Risk (5 page)

“If this is about me, then I should stay,” Ryan said, pleased that he sounded normal because his hands were shaking again, this time from fear.

“Can you shoot?” Vanderlock asked.

“No.”

“Then please get into the house. Keep away from the windows and tell Ruth as well.”

“No. I won't let you take a bullet meant for me.”

Vanderlock gave him a glance. “Caldridge is the only one I'll take a bullet for, so you needn't worry. Now get inside.” Caldridge was checking her gun and glanced sideways at Vanderlock but didn't comment.

“I'll stay here,” she said. “Cover me?”

Vanderlock nodded. “Then take this and give me yours. The shotgun is more impressive at first glance.”

They switched weapons and Vanderlock followed Gage, who was already down the steps and onto the back lawn. As if by unspoken agreement they split apart. Vanderlock headed right and Gage left. They melted into the trees. Caldridge stepped through the French doors into the house and hugged the wall where the glass door began, but watched the yard. She kept the shotgun in her hand. Ryan stepped past her into the house and saw Ruth to his right, hovering near the wall on the side opposite Caldridge and peering through a nearby window.

“We're supposed to stay away from the windows,” he said.

“Not a chance. I want to see this,” Ruth replied. “Here.” She held out a large, wicked-looking butcher knife and showed him a second one, slightly smaller but no less solid. “They're from the kitchen.” He took the knife and joined her at the window.

“Do you see them?” he whispered to Caldridge.

She shook her head and kept watching the lawn.

Two men stepped out from the path, both holding guns. Neither was the heavyset man who had shot at him. One was skinny and tall, the other average height. Both had sandy-colored hair trimmed in a bowl cut that gave them an odd, old fashioned air. Both looked angry as hell.

Neither man saw Gage and Vanderlock emerge from the trees behind them. Vanderlock did something to his gun and it made a loud clicking noise. Ryan didn't know anything about guns, but to him it sounded like a bullet being chambered. It must have to the men as well, because both froze. Vanderlock moved up behind the skinny one and put the muzzle to the base of the man's skull, and Gage slid the knife down along the other man's thigh before moving it between his legs and pushing upward. The man gave a surprised shriek and paled.

“Don't make me cut,” Gage said. “Both of you drop the guns.”

The guns fell to the grass. Despite the rapid change in the power dynamic, both men remained defiant.

Caldridge stepped out onto the porch, standing in a wide stance and holding the gun up and ready.

“Give us Ryan,” the skinny one said.

Caldridge kept the shotgun on her hip as she picked up her glass of scotch and took a slow sip. She shook her head.

“No.” She spoke in a conversational voice, as if they were discussing something friendly.

“We'll do what it takes,” the second man said. “We don't show up with Ryan, then there are others that will take our place. He won't get away.” The man had a triumphant and strangely intent look in his eye.

“Maybe you tell me why you want him,” Caldridge said. The skinny one took a deep breath.

“We're Children of the Second Coming. The Supreme Son has been kidnapped and we need to pay the ransom. He had a policy and the company denied it. Ryan needs to change the code.”

“Hmm,” Caldridge said. She took a couple of steps backwards and leaned toward the screens. “You know what they're talking about?” she said in a soft voice to Ryan.

Ruth glanced at Ryan, clearly interested to hear his answer.

“They're with a cult based in Utah. Insular and strange. They don't believe in education for women and they all work and live in a commune. The guy they're calling the Supreme Son is a former insurance broker who managed to get the company to approve a kidnap policy by lying on the application. He never mentioned that he was the head of a cult, had six wives, and was engaged in forcing girls to marry much older men in the commune. He's under investigation by the FBI. Fraud, criminal acts, or perjury voids the policy. When he went missing, we denied coverage.”

“Forcing girls into marriage? I should shoot them just for that.” She stepped back toward the two men. “Seems like the Supreme Son lied. He didn't tell them about his six wives and screwed up his policy.”

“Six wives?” Vanderlock said. He looked at Gage. “Guy will never have a moment's peace.”

Gage grinned and Ruth gave a quiet snort.

“You two ever hear of the court system?” Caldridge said. “They have a fairly sophisticated one here in America and you can hash it out there. You don't attack people to get your way. The Supreme Son ever tell you that?”

The skinny one's face suffused with red. “The Supreme Son doesn't believe in the laws of the outsiders.”

Caldridge strolled over to the cocktail table and placed her glass on it.

“Sounds like he wants the benefits of the outsiders but not the risks, huh?” she said.

Ryan smiled. He couldn't have said it better himself.

“Lay down on the grass. We're going to have the outsiders' police come and take you away to their prison.”

Vanderlock pushed on the man's skull and the man lowered himself to his knees.

“You want to frisk him?” he said to Caldridge. The man gave Vanderlock an outraged look.

“She's not to touch me. She's unclean.”

Ryan wanted to hit the man for what he'd said. His hands shook, but this time with anger. Ruth must have noticed his reaction, because she reached out and touched his arm. He took a deep breath. He couldn't see Caldridge's face, but Vanderlock seemed amused by the statement.

