Chapter Nine

The houses were covered; agents were waiting. Justin was safe, Julia was safe...

But something had happened. What should have been an easy and clear operation had changed when the lackey picking up the funds Justin had left managed to sense the agents about to nab him. The place had been almost clear, but a woman with a teenage girl had been just exiting when the man doing the pickup had grabbed her and the kid. He threatened to throw them off the balcony, and law enforcement had backed off, giving him time for an agile leap down to the sound booth, onto the floor and up again onto the stage and into the wings.

He was back there now, joining the friends, reporters and others who grouped backstage after a performance.

Chase sped through the wings, seeking anyone who matched the poor description that they had so far. White, medium height, medium build, brown hair.

And, it seemed, they were hiring their lackeys from the ranks of acrobats—he should have broken a leg attempting his escape route.

But he had made it. And in the arena where there were still a few people milling about, the agents had refrained from firing so they wouldn't hit an innocent or worse, create a panic that would allow the perpetrator even greater leeway.

Chase stepped from the dressing room just in time to see the door to the performers' parking lot begin to swing closed.

He took off, slamming it back open, racing into the back.

He saw a man. Medium height and build. Brown hair.

He tore after him; he was in decent shape himself, but contrary to what he saw on TV most of the time, he hadn't been in that many situations where a perp had run.

But he was after him in a flash.

This guy could run.

"Stop!" Chase shouted.

The man turned to look back—and in doing so, he tripped, thankfully. Chase didn't think that he could have outrun him.

But he was on the ground, moaning. Chase reached him, dug plastic cuffs from his wallet and dragged him to his feet.

He frowned as he did so. The man didn't seem to have packets or...anything.

And, as Chase looked at him, he started to laugh.

"You'll never beat a king, you know."

"You handed it off!" Chase said.

"Me? I didn't do a thing. In fact...hey, you're the damned drummer. Cool. I can sue the venue, the promoters—and Skyhawk!"

"Oh, I don't think so!"

Chase pushed the man along before him, wishing he'd gotten set up with earbuds and a mic, but that hadn't been feasible when he'd been playing the drums, and he had to keep one hand on the guy while he used the other to call Wellington.

"I've got him, but he's passed it off!"

"Get him in here."

"He's suing us all," Chase said dryly.

"I don't think so. Too many witnesses, and I'm willing to bet he's got a rap sheet a mile long. Who did he pass it off to?"

"I don't know—"

"Back on lockdown. Now!" Wellington said. "Agents ready to get him—"

"I have to get back in—Sky—"

"Agents at the door. Hand him over—get to Sky."

"On it."

He ended his call, dragging the man back toward the stage doors.

"He's going to shoot your ass, you know."

"Who is?"

"The king."

"Well, he can try. What's the king's name?"

"It's King , obviously," the man said.

"What's your name?"

"Myron."

"Myron what?"

"Myron Mouse. What the hell. Hey, I want an attorney."

"That will all be arranged for you."

"You should stick to the drums. Now I'm just suing you personally!"

"Yeah, go for it!"

Chase was finally getting him back toward the rear-stage doors. As Wellington had promised, the door opened, and two agents appeared. He knew the one man—he'd worked with him before in Baton Rouge in a small sting at a bar. He was Gene Shepherd, another agent who worked a lot of undercover cases and was excellent at sliding into just about any group anywhere.

He and his companion, an attractive female agent, were casually dressed. He was wearing a Skyhawk T-shirt while she was dressed in jeans and a soft, light sweater—but one bulky enough that he knew she was armed beneath it. They'd naturally been filtered into the audience and looked the part of any couple heading to a rock concert.

"Got him," Shepherd assured them. "Hey, cool, thanks, we weren't expecting this kind of help from a drummer."

"Hey, he's trying to ruin what was a good concert. And he might be an accessory to murder," Chase said.

"Murder! I didn't murder anyone!" the man protested. "Hey, I wasn't here when Jake Ferguson was killed!"

"Who knows what laws we can make stick?" Shepherd asked. "Good prosecutor, a jury tired of drugs killing people—"

"I didn't kill anyone!" he protested again. "No one is dead—"

"Yeah, people are dead and dying from that stuff you sold," Chase told him.

