The Perfect Trap, page 15
“You do realize that all your picks have happy endings,” she pointed out. “I guess you’re not a star-crossed lovers type of guy.”
“Not so much,” he admitted. “I got my fill of doomed romance from my real life.”
“Same here,” Jessie said. “Full disclosure: I’m divorced. Turns out the guy wasn’t really who he said he was. He kind of led a secret life.”
He smiled sadly, as if he understood.
“Unfortunately, my story’s a little different,” he said, surprising her. “My wife passed away.”
Though she got the sense he was telling the truth, something about the way he said it made her suspect he was leaving out a few significant details.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
Just then, her drink arrived.
“We’re checking on that too,” Ryan murmured in her ear as Augie paid the bill, notably with cash.
“Thank you,” Augie said, “but don’t feel bad. It’s been a few years now. This is actually my first foray back into the dating world.”
“Well, here’s to new beginnings,” Jessie said, lifting up her drink.
“To new beginnings,” he agreed as they tapped glasses.
Jessie pretended to take a sip, though he wasn’t really looking at her anyway. He seemed to be lost in thought, perhaps recalling his marriage. The bartender got Augie’s attention to give him his receipt and thank him. Ryan took the opportunity to speak in her ear again.
“Jamil says Flynn’s wife died when she fell overboard from their yacht during a storm. But so far, he can’t find a record of any Augie Melton. I think this may be our guy, using a fake name. If you can coax him to leave, we’ll get him outside and I’ll grab him there, where he’s less likely to harm anyone. I’ll go out now and wait for you there. Grover, you stick close to her until then.”
As Ryan spoke, Jessie pretended to take a long, second sip to avoid having to speak.
“Mm, that’s good,” Jessie said, putting the glass down and hoping her husband understood that her comment was also a confirmation of his plan. Now she just had to think of a natural way to get Augie, or probably Austin, outside. Before she could come up with anything, he spoke.
“I have to say I’m a little disappointed in the costume creativity here, especially considering where we live. I’m seeing a lot of Marvel superheroes and Disney princesses.”
“Maybe that’s why they’re all single,” she offered. “They can’t think outside the box. Of course, I’m not sure what our excuse is.”
They both chuckled at that. The moment was interrupted by a racket on the other side of the bar. Jessie looked over to see none other than Brett “James Bond” Newberry in some kind of scuffle with a guy who looked like Maverick from Top Gun. They were shoving each other, and it looked like Brett was about to throw a punch when a large, muscular man stepped between them and pointed to the exit, clearly indicating that their evenings at the mixer were over. Jessie turned back to Augie, who seemed less interested in the fracas.
“I ran into that guy earlier,” she told him, pointing at Brett. “He claimed to be doing Bond, but apparently he left the charm at home tonight.”
Augie shook his head disgustedly.
“It seems like class is dying out these days,” he said dispiritedly. “Sophistication and taste are apparently a lost art.”
“I know what you mean,” she said, nodding sympathetically.
“But you seem to have them in spades,” he said, pointing at her drink, “even in your beverage selection.”
“Thank you,” she replied, picking it up to take what felt like an obligatory sip.
She would have faked it again but this time he was watching her more closely, so she swallowed just a bit. It was actually not bad.
“You know,” she said, “It’s pretty loud in here. Do you want to go outside for a bit so we can actually have a real conversation?”
He looked mildly surprised, though not upset, at the suggestion.
“It’s a good idea,” he said, “but it might be a challenge to get back in if we go out.”
“Would that be such a bad thing?” she asked as coquettishly as she could without coming across as tawdry.
He didn’t need long to think about. After only a second, he shrugged.
“Let’s go,” he said.
They started to leave. She took the drink to be polite, though she knew she wouldn’t be allowed to leave with it. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Grover fall in line behind them, just a few paces back.
The crowd was much thicker now, and it took a while to wend their way through everyone. As they approached the exit, she could see Brett up ahead, arguing with a bouncer, who appeared to be exercising all his restraint to avoid just picking the obnoxious guy up and physically tossing him out.
“I’m thinking he wouldn’t have told Ilsa to get on that plane,” Augie noted, pointing at Brett. “He doesn’t strike me as the gentlemanly type.”
Jessie smiled at him, though it took her a second to get that the joke was a reference to the end of Casablanca. Suddenly she didn’t feel as sharp as before and wondered if all the noise and constant bumping into people was causing another headache to come on.
Up ahead, she saw that the bouncer was finally losing his patience with Brett and had started to firmly escort him out of the club. She hoped they wouldn’t be stuck in here much longer. The place was starting to feel a little claustrophobic.
