Rev It Up (37 page)

“Sonofabitch!” he cursed when the old lady changed lanes without looking, effectively cutting him off. He had to work the wheel, gearshift, and pedals as he listened to it ring on the other end. And he prayed to a God he wasn’t sure he believed in anymore that she would answer…

***

Michelle was in the middle of scooping chocolate chip ice cream into Franklin’s favorite Mickey Mouse bowl while leaving yet another message for Lisa—she’d already checked her email; there was nothing, and now she was
really
worried—when her land-line call-waiting sounded.

Thank, God,
she thought right before she clicked over. “Lisa? Where the heck are you? I’ve been wor—”

“Listen, Shell—”

“Rock?”

“
Oui, chère,
now listen closely, and don’t interrupt.” The tone of his voice had the hairs on the back of her neck standing up. “Johnny knows about you. We found your picture and your information in his hotel room and—”

The sound of a gunshot exploded overhead, and her entire world came to a screeching halt.

Franklin…

She dropped the phone and raced into the living room, jumping over the toy fire truck in the middle of the rug and banging her hip against the end table upon landing. It sent the glass lamp sitting on top smashing to floor, but she gave it no mind as she sprinted to the stairs.

Franklin…
That’s all she kept thinking over and over again.
My
boy…

She’d only made it halfway up the staircase when a dark shadow appeared on the landing above. Instinctively, she jerked back, her foot slipping on the tread below causing her to lose her balance and land in a heap on the cold, hard tiles of the foyer.

Scrambling to her feet, she wasted no time trying to determine if she’d broken anything in the fall—with the surge of adrenaline racing through her system, she wasn’t feeling anything anyway—as she attempted to make out the man’s face in the shadows.

She couldn’t. It was too dark with the hall lights off.

Of course, there was one shape she had no trouble discerning, and that was the distinctive outline of the pistol in his hands.

It was pointed straight at her head.

She threw her hands in the air as she glanced past his shoulder and screamed, “Franklin!”

She choked with relief when he called, “
Mama
?” His voice was high and frightened, but that didn’t matter because it was his
voice
. His sweet, sweet little voice. “What happened, Mama? What’s that noise?”

Her heart tripped over itself even as she sent a prayer of thanks skyward. And then she realized exactly what it meant that her son was still alive and well and asking questions…

Oh God, Jake. Oh, sweet Jesus…

“If you value your son’s life,” the man—Johnny?—hissed, slowly descending the stairs, “you’ll tell him to stay exactly where he is.”

She opened her mouth, but she couldn’t speak.

Jake’s dead. Jake’s dead. Jake’s—

The thought raced around and around inside her head, endlessly spinning until bile crawled up the back of her throat and the room began closing in on her. Then the sound of Franklin’s voice dragged her back from the edge of darkness.

“
Mama!
” he screamed again, and she was reminded her son was still alive. She had to keep it together, stay strong and smart for his sake.

She managed to swallow in order to yell, “S-stay in bed, sweetpea! I dropped a pan, that’s all. I’ll bring your ice cream to you in a little bit. Just watch your movie!”

“Nicely done,
Mama
,” Johnny jeered, his face coming into view when he reached the middle of the staircase and the light from the foyer washed over him.

He looked exactly like she imagined he would. The quintessential Italian mobster complete with slick dark hair, swarthy skin, leather jacket, and an expression that was 100 percent sociopath.

He’d have been handsome if it weren’t for the pure, black evil shining in his eyes.

“Back up,” he commanded, “into the kitchen.”

“My son—” she started, but he cut her off.

“Little Franklin will be just fine as long as his mama plays nice.” At the look of horror that washed over her face, he chuckled dryly. The sound was like a snake moving through dead leaves. A shiver raced down her spine in response.

“W-what do you want?” she managed, slowly backing toward the kitchen, wracking her brain for a way to save herself and her son.

Or, perhaps, just her son…

If she screamed at him to use the fire escape ladder stored beside his toy box to climb out his bedroom window, could he do it with his injury? They’d practiced the maneuver a lot, and each time he’d accomplished it with no problem, but he’d been healthy then. Or maybe she should yell for him to get up and run for the front door. But would she be able to wrestle with Johnny long enough to give Franklin a fighting chance? And would he actually leave if he saw her struggling with a strange man, or would her little warrior try to help?

“What do I want?” Johnny grinned, flashing a set of bleached teeth that were startlingly white. “Just to have a little fun.” The way he said the word
fun
made it sound filthy. “Don’t you want to have some fun?” He crudely waggled his tongue before winking.

Jake had a small armory upstairs. If she could just get past Johnny, she might be able to—

“I can see those wheels turning in that pretty head of yours,” he taunted, still herding her toward the kitchen, “but I can assure you there’s no escape. You see,” he moved his free hand up to his shoulder in order to remove the duffel bag she hadn’t realized he was carrying, “I have all the things that go
bang-bang
right here in this little bag. That guy I just popped sure liked his guns, didn’t he?”

Oh, Jake. I’m so sorry. So unbelievably sorry you only got to be a father for one day…
“What was he expecting? A zombie apocalypse? Or did you guys know I was coming?” Johnny cocked his head and eyed her speculatively before shrugging. “Doesn’t matter. Because along with confiscating his little arsenal, I was also careful to remove all the knives in your kitchen.”