"I didn't sell it! The king sold it. I mean, maybe someone got carried away. Look, I don't make the stuff. I don't package the stuff. I'm a messenger, that's all. I'm told to get drop-offs, nothing else. I didn't kill anyone, I didn't. Wait! Not only did I not kill anyone—I didn't do a damned thing. There's no money on me, nothing—you need to let me go this instant. Brutality! Oh, hell, yeah, I am going to have a field day with you in court!"

"We'll see," Shepherd said. "Chase, you can—"

"You idiots! I'll be out on bail in an hour. And when I'm out, you're going to be so sorry! You're going to wish for death before you get to that sweet peace—"

"He's threatening us now," Shepherd said. "I'm pretty sure that death threats are illegal in themselves. Man, we've got him on so much!"

"You have nothing!"

"Enough to see that a jury puts you away forever and ever. Then again, this is Louisiana, and if it weren't, we're federal, and sometimes—" Shepherd said.

"You're threatening me! Wait until I talk to my lawyer!"

"You'll get a lawyer," Shepherd promised.

"Yeah, you will," Chase said, but he took the man by the shoulders, spinning him around to stare at him and demand, "Who did you pass it off to?"

A shot suddenly rang out. It missed the man by about half an inch.

Chase threw himself on the suspect, bringing them both down flat. Shepherd and his companion were already down, weapons drawn, and Shepherd was speaking into his body mic.

"Shots fired! Sniper in the rear-stage parking!"

Chase dragged the culprit behind a dumpster along with Shepherd and his partner.

"Your king will be happy to kill you! If it was me, I'd be throwing myself on the mercy—and safety—of law enforcement!" Chase told him.

"No, no, they were aiming at you!"

"Were they?" Chase asked. "You know that isn't true. You failed. You're a liability now. Better off dead to those who pay you. Who the hell did you give the packet to?" he demanded again. "Hey, we'll fight for your life, but..."

The lackey must have known that his so-called king killed anyone who failed him, because he suddenly started shaking.

"You don't understand—"

"Oh," Shepherd said, "with your crowd, failure is death. So maybe you want to join a new crowd. We can keep you safe."

"He has a long reach. Even in prison."

"Solitary confinement. You can live. Maybe one day, the king and his royalty will be gone, and you can have a life again," Shepherd's partner said quietly.

"All right, all right!"

He told them who he had given the packet to.

And Chase was stunned. He might have known. He might have suspected.

But still...

"I've got to get back in!" he said.

"We'll cover you," Shepherd assured him.

Chase leaped to his feet, diving for the door. It was still wedged open, and he ripped it the rest of the way, sliding behind its protection as quickly as he could.

A shot rang out.

But as Shepherd and his partner returned fire, the door closed behind Chase.

He was in.

He had to get back to Skylar.

" S KYLAR ! "

She heard her name being anxiously called just seconds after Chase left.

"Skylar, Skylar Ferguson! It's Special Agent Brent Masters. Wellington sent me to get you out of here. I can show you my credentials."

"Chase said to wait for him!"

"No, it's all gone to hell. There's been a pass-off, and we have to get you the hell out of here. Now. Look...look through the little hole. You can see my credentials."

There was a peephole in the dressing-room door. She looked through it. The credentials looked real enough. But...

"I have been ordered to get you to safety!" the man said.

There had been a pass-off?

"Aw, hell, Miss Ferguson..."

She heard a key rattling.

This guy had the keys to the dressing rooms. She prayed that made him real.

The door opened. He looked enough like an agent. But maybe he looked like a drug smuggler, too.

"Come on, please, Wellington is across the stage, and he knows Chase is out and wants you with him. I'm the real deal, I swear it—"

He never finished his sentence. She never saw the person who slammed his head with a guitar, sending him crashing down to the floor.

Out like a light.

But then she did see who had wielded the weapon. And to her astonishment, it was someone who hadn't dressed to blend in with a bunch of rockers.

It was Kenneth Malcom, and as usual, he was dressed impeccably in one of his suits.