They briefly got trapped in a crush of people as the hall narrowed to a bottleneck near the club exit. Jessie felt herself getting overheated, whether as a result of the tightly packed crowd or her body’s attempt to stave off the creeping pain in her head. Bodies and faces were starting to merge as her vision blurred.
Someone behind them slammed into her, and she lost her balance, nearly falling before Augie grabbed her arm and steadied her.
“Thanks,” she muttered.
“We’re almost out,” he promised.
And then they were. The darkness of the club was replaced by the bright lights outside, and the thick, hot atmosphere of The Citadel gave way to the crisp breeze of the street. She gulped in the air greedily, hoping it would clear her head.
Before she could regroup, she saw Brett and the Maverick guy just ahead of her on the sidewalk, going at it again. They were shouting unintelligibly. Then, without warning, Brett cold-cocked the guy. Maverick managed to reach out and grab Brett as he fell into the street. Suddenly all hell broke loose as some people tried to gather round to watch and others, being shoved to the side, took offense and started throwing punches of their own.
“Be careful,” Augie warned, easing her to the side to avoid the melee.
Jessie tried to look around for Ryan or Grover, but the whole world seemed fuzzy. There were voices in her head that she couldn't understand. She was having trouble seeing or even thinking clearly. Her head felt so heavy.
All she could feel was someone leading her away from the mass of bodies and the accompanying noise in an unknown direction to an unknown destination.
CHAPTER TWENTY NINE
Ryan waited outside the bar.
He stood off to the side of the line of people hoping to get inside, waiting for Jessie to lead out the guy who was almost certainly Austin Flynn. A light sprinkling of rain started to come down, just enough to dampen his skin. He noted Brett Newberry was being forcefully escorted outside.
“We’re almost outside,” he heard Grover say in his earpiece. “Jessie and Bogart are about ten feet ahead of me near the door. I can’t get closer. It’s pretty packed in here.”
“It looks like a situation is developing out here,” Ryan warned them. “That Newberry guy is getting into it with some dude in a bomber jacket. Be careful when you come out.”
Just as he said it, Newberry took a swing at the bomber jacket guy. After that, the scene turned into chaos. The people in line swarmed around the men, engulfing them, and in some cases joining in.
Ryan stepped to the side, trying to get clear of the crowd to get a better view of the club’s exit. But as the fight escalated, it became hard to see anyone clearly. The whole sea of fight-happy humanity spilled into the street as screams from several young women caught in the crossfire echoed in the night air.
“Jessie?” he said. “Are you out of the club yet? I can’t see anything in this mess. Confirm if you’re able.”
There was no response from her.
“Grover, do you have eyes on Jessie?”
“I don’t have eyes on much of anything, mate,” Grover shouted among a cacophony of other voices. “Security is trying to close the door to prevent us from getting out there right now. I’m stuck.”
Ryan, worried that Jessie might be getting trampled or worse, decided to stop trying to circle the madness and descend into it. He pushed past several onlookers, then began elbowing kidneys and kneeing the backs of legs, sending folks sprawling out of his way as he sliced to the center of the pile.
He caught sight of a figure in a white tuxedo at the edge of the circle and made his way in that direction, bobbing and weaving past amped-up partygoers in ridiculous costumes. Flynn's back was to him as he tried to shove off a much larger guy in a black t-shirt that was two sizes too small for him.
A moment later, Ryan was there, grabbing Flynn and starting to turn him around. But as he did, the big guy in the t-shirt shoved him against the wall.
“Enough,” the big guy barked.
Ryan slammed hard into the wall but ignored the pain and spun around. He stared at the big guy, who was clearly club security, and for a brief second considered identifying himself as a cop. But he didn’t want Flynn to know that information yet, so he took the simpler route.
He stepped forward, surprising the bouncer with his aggression as he kicked the guy in the shin, then offered an open-palmed uppercut under his jaw. The bouncer toppled backward into the frenzy of bodies behind him. Ryan turned to Flynn, whose back was still to him, and yanked him around.
But it wasn’t Austin Flynn. It was Brett Newberry, who had somehow escaped the fight and ended up here. His face was bloody, and his nose looked broken, but his eyes were still wild.
“You want some?” he shouted.
Ryan whirled around, looking for Jessie or anyone else in a white tux.
“Come on, man!” Newberry yelled from behind him. “I’ll take you down.”
As he said it, the bouncer scrambled to his feet, groggy-looking and wobbly, but with an angry grimace plastered on his face. Ryan didn’t care.
