King's

  So yeah, maybe I was in denial or being heartless, but keeping my mind from wandering was the only thing preventing me from falling to my knees, helplessly weeping for Justin. If I were to be of any use, I had to stay strong.

  That meant more whiskey.

  I scooted off the bed and dug through the mini-fridge. “Shit. Really?” There was tequila, vodka, and rum, but no more whiskey. I grabbed the bottle of rum—what the hell did I care at this point?—and drank it down. “Okay. I guess I do care. Tastes like shit.”

  I called room service, ordered more reinforcements, spread out on the bed, and went back to my emails.

  Email from my global V.P., Jim, in New York. Please give status on Project Windpipe. That was the code name for our holiday, celebrity singer fragrance pack. Four Grammy winners for the price of one. Plus a pair of slippers.

  We will still hit the schedule. No issues, I replied.

  Email from my best friend, Becca. We grew up together, and our moms were close. Where the hell are you, Mia? Your mom says you went to see your brother? Can’t believe you didn’t take me. Hate you. Mean it. Call me when you get back. – Love, Becca

  I didn’t want to lie to Becca, so I dropped her email in the trash file. It was better to say nothing and face her wrath later on.

  Email from Sean. I gawked at his note. Are you in NY? Hungry? I’m starved. That was his code for “Let’s hook up.”

  “No, I won’t be in New York this week for a booty call,” I mumbled aloud and took another sip of my rum. It was my own damned fault he sent me those notes. Every time I went to New York, I ended up calling him after whatever business dinner I attended. We’d usually meet at his place, tumble in the sheets, and leave it at that. We never saw each other any other time.

  There was a knock at the hotel room door. “Finally.” Reinforcements.

  I slid off the bed and yanked open the door. “Thanks, I really—”

  Two men dressed in black, wearing ski masks, pushed their way into the room. The one closest to me cupped his hand over my mouth and threw me to the floor, pinning me beneath him.

  “Do not scream,” he whispered with a thick Mexican accent, “or I will cut your throat.”

  I get that at times like this, I should’ve been thinking about how to survive. And maybe I was, but I quickly realized that two large, armed men against one unarmed, hundred-and-thirty-five-pound woman didn’t have much of a chance of surviving. Especially given that the man standing had his gun pointed at my head.

  Instead of fighting, I reverted to praying they wouldn’t violate me or, worse, drag me off into the night. I couldn’t help Justin if I ended up just like him.

  I nodded several times, his hand smothering my whimpers of panic.

  “Good.” I felt his hot breath in my ear. He smelled of tequila and sweat. His free hand slithered up my torso and brutally fondled my breast. “You like that, Mia?”

  Oh God. He knew my name. This wasn’t some random assault.

  I clenched my eyes shut and shook my head no.

  “I do,” he breathed into my ear. “And if you’re not on a plane home by tomorrow morning, I’ve been given permission to take anything I want before I kill you. Nod if you understand.”

  I nodded and felt the sting of salty tears trickling from the corners of my eyes.

  “Bien, mujer. Espero que no nos encontramos pronto.”

  I didn’t understand, but I assumed it was one final threat.

  Before I could respond, the two men were gone, the door of my hotel room shut. I rolled over on my stomach and sobbed into the palms of my hands. As soon as I was able to stand—I don’t know how long it took—I was checked out and in a cab back to the airport. I figured I would be safer there until my flight.

  Oh, God. Justin. What are you mixed up in?

  ~ ~ ~

  From the moment I fled that hotel room in Mexico City, I knew the situation was far worse than Justin simply being taken by narcos for ransom. Someone didn’t want him to be found. But why? It was the only thought I’d had on the long flight back to San Francisco.

  I unlocked the door to my sparsely decorated, fourth-story apartment—I traveled a lot, so what was the point of owning plants or having tons of fancy furniture no one would see or use?—and threw my bag on the living room floor. I needed sleep. I needed to clear my head.

