Chapter 8

Bryson rolled over in bed, and something hard snagged his wrists. He jolted awake, opening his eyes into the darkness of his bedroom.

No, wait.

Not his bedroom.

Enough ambient light from somewhere illuminated the concrete block walls and a metal staircase descending into the middle of the room from the floor above.

“Wha…?” Blinking, he looked at his caught wrists and at first didn’t understand the steel bracelets. Except for his wedding ring, he wasn’t the jewelry-wearing type. Why would he be wearing…

Handcuffs.

Bryson screamed, jackknifing on the mattress.

Oh shit, Oh God, Oh fuck, this wasn’t happening.

Dreaming, he had to be.

A horrible nightmare he’d soon wake up from and?—

His stomach revolted, and he rolled off the pallet only to discover his feet and waist chained to the concrete wall. Vomit surged up his throat, stained the front of the thousand-dollar suit he still wore. Distantly, he heard a door open and footsteps rattle the stairs.

Voices.

“What the fuck’s wrong with the gringo?” someone asked in Spanish, his voice the squeaky, immature sound of a teenager not yet through puberty.

“It’s the ether,” a deeper voice replied. He remembered that voice. Jacinto. “Made him sick.”

Ether?

Oh God, the limo. He remembered now, in such vivid detail, the memory seared. The dizziness, the panic, the sleepiness. Jacinto wearing a bug-eyed mask and telling him to let it happen, that nobody would hurt him, that he was worth too much money. He’d been gassed. Kidnapped.

Bryson puked until there was nothing left in his stomach. Dry heaved until tears streamed down his face and his ribs screamed in pain from the violent, useless spasms. Then he collapsed, wishing he’d slide back into the comfortable oblivion of unconsciousness.

“Se?or Van Amee,” Jacinto said.

Bryson felt a boot nudge his side. Something pressed to his ear.

“Talk.”

He tried. Couldn’t do anything but moan.

“Get him up.”

A pair of hands hauled him upright, and his head spun, kicking off another round of dry heaves. Again, Jacinto pressed something to his ear and ordered, “Talk!”

“Bryson?” Chloe’s tear-choked voice was like a balm, soothing over the worst of his pain. “Bryson, baby, are you there? Are you okay? Talk to me, baby. Please.”

He opened his mouth and found his tongue was like sandpaper as he tried to wet his lips. “Chloe.”

“Oh God.” She broke down crying. “We’re going to bring you home, baby. We’re going to pay anything they want, okay?”

Pay them anything they want. It was the logical thing to do, but God, it pissed him off. These cretins took him from in front of his own apartment building, scared his wife and kids and probably his sister, and now they were demanding money from his family? And after they got his money, they’d just kill him—he wasn’t a stupid man and knew they’d never let him go. He’d seen their faces, could identify them. And after they dumped his body somewhere, they would do it all over again to someone else.

No. No, they wouldn’t. It ended here.

“Don’t pay… them a… dime.”

“Brys?”

“I mean it. Not one?—”

Jacinto swore in Spanish, yanked the phone from his ear, and backhanded him so hard his vision flared white and stayed white for a long five seconds. Pain exploded through his face, and blood spurted from his nose, over his lips, the coppery taste of it filling his dry mouth.

“Chloe, listen to me!” He didn’t know if she was still on the phone or if Jacinto had hung up on her. “Don’t let them get away with this. Don’t pay them, whatever threats they make, whatever?—”

“?Cállate!” A boot landed hard in his side, and something cracked. Suddenly, he couldn’t draw a full breath without pain splintering his every thought, and he collapsed onto the concrete floor with bone-jolting force.

Jacinto grabbed his tie and hauled him upright. Breath that reeked of cigarettes and coffee and something spicy invaded his nose as a broad, dark face pressed so close, an irrational fear that Jacinto was going to kiss him flitted through his brain.

“I speak Ingles, asshole,” Jacinto said in thickly accented English and jerked on the tie, cutting off his oxygen. “Try something like that again, I will kill you. I don’t need to keep you alive now that they have proof of life. Remember that.”

* * *

As far as second communications went, that wasn’t the worst. Wasn’t the best, either, and a hard knot of dread settled in FBI negotiator Danny Giancarelli’s stomach. He set down the phone and exchanged a knowing glance with his partner, then they both turned to Special Agent in Charge Frank Perry.

“What—what was that?” Chloe Van Amee’s voice was high, verging on a screech. She looked from one of them to the next, eyes frantic, complexion white despite her tan. “We’re going to pay them, right? Yes, of course we’re going to pay them. Brys doesn’t know what he’s saying. We have to pay them. We?—”

“Mrs. Van Amee,” Danny said since Frank Perry didn’t seem to care to step up and do his job to calm the woman. “This isn’t unusual. Your husband is frightened, feeling out of control, and trying to take back whatever control he can.”

“Oh God.” She doubled over in her chair and covered her face with her hands.

Standing over Chloe’s shuddering form, Rick O’Keane arched a brow. Danny gave his partner an almost imperceptible shrug. It might be true. Bryson was no doubt frightened, but usually, hostages were willing to pony up anything for their release. Wasn’t often he heard a hostage say not to pay.

God, he wished Marcus DeAngelo was here. His former partner knew how to handle family members better than any other agent in the office.

“We’re obviously dealing with professionals,” Frank Perry said, and Danny turned in his seat to stare at him. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Van Amee. They don’t want your husband’s life. All they want is the money.”

Hell. He can’t know that after two very short freakin’ phone conversations with the HTs—hostage takers. They didn’t know anything yet, other than Bryson was still alive, his ransom was around sixty million and some change, and the HTs wanted the exchange to happen as soon as possible.

O’Keane looked just as thunderstruck, and nothing much surprised the Irishman. He cleared his throat and jerked his head toward the corner of the room in a we-need-to-talk gesture.

“Perry.” Danny stood and motioned him toward the corner as well. “Let’s talk.”

Perry ignored them both. “Mrs. Van Amee—Chloe. Is it okay if I call you Chloe?” When she gave a watery nod, he took the chair across from her that Danny had vacated. “Do you have access to funds for the ransom payment?” Another nod.

“My suggestion is that you start making calls, whatever you need to get the ransom money ready. Your husband’s best chance, our best chance, is to pay what they ask.”

“Now I think we’re getting ahead of ourselves,” the suit from the insurance company said. Always protecting that bottom line. Danny couldn’t remember his name and frankly didn’t care to know it, but in this instance, he had to agree with the man.

They had the resources to send someone to Colombia and get Bryson out. A team of SEALs stationed in Coronado trained with Danny’s office, as well as several other Special Forces units—any of them could go in after Bryson.

Problem was money. And politics. Always came down to those two gems. Even as wealthy as the Van Amees were, a rescue operation cost serious bucks, and Bryson wasn’t important enough to waste that kind of time or manpower. It was easier to pay the ransom.

Not important enough.

Danny thought of Van Amee’s two little boys, Grayson and Ashton, who reminded him so much of his twin sons. So young and frightened, with a mother who didn’t seem to give two figs about them.

Okay, he knew he had to cut Chloe some slack for the dismissive way she treated them. Stressed way beyond what most normal people experience in their lifetime, she was cracking, and everyone handled that differently. For all he knew, she was Mother of the Year under normal circumstances.

Not important enough.

Goddammit, but Bryson Van Amee was important. Those two little boys deserved to grow up with a father. Who was he to take that away by not doing everything in his power to bring Bryson home?

But that was the problem. It wasn’t in his power to make the call. It was Perry the Prick’s.

Frustrated, feeling the constraint of bureaucratic red tape, Danny ground his teeth but kept his mouth shut.