“Jessie, can you hear me?” he demanded over the din of the crowd. “Say anything to let me know you can. Tell Flynn you’re hungry. Even that’s enough. I can’t see you anywhere.”
The bouncer was coming at him again now, but he didn’t have time for that. His wife wasn’t responding. He had to find her. As the bouncer stepped to him, someone appeared out of the corner of Ryan’s eye with lightning speed. Before he had fully comprehended what had happened, the bouncer was on the ground again, curled up in a ball, hugging his belly. Grover was standing over him.
“Can’t find her?” the bodyguard asked, ignoring the man at his feet.
“I thought this was Flynn,” Ryan explained, pointing at Newberry, who had stopped shouting after seeing what Grover had done to the giant lying on the sidewalk.
They both looked around desperately. As he did, Ryan thought he heard something in his ear. He pressed his hand over it, hoping to block out the noise. It sounded like someone mumbling confusedly between grunts. He looked at Grover, who shook his head, obviously not getting it either. Then came a few words he could understand.
“Roofied me…” The unmistakable voice of Jessie muttered, before adding, “fancy car…orange.”
“You’re just a little tipsy,” another voice said a few seconds later. “I’m going to give you a ride home.”
He heard what he thought was car a door slam and looked up again for any sign of a fancy orange car, but there was nothing in sight. Trying not to let panic get the better of him, he knelt down next to the bouncer, rolled him onto his back, and flashed his badge.
“LAPD,” he told him, “tell me where your club’s parking lot is.”
The bouncer, watery-eyed and moaning, took a deep, clearly painful breath, then pointed down the street behind them. Ryan stood up. About fifty yards down the way was a sign that read, “Event Parking-$50.”
He was just starting to run that way when an orange Lamborghini pulled out and turned right, speeding down the street away from them. He stopped, committing the license plate to memory. Grover, who was right beside him, tapped him on the shoulder.
“We have to get back to your car,” he said. “Flynn doesn’t know anyone will be following him. If we hurry, we can catch up.”
Ryan nodded. Then, they both turned around and sprinted back in the opposite direction.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Jessie knew it wasn’t just a headache.
Somewhere along the stumbling, dizzy walk to the parking lot, she realized that Austin Flynn—she was sure it was him now—had drugged her. She vaguely remembered looking up at the argument in the bar between Brett Newberry and Maverick. That must have been when Flynn slipped her something.
Soon after that was when she'd started to feel off. Now, it was much more than that as he both held her up and pulled her along the sidewalk away from the club. She could barely see or stay upright, though she thought she could feel a few raindrops landing on her face. She wondered if it was real or drug-induced. As Flynn dragged her around the corner, she realized she was in a parking lot. She wanted to give Ryan and Grover directions to find her but was too disoriented to be of much use.
Then she heard a beep and saw the lights flicker on a fancy, orange sports car. That’s where they were going. Flynn opened the passenger door, shoved her in, then shut it. She watched him walk around the front and knew this might be her only chance to tell Ryan anything without being heard. She formed the only words she could muster.
“Roofied me…” she announced in what she hoped was a shout but suspected was a garbled whisper. “Fancy car…orange.”
The door opened, and Flynn got in beside her.
“You’re just a little tipsy,” he said sympathetically, as if he didn’t have anything to do with her condition. “I’m going to give you a ride home.”
Flynn slammed his door shut and started the car. She wanted to punch him in the face but wasn’t sure she had the motor skills for any kind of attack. A moment later, they were moving, and it was all she could do to keep from toppling forward.
“Damn, I forgot to strap you in,” Flynn said, reaching across her body to grab the belt.
Instinctively, her hand shot up, slamming him square in the nose. He yelped in pain, then shoved her hard against the door. Her shoulder smashed into it just before the side of her head slammed into the window.
For a second, everything went dark. When she opened her eyes, there were flashing stars in her field of vision. Her head screamed, but she was almost grateful for it. The pain cut through the gauzy pull of the drug, giving her a glimmer of clarity.
Jessie knew that if she didn’t act now, she wouldn’t survive this. Austin Flynn, a two-time killer, was pissed. She had no idea if Ryan and Grover had any idea what had happened to her. Even if they did, by the time they found her, she might be dead under a bush at a highway underpass. Even amid the druggy haze and her pounding head, fingers of fear clutched at her insides. She had to act now.
There was no time for clever planning. She just had to get out of this car any way she could. Without worrying about the consequences, she flung herself at Flynn, careening into his body and thrusting her arms forward. As he collided with the driver’s door, her left hand found the steering wheel and she tugged hard to the left.
“