"Skylar, that guy was a phony. He thought he'd knocked me out over there, and he stole my master key... Let me get you to Wellington before another of these perps gets over here!"

Wellington had filled the place with undercover agents.

But it seemed that head of the drug cartel or whoever was pulling the strings had filled it with his own people as well.

"Come on!" he told her anxiously. "Skylar, hurry, I owe it to your dad to make sure that you're safe!"

She looked at the man on the floor; he was out.

If nothing else, Kenneth Malcom knew how to play the guitar as weapon.

"Skylar!"

She followed him out. The dressing rooms were stage left while most of the workings of any show there took place stage right.

"We'll head around the back. You don't see anyone, right?"

She shook her head, hurrying by him, ready to run across the back of the stage until she met the one man that she knew Chase trusted entirely.

But she had barely gotten around the back before she saw Chris Wiley coming her way, looking anxious.

"Skylar! Thank God. Brandon is going around the other way for you. Seems Chase headed on out, getting himself involved in all this—"

"Chris," Kenneth Malcolm exploded from behind her. "You! You're the one. You saw to it that Justin was played because you knew that he loved his wife and kids more than his own life. Get the hell away from her now, Chris."

"What?" Chris demanded.

"You heard me, move aside. I'm getting her out of here!"

Brandon appeared then, coming from the other direction. "Thank God! You found her. Skylar—"

"Both of you! Back off, you bastard pushers, get away from her."

"Kenneth, what in God's name is wrong with you?" Chris demanded. "Leave her alone. Let Skylar come with us right away, and go and do whatever the hell you need to be doing—getting out of here yourself, getting to safety—"

"Move. Now. I don't trust you—either of you," Malcolm said.

"Malcolm!" Brandon exploded.

Sky stood there, torn, incredulous.

And not at all sure who to trust.

"Let me just go back to the dressing room!" she said. "All of you, leave me alone. I'll be with Chase soon enough, and you guys can argue this out with the agents—"

"Where's the agent? The guy who was going to get Skylar?" Chris demanded.

"There was no agent—just another pusher who was better disguised," Malcolm said. "Now, I mean it, you two, get the hell out of the way."

Chris Wiley shook his head. "Jake Ferguson was my best friend and, however it played out, you had something to do with him dying. You get the hell out of my way, and you get the hell away from Skylar!"

Chris and Brandon stood together, staring at Sky and Malcolm, hands on their hips, determined.

She couldn't believe it.

Chris had been one of her father's best friends. And Brandon was far from a perfect human being, but they were all far from perfect.

And Kenneth Malcolm...

She turned. And she turned just in time to see him smile and reach behind his back, under his always-perfect jacket, and produce a gun.

"Sorry, Skylar, I was going to try to make this a little easier for you... I really do like your father's songs and the way that you do them, but..."

"Let her go!" Chris demanded. "What, are you going to shoot me, with FBI agents running all over the place?"

"Uh, yeah, no problem."

Kenneth Malcolm fired, and Chris went down and before she could run to him, Malcolm had his hands on her, fingers through her hair, dragging her with him and away from the fallen man and his stricken son.

She let out a scream that could have wakened the dead, but Kenneth Malcolm shouted almost as loudly.

"One more sound out of you and I shoot Brandon, too!"

He aimed at Brandon.

She gritted her teeth, stared at him and said, "Don't you dare—lead the damned way!"

And he did, lifting a ring in the floor and forcing her down a ladder ahead of him.

C HASE HEARD S KYLAR ' S scream just as the door slammed shut behind him. He hurried toward the sound and was just in time to see that Chris Wiley was on the ground, bleeding, with Brandon hovering over him, screaming for help.

He paused by Chris, hitting a speed dial that instantly brought Wellington's voice to his ear.

"Man down, we need an ambulance, now," Chase said.

"It's a flesh wound," Chris groaned. "Go, go, go—he's got Skylar."

"Malcolm?"

"He threatened to shoot me, too, if Sky didn't move. She basically told him to go to hell, but...she moved. She wouldn't let him shoot me," Brandon said.

