Cheyenne McCray - Point Blank (Lawmen Book 4) (18 page)

“I’ll talk with you later,” he said.

She hurried to her booth, all but forgetting about being drugged. Being in Mark’s control was too overwhelming to put much thought into anything else.

If only Brooks
could
rescue her from this mess.

She was the one person who could help herself out of this disaster, this horrible situation, and keep everyone safe. But she saw only one way to do that.

The day dragged. Fear expanded in her chest like hot lava the two times the K9 officer passed by her showroom and looked in.

She jumped every time she saw a man who looked remotely like Hector Gonzales. When she had seen the cocaine and he’d pulled that gun on her, she’d known her life had changed forever.

It was nearing the close of day when Hector walked through the door. He smiled broadly, as if sharing some kind of special secret. She wondered if she had it in her to kill him, too.

“What do you want?” Her words came out in a snarl that surprised her.

He raised his brows and made a tsking sound. “You should consider improving your attitude, Ms. Simpson.”

“I’m doing what Mark wants.” She clenched her hands to keep from throwing something much harder than a grapefruit at him. She’d like to swing one of the damned statuettes at his head and feel the satisfying connection. “Leave me alone.”

He laughed and the sound shot a horrible sensation from her head to her toes, like huge spiders scrabbling over her body. “From now on, you will be watched.” He shrugged. “Get used to it.”

She would never get used to it. It didn’t come as a surprise to her that she’d been right. “Fine.” She glared at Hector. “Go ahead and watch me. Just don’t talk to me.”

His face darkened. “I think you might need a lesson. I’ll speak to Okle about that.”

Goose bumps rose on her flesh. “That won’t be necessary. Your secret and your product are safe.”

“It had certainly better be.” He lowered his voice even though no one was in the room with them. “If it was up to me, you would be dead by now.”

“Of course. I wouldn’t dream of crossing anyone.” She put on a sickly sweet expression and her voice dripped with poisoned honey. “Do have a
wonderful
day, Mr. Gonzales.”

She turned her back on him and started dusting everything but the statuettes. They could be caked in dirt for all she cared.

It was a long time before she looked over her shoulder and she let out a long breath of air. He was gone.

Selena could be a cold bitch.

Mark held back a grin as his gaze rested on her hard features as she took in the scene he had set up in the boiler room beneath the building he used as his warehouse. Of course he’d had the area cleaned when he bought the warehouse and it wasn’t quite as dark and dirty as it had been back when it was in use.

Sometimes Selena took care of his “problems,” but she also knew how much he enjoyed dealing with them in his own way.

He liked that she could be so cold in situations like this. Loved it, actually. She watched with disinterest as the short, sniveling excuse of a man begged for his life as he sat bound in a chair in front of them. He wondered if Selena experienced the same kind of pleasure he did in these moments.

Mark turned his gaze from her and narrowed his eyes as he looked at the whiny little bastard who had been stealing from him and had gone to the Feds.

Pancho stood nearby, his arms folded across his chest and his face tight, a witness to what would happen next. He would make sure the other employees knew every detail of what was to happen now.

Francis Faderic would pay for his crimes in the most painful ways imaginable.

And then he would die.

The dark-haired shit thief and nark, who was all of five-six, shook and trembled in the chair he was bound to as sweat rolled down his narrow face. Mark hadn’t even touched him yet.

“I—I didn’t steal from you. I’d never go to the cops.” Francis sniffed as snot ran from his nose and over his upper lip. “Pancho is fucking lying.”

Mark gave an exaggerated sigh. “Let’s try this again.” He picked up a flat blue breaker bar he had lying on a nearby table and hefted it. The sharpened hammer claw caught a glint of light. This would be a good start, a warning to his other employees. “Not what it was intended for…” He examined the bar. “But it will do in a pinch.”

“Wait!” Francis shrieked as Mark swung the bar. The shit screamed as the bar connected with his face. Blood spurted as the claw flayed his cheek open.

Mark nearly smiled as he held onto the bar and surveyed the wound—not too deep and not too shallow. He wouldn’t kill Francis. Not yet.

“I’ll talk.” Tears flooded Francis’s eyes as blood flowed down his cheek and he swayed in his seat. He shrieked the words this time as Mark swung the bar again. “I’ll talk!”