  I drew my curtains to shut out the sunlight and looked at my watch. Two ten in the afternoon. I’d only been gone one day, but it seemed like a lifetime ago.

  I sank down on the couch and covered my face with my cold, cold hands. Shit. I had to tell someone. Especially after those bastards threatened me in the hotel room. But who could I go to? My parents? Telling them that Justin was missing would only cause them pain. And knowing my dad, stubborn man that he was, he’d be on the first plane to Mexico. I couldn’t allow that. I couldn’t let him get mixed up in whatever crap was going on. Involving my friends, especially Becca, wasn’t an option either. She adored Justin, and it would break her heart. She also never kept anything from her mother, and her mother couldn’t keep a secret if her life depended on it. My mother would be freaking out on my doorstep within the hour.

  Shit. I had no idea what to do, and I needed help. Maybe the State Department or the FBI or…

  My phone vibrated, and I slipped it from my jeans pocket. I had a message from a number in Mexico. It was over three hours old. I must’ve missed it while on the plane.

  I held the phone to my ear. “Hello, Mia. This is Jamie Henshaw. I received your message this morning and had expected to see you today. I hope everything is all right?” It’s strange how some people have the ability to say one thing but mean the opposite. “Please, call me when you get this. I have some news about your brother.”

  I dialed her and began pacing the floor. Please be good news. Please be good news. Please be—

  She answered immediately.

  “This is Mia Turner. I got your message.”

  “Mia. Ah, yes.” There was some crackling in the background.

  More crackers? Bitch.

  “Are you still planning to come by the embassy today?” Once again, her tone sounded snide and flippant, as if she hoped I wouldn’t ever darken her doorstep.

  “No,” I replied. “Something came up. I had to fly home this morning. I just got in.”

  “Oh, I see.” Happy. She was happy. “I’m sorry to hear that. But I think your time would have been wasted either way. We received confirmation that your brother was not present during the incident.”

  “Sorry?”

  “The police questioned a few locals who knew your brother. They said he’d left several days earlier.”

  My heart raced with joy. Justin wasn’t taken. Justin wasn’t taken.

  “So where is he?”

  “The authorities say he took a flight to London.”

  London? But Justin would have called. Or emailed. Or something. More bullshit.

  “Are you sure? Did the police talk to his roommate?” I knew that Justin shared an apartment with some American guy, but I didn’t know who he was.

  “I assume so, but I don’t know for sure.”

  Wouldn’t that be an important question for her to ask the police? And now that I started to think about it, wasn’t this a bit of a coincidence? I went to Mexico to find out what happened to Justin and was run out of the country. Then, all of a sudden, I’m being told he’s gone somewhere else? I was being led away. Why?

  “Can I have the date and flight number?” I asked.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t have that information. But if you want to find your brother, I suggest you start in London. And if you do track him down, please have him contact us. The local authorities want to question him. His team is still missing, and there’s been no demand for a ransom.”

  I covered my mouth. Their poor families. “But how do I—”

  The called ended abruptly.

  “What in the world?” I stared at the phone, thinking that I’d j
ust been served another helping of BS from that lady. If Justin had left Mexico, which I absolutely didn’t believe, why wouldn’t he have called me? And it’s not like he’d just up and leave work. This archaeological dig was a big, big deal, and Justin had to answer to the foundation that funded the dig. There was no way he’d blow everything off. And if he had left, he would have checked in, and he’d know by now that something happened to his team. He’d be right back in Mexico, worried sick.

  All signs pointed to something bad having happened to Justin, yet I couldn’t let go of the unrealistic hope that he might be all right and that this was all some horrible misunderstanding.

  I sank back down on my couch and smoothed my hands over my tangled curls. “Crap.” I blew out a long breath. Okay. If Justin got on a plane, there would be a record. So who could help me find it?

