TWELVE - Thorn

TWELVE

Thorn

The boathouse is a shack cut into the jagged cliffs along the northern coastline of the Pacific, near a national recreation area that I have fully surveyed. My cameras are everywhere, but they can't be seen. Accessing the boathouse isn't easy. Even though we've cut in a decent trail, more than one of my men have fallen off the trail and into the abyss. I can hear the Pacific far below as I stride down the curved rock; it's dark tonight, and I know how jagged those rocks are below.

My balls are still on fire, and that has my chest heating. I'd forgotten the feeling.

My hands are steady but my gut aches like usual. It fleetingly occurs to me that I might have to let Alana go soon—before my body gives up the fight with this illness. Or curse. Or whatever the fuck it is.

If I can't protect her, I'll make sure she's around somebody who can.

I glance out at the vast dark sea. People looking from the ocean as they travel by in their luxury yachts only see a raw and weathered cliffside, because that's what I want them to see. Camouflaging the trail was a simple task. There's no way to get close to the land in this area because of the horrific rocks jutting out all over the coastline. There already were some when I purchased the land and built my home several miles down the coastline, but I have discreetly added more through the years.

The wind whips against me, and I take it, unwilling to show any weakness to the men behind me. Most don't know I'm succumbing to the freezing pain. And that's what it is. I'm freezing from the inside out as the ancient garnet that powers Malice Media does the same.

It's infuriating, and I reach deep into my anger to keep myself warm.

I finally arrive at the cavern I had carved into the cliff. It is but a wide room, surrounded on all sides with natural rock that is chilling in its hardness. There aren't any garnets that occur naturally in this rock, but I placed many in the floor, ceiling, and even the four walls.

Even though we're inside, I can hear the ocean thundering in a frenzy outside. The two men Justice secured are sitting on metal chairs, arms bound behind their backs. I tug a burning mint, my own concoction, from my pocket, unwrap and shove it into my mouth.

Bags cover my captives' heads, which hang down. Their shirts have been sliced open, and blood already flows from cuts in their torsos.

Justice takes point at the doorway, as usual. Two of my men flank us, both with bloodied knuckles. I hadn't ordered them not to play.

I rip the hood off the first guy, who looks to be in his late twenties, and jerk his head back at the same time. He sniffs bloody snot up his nose and glares at me for a second before really looking at me. Whatever he sees has his eyes widening and his bronze face paling. He gulps and fights his restraints, his body square and muscled on the metal chair bolted into the rock. His lip is split, and his brown eyes look blurry, as if he's sustained a brain concussion.

At least one.

He stares at me.

"Do you know who I am?" I ask softly.

He swallows and looks wildly around, his gaze landing on Justice and then returning to me. "I think I heard one of your people call you by name. Are you Thorn Beathach?" There's a hint of hope in his voice as if he could be wrong.

"Right."

His shoulders slump and his chin lowers. "What do you want?"

"Shut the fuck up," his buddy hisses from next to him, his voice muffled by the hood.

I punch him square in the face and his head jerks back, not once but twice, and he flops forward as much as the ties allow. Out cold.

The guy in front of me sucks in a breath and tries to lean back.

"There's nowhere to go," I say congenially. Coldness ran through me before this illness and now, even my blood cells feel like ice. Except when Alana is near with her greenish-brown eyes and untamable hair. At the thought of her, I taste honey through the mint. "Who hired you to shoot anywhere near Alana Beaumont?"

His brows draw down quickly before he smooths them out. "Why would you want to know that?"

I fluidly draw my knife from the sheath at my calf, my reflexes faster than he's ever seen, and plunge the blade into the center of his thigh.

He screeches and then catches himself, sucking air rapidly into his lungs. Blood pours around the shiny metal, matching the garnet in the hilt.

None of my men move, and if I know Justice, he looks like he is about to take a nap.

Then I wait.

The guy sniffs again.

"What's your name?" I ask.

"Renaldo," he rushes to say.

It's a nice name. Much better than Thorn. "Who's the lead in this little campaign?"

He looks to the side. "Um, not me. Ratchet is higher ranked than me."

Great. I've knocked out the wrong asshole. "I suppose you're probably the lead now," I say.

He blinks several times as he catches my meaning. "Oh."

I'm thinking he's not the mastermind behind anything. "Alana Beaumont," I say, making sure the mint is properly burning my taste buds. No way do I want to taste this guy's words.

He squints as if desperately trying to remember. "We weren't supposed to kill her. Just scare everyone and kidnap her."

Irritation claws through me. "Then your people shouldn't have fired at her." Although, to be fair, nobody had hit her.

"Sorry. Really." Renaldo sags, lines of pain cutting into the sides of his mouth.

"Where were you supposed to take her?" I ask.

His chest heaves. "I don't know." The words are a low and mournful sound. "I was the driver."

Apparently he'd taken off when his friends had lost the firefight. Not very sporting of him. "Tell me everything you do know."

He straightens like an eager puppy. "Our group was paid a million dollars up front with a promised five million if we secured her." He glances at his still unmoving buddy. "The transaction was in cash and all communications via written notes that we burned."

Shit. Most folks aren't smart enough to stay away from the convenience of technology. "Who received the note?"

"Tarantula did. He's dead," Renaldo says.