"Please..."

There was no pretense going on anymore; Chase could hear sirens blazing through the night.

"Chris, they're on the way—"

"I'm fine. My shoulder...well, hell, it's good I'm not the drummer!" Chris said.

"Where?"

"Into the floor."

"The floor—a trapdoor, there!" Brandon said, pointing it out. Chase had to admit he hadn't even thought about a stage basement. They didn't use it for their rock shows; when theatrical performances were put on, characters and set pieces could be moved up and down.

He nodded, feeling like an idiot, hurrying to the spot where there was a small metal ring that brought up a three-by-three piece of the flooring, revealing a ladder.

He moved down it cautiously, quickly speaking with Wellington, advising him as to his position and letting him know that the man had Sky.

Only dim light filtered through from above. No one had thought about the area—it wasn't being used.

But then, maybe they'd figured this would just be too simple. Wait and see who was picking up the goods and nab them after making sure that threatened families were safe.

He should have known better. Nothing in life was ever easy. He shouldn't have left Skylar, but if he hadn't...

They would never know that there had been a pass-off, that there were more people involved here than they had imagined.

Malcolm. Chase had thought of him. But he'd also set his name aside because he hadn't been at the other venues. Apparently, this whole thing was bigger than even Wellington had imagined.

He reached the ground. The area was empty, other than a few large storage containers. He drew a penlight from his pocket, desperately searching.

If they had come down here, where the hell—

He saw a panel to his left and determined that it had to slide, lead somewhere.

It did.

Across the area to the rear of the stage, beyond, and to another ladder that led up to...the door backstage. The one he had come through. The one in lockdown now...

But Kenneth Malcolm was the one who managed the venue. The one who had probably studied the blueprints a zillion times over.

He was the one person who would know how to silence alarms and bypass a lockdown.

Swearing, he ripped open the door, heedless of the sound that instantly keened through the venue. The cops were there.

Agents were there. All good men and women, steady people who knew their jobs...

But hadn't known Kenneth Malcolm.

S KYLAR HAD NEVER been below the stage, and she didn't know what to expect once they went down the ladder.

But once they were away from others, she didn't intend to be so obliging.

"Move!" Malcolm told her.

"I'm moving. What? Do you want me to break a leg and slow you down even more, you idiot? And you are an idiot. Now everyone is going to know who you are and what you did—"

"And no one will give a damn when I'm on a beach in Mexico!" he promised her.

"Oh, am I going to Mexico?"

He started to laugh. "Skylar Ferguson, child of Jake, beloved by all, little nightingale, and now... Well, you guys were good tonight. You know, there are probably a thousand men out there who would love to take you to Mexico! But I'm no fool. You'd kill me the first chance you got."

"Because you're the one who ordered Justin to fix the amp that killed my father," she said flatly.

"No, it was my suggestion, and I was the one on the dark web that gave the order—promising to see that Julia and the kids were killed if he failed—but I'm not the be-all and end-all," he said. "But you look like such a beautiful, sweet thing. I know, however, that you're a raving bitch."

"So what's the deal? You're going to kill me, too?" she asked.

"Not quite yet, not if you try to be a good girl."

"If you're going to kill me anyway, why would I be a good girl?"

"Because there's always hope, right? You can live on the hope that your boy toy will make it to you somehow, or one of his lecturing friends." He laughed. "Hope that you move and that your idiot drummer boy doesn't pop up in front of me, threatening me."

"If not insurance against such a thing, what am I?"

"Okay, you are insurance. But seriously, try to be nice, Skylar. I know you can do it. I've seen you with other people. So behave..."

"I see. You're taking me so you can get to Mexico. I hate to tell you, but it's not going to work."

"And why would that be?"

"They'll shoot down your plane."

"No, they'd kill an innocent pilot. They don't want to do that, right?"

She started to laugh suddenly. "And you think you have a plan that will get you to a plane and off the ground and no one is going to know? You're an idiot—"

"That's not being nice," he warned, thrusting the nose of the gun against her skull.

"Well, you are. If you hadn't come for me, you could have walked out on your own, and no one would have noticed."

