Like I said, the conversation last night was about the rich princess, Abernathy. I could only catch parts, but there’s something happening. That something includes the Dellingers.”
Includes.
“You mean Lorenzo.”
“No, that’s the thing. They talked about the old man but mentioned a first name of another one.” She scrunched her nose. “If I recall, his name is Dante.”
Dante was Lorenzo’s son and the brother of Cecilia’s mother. He’d been at that dinner in New York, but just like with Jethro, I preferred to deal with the boss. I’d never spoken to Dante.
Josie shook her head. “It was off. Not that Jethro’s ever been on. You know what I mean? Women, especially, have a sixth sense, even ones like me. Sure, in my day, if I got that feeling, I’d kill the asshole. But something is off. Could the kid be double-crossing the dad?”
“Lorenzo’s kid?”
“Tiller’s.”
I laid down my fork. “Well, fuck, Josie. My appetite just went away.”
“I could help you.”
“Help me with what?”
“Tell me that the princess is your job. I’ll keep my ears open and if we make it through this alive, you share some of your big payday with me.”
Was I going to return Cecilia to Tiller?
I didn’t have an answer.
“Josie, stay safe. Buy a burner. When I get—”
She lifted her hand. “Oh, sugar, I was running this before you were born. Call the bar tonight from a burner. Once you leave the number of another phone, burn the first. I love how cheap technology still works.” She tapped the bar. “Finish eating and don’t worry about the tab. You paid enough last night.”
A glance at my phone told me I didn’t have much time left.
My appetite had diminished, but with another bite of the warm eggs, it was back. I hurriedly finished the eggs and hash browns, before grabbing the bacon and toast. With everything in hand, I waved at Josie, and went out to the alley and to my car.
Forty minutes later, I was standing at the airline counter.
“I’m sorry, sir. The flight is delayed.”
Exteriorly, I remained stoic. Yelling at this poor woman wouldn’t help my situation. Inside, I was boiling. I had Cecilia’s location, or the location of whoever responded to my email, narrowed down to a fucking city block. Yes, the block contained more than one abandoned apartment building, but nevertheless, I couldn’t search until I made it to Boston.
The woman’s fingers were typing away. “There is a flight leaving” —she turned and looked at the clock— “in twenty-five minutes.” She looked around me. “Are you checking a bag?”
“Just this,” I said, pointing at my already-declared firearm.
“There’s one seat in first class. If you can make it through security, I’ll call the gate to let them know you’re arriving.”
“I’ll take it.”
As she printed the boarding pass, I thought to ask a question. “Where’s the layover?”
She handed me the small cardboard pass and claim ticket for my firearm. “No layover, Mr. Reynolds. You’re flying direct, as long as you make it through security in time.”
I looked down at the boarding pass and smiled.
If a person were to create multiple false identities, why not add perks to those identities.
There was my perk on top of the boarding pass—TSA Pre-check.
“I’ll make it.”
Cecilia
The door to the closet opened as short man appeared. Oddly, I no longer found the hockey masks scary. Somehow, they’d become normal. I waited while he stood in the doorway and light filtered around him. The silence lingered.
“Don’t you want to know why I’m here?” short man asked.
I did. “I’m sure you’ll tell me.”
“Thought you’d want to know, princess, you’re sold.”
Panic circulated through my bloodstream. This abduction had been and was already unthinkable, yet I’d had hope, the hope my mother had planted as a seed from the time I was very young. She and my father would stop at nothing to find me, to save me. “What about my parents? My family?”
The hockey mask shook as short man’s head moved. “Not my problem.”
I stood, bringing the sheet with me. It was unnecessary; these men had obviously seen every inch of me. “I don’t understand what you’re saying.”
He lifted his hand to the doorjamb and leaned on it as if this were some casual conversation. “Didn’t you go to fancy schools? Didn’t they teach you about commerce?” He didn’t pause. “It’s simple. There are things of value—commodities. People sell them. You know, think of you at a boutique. You find something you want and you buy it. That’s how this works. Our boss had a hot commodity. He found someone interested in that commodity and he sold it.”
“You’re talking about me. I’m not a commodity. I’m a person.”
“You are now whatever the fuck the buyer wants you to be.”
“No.” My one word sounded stronger than I felt.
“The transaction is complete. I’m here now because my job includes getting you ready for the transfer.”
The musty sheet wavered in my shaking grip. My entire body trembled as if the temperature had plummeted. The small amount of food I’d been given what I believed was this morning churned as I fought the urge to vomit. “This,” I forced the words to come out, “can’t be real.”