Anybody named Tarantula deserves to be dead. I cock my head at Justice, who's now scrolling through his phone.

"High up," he murmurs in Gaelic as he no doubt reads the dossiers we've compiled on criminal organizations. "We've never done business with him, but he's close to the top. Rather, he was."

Makes sense. "Do you know who killed your three fellow gang members?"

Renaldo looks away from the knife protruding from his leg. "Rumor has it the Sokolov family guards returned fire and Alana Beaumont escaped out the back." He focuses on me, the pain in his eyes evident. "If you're looking for her, I can tell you that nobody knows where she is. The Beaumonts have reached out to Twenty-One Purple, and there's a five hundred thousand dollar retrieval fee."

"Alive?" I ask.

He gulps again. "Yeah. Yeah, man. Definitely alive. They don't want her back dead. The rules are clear."

I do like clear rules. "What about the Sokolov family?"

"Nothing that I've heard." He looks around and then shows a fair amount of backbone by asking another question. "Are you going to kill me?"

"Should I?" I cock my head.

He coughs. "No?"

"Where's his phone?" I ask.

One of my men tosses it to Justice. He snatches it out of the air and walks over, holding the screen up to Renaldo's face. It unlocks easily. Justice scrolls through, no expression on his hard face. Finally, he shakes his head. Nothing illegal or offensive on the phone.

"Do you run kids?" I ask.

Renaldo grimaces. "Gross. No." He sighs. "The higher-ups run girls, and I hate it." His voice has the ring of truth.

"Drugs?" I ask.

"Yeah." He glances again at his unconscious buddy. I may have hit him hard enough to drive his nose into his brain. "I take orders and deliver, but I don't have access to the sources. I'm not very high up. Yet."

I reach over and yank the hood off the other man, noting his wide-open blank eyes. Yep. I did kill him. Blood covers the lower half of his face from his smashed nose. He appears to be around forty. "What about him?"

Renaldo shifts on the chair and hisses, his face turning the color of Italian marble. "He was higher up." A certain note in his voice catches my attention. Slightly elevated. I nod to Wynd, who's been quiet in the back of the little cave, and he goes to the body and removes a phone. It takes three tries to hold it in front of the dead guy's face before it opens. He scrolls through and his jaw hardens.

"Kids?" I ask.

He nods.

Fuck, I hate pedophiles. Guess I killed the right guy.

Renaldo sags as if knowing he's about to die. "I didn't know that but it doesn't surprise me. Ratchet was a jerk." He sighs. "I shouldn't say that, but why not tell the truth at the time of death?"

Because the truth is often both irrelevant and way too late coming. "What do you have to live for?" I ask, reaching into my back pocket for a piece of chocolate.

"A baby," he says softly. "I'm in the life and not leaving, but my girlfriend is pregnant with my first kid."

"Do you think that will keep me from killing you?" I ask, eating the chocolate to cleanse the mint from my palate.

He looks beyond me to the stone wall separating us from the sea. "No. I've heard about you. Everyone has. You're a killer."

"That I am," I agree as the chocolate takes effect. "I'm also a businessman."

He tries to hide it, but hope appears in his eyes. All humans, probably excluding me, feel hope whether they like it or not. I figure it somehow lurks in our DNA. I flash back to Alana telling me that the obedience gene is located on the Y chromosome. A tingling warmth slides through my frozen veins.

Renaldo waits, his instincts whispering not to speak.

I cock my head. "I have people on the inside of your little gang." Sure, those gang members are notoriously dangerous in today's world, but my people? The families who actually run this world? We're the ones to fear. "I wouldn't mind another mole."

His eyes narrow, proving he's not a complete moron. "You're going to let me go?"

The taste of parsley slides across my tongue. Not enjoyable, but nowhere near evil. "Yes. Wynd will get you sutured up and then give you a schedule for check-ins." I smile and enjoy how he draws back again. Not stupid at all. "You'll be chipped, and if you cross me, you'll wish I had tortured you for the rest of tonight before feeding the remaining pieces of your body to the sharks." I lean in, making sure he understands. "And it won't just be you. Everyone you've ever smiled at will join you in death. Get me?"

He nods so quickly I can almost hear his brain rattling against his skull.

"Good. The first thing you're going to do is get me information on who hired your gang to kidnap Alana." I keep his gaze. "I don't care what you have to do to find me information. No limits. Got it?"

His nod is slower this time, but like a trapped rat in a bucket, he knows there's only one way out if he wants to live. "I'll find out."

Good. False promises. That will lead to desperation and answers for me.

Justice drops Renaldo's phone and crushes it beneath his heavy boot. My brother's eyes burn, and I wonder at his headache. While my synesthesia localizes a certain way, his is far different.

"We'll get you a new phone, Renaldo," I say. It will clone the data on any phone he gets close to and then transmit all information to my computer hub. "You'll also be watched, and if you get out of line . . . well, you know."

He nods.

I need to get back to my woman. She's had plenty of time for her body to stop burning and her mind to take over. She wanted me after the spanking, but that was physical as well as emotional. As her desire cooled, what has her temper done?

I tear my knife free of Renaldo's leg and he cries out.

Wynd moves in to save his life, and I'm already outside in the night, climbing toward the stars.

Will she be waiting for me?