  The next day, after calling several airlines and being told there was no way in hell I’d be getting a hold of any flight records, I decided my best bet was the local FBI office. I’d never been inside, but had walked past it a million times. It was a 1920s-style brick building with a large marble lobby. Once past the metal detectors, I was directed to a room with a long line, where I waited for over four hours only to be told that no one could help me. If my brother was missing, I’d have to file a report with the police. When I explained he was out of the country, the man told me to file a report with the local police, then contact the nearest embassy or consulate.

  “But I just need to know if he flew to the U.K.,” I argued.

  The agent, Agent Screwyou, who wore a shitty brown tie that matched the shitty brown frames of his thick glasses, made it clear that his patience had worn thin. “If your brother got on a plane to the U.K., then it sounds to me like he’s fine. Missing, kidnapped, and dead people generally don’t board planes.”

  Smartass. “But—”

  “Go hire a private detective. We can’t help you.” He leaned to the side and called for the next person.

  Asshole. I headed straight for the door and slipped out my phone. Shit, Mia, what are you going to do now?

  A frigid gust tunneled between the skyscrapers through the downtown street, lashing everyone with its unwelcome chill. I walked over to a barista cart and ordered a black coffee to fit my mood and the weather. San Francisco was generally cool all year round, but when we got wind, we got wind. When we got rain, we got rain. And today, the dark gray sky threatened to unleash a fury of wetness. I instantly regretted my choice of wardrobe—a pair of red Manolo heels, a black skirt, and button-down white blouse—unfit for any severe weather. I buttoned up my camel-hair coat and sipped my hot coffee while I checked my emails on my phone. There were ten from my boss, three from Becca, and a hundred others. I’d only been out of the office three days, but the work had piled up.

  Maybe I did need help. God knew I was emotionally fried, scared, and at my wits’ end. So perhaps Agent Screwyou’s idea wasn’t so bad. I sat down at the little table beside the coffee cart and began searching for a private detective. There were hundreds, but all geared toward infidelity, background checks, or surveillance.

  On the third page of searches, I found a nonprofit. The World Center for Missing Persons and Abducted Children dealt with international cases. I looked them up on the map. They were located on the other side of the city, only a fifteen-minute cab ride.

  I chucked my coffee and successfully hailed a cab at the precise moment the rain started to pour. I was damned lucky; a few minutes from now, there wouldn’t be a vacant cab anywhere in the city.

  I slid inside and gave the address just as my phone rang. I looked at the number, but it was blocked. “Hello?” There was a ton of static on the line. “Hello?”

  “Mia.”

  Holy shit. “Justin, is that you?”

  I heard his voice again, but it was breaking up. I couldn’t understand a word.

  “Justin! Justin!” I repeated frantically into the phone. “Where are you?”

  He spoke again, but it was pure garble.

  “Justin, if you can hear me, tell me where you are!”

  “Don’t…come…looking. Not. Safe.” The line crackled once more. “Love you. Go—” crackle, “bye.”

  The call ended. “Justin. Justin. No.”

  Oh my god. Please call me back. Please. I stared at the phone, willing it to ring. It didn’t. I dialed his cell, but it went into voicemail just as it had the last twenty times.

  “Ma’am, that will be eleven dollars.” Had I arrived already?

  I looked up at the driver, who seemed immune to my meltdown. He probably saw his fair share of drama on a daily basis. I shoved a twenty into the slot and scrambled out of the cab.

  I didn’t know what to do. I was losing my mind. Justin was alive, but he needed help, and I felt so useless.

  The sky shook with thunder, and the rain fell in giant sloppy drops. I slipped inside the building, dripping, sobbing, and unable to stop myself from sounding like a madwoman.

  The young woman at the reception desk, a thin brunette with her hair pulled back, stood when she saw me.

  I don’t know why, but I held out the phone as if I believed she could magically make Justin call me again. “Please, I need help.”

  Her eyes widened with worry. “Of course. Come with me.”

