Gambled - A Titan Novella (10 page)

They left the Hummer, and she ignored the wayward glances from the lone bellboy and front desk girl manning the graveyard shift. Sarah’s and Bethany’s clothes were tattered, and their bodies were scratched. Quite the sight. Sarah led the way to her suite and opened the door. Her adrenaline had fizzled, but determination was front and center. Brock needed help, and she’d make it happen. Every other need—sleep and thirst—was secondary.

Without Sarah giving Bethany any direction, the girl crawled into bed and fell asleep immediately. Sarah sat down at the desk and stared at all of Jared’s emergency messages. Each said to call, but none left a phone number.

Sugar.

Sarah jumped for her cell phone and hoped it would turn on. It’d been on airplane mode since she’d boarded the plane a day ago. No telling if it needed to charge before she could use it.

It sat at the bottom of her purse and—
bingo
—still had fifteen percent charge left. No international calling, but she could pull up her contacts and use the hotel room phone to call.

A moment later, Sarah was asking the operator to connect a call to the US, then Sugar answered on the second ring.

Her voice was sleep drenched. “Hello?”

“It’s Sarah. Wake up.”

Sugar’s voice cleared. “You okay? It’s the middle of the night. Wait. Aren’t you on vacation—”

“Yeah. Was. I need Jared’s help.”

“Help?” The one-word question was loaded with confusion.

There wasn’t enough time to explain. Simple version. “Jared asked Brock to do a job—”

Sugar sucked in a wary breath. “Jared did what?”

Come on, Sugar
. Sarah kept plowing through her explanation. She really just needed Jared on the phone. “Asked Brock to do a job. To rescue a girl. She’s safe. With me. But Brock’s still there. I had to leave him behind.”

“
What?
Hold on.”

Muffled voices sounded in the background. “Sarah.” Jared boomed into her ear. “You have the girl?”

“Bethany’s with me. Brock’s not.”

“You both safe?”

“Fine, Jared.” Sarah glanced at Bethany, who’d burrowed deep under the covers. “Fine enough. She wasn’t hurt and wants to call her parents, but she’s sleeping. Brock didn’t make it home with us. They have him.”

Sarah’s heart screamed in her ears waiting for Jared to respond. He didn’t.

“Jared!”

He cursed. “Sorry, but Brock knew the deal. I don’t have anyone down there who can help.”

Wrong answer. “So get someone down here.”

“Sarah—”

Sugar’s voice pulled Jared away from the call, but Sarah couldn’t make out their conversation. Hushed, harsh whispers volleyed back and forth on the other side. Scattered sentences filtered through her earpiece. “No way.” “Not alive.” “Never going to happen.”

Tears burned Sarah’s eyes. They were talking about her husband. The one who she’d abandoned at home and then again in Saint Lucia. Her insides cramped in desperation, and the tears escaped, running down her cheeks. “Jared, please. Get him. Save him.”

He sighed into the phone. “We don’t have any intel. You don’t even know that he was taken alive.”

“How do you think I got this girl here? I was there. I saw it all, heard it all. I know he was alive because he told me to go. To save Bethany. And I did. Now it’s your turn.”

“You were there?”

“Yes. He needed help, and I was the only option. Now, you’re the only option.” She could almost see Jared shaking his head, not believing that she’d been there. “He’s alive.”

“
You
were—”

Really? He wants to focus on me?
There wasn’t time for this. “What, Jared? I’m too broken to help? Useless? Pathetic? Take your pick. But I helped Brock because he needed it. I survived, and Brock will too, so help me God.”

Sugar started in on Jared again in the background. Sarah would kill to hear specifics.

Jared grumbled back to the phone. “Sarah?”

“Yes?”
Please, please
. She swallowed the apprehension choking her windpipe.

“See you in a few hours.” The line went dead.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Falling asleep hadn’t been part of Sarah’s plan, but exhaustion called the shots. She blinked her eyes open and ached.
Brock.
Then she jumped. A shadow in the sun-drenched room shifted.

