Текст книги "Beautiful Addictions"

Автор книги: Season Vining

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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

19. Apogee

The farthest point from Earth in the moon’s orbit.

This had to be the longest day in the history of her career. At one point Monica would have sworn that time had either stopped or was moving backward only to keep her at her desk. The one silver lining was that she would see Josie again today. Two days in a row set a record for them, and she felt empowered by the bond that was beginning to grow. Since waking up this morning, Monica had felt sick with worry for the girl. The danger that hung over Josie was consuming. So she vowed to become a great distraction.

Armed with chick flicks, microwave popcorn, and ice cream, Monica found herself losing all patience outside Josie’s door. She banged so hard her hand tingled with pain. Yet it remained unanswered. As much as she wanted Josie to be a friend, she was growing tired of the games.

“I know you’re in there. I have ice cream,” she sang loudly, knocking again. “I told you I would be back. Stop being a brat and open the damn door.”

She dialed Josie’s number and waited impatiently as it rang. She could hear it ringing inside the apartment, but no one picked up. Through the phone, she listened to the recorded voice mail message.

“Come on! I’ve got Patrick Swayze! It’s dancing on the log and the lift and nobody puts Baby in a corner,” she spoke through the door again.

Monica was trying to remain calm, but fear had begun to prickle beneath her skin. What if something was wrong? What if Josie wasn’t just avoiding her?

* * *

Alex parked his bike and removed his helmet. He sat for a minute or so, hearing the ticks and creaks of the cooling engine between his legs. People rarely surprised Alex anymore. He found most of the human race quite predictable and self-righteous. However, in the past week, he’d been surprised more than once by a beautiful blonde named Erin.

They met in the produce section of the grocery store. Right away she seemed familiar, like he knew her already. He was taken with her endless legs and long, flowing hair. Pretending to be interested in the varieties of tomatoes, he kept an eye on her as she shopped. Men circled, like wolves, just to get a closer look. Her most attractive quality was that she was completely unaware of the stir she caused. Married men, single men, young boys, and everything in between, they were all drawn to her.

Summoning his confidence, he sauntered over and donned his most endearing smile.

“Hey, don’t I know you?”

“I doubt it,” she answered, not looking up from her list.

“No, I think we met before.” No response. “Maybe you could help me. I’m a tomato dummy. I got no clue what these are. Grapes? Cherries? Tomatoes?”

Erin laughed and soon began a lesson in produce identification. Conversation came easily after that, and she smiled and even joked at his shopping ignorance. Her smile lit up the entire building and her blue eyes could see right through him.

Feeling confident after their time together, he asked her out. She declined. Stunned by her denial, he quietly helped her load bags into her car. That’s when he spied her Darkroom apron laid across the backseat. That’s where he knew her from. She worked with Tristan.

Two days later, he found her there, and together they marveled at the coincidence. It had taken twelve days, consisting of two not-so-chance meetings, six large bar tabs, and a pint of cherry tomatoes, for her to agree to go out with him.

Today, they’d had lunch in Point Loma and spent the afternoon in SeaWorld. As it turned out, Erin had never been. She was refreshing and so much more than a beautiful face. She had big plans and a killer sense of humor.

As Alex entered his building, he smiled, wondering if he could be so lucky as to find a girl who challenged him, wanted him, and didn’t want to change him. Whatever the feeling between them was, whether lust or friendship or even curiosity, he wanted to embrace it. In all honesty, he wanted to hitch a lasso to it and hang on for dear life.

Hearing heavy footsteps on the stairs, Monica turned to find Alex making his way to his door. He stopped short when he saw her, arms loaded and a frown pulling down her face.

“What’s up, short stuff? She giving you a hard time?”

“I-I don’t know. I can hear her phone in there, but she’s not picking up and she’s not answering the door. I’m worried that—” Monica stopped herself, not wanting to speak those thoughts out loud. “I’m worried. Did you check on her this morning?”

“Yeah, she told me she was sick.”

“Well, did she look okay?”

“She never opened the door.”

“Alex…” Monica whispered, worse-case scenarios flooding her mind.

“Shit!”

Alex attacked Josie’s door. He rammed it with his huge form, over and over, hearing the old wood begin to splinter under his assault. Monica watched in fascination as he pounded against the door. The thunderous sound echoed through the stairwell of the quiet building. Finally, it gave and Alex hurled through, almost falling inside. Monica followed him in and they both began calling Josie’s name and searching the small space.