The thrill of the moment sent a rush of pleasure through Mark. This time the tip of one claw sliced off a piece of Francis’s nose. The shit screamed and sobbed and his words came out with a strangled sound as more blood flowed. “I’m sorry. I—I’ll give it all back, Mr. Okle. It’s in my mother’s house.”

“That wasn’t so hard.” Mark looked at Pancho. “Put Francis’s hand on the table.”

“What?” Francis looked wildly from Mark to Pancho and back as tears and blood saturated his white T-shirt. “Oh, God. I said I’ll talk. I’ll tell you everything.”

Mark turned to Selena. “You know what to do with Francis’s dear mother.”

Francis’s eyes looked as though he’d gone insane as his gaze jerked from Mark to Selena. “Don’t hurt my mother. She didn’t do anything.”

Selena stared at Francis, her expression as cool as it had ever been. She slid her attention to Mark. “I’ll take care of it.”

“Bring one of the men with you,” he said.

“I can handle one little old woman.” She brushed her lips over Mark’s before she left him and walked up the concrete stairs that led to a secret door into his warehouse office.

“No!” Francis shrieked.

When she was gone, Mark turned his attention back to Francis and nodded to Pancho.

Mark watched Pancho cut the rope binding one of Francis’s hands from a chair spindle. Pancho grasped the shit’s right arm. Francis was still bound to the chair by his shoulders and his left arm and ankles.

Mark had left enough leeway to allow Francis’s arm to be put on the table. Pancho pinned Francis to the surface by the wrist and elbow. The shit squirmed and yanked on his arm, trying to get it away from Pancho, but Francis wasn’t nearly as strong.

“You are going to give us more information about the coke.” Mark raised the bar again. “First I want to hear exactly what you told the Feds.”

“I—” Francis gave a terrified screech as Mark brought the claw down toward his hand.

The claw severed Francis’s index finger. This time the shit didn’t stop screaming until Pancho backhand him. Francis bit his lip, twisting and sobbing, agony written on his face. It was clear he was in too much pain to get a word out as his stub oozed blood.

Mark waited patiently for a good thirty seconds, watching the shit and letting his reality sink in. “Tell me how many times you talked to the Feds, and what you told them, Francis.”

“One time. That was all.” Francis was drenched with sweat, snot, and blood. He rushed his words as he spoke. “I only told the Feds when the next shipment is due. I didn’t tell them where or who the supplier is.” Francis’s throat worked. “I swear.”

“Why don’t I believe you?” Mark set the bar on the table and braced his hands on the scarred surface. “I think you are holding information back.”

Francis looked from Mark to Pancho and back. The shit’s entire body shook. “That’s everything. I swear, that’s everything.”

“I think we should clean those wounds and stop the bleeding.” Mark nodded to Pancho, who grabbed a bottle of rubbing alcohol that Mark had set out with a variety of tools.

Francis shook his head, screaming. “No. Please, God.
No.
”

“I am not God.” Mark braced his hands on the table, avoiding the blood as he stared at Francis. “But I do control whether you live or die, and just how much pain you will feel.”

Tears gushed down Francis’s face. Pancho picked up pile of rags and dropped them beside the bottle of rubbing alcohol. He grabbed Francis’s arm. The shit struggled, but Pancho got a good hold on the arm.

Pancho held the bottle of rubbing alcohol over the stump of Francis’s index finger as the shit continued to beg. Mark knew just how much agony Francis would be going through at that moment, and Mark wanted to laugh. Pancho tipped the bottle and the clear fluid spilled out and splashed over the shit’s bloody stump.

Francis’s screams echoed in Mark’s ears as he smiled and turned away.

Natasha’s entire body ached as she unlocked the door to her Bisbee shop Monday morning. Bells tinkled above her as she stepped through the opening, cool Arizona January air following her inside. She shut and locked the door behind her. She didn’t bother to turn on the lights. She leaned against the door, dropped her purse on the floor with a thunk, and tipped her head to look up at the dark ceiling.