"No, that fool knew. He knew when he saw me with the packet."

"The fool? You mean the real FBI agent who came to the dressing-room door."

"He would have told Wellington. I had to take him down, and I'm not sure I killed him, and there you were, so...now you're insurance. And again—"

"Okay, so I'm going with you to a car. Whose car? How—"

"You don't need to worry about whose car."

"Oh, I see. The idiot who picked up the package passed it on to you when he realized that he was seen and being chased. And the FBI agent saw the exchange. And with all the metal detectors, no one other than law-enforcement officials should have had firearms, but you didn't need to bring a firearm in because you'd already stashed one here for emergencies."

"So smart. Wow. A real Einstein."

They were still on the ground. It was dark, but she could see the hatred in his eyes as he shoved her.

"Move, Einstein."

"Where?"

"The panel, you dolt."

"Hey, I've never had an occasion to be down here before!"

"That's right. You horrible, elitist, wretched, conceited performers! You think that you walk on stage and the world adores you. You don't give a damn about anyone working—you just want your music, your drinks and your drugs, and your good old rock 'n' roll."

"That's bull. My father cared about everyone. He cared about kids being given drugs, and he's turning over in his grave right now because you're killing people everywhere with drugs that aren't just addictive, they're lethal—"

"Oh, no, no. I'm just this venue. The king has many subjects. Now, get the hell through the panel."

Sky moved toward it. He reached past her to shove it open.

If she pushed him, if she went for his arm...

"Don't even think about it," he told her.

She pushed the panel, went through the door. They started to move up to the main level again, reaching the door to the backstage parking.

"An alarm will raise all hell. If you just go and leave me—"

"Not on your life!"

"But—"

"You forget. I run this place," he reminded her, smiling grimly.

Of course.

He hit a code in a box by the door and pushed it open. The door silently moved, and they stepped outside.

There were agents everywhere!

Except out here.

Because, of course, they'd had the place locked down. The agents were approaching, questioning and perhaps even searching everyone.

Somewhere busy talking to Chris and Brandon and others...

No. They would know. Brandon would have told them about the entry to the lower-stage area and they would be coming after her...

"Hey!" someone shouted.

But Kenneth Malcolm didn't hesitate. He turned, taking a wild shot, not really caring if it hit its target or not.

They heard the sound of a thud. Someone had hit the ground.

And there was no fire in return.

"So you just killed another innocent?"

"Maybe I just wounded a bastard cop. No time to figure it out."

"After all this, you think your king is going to get you to Mexico? I hear he kills people who don't carry out all his plans."

"I'm not just a flunky."

"Hmm. That could be all the worse!"

"Shut the hell up and move. Over there. That nice little SUV that looks like every other SUV and has the dirtied plates. I am not an idiot, Miss Ferguson. I'm a smart man—the one who will kill you if he has to."

She moved ahead as he prodded her with the gun, praying that whoever had called out to him wasn't dead.

Chase would come after her. She knew it.

But she knew, as well, that she needed to keep herself alive. He'd pointed out that she had no training.

But she had instinct, and she desperately wanted this man brought to justice, to pay for what he had done to her father and others.

She had to watch and wait because...

He would make a mistake. She didn't know when or where, but he would make a mistake.

And when he did, she swore silently to herself, she would be ready.

She had wanted the truth. She had wanted it so badly because there should be no disbelief, no skepticism ever, that her father had found his focus in life, that he had never fallen again, that he had lived for his music—and for others.

She closed her eyes, remembering him. He'd had such strength and such courage. Seeing him, in her mind's eye, in her memories, she knew that he had served his country and more, and he had lived every day of his life with courage, the courage to be his own man, the best husband and the best father.

He had given her music. And so much more.

And this...

Whatever happened, she would face it, manage it, do what she could...

This man had caused her father's death. She wouldn't falter. And with faith in his memory, and men like Chase, she just might make it. And who knew? Others knew that Malcolm had taken her.

Chase knew.

Malcolm had told her about hope. Hope was good to cling to. Hope, courage...and faith.

She had been lucky in life because the men in her life had all three. She would have all three, too.