“Here’s the thing, princess, it is. The money came in quicker than we anticipated. You’ll meet your owner soon. He’s traveling from across the country. Now when this transaction happens, you will cooperate.”
“No. I’m not going to willingly go to some stranger.”
“You will.”
“Why do you think I will?”
“Because if you don’t, you’ll be punished.”
I didn’t respond.
“Here’s where it gets good, princess. Listen and listen closely. If you don’t do as you’re told, your punishment won’t just be sitting in your piss. Your punishment will be carried out on others.”
“Others?”
“Here it is. Your cooperation will keep your mother alive.”
My heart sank.
My mother.
Alarm sparked synapses through my body, making the small hairs on my arms stand to attention as I shook my head. “No.” Please make this stop. “My family won’t allow you to get near her. They have power.”
“How did that power work for you?”
It was a low blow, one that settled in my stomach.
Was I careless?
Had I put myself in this danger?
I hadn’t. I’d kept Matthew close.
That thought led to another. He was dead because of me.
Would my mother suffer the same fate?
“Trust me on this,” short man said, “when it comes to power, your new owner has more. Your mother, she likes to get coffee at a little shop in NoHo.”
She did.
“Imagine a clean shot from an undisclosed window across the street.”
Tears filled my eyes. “Please don’t hurt her.”
“That’s up to you, princess. I’m going to let you think about how cooperative you’re going to be.” He reached beyond the door and picked up another brown paper bag and offered it my direction. “Think of this as your last meal.”
My last meal.
Holding the sheet with one hand, I mindlessly reached for the bag.
Images of my mother raced through my thoughts. Born to a powerful family in a world of high stakes and crime, she had risen to the top. The perfect wife and mother, she was kind, thoughtful, and fragile. A delicate flower growing amongst the thorns, she was loved by all who knew her.
Where my grandfather and uncle ruled with an iron fist and my father did what he did, my mother was the buffer, such as her mother had been before her. I strove to be like both women while also forging a career for myself in Dellinger Hotels.
My thoughts were so consumed, I didn’t even notice that this was the first time I’d been brought food and not told to drop the sheet. As the door began to shut, I called out. My voice cracked as tears of utter defeat streamed from my eyes. “Wait, please.”
Though his back was to me, he paused.
“What do I have to do? What will I have to do?”
He didn’t turn. “Whatever you’re told.”
And with that the door shut and locked, leaving me alone with the only light coming from beneath the exit to my prison.
I collapsed onto the old cot, forgetting about the food.
My head shook as more sobs resonated from my chest.
How is this real?
I must have cried myself to sleep because when I woke, the light under the door was gone. My temples throbbed, my eyes felt burnt, and my mouth was dry from my shedding so many tears. When I reached for the water jug, the paper sack rustled.
Food. I’d forgotten about the food. I’d forgotten to eat.
After a long drink of water, I opened the bag.
I was expecting another soggy deli sandwich, but instead, I found there was a round container. I searched the bag and found a crinkly small plastic bag of oyster crackers, a plastic spoon, and a napkin. It was amazing how a simple plastic utensil seemed like a luxury.
“Of course it is,” I said to myself. “Remember, this is your last meal.”
Opening the container, I strained to see what was inside. Dipping my finger into the tepid contents, I found clam chowder—one of my favorites. Thick and creamy. The temperature was neither warm nor cold, settling with the surroundings. One taste and my stomach grumbled with hunger. Even unheated, the rich butter, cream, and clams tasted like heaven on my tongue. The small crackers gave me something to crunch. I continued eating until I was scraping the sides of the Styrofoam bowl.
Placing my trash back in the bag, I pulled the sheet around me, and leaned against the wall. My thoughts were on my mother and everything that I’d been told. I lifted my knees to my chest and wrapped my arms around them.
There was no way to describe my thoughts, my fears, or my emotions.
Looking into the darkness, I realized that soon I’d be away from this closet and from my three captors. That awareness should make me happy. I should be overjoyed.
I wasn’t.
As awful as they had been, my instincts told me that I could be going into a worse hell. And I was supposed to go to that hell willingly. Every ounce of preservation within me said to fight like hell, to not cooperate, to make this buyer sorry that he’d chosen me.
I felt the spirit within me.
I could fight.
One thought of my mother, and I knew I wouldn’t.
I held my breath as the lock disengaged and the door opened.
“Get up, princess. It’s time to move.”
Greyson
According to the correspondence I had with the auction site, Cecilia wouldn’t be given to the highest bidder for forty-eight hours post–closing bid. As I drove my rental car toward South Boston, I reminded myself that I had time to spare.