Jared stood in the corner of her suite, looking out the window. “You’re a light sleeper.”

“You’re in my room.”

“Knocking’s not really my style.” A knock sounded. “But it is Sugar’s.”

He walked over and let his wife in. Bethany snored next to Sarah on the bed but didn’t stir. She tucked the teenager in. “How long have you been here?”

“About ten seconds.”

Sugar rolled her eyes as she waved. “He didn’t knock?”

Sarah shook her head. How long had she been out? Checking the alarm clock, not that long. They’d definitely hopped a private jet and maybe even a helicopter from the airport.

Jared ignored them. “Here’s how this is going to go. It’s a long shot that your man’s alive.”

Her chest seized, but Sarah nodded.

“You and Sugar are going to get Bethany safely stowed on a waiting jet. I’ll go see what there is to see about Brock. If it’s good news, I’ll bring him home to you. If it’s not, at least you’ll know.”

“Jesus, babe.” Sugar cocked one hip out and propped a hand on it. “Quit the dick role already.”

Jared glared. “Let’s not pretend this—”

“Thank you.” Sarah slipped out of bed and tucked the comforter around Bethany. “I understand what happened. So, just…” Pain choked her silent.

Sugar slammed Jared with a glare. “No need to explain or apologize.”

He cursed, threw Sugar a kiss, and stalked to the door. “I’ll be back, with or without Brock.”

***

Back to square one
. Brock was handcuffed to the wall where he had found the girl earlier. Weak-muscled and mind spent, he was content to hang by the wrists. His legs had started clotting, and the pool of blood tapered off on the floor. Between the bloody wounds stymieing into scabs and having a good feeling Sarah had safely evacuated with the victim, he would rest long enough to rejuvenate and bust ass back to the resort. Someone would have to kill him before he gave up on his rope and ice cream shopping list.

The deadbolt lock turned.
Well, so much for taking it easy
.

A well-dressed man walked in, eyeing him. It was the same man who the security team had evacuated with a flak jacket the night before.

“Glad to see you are awake.” His pointy nose and beady eyes went perfectly with his French accent.

Brock shrugged. The better-than-thou attitude always irked him. “I’ve been in and out. Accommodations could be nicer.”

“Aren’t you cute?”

“My wife thinks so.”
Maybe
.

The Frenchman pulled a cigarette container and gold-plated lighter from his pocket. With much fanfare, he selected a hand-rolled cigarette and lit it. Sweet tobacco burned into the air. “You stole from me.”

Brock squinted one eye and tilted his head, sarcastically considering what the man had said. “I returned something that wasn’t yours to take.”

The man rolled his cigarette between his thumb and forefinger. “You have quite the attitude for a bleeding man tied to a hook.”

“I’ve made a lot of bad decisions lately. Starting to think I shouldn’t trust my own judgment.”

The Frenchman took a long drag and let the smoke waft out his mouth while he paced the tiny room. “Interesting.”

He shrugged. “Not really.”

“I agree.”

Brock laughed and dropped his gaze. “Fucker.”

Polished shoes stopped pacing by his busted calf. He knew what would come next. Bad news was always so predictable. But the pain still exploded when the Frenchman reared back his toe and punted into his leg. Vicious torment shot up his thigh and down to his toes. Brock grunted, absorbing the impact.

“Tough man,” Frenchie sneered.

“Just another day in the life of me.” Brock gritted his teeth together. “Each one getting better than the last.”

“Explain to me why one man freed my girl?”

“Seemed like the right thing to do. You sickos have messed with enough kids. My day would be a better day if someone took you out. Penance for making the world a worse place.”

“Ah, and I think the same about you.” Smoke encircled the man’s head. “I hate losing my merchandise.”

Brock’s brow pinched, and his molars ground. “She’s a kid, asshole.”

“She was my product. Hand-selected, I’ll have you know. That young woman met very specific criteria I’d been searching for. And for losing her, you will pay.”

Anger boiled under Brock’s skin. “Nothing about that kid was a woman. Get over yourself.”