“I know, for a fact, that Caldridge showers at least once a week.”

Caldridge said nothing, but Ryan thought he saw a smile cross her face.

“And I'd be careful if I were you. I've seen her blow men away for less. You don't want your brains fertilizing my lawn, you'd better lie down. Now.”

The skinny one finished closing the distance to the ground and laid down, face-first. The one in front of Gage did the same.

“Caldridge, next move?” Vanderlock said.

“Tie them up until the police get here.”

Vanderlock nodded and headed to the same box that he'd removed the gun from, this time pulling out a length of white, waxed rope.

“He won't get away,” the skinny one yelled from his prone position on the lawn. “We won't rest until Ryan pays up and the Supreme Son is released.”

“Who has him?” Gage asked.

“Keep your mouth shut,” the second man hissed at the skinny one. Gage and Vanderlock exchanged glances. Caldridge stepped back to whisper at Ryan.

“You know who kidnapped him?”

“No. With a denial of coverage, it wasn't the company's problem. ”

“Until now,” she said.

T
HREE HOURS LATER
the police had come and the men were bundled into a police wagon, and now Ryan clutched his copy of the report he'd given the officers. Both he and Caldridge were back in the boat and near Star Island. Caldridge's hair fanned out behind her as she piloted them into the no wake zone. She hadn't said much during the trip and he hadn't either. He was exhausted, but noticed that his hands had long since stopped shaking. She reached the dock, leapt out and assisted Ryan as he returned the bumpers to their position, snapped the cover back on, and the two of them headed to the small boathouse. She put the keys on the hook and they left the villa by the front gate. The guard house was empty and there was no sign of either the guard or the police.

“I'm worried that the guard will tell the police that you had a gun as well,” Ryan said. “That you're part of the trouble.”

Caldridge shrugged, looking unconcerned, and pointed at the cameras. “They'll replay the tape and figure out that we were under attack and running away. When added to our initial call to 911, it shouldn't be too hard to explain.”

Ryan thought that the whole experience was impossible to explain, but he didn't say anything more as they trudged across the bridge. It was four in the morning, but the night was still warm. They walked toward the causeway in silence. When they reached it, he saw that his car was gone.

“Towed away,” she said.

He sighed. The risk of damage to a four-wheel-drive vehicle when towed by the front was substantial.

They continued over the bridge, past the dock for the ferry that led to nearby Fisher Island, and onto Miami Beach. The line of cars that had previously marched toward Ocean Drive were reversed and now marched out. The street remained clogged with people, most of them drunk as they stumbled to their hotels.

They reached an intersection and she touched his arm.

“I'm heading home. You'll be okay now.”

He wasn't sure how to show his gratitude and had the overwhelming urge to kiss her in the long, slow way that Vanderlock had just a few hours before. He hadn't kissed anyone since Susan died, and the thought exhilarated him and scared him at the same time. She took any chance away by touching his arm again and then jogging across the street before the light changed. Two more steps and she was gone around a corner.

T
WO DAYS LATER
he sent in the final paperwork approving Ms. Emma Caldridge, CEO of Pure Chemistry, for a combination kidnap and key man policy at an extremely low rate.

A week after that he received an international overnight envelope. She'd mailed it from the Caribbean. Inside was an acceptance signed by her. She had a strong, expressive signature, and just seeing it sent a thrill through him. What was less thrilling though was the sticky note attached, in her writing. It read:

How did they find us in Key Largo?

 

It's not over for Emma and Ryan.

Keep an eye out for the next two installments

coming in January and February 2013.

And if you enjoyed
Risk
, keep reading for a peek at

Dead Asleep

, Jamie Freveletti's latest thriller featuring Emma Caldridge.

Available Now

 

1

E
MMA
C
ALDRIDGE FOUND
the bloody offering on her credenza just before midnight. She had been working late preparing samples and organizing slides in the makeshift lab set up in the rented villa's spacious garage, and returned to the main house for another cup of coffee.

A small votive candle flickered next to the pile of feathers and hacked-off rooster foot, all arranged in a triangle on top of a pentagram drawn in a red substance that looked like blood. Emma's lab, Pure Chemistry, was located in Miami, and she had seen Santeria altars before, with their animal sacrifice and elaborate rituals, but this was nothing like that. This was voodoo.

She stayed still and listened for any sound that might indicate that someone was still in the house. The room was dark, the world asleep. She heard the rush of waves in the distance, the sound of a breeze moving through the trees outside, but nothing that indicated intruders. Her heart thudded in her chest, but she remained motionless, silent. If the intruders were in the house and expected to hear her scream or otherwise react, they would be disappointed.

Emma was used to facing danger. While she hadn't been tested in quite a while, her instincts had come back quickly when needed. Now, she remained quiet. The dark arts were a frightening thing, but she knew that the danger in the message wasn't from the mass of feathers, the dead animal, or the pentagram. In her experience, the danger came from the humans who created the mess and would be part of the corporeal world.