I’d been hired by Maxwell Tiller. If I handed Cecilia over, I’d get a payday and the promise of more. If I took her to her family, she’d be safe and I’d be a wanted man. No matter my decision, I couldn’t deny the sense of urgency pushing me forward.
I had picked up two burner phones in an airport shop. I’d be giving Josie a call at The Wasteland later. I’d also secured multiple remote hideouts for the next week in the wilderness of New Hampshire. It was better than staying in Boston while I figured out the next move.
The malware pinpointed the location where the email originated. That didn’t mean it was where Cecilia was being held. Hell, the email could have been sent from a Starbucks.
It hadn’t.
I’d looked up the address and the satellite image gave me the sense that this wasn’t an area of Boston where people came for Sunday strolls. The Roxbury neighborhood had a reputation for crime. It also was in the process of gentrification. That meant there were areas that had been rejuvenated, boasting beautiful brownstones with flowerboxes in the windows.
That wasn’t where I was headed. This real estate beyond my windows was thus far untouched by the gentrification. There were four- and five-story buildings, abandoned by the city, awaiting their turn to either be fixed up or torn down. Some of the structures were surrounded by chain-link fences with signs stating no trespassing. The transit stations I passed proclaimed the Orange Line.
Could Cecilia see the line or did she hear it? Or did she just know that the T was the nickname for this city’s transit?
I’d been worried about multiple buildings to search.
Apparently, the satellite image I’d used was old. Some of the buildings I’d seen on that image had been demolished.
At the point of the malware uptake, there was one building within a fenced lot. A part of me wanted to forget the lessons I’d learned and storm the building with guns blazing like some sort of television or movie character, the kind that always found his target, shot indiscriminately, hitting everyone and never being shot. If this were a fictional encounter, there would also probably be explosions.
Those action movies loved explosions.
This wasn’t a television show or a movie.
I wasn’t a superhero, and I’d had more than my share of failures.
Going in that building with guns blazing would more than likely result in getting myself shot, perhaps killed, and maybe even cause injury to Cecilia. My attempt wouldn’t end with her being freed.
Those were my thoughts. Trading whatever she was going through for my capture didn’t exactly fit the description of freedom.
I slowly drove around the block, taking in the entrances to the fence and building while watching for traffic. As I did, many questions went through my thoughts.
My sense of accomplishment at finding the location from the malware was short-lived.
Assuming that Cecilia was in there, I’d not only need to find her but get her back to my rented vehicle. I’d ruled out a Rambo-style rescue. And as I surveyed the area, there was much more open space than I was comfortable with.
Demolished buildings left open lots with no place to hide.
I looked up at the sky ladened with heavy clouds. While they were dreary enough, they wouldn’t give me the cover of darkness. My new flight had gotten me to Boston sooner than I planned. The sun wouldn’t set for another five hours.
“Hold on, Cecilia,” I said as I took a second lap.
Parking down the street in front of a building with a glass storefront lined with prison-like bars, I read the name of the restaurant. It was one of those places that locals frequented and at the moment, it was a place where I could sit and watch the building across the street. In my circling, I’d determined there were two entrances to the building, one in the front and another on this side.
A bell jingled as I pushed the door to the restaurant inward.
The overwhelming odor of grease and cooking oil hung in the air.
This was one of those restaurants where beyond the counter, the cook could be seen from the shoulders up. The old man’s wrinkly face was covered in perspiration as he appeared to be tending to a fry surface. Small pieces of paper hung from an old silver wheel with clips. The floor was covered in worn old tile, counters were Formica, and the seats at the counter and in the booths were covered in shiny plastic. Despite its obvious age, as I looked around, everything appeared to be clean.
“You staying or ordering takeout?” a woman asked from behind the counter.
The other patrons all stopped mid-bite or midsentence to look my direction.
“Staying,” I replied, smiling at her accent. I’d never before realized how much some of the New Orleans accents resembled those of the Northeast, especially Boston.
“Sit wherever you want. I’ll be right there.”
Taking a seat in a booth near the window, I had a decent view of both entrances of the building across the street. While formulating my plan was forefront in my thoughts, the aroma in the air had me thinking about food.
Besides my breakfast at The Wasteland, I’d had a panini sandwich on the plane. It was standard airplane food, the kind that was made a decade before and warmed in a small oven for the first-class passengers. It came with a bag of chips. First-class tickets also included free alcohol. I passed on that. Instead, I opted for something filled with caffeine.
After I’d ordered a sandwich and coffee, the small bell at the top of the door rang, announcing someone’s entry. I glanced away from the building across the street to watch as a well-dressed older man with dark hair peppered with gray entered the diner, heading over to the table where three men sat.