She glanced over her shoulder to see her empty knife block.

“So, since I’m the only one with a weapon,” he waved his pistol from side-to-side when she turned back to him, “I’m calling the shots.”

Her hip bumped against the edge of her kitchen table, halting her retreat.

“Now turn that chair around,” he ordered, “and have a seat. It’s time for the games to begin.”

“Mama?” Franklin called, and she was forced to admit she was out of options. Her only hope now was that she could keep Johnny occupied long enough for Rock to get here and save her son from whatever fate Johnny had planned for him.

Oh, she knew that line about Franklin being fine as long as she played nice was nothing but bullcrap. From everything she’d heard about Johnny Vitiglioni, he wasn’t in the habit of leaving witnesses behind. Of course, he didn’t know the cavalry was on its way.

And she planned to use that to her advantage…

“Mama!”

“Don’t you get out of that bed, young man!” she yelled, hoping her tone sounded stern instead of terrified. “The doctor says you’re supposed to stay in bed, and I swear if you step one foot out of it, I’m giving you a spanking!”

She’d never given Franklin a spanking before, and she hoped the threat of one would scare him enough to make him mind her.

Please, God,
she prayed as Johnny smiled evilly, uncoiling a length of rope in his gloved hands,
please
let
him
mind
me. I don’t want him to see this…

***

The world came back to Jake a little at a time…

First there was pain. Terrible, burning pain in the side of his head.

Then there was light. A weak shaft that fell across his face and hurt his eyes when he opened them to blink in blurry confusion at the fixture burning out in the hallway.

And finally there was realization. He wasn’t dead. He’d been shot. In the head. But he wasn’t dead.

Huh
…

Gritting his teeth against the excruciating agony, he reached up and—

Well, that’s good.
His muscles actually responded to his command, which meant he wasn’t paralyzed. A fine start…

Running his fingers through his hair, he encountered blood. Lots of it. But there didn’t appear to be any holes. No wet, soggy void for his finger to dip into. His scalp, on the other hand, was a mess. It was ripped in a deep gash and part of it was hanging away from his skull like some sort of gruesome earflap.

Disgusting, to say the least. But in the grand scheme of things, and considering he’d be a corpse if that bullet had hit him one inch to the right, it wasn’t so bad.

He started cataloging the rest of his body parts, testing his limbs, when it suddenly occurred to him just
exactly
what had happened.

Yes, he’d been shot. That he knew. Case in point: the pool of blood and ripped scalp. But what he’d forgotten for a moment was that he’d been shot inside
Shell’s
house.

Where she and Franklin…

Sonofabitch!

He pushed up from the hardwood floor and slipped in the puddle of his own blood before managing to gain his footing. Reaching into his waistband, he discovered his pistol was gone and bent to check for his reserve weapon despite the fact that the move sent a thunderbolt of agony blasting through his skull.

Nada. Nothing but an empty leather ankle holster…

Not wasting one moment, he ran toward the closet where he’d stored the rest of the weapons he’d taken from the Black Knights’ armory only to discover his duffel bag missing from the top shelf.

“Fuck a duck!” he hissed, flying across the room, feeling the seconds piling up against him. He skidded to a halt when he saw the scarf draped on the edge of the mirror above the dresser. Barely giving his gruesome reflection a glance—yeah, he could be an extra in a slasher film—he pushed the flap of torn scalp firmly against his skull and then quickly wound the scarf around his head to hold it in place when he remembered…

My
knife!

He’d stored an extra KA-BAR beneath the mattress. A second later, he had the thing in hand, its deadly, seven-inch blade glinting in the overhead light as he silently stepped into the hall, cocking his head, listening…

The house was quiet. Too quiet.

How long had he been out? Was he too late to…?

He didn’t get any further in that line of thinking before he bent at the waist and vomited quietly onto the hallway rug. He’d like to say it was the head injury and the accompanying nausea that had him tossing his cookies—and that was certainly part of it—but the real truth of the matter was that the thought of losing his son and the only woman he’d ever loved had his stomach trying to exit his body through his throat.

Please, God, please, if you let them be alive,
he bargained with the Big Kahuna as he heaved again,
I
promise
I’ll love them and protect them until the day I die. No more secrets. No more running. No more blame. I’ll make this family work and—

The sound of the cartoon playing in Franklin’s room drifted to his ears and had him stumbling forward. In a split second he was across the hall, pushing into the bedroom, nearly fainting with relief when he saw his son’s wide,
alive
eyes staring at him from the middle of the bed.

The boy’s bottom lip began to quiver, his face scrunching up—uh-huh, Jake knew he was quite the sight, especially to a three-year-old, but there was nothing to be done for it now. So he simply held his finger to his mouth.

“Shh,” he whispered as he rushed across the room to kneel beside Franklin’s bed. “I need you to be really quiet for me, buddy. Can you do that?”

“J-Jake?”

“Yeah, little bro, it’s me.” He patted Franklin’s leg beneath the covers then winced when he saw the big, bloody handprint he’d left behind.

“You’ve g-got bwud,” Franklin announced, staring at him in wide-eyed horror.

Nope. The problem wasn’t that he
had
blood, but that he’d lost too much of the stuff. It was hard to concentrate beyond the dizziness that had his head spinning on his shoulders.