“Alex! Come here!”

Alex ran down the hall and crowded into the bathroom with Monica. They both stared, openmouthed, at their reflections in the mirror. Thick lines of pink paint crossed over their horrified faces, lines that formed the words New Orleans.

“I’ll call Tristan,” Alex said, his voice defeated.

Monica nodded and watched as Alex placed the hardest call he’d ever had to make.

* * *

Two days of complete silence. That’s what Josie had endured on this road trip from hell. She was trapped in a tin can with a very attractive assassin who, for some reason, had yet to assassinate her. Instead, he was driving her east to her former home. She pressed her forehead to the cool window and counted the streetlights that went by, just for something to do.

Josie didn’t really know what to make of this bad guy. One minute, he would be unreadable, and the next, his eyes would become tiny slits staring out at the road. She could only assume that he was fighting some kind of internal battle. For the one who had the gun, he sure seemed troubled.

His phone had been ringing nonstop since yesterday. Every time it happened, he’d look at the number and silence it but would never turn it off. His foul moods seemed to coincide with the phone calls. Josie almost laughed at how observant she had become when there was nothing else to occupy her attention.

They had stopped for breaks only four times in two days. They’d eaten only once. Josie was starving and thirsty and irritated by the whole hostage situation. She was sure that she was causing irreversible damage to her bladder while her captor feigned ignorance about how women’s bodies work.

Josie crossed her arms and sulked at all the waiting. She’d rather he just get it over with. She was positive that her mind was imagining a much worse fate than what would transpire. The not-knowing part was the worst. She thought about New York and how maybe it would have been better if she had just died back then. There would have been no amnesia, no horrible foster parents, and no feeling like she didn’t deserve to live. Then again, there would have been no reuniting with Tristan.

“How much longer?” Josie asked.

No answer.

“What are you going to do with me?”

His eyes stayed forward, his face expressionless.

“Well, since you don’t want to answer my questions, I’ll just keep talking. So, I know you’re the bad guy, but when did bad guys get so hot? I mean, in that older guy, daddy complex sort of way. I’m fucking hungry. Are you starving me to death? Is that what’s happening here?”

He sighed and twisted his grip around the steering wheel. Josie almost smiled and wondered if she could annoy him into releasing her.

“You could let me go, you know. Just drop me off at the Mexican border and never look back. You could let me out here. Tell Moloney you killed me. I’ll disappear and everybody wins.”

He shook his head slightly.

“What are the odds of me surviving a jump from the car while going”—she leaned over, looking at the speedometer—“eighty miles an hour? Probably not good.”

Josie took a deep breath and slammed her head back against the headrest.

“You are the worst fucking bad guy ever. You’re supposed to be crazy smart and witty. Also, you’re supposed spill the master plan, giving me some satisfaction before I die. Have you never seen a horror movie?”

She rolled her head toward the window and watched the trees slide by in a blur. For a second, she glimpsed her reflection in the glass and thought about the message she’d left in her bathroom. She hoped someone found it.

“It’s Mort,” his deep voice made Josie’s head whip around, thinking that he was finally talking to her. Instead, she saw his phone pressed to his ear. “I’m three hours out with the girl. Yes. Yes. Got it.”

He ended the call and cast a glance in her direction. Josie’s eyes darted away quickly, not wanting to upset him. Three hours. She had three hours to live. What should she be doing with her time? More than she wanted to escape, she wanted to hear Tristan’s voice just one more time.

Josie closed her eyes and prayed. She was a hypocrite just like those people who become religious only on airplanes. She didn’t pray for a savior or an escape, only for Tristan to know undoubtedly that for the second time in her life, she loved him. It wasn’t until all her time thinking in the confines of this car that she realized she had never said it to him. How could she have never said it to him?

Rob didn’t speak to the girl unless necessary and kept his eyes on the road. At this point, he was functioning on pure adrenaline and no sleep. If he didn’t have to look into her questioning eyes, he could find the strength to keep driving. For a while, he thought he might kill her just to shut her up. She asked questions, many questions. Rightfully so, she wanted to know where they were going, what he was going to do with her. Rob knew she didn’t really want to know the answer, so he fought to remain silent.