Frenchie took a small pistol from his pocket. It was gold-plated and matched the lighter.

Of course.
Brock chuckled. “We going to do this now? You’re just going to blow my brains out with your fancy one-shot?”

“There is always something distasteful about Americans.” Frenchie paced the room again then stopped and ashed his cigarette over Brock’s leg. “But you don’t seem to care about your life.”

He pretended not to care, but it gave him an idea. “Gimme a smoke and let’s do get it over with. I’m not into big, drawn-out ordeals.”

Frenchie laughed. “Very well. A cigarette, and that will be that. Certainly won’t miss all the crying and pleading that comes with this part of the job.”

Brock dropped his shoulders like a defeated pussy.
Dumbass
. Frenchie removed a set of keys from his pocket and reached for Brock’s handcuffs. His hands dropped; pins and needles tingled from his fingertips to elbows. He rolled his wrists and massaged his fingers then rubbed his eyes, playing the part of a dead man walking. Well, dead man sitting, readying to smoke his final cigarette.
I hate cigarettes.

The Frenchman held the hand-rolled tobacco toward Brock. He accepted, wrinkling his forehead and letting his shoulders hang even more despondently. “At least I got the girl.”

“Whatever, as you Americans say. Seems that would be the least of your concerns.”

Brock’s head rolled, and he eyed the door behind Frenchie, then pathetically prattled about how he’d lived his life with honor. The cigarette stuck to Brock’s lip, and he let it hang until the Frenchman bent over with the lighter. Brock inhaled, savoring the disgusting burn, smiling with appreciation toward his captor. “
Merci
.”

Frenchie’s beady eyes pinched and acknowledged the thank you.

Brock sucked down another gag-inducing drag of the cigarette. The long embers reddened and burned. Smoke wafted around his head, sliding out his mouth as he let a sickening, relaxed exhale set his mood. Contemplative. Ready to meet his maker.

Frenchie seemed to appreciate the need for the nicotine. His guard was down, and Brock was in prime position. In a flash, he blew the smoke out hard, threw the long end of the cigarette into Frenchie’s eyes, and followed with a right hook to the jaw.

An eruption of pain traveled through Brock’s legs. The pistol skittered across the room. He lunged across the floor. His fresh scabs roared, stinging and throbbing pain. Nauseous from the pain and nicotine, he swallowed a threatening dry heave and snagged the pistol off the floor. A quick look over his shoulder, and he cocked the fancy hammer and let the engraved, plated pistol explode at point-blank range.

Frenchie had been mid-rebound. Arms outstretched, he’d been throwing himself toward the gun also. But momentum stopped. Blood splattered. The blast echoed in the tiny room.

Whoever else was in the house surely heard the blast.
Time to move.
Brock checked Frenchie for additional firepower but came up empty-handed. He rolled off the floor, staggering to the wall and to the door. Brilliant agony pierced his breaths. Each struggling step sent shards of pain cutting through his veins. Gritting his teeth until his jaw could crack, Brock sweated each miserable move.

The deadbolt was unlocked, and he dragged himself out the door with the pansy-assed pistol in hand. No one rushed up the stairs.
Guess shooting inside didn’t break any house rules
. But if Frenchie didn’t appear soon, it would probably raise some eyebrows. Brock had to get out fast. Too bad nothing about his leg injuries made fast easy.

Slinking down one god-awful step at a time, he thought about Sarah. About his girls. Brock would make it home, no questions asked. He’d make them a new life. Whatever Sarah wanted. New school? No problem. A job? If she wanted one, it was hers to figure out. She could redecorate, re-wardrobe, re-anything. If she wanted
more
, he would figure out a way to support them. Whatever they wanted in life.

Cheering men stole him away from his pain-numbing thoughts. But had there been another noise? Brock peered through a banister rail. No men in sight. Scooting down the remainder of the stairs, he listened to the trafficker’s men in the parlor. Soccer broadcast loudly on a television and no one reacted to the other sound Brock was sure he had heard.