That she remained still came from a more practical consideration as well. She knew that if the intruders weren't in the house, it was entirely possible they were outside waiting for her to burst out of the front door and run to her car. Again, they would be disappointed. She rarely acted out of panic.

Emma pulled a pencil out of a cup next to the phone and used the eraser to lift the mass of feathers. Underneath, she found the doll. Its body was fashioned of hastily stitched burlap that sported brown yarn for hair and two black felt dots for eyes. A toothpick jutted from the center of the doll's forehead.

Emma snorted at the crude scare tactic. She was unafraid of ghosts or demons and things that went bump in the night. If it made noise, then a human, animal, or physical element created it. She heard the sound of breaking glass in the distance. The intruder was in the garage.

She dropped the pencil and ran through the darkened house, out the French doors at the back of the kitchen and onto the lawn. The garage held her work. Work that she needed to keep Pure Chemistry functioning as a going concern. Her heart thudded when she thought of someone destroying it. As she neared the garage she saw the shape of something that may have been a man, standing in front of her carefully prepared slides. He swept something across the table and she watched in disbelief as bottles, jars, and the containers holding a week's worth of work went crashing to the cement floor. She ran toward him, barely noticing the sharp gravel of the drive on the soles of her bare feet.

The garage's overhead light cast a yellow glow over the tables that Emma had set up to form the work space. The man upended the nearest table, sending another set of Petri dishes, test tubes, and even a microscope tumbling to the floor.

“Stop it!” Her voice was harsh. He froze. As she neared she could see the machete in his hand. It was what he'd used to sweep the bottles off the table. “That's my work. You have no right to be here.” The man stayed still, saying nothing and keeping his face turned away. Emma heard the gravel crunch behind her.

“He responds only to me.”

A woman stood at the corner of the drive. The weak moonlight lit her dark skin. She wore a scarf wrapped around her head and a pareo was knotted at her hip. She smiled, and her teeth, straight and white, glowed in the night, giving her a feral appearance. Emma leveled a stare at her. The woman's hard eyes were what bothered her most. They revealed a person without a soul, like the witch women in the Sudan who rode with marauding armies, wore black robes, and beat on drums while soldiers killed everyone in the village. The woman at the corner of the drive reeked of depravity. It was all Emma could do not to take a step back, away from the force of ill will that flowed from her in waves.

“He's my slave,” the woman said. “A zombie.”

“Don't be ridiculous,” Emma replied, her voice sharp. She knew better than to show fear or acquiesce to the woman's bizarre claim, but found it difficult to maintain her ground. She hadn't expected to meet with evil in the middle of the night on a beautiful Caribbean island. Yet she managed to remain in place. “He's a trespasser. And so are you.” Her anger fizzed at the deliberate destruction of her work. The woman moved closer, walking in an exaggerated, swaying motion.

“
You
are the outsider on this island. We belong here. Leave. And take your bottles and experiments with you.”

Emma glanced at the man, but he remained still, not moving a muscle. His stillness was strange, and a frisson of a chill ran through her. She wished that she had thought to bring her cell phone. She was loath to leave these two even for the time it would take to retrieve it. If she did, she was afraid they would destroy even more.

“I saw the mess you made in the entrance hall,” she said. “I'm going to call Island Security about your breaking and entering.”

The woman chuckled, but the noise sounded wicked. “Island Security knows better than to interfere with a bokor priestess.”

Emma was glad that the man stayed frozen during this exchange. She didn't want to grapple with both the woman and him. She took a step toward the woman.

“But
I
don't know better, and I'm telling you one more time to leave. Now. And take your companion and absurd talk of zombies with you.”

The woman raised an eyebrow. “Ahh, the scientist in you doesn't believe? Be warned. You have no idea what you're dealing with here. With one word from me he'll cut you to ribbons. There's no negotiating with him.”

“I don't recall offering any negotiation. I said leave. Both of you.” Emma kept the man in her peripheral vision. With the machete in his hand, he didn't need to be a zombie to hurt her. Flesh and blood human would be enough.

The woman flicked her hand. “Kill her,” she said.

The man burst into motion. He raised the machete and sprinted to her, closing the distance between them in seconds. His hair hung in thick Rasta braids down his back, and his face was contorted in a strange spasm. His eyes pointed straight to the sky even as he ran toward her, swinging the machete. It was as if he was not in control and that his body was responding to a force outside of his mind. His tongue whipped right and left, adding to the horrific sight. He started screaming in a high-pitched wail.

Emma spun and ran toward the villa. She heard the priestess's harsh laugh and the man's feet on the gravel driveway behind her. She had the fleeting thought that the man was insane and if he were to catch her would show no mercy.

She made it to the French doors and wrenched them open, tumbling through the entrance and slamming them behind her. She turned and flipped the dead bolt just as he crashed into the glass with his hands. The machete's blade made a clanging sound on the pane.

He stood there, breathing heavily, his weirdly canted eyes still staring upward. She crossed to the phone on the kitchen counter, dialed the emergency number and glanced back.

He was gone.