He glanced over, finding her eyes closed and hands clasped tightly together. He sighed and refocused his attention on the highway, brooding over the enormous mess. He was still angry that he’d had to take the girl instead of just killing her. It would have been an easy kill. She hadn’t fought back or tried to escape, it was textbook. It had been her terrified, begging voice that had done him in. That and the vision of Monica’s sad face.

Rob was in too deep, far too connected to Josie Banks and her past. The woman he loved, the woman he craved above anything else, would be crushed by Josie’s death. As he drove through the night, he found himself hoping that Moloney wouldn’t make him be the triggerman on this job. Now that he didn’t have to kill her, he’d be able to sleep next to Monica with a clearer conscience. He’d be able to hold her and soothe her aching guilt. He’d be able to live the rest of his days, however numbered they might be, without remorse.

* * *

Dean Moloney sat behind his large oak desk, peering out the perfectly clean plate-glass window. On this cloudless day he could see clear across his property. The blue sky filled the top of this window canvas and spilled down until it was interrupted by green trees. His eyes skimmed over the pond, the water rippling with soft patterns. His stables rose against the backdrop of the security fence marking the perimeter of his land. He loved sitting here, celebrating that all that was his.

His parents had been poor people. They had been happy with a small house and secondhand furniture. Dean always wanted more. He envied his uncle’s lavish lifestyle. Uncle John Moloney, his father’s brother, had been a part of the organization as long as Dean could remember. Even at a young age, Dean knew that he wanted to follow in the man’s footsteps. His parents fought him on it. They prided themselves on working hard and walking the straight and narrow. When he was a teenager, he started working for his uncle. Before Dean took the job, John warned of the importance of discretion. Dean fell into the lifestyle easily, becoming a sort of apprentice to his uncle. Only nine years later, John was killed by a random mugger. Dean clawed his way over more experienced and seasoned members directly to the top. He learned how to cover his tracks with legit businesses and how to recruit the best men and keep them.

Eventually, he’d met his wife and started a family, an ideal step along his path. Nothing was more important to him than continuing his proud Irish bloodline. He’d never been happier than when his twins arrived. He remembered running through the halls, shouting to anyone who would listen, of his healthy baby boy and girl. From that instant, he had their destinies mapped out. His daughter would be a princess, never wanting for anything, and his son would be groomed to ultimately take his place.

Dean looked at the framed photograph sitting at the corner of his desk, an unsuspecting and blissful family stared back. He wanted to grab it and yell at them, warn them of the impending danger. It was too late. With the death of his son, Dean Jr., came a darkness that he had never experienced before. Hate and fury filled his heart, turning him into the dark and sinister monster he was now. All he could think about was vengeance, wanting to punish anyone who dared to live a life free from hurt, especially Dr. Daniel Fallbrook.

This man and his faltering surgical skills had taken Dean Jr. from him, and retribution would be paid. Dean had worked out a plan, a devious, life-altering scheme. It took patience and manipulation, but it had worked out so well.

Fallbrook had taken his son, so Dean would take Tristan.

It was a joyful day when he had learned of Tristan Fallbrook’s interest in his daughter, Fiona. It took convincing, but in time she agreed to see the boy. Dean didn’t want him dead; that would be too easy. Instead, he wanted to take him from his charmed life. He wanted to rip him from his family and destroy every piece of his future. At the time, Dean had no idea that it would work so well.

Before he knew it, Tristan had fallen in love with Fiona. After that, it was easy to lure him into Dean’s world. It was the best result he could have hoped for. Everything had worked out perfectly—except for Fiona.

She resented her father for making her stay with Tristan. When she was younger, she didn’t really mind. Dean kept her well paid, a sort of bribe for her part in the scheme. When they relocated to California, she fell in love with another man. She begged her father, pleaded with him to let her break it off. But he would not agree.

Dean got what he wanted. He’d destroyed Tristan, but at the cost of losing his daughter. Fiona rarely spoke to her parents these days. She married a man her father never met and they lived in Northern California somewhere. His need for revenge had destroyed them. Sure, there were e-mails and photos, but it was not the family he’d dreamed of.

Now that Fallbrook had left the organization, he would have to be dealt with. Dean had kept him around for a while, waiting to see if he would be of use. His patience had worn thin and now the boy represented one more loose end that needed to be tied up.

When he received the photos of the girl from Mort, he almost didn’t believe his eyes. Tristan was with her. His unmistakable tattoos giving him away.

Dean drummed his fingers on the top of his desk and wondered how he’d never connected the two before now. When he’d been after Earl Delaune, they would have been children. Dr. Fallbrook hadn’t shown up on his radar until two years after the chief and his daughter fled. Another six months went by before Fiona came home talking of a boy named Tristan Fallbrook.

He’d never known that Fallbrook knew the Delaune girl, but once he learned that they were hiding out together, he dug into their past and was delighted with what he found. Now that he knew they were connected, he could use the girl to hurt Tristan. It was almost too easy. He grinned and bowed his head in amusement. The thought was so satisfying he almost screamed with joy. Of course he didn’t. He was a man of restraint.

A knock at the door broke the silence of the room.

“Enter,” Dean said.

“We just received word that Mort will be arriving in three hours with the girl. I’ve instructed him to take her to the South warehouse for holding.”

Dean nodded.

“Thank you, Barry.”

He waved his hand, dismissing the man, and sat back in his chair

20. Magnitude

The brightness of a celestial body.

After making the call to Tristan, Alex told Monica that he was heading to New Orleans. They had no idea if Josie left on her own or if she’d been taken. Either way, he had a gut feeling that Josie was still alive. Monica couldn’t stand by and do nothing. She decided to accompany him.

They flew out the next morning. They spent an entire day with Tristan working out plans from downright stupid to borderline suicidal. Alex watched Tristan, who bounced haphazardly between grieving for Josie and insisting on her survival. He resembled a tiny boat being thrown about in the middle of a raging sea. They did their best to comfort him. Bitsy and Daniel gave their son and the two strangers space in their home, offering anything they could to help.

It wasn’t until Tristan received a call from one of Moloney’s men that he was able to regain control of himself. Barry had called to let him know that Josie was still alive and being held at Moloney’s Tchoupitoulas warehouse. The trio were in the car and on their way before the phone call ended.

“How far is it?” Monica asked.

She sat on the edge of the backseat, her fingers gripping the seat in front of her. Tristan took a sharp turn quickly and she flew against the door.

“Twenty minutes,” he answered. “Put your seat belt on.”

Monica nodded and buckled up. She squeezed her eyes shut and held her breath when they flew through a red light. After they cleared the intersection, she exhaled and said a prayer.

“What’s the plan?” Alex asked. “I don’t have my piece, man. Couldn’t get through airport security, you know?”

Tristan’s fingers curled around the steering wheel as he eyed the upcoming intersection. He pressed harder on the gas and ignored the horns and screeching tires left behind.

“There’s a pistol under your seat.”

“¡Simón!”

Alex reached under the seat and pulled out the gun. He checked the clip and slid it back in.

“What about me?” Monica asked as they reached the Crescent City Connection.

The wide Mississippi River stretched beneath them as Tristan and Alex gave each other knowing glances.

“You’re staying in the car, mami. We can’t be worried about you and Jo,” Alex answered.

“What? That’s crap! I could help. I’m great at distractions.”

“No,” the two men answered in unison.

Monica crossed her arms and looked out the window as they entered New Orleans. It was a beautiful city and she wished that she’d come here under better circumstances.

“I’ve been to this warehouse before,” Tristan said. “There are two doors. One at each end of the building and a large loading dock on the street side. Our best bet will be to enter the farthest door since that one is blocked from street view.”

“Okay. Then what? How many men you think they got?” Alex asked.

“I don’t know. At least three. They’ll all be armed. I hope they’re still there.”

“What if they’re not?” Monica asked.

Tristan blew through another intersection, barely avoiding a moving van.

“Then we’ll be too late.”

The silence enveloped them and the interior of the car felt like it was shrinking. The outside world flew by in a blur of cars and buildings. Tristan’s muscles ached from the intensity. He needed to be there now.

They parked a block away on a residential street. Tristan placed his own gun in the waistband of his jeans and turned to Monica.

“Thank you,” he said. “For everything you did for her.”

Monica shook her head, freeing the tears she’d been holding back.

“And thank you,” Tristan said, turning to Alex. “You took care of her. No matter what happens, know that Josie cares about you both.”

“Stop that,” Monica cried. “This isn’t good-bye.”

“‘Don’t be dismayed at good-byes. A farewell is necessary before you can meet again,’” Tristan quoted. “Richard Bach.”

“‘Unless someone like you cares a whole awful lot, nothing is going to get better. It’s not,’” Monica said, giving him a half smile. “Dr. Seuss.”