She was glad to be away from the tradeshow. The last days had been a nightmare come to life. She had startled at the slightest movement; wanted to throw up every time she saw Hector or someone who looked like him; had the desire to duck under a table and hide whenever the K9 cop passed by her showroom; and her whole body turned into one big ball of nerves every time she was certain she was being watched.

Her nails dug into her palms as she clenched her fingers. She hadn’t been able to stop trembling while she had supervised the “buyers” taking their purchases at the end of the show. Knowing that the framed and numbered prints had marijuana hidden in the backing, and that the crates of statuettes were filled with cocaine, had caused her stomach to churn. She’d never been so relieved in her life to see anything or anyone go as the trucks left the building.

A part of her had wanted to see Brooks again, but she hadn’t. Sometimes she was positive she felt his presence, as if he was watching over her, but she never saw him. Apparently when she changed rooms and refused to take his multiple calls, he’d gotten the message. The thought of not seeing him again, never being with him again, made her chest hurt and she pressed her hand over her heart as if that would alleviate the ache.

The memory of their night together had stayed with her. Somehow it was the one light during the dark days that had followed.

She blew out her breath and lowered her head to stare at the things in her shop. She had to pull herself together. She brushed her sweating palms on her denim-clad thighs. Instead of boots she wore robin’s egg-blue Keds, one of the most subdued colors of the many pairs of Keds she owned. The long flannel sunrise-pink shirt was warm enough to keep the chill from her torso, but not warm enough to chase away the chill in her belly. She hadn’t worn any jewelry, including her butterfly watch. She didn’t have it in her to wear pretty things.

Her gaze drifted over the art and other things she enjoyed. Or had enjoyed. Even though she was glad to be away from Denver, she wanted to be anywhere but Bisbee. No amount of perusing her “Color makes me happy” Pinterest board would make her feel lighter or happy now. Maybe forever.

The idea of moving to Arizona had been so exciting—an adventure waiting to happen. She should have stayed in Indiana and been content with her life as it was. The slow, sleepy little town that had once been so boring would be a welcome refuge now. None of this would have happened if she hadn’t felt that sense of wanderlust and desire to experience new things and start a new life.

Her throat ached. Would she ever be the free spirit she had once been? How could she when she was trapped like this? She had been someone who danced in the rain, sang in the shower at the top of her lungs, ran barefoot through the grass, talked easily with anyone she met, spoke without thinking, laughed until she cried, and loved with all her body and soul.

Was that woman gone?

The ringing of her cell phone startled her. She wasn’t used to the generic ring she’d changed it to. Somehow it seemed too harsh, too loud. She dug the phone out of her purse and looked at the screen. Mark. Of course.

She answered the phone in a flat tone. “What do you want?”

“I’m checking in on my investment.” He sounded hearty and smug, and she wanted to stab him. Multiple times. “And you, my dear, are my biggest investment.”

She squeezed her eyes shut.
Screw you.
“You’ve talked with me. Now you can leave me alone.”

Mark’s voice hardened. “Watch your attitude, Natasha. I saved you by keeping you in my employment. That could change.”

“What can I do for you?” She hated how resigned she sounded.

“The Seattle show you told me about will be here before you know it,” he said. “I want to make sure you’re prepared.”

Her dry throat felt scratchy as she spoke. “Everything is in place, like usual.”

“We are going to ship more prints and statuettes than ever before,” he said. “We’ll be moving a lot of product.”

“That’s wonderful.”

He didn’t miss the sarcasm in her voice. “I told you to watch it, Natasha.”

She opened her eyes and stared at an antique stained glass lamp. “Is there anything else?”

“Know that I will always have an eye on you.” Mark’s cold statement caused her to shiver. “If you go to any law enforcement agencies, I will find out. I will know every move you make.” His mood seemed to lift as he added. “I’m sending you a message to show you I mean business.”

“That’s not necessary.” She swallowed as a chill ran through her. “You have my cooperation and you know I’m not going to cross you.”

“Consider it a reminder.” He disconnected the call.

Natasha found her breathing coming hard and fast as she leaned her back against the door. What was Mark going to do to make it clear how much power he had over her?

The door handle rattled and she nearly screamed. She pushed away from the door and spun to see Christie on the other side of the glass.

Christie smiled and gave a little wave.