  I spent the next hour telling a case manager about Justin’s situation, the important parts, anyway. When I hiccupped, she gave me tea. When I cried, she gave me tissues. She was a good listener, I had to give her that, but sharing my burden out loud made it all real, and that completely unraveled me.

  “Mia, you need to tell your family,” she advised. Her reddish hair was pulled into a neat bun, and her brown eyes had that worn look to them, like she’d seen a lot in her lifetime, although she couldn’t have been a day over fifty.

  What is her name? Why can’t I remember it?

  “I can’t tell my parents. It’s too dangerous,” I said.

  “Okay. But you can’t deal with this on your own.”

  “Can’t you help me?” That’s why I was there.

  “We work with refugees from war-torn countries, looking for missing loved ones.”

  I opened my eyes, really opened them, and looked around the woman’s cramped office with 1970s-style office furniture. Fliers for Amnesty International and crisis management informational leaflets were posted everywhere.

  I sank my face into my hands. “I’m such an idiot.” I’d spent the last hour pouring my heart out to this woman, and she knew I was in the wrong place. I mean, it was the right place, but not a place that could help me.

  I stood and wiped away the never-ending stream of tears trickling down my raw face. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea.” I dug through my purse and shoved a bunch of twenties at her. “Here. Take this. A donation.”

  She pushed my hand away. “No. It’s all right, Mia.”

  “I feel terrible. I’m so embarrassed.”

  “Don’t be. But I meant what I said; you need your family. You can’t go through this alone.”

  I nodded and headed for the front door. It was pitch-black outside, and the rain hadn’t let up one bit, not that I cared. “Thank you. I-I—never mind. Just…thank you.”

  My red heels hit one giant puddle after another as I slogged down the street. What was her name? Why can’t I remember it? I’m losing my mind, that’s why. I’m a mess. A mess. And Justin needs me. You’d think I’d have the decency to remember that woman’s name after she sat there for an hour listening to me—

  “Mia!”

  The scream broke me from my jumbled stream of thoughts. I turned my head and saw the young receptionist chasing after me down the sidewalk.

  “Here. Take this.” She shoved a piece of paper into my hand. A bolt of thunder licked the sky, and the woman jumped. “It’s an address. But you didn’t get it from me. Okay?”

  “For what?” I asked.

  “Not what. Who.” She flashed a nervous glance over her shoulder. “He might b
e able to help you.”

  “Who is he?” I asked. But honestly, I didn’t care. Help was help.

  “My sister’s husband was kidnapped during a trip to Colombia. This man found him. They say he can find anything or anyone.” She paused. “For a price. A steep price. But promise you won’t tell him who sent you. He doesn’t like people talking.”

  I didn’t understand why. If this man made it his business to find people, then wouldn’t he want a referral?

  “Just…” Once again, she glanced over her shoulder toward her building. Why did I feel like we were dealing drugs or guns or something? “Just ask him his price. Tell him that everything has a price, and you want to know his.”

  “Uhhh, thanks.” Just what I needed, some asshole extortionist to suck my bank account dry.

  Perhaps sensing my apprehension, she looked me in the eyes. And like an old Frankenstein movie, the lightning struck, allowing me to see her concerned face. “He can help you, Mia. I swear it. But the man is…he’s…” She stopped herself. “I gotta go.” She headed back toward the building.

  “What’s his name?” I called out.

  She stopped just short of the building’s entrance. “King. His name is King.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  As I stumbled my way through the rain, my imagination insisted on punishing me with horrible visions of Justin calling out from some dark, damp hole in the ground, starving to death, his body battered and bruised.

  You don’t know that, Mia.

  Still, I didn’t dare hope that Justin was somewhere safe, simply hiding out. When he’d called me while I was in the cab, his voice on the phone had sounded forlorn and desperate, not the voice of a man lying low on a tropical island or somewhere in the U.K. under an alias.