Tristan crawled out of the car. Alex followed. Before shutting the door, Tristan stuck his head back in.

“Stay here. If we’re not back in an hour, take my car and find the police.”

Tristan dangled his keys in front of her and she took them without meeting his eyes.

“Be careful,” she said.

Both doors slammed closed and Monica jumped at the sound. She felt entombed as she watched the two men jog off down the street. She followed their progress through the dark, each becoming more like a transparent shadow, until they turned the corner and were out of sight.

* * *

The smell was grease and metal and stale air. She could hear the tugboats as they passed, so she knew they were close to the river. In a dark warehouse, Josie sat tightly bound to a metal chair. Her arms and shoulders cramped from the pull of the ropes even though she had given up her struggle long ago. Just in case she survived, she took in everything about her surroundings. She counted the number of skylights high above her head. She tried to make out the printed words on the hundreds of boxes and cartons stacked around her. Her mind raced with so many questions and not enough answers.

The stacked pallets obscured her view, but she could hear murmured conversation and approaching footsteps. Josie fought to keep her breathing under control while her racing heart created a countdown tempo against her chest. She couldn’t help but feel robbed by this. After finding Tristan and the first inkling of happiness, she was going to lose it all.

Jarred from her reflection, she felt a hand grip her shoulder. Four men stood before her, including her kidnapper. She looked them over carefully, trying to assess which one of them would do the job. Her mind was shutting down and laughter almost bubbled out of her as she took in the sight before her. It was a scene straight out of a mobster movie, complete with damsel in distress.

“McKenzi Delaune, it’s so good to see you again. Welcome home,” the man dressed all in black taunted as he began to circle her. “Please excuse our lack of fanfare.”

Josie followed him with her eyes for as long as possible, memorizing the scowl on his face and the venomous words that dripped from his thin lips. He was short, with a wide chest and a shirt that didn’t fit his muscled arms. His skin was pale, sickly almost, and stood out beneath his black hair and beard. Icy blue eyes glared at her. His voice carried so much hate and contempt she felt as though his words alone could cause damage.

He had that dominant, soul-crushing air about him. This had to be Dean Moloney. When he was standing directly in front of her again, he grabbed her chin and roughly turned her face toward the overhead light.

“So beautiful,” Moloney sneered. “You do look just like Earl, though.”

Josie bit down on her lip to keep from screaming. She wanted to tell him to keep her father’s name out of his evil mouth.

“Why am I still alive?” she asked.

“Because you’re the grand finale,” Moloney answered.

“What did I ever do to you?”

“Your father shut down my operation for six months.”

Josie’s gaze flickered over to the other men. They all seemed bored and unaffected by his dramatics.

“He’s dead. How much more punishment could you need?”

“His punishment was the loss of your mother. Though it did look like an accident. Right, Barry?” Moloney asked.

“Very unfortunate, sir,” Barry answered.

Moloney’s face held a devious smirk that, had her hands been free, Josie would have slapped clear off. The anger and hurt expanded in her until she felt like she would burst from it.

“You killed my mother,” she whispered, dropping her head to hide her tears.

“Of course,” Moloney answered. “Your father thought he could outrun me. I found out he was talking to the feds. That is why Earl is dead. He couldn’t keep his mouth shut.”

Tears blurred Josie’s vision but did not diminish the hateful glare she had on him. This man was the reason for everything tragic and wounding that had ever happened to her. She felt sick just being in his presence.

“Why me? Why now?”

“You know too much,” he answered. “You watched as we tortured truths from your father. You begged us to stop. You cried when we killed him. And then you escaped, making a fool of me and my men.”

“I have amnesia! I don’t remember anything before being sent to a home in California. I don’t know anything! You killed my fucking family and now you want me? Well, do it, you coward! Do it!”

Moloney laughed, his wicked cackle rising up through the building and echoing off the metal walls. Her tale of amnesia was humorous yet inventive, a smart attempt at self-preservation.

“As you wish,” Moloney said, smiling. “Barry.”

The oldest man nodded and pulled his pistol from its holster, raising it toward Josie. Her eyes searched his face for any sort of hesitation and found none. This was it for her. Resigned to her destiny, Josie took a deep breath and closed her eyes, waiting for the end to come.

“I love you, Tristan,” she whispered, her lips barely moving as she spoke her final words.

“Drop the fucking gun,” Tristan shouted.

He appeared behind Rob and Barry, his piece pointed at Moloney. He stepped forward, making his intentions clear. If Josie dies, so does Moloney.

“Right on time, Tristan,” Moloney said.

Frank reached for his gun, only to feel the press of metal to his temple.

“Don’t think so, cabrón,” Alex growled.

Josie, shocked by Alex and Tristan’s presence, sat speechless as she watched the triangle of guns before her—Tristan at Moloney, Alex at Frank, and Barry still focused on her. Her eyes darted from one to another, finally staying on Tristan. The sight of him, no matter the circumstance, was comforting. Her eyes raked over his intense face and she willed him to look at her.

“I said to drop the gun or Moloney eats this fucking bullet,” Tristan shouted at Barry, but the man did not flinch.

Fearless, Moloney spun to face Tristan, a Cheshire cat grin plastered on his face. He assessed the boy and the passion in his eyes. His plan had worked perfectly.

“Tristan, what an entrance. Still trying to play hero? Of course, I knew you would come. You’ll never make it out alive,” Moloney said.

“I don’t care, as long as she does.”

Tristan finally glanced at Josie and his heart broke. He’d avoided eye contact so that he could remain focused, but now he was a mess. The love of his life sat at the end of a cold, impassive piece of steel.

“Barry, drop your goddamned gun,” Tristan repeated.

Moloney shook his head and the standoff continued.

Rob stood motionless, watching the situation play out before him. He knew he could draw his gun and take one of them out before anyone knew what happened. The problem was, he wasn’t sure where his allegiances lay now. The tiny bit of compassion that remained inside him was fixed on Tristan. Rob imagined Monica on the end of that gun and he almost crumpled from the vision. Still, if he betrayed Moloney, he wouldn’t get any of the money. He wasn’t willing to risk that just yet.

“What do we do now? You want to trade your life for hers?” Moloney asked.

“No!” Josie shouted, somehow finding her voice.

“Be quiet, Josie,” Tristan told her, avoiding her pleading eyes.

She fought hard against the metal chair, thrashing about to keep their attention on her. She would not tolerate them taking Tristan from this world.

“No, you can’t do that! Kill me, you fucking pussy! Me! Do it, please,” she screamed, tears soaking her face.

“Josie, shut up!” Tristan shouted back at her, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

“You’re not in a position to offer deals, Moloney. I’ve got the upper hand.”

“You’ve got nothing.”

Moloney grinned and whistled through his teeth. The sound shot across the building, but nothing happened. Everyone looked around and listened for approaching danger, but silence and empty space surrounded them. Confused, Moloney whistled again, his eyes searching the darkness.

“Expecting someone?” Alex asked.

Moloney turned to Barry expectantly.

“They were in place when I came in,” Barry answered.

“Like I said, upper hand,” Tristan said. “Now drop it.”

“Not anymore, Fallbrook,” Rob said softly, raising his gun to the back of Tristan’s head. “I need this money too bad for you to screw this up.”

Although Rob did not possess the ability to end Josie’s life, Tristan’s would not be an issue. He had no feelings for the boy and frankly believed he’d be saving Fallbrook from a torturous death at the hands of Moloney.

“Rob?” Monica’s voice shouted as she emerged from between two stacks of boxes. “Why? I don’t … What are you doing here?”

“Rob?” Tristan and Josie said in unison, turning their attention to the blond man now holding all the cards.

Monica had obeyed Tristan’s command to stay in the car for almost a full five minutes. She’d worked her way down the block, checking each building before finding the right one. From her hiding place, Monica had been listening to the men’s conversation, waiting for an opportunity to make her move. Sure, she was unarmed, but she had the element of surprise.

Unable to see everything, the sound of Rob’s voice had shaken her and she didn’t even think before emerging to investigate. Her mind reeled with the scene before her, and she fought to understand her lover’s place among these men.

“Monica? What are you doing here?” Rob screeched.

“Do we have a problem, Mort?” Moloney asked.

“You’re Mort? The Mort who’s been hunting Josie?” Tristan asked.

“No! It’s not true!” Monica screamed. Her hands flew to her head, pulling at her hair as her eyes scanned his impassive face. “Rob, tell them it’s not true!”

“Get out of here, this has nothing to do with you,” Rob said firmly, his trembling gun still pointed at Tristan. “Fallbrook, drop the gun. You too, big man,” he demanded, nodding toward Alex.