Chapter Twenty-Five

The tornadic waterspout widened, and headwinds held them at bay. Branches, driftwood and planks ripped from nails soared like flying monkeys through the atmosphere.

"We ain't gonna make it," Ty hollered, but Owen hung on to him with a secure grip.

"Yes, we are! Muster some faith!"

The funnel began moving right for them, the water angrily churning and roaring. If the tornado hit the house, it would result in complete destruction, but Ty would not back down now.

Forcing himself to pitch forward, fighting the torrential storm and winds, he pressed on with Owen at his side, neither of them willing to give up. As they inched toward the maze of boardwalks leading out to more marshland and one to the house, a portion of railing ripped from the nails with a crack and came hurtling in their direction. Ty dove onto Owen, the end of the railing clipping his hip with a sharp, stabbing pain.

Owen laid a wet hand on Ty's head and ruffled it. "Close one." He pointed at the funnel cloud. "Look! It's changing direction. Thank God!"

Ty winced but looked on, stunned. That thing should have barreled straight into their path. But tornados were unpredictable. That's all it was—unpredictability. "Almost there now, bruh."

"I see why you hate hurricanes," Owen said. "Don't ask me to go on any water trips for a long, long time."

"Fair enough. Also, I kinda wanna sing ‘Waterfalls,' but it feels a little inappropriate."

"Nor does it make sense, but when has that ever stopped you?" he hollered.

Today. Every muscle burned and ached from working to maintain an upright position, not to mention the weight of his waterlogged clothing.

"Asa can never, ever know about this."

"I'll take it to the grave." Owen laughed, then coughed again.

Once they finally made it to the boardwalk, they toppled over the railing. Lightning flashed and flickered.

"Not to make light here, O, but this weather reminds me of the moment before Gozer made its entrance in Ghostbusters. Just sayin'."

Owen shook his head. "Maybe quit sayin'."

The house loomed before them. Massive with windows from floor to ceiling and two sets of stairs leading to a main door at the second level.

Something about this house felt familiar. Had he been here before? Seen it before?

He shook himself out of the disjointed thoughts. Garrick was holding women hostage and he traveled often, which meant he probably had a state-of-the-art security system.

No lights on inside.

If things worked in their favor, the power would be out, meaning no access to the security system.

"You take the first level, clear it. I'll go up those stairs and clear level two. Then meet me at the second floor, and we can do the top together."

Owen clasped the back of Ty's neck. "I'm praying for ya, brother."

"If I pray too, will He hear me?"

Squinting, Owen smiled. "Yeah. He'll hear you."

Ty wondered if He already had—they'd made it this far. Somehow the impossible had become possible, and it couldn't be attributed to adrenaline. And neither could the tornado turning at the last second. But divine intervention? Nah. That would mean... No. No, he wasn't going there.

Now they had a whole other kind of hurricane to battle.

Owen went under the house to the back door while Ty crept up the slippery wooden stairs to the second-floor patio under the middle of the turret, where a door beckoned him to enter. Sidling into a corner between the window and the glass door, he peered inside.

No lights. No noise. Didn't appear to have any power. Nerves throbbing, he reached for the doorknob and twisted. The door opened. Guess he didn't expect someone to show up in a hurricane.

Or he did and wanted Ty to walk right into his trap.

Blood whooshed in his ears as he drew his Glock and slipped inside, dripping on the tile flooring. No hiding he was here. He'd leave wet, muddy footprints all over this house. So much for an element of surprise.

Crouching and surveying the dark surroundings, he concocted his plan. Start with what he could see and then clear room by room before moving upstairs. The home was masculine, done in earthy coastal tones. Tasteful and expensive. He caught a faint whiff of lemon and pine-scented cleaner. Not a speck of dust. Who did the cleaning? Would he risk a cleaning crew? Where were the women being held, and where were Bexley and Josiah?

Ty surveyed the open living concept, spotting a hallway that flanked the living room. Which way to go? Right or left?

He listened. Complete silence. Why wasn't Garrick using a generator? Was he planning on evacuating? It was too late for that now.

Keeping low, his breath shallow, Ty crept down the hall on the left, finding two bedrooms and a bathroom. Clear. He hurtled down the right hallway and found one more bedroom and bath and a theater room with only two chairs. Clear.

On his way back into the living area, he noticed a bookshelf that jutted too far out from the wall.

Odd.

Where was O? He should have cleared the ground level by now and made his way up the stairs into the living area on this floor. Inching closer to the wall, Ty noticed the crack.

A false front.

Carefully, he opened the hidden door and slipped through, his gun poised, ready for confrontation.

Silence.

Before him stretched three glossy black doors on his right and four on the left.

He cracked open the first door on the left. Pungent scents of ink permeated the stale air, and tattoo equipment rested in the corner, but the room was vacant. Definitely the correct house.

Moving to the right, he checked the opposite room. Empty except for a twin bed with expensive sheets. A chain had been anchored to the wall. He cleared each empty identical room.

Last two doors.

He chose the one on the left and entered.

Ty's lungs deflated and he lowered his weapon. What was going on? His heart hammered against his ribs and his mouth dropped open as he tried to grasp what he was seeing.

Garrick sat in a chair, staring right at him with dark, vacant eyes.

His throat had been slit from ear to ear, but the left side near the ear was shallower as if someone had hesitated—or toyed with him before ripping through his flesh and veins. Blood stained his unbuttoned white dress shirt and pooled dark and sticky on the concrete floor. Bound to the chair with thin ropes, Garrick had prominent swelling along his jaw and dried crusty blood caked along his split lip; burn marks and shallow cuts riddled his torso where he'd been brutally tortured.

If Garrick was dead, where was Dalen? Did he kill Garrick with plans to pin this on him?

Cracking the door, he peered down the hall. Coast was clear. He darted to the last room.

Empty.

Where were Bexley and Josiah? Where were the women he'd been keeping in these rooms?

He had two options for where to go next—one was a dead end, but this place was full of secrets. Ty approached the dead end and felt along the wall until he found a small button under the chair rail. He pushed, and a door opened for him.

Dozens upon dozens of flowers arranged in pots filled the room, their sweet fragrance permeating his senses. The fountain in the middle must be a grand focal point, though the water wasn't flowing during the power outage. But what struck him with an alarming force were the seven huge birdcages circling the room.

Occupied cages.

Women in several stages of flower tattoos sat with their knees drawn up and their heads resting on them. No one moved. No one spoke.

This was how Cami had spent her last weeks on earth. Caged, confined and controlled by the will of a madman.

"I'm federal agent Tiberius Granger. I'm getting you out of here." He'd figure out the logistics later. No one was leaving this house or island. The earlier tornado had veered away from the home, sparing them, but that didn't mean another one—a larger one—couldn't pop out of the sky at any moment.

A woman raised her head at his presence, and then, one by one, all gazes were on him. Hollow eyes with a sliver of hope glimmering.

None of those eyes belonged to Ahnah, Bexley or Josiah.

Three cages were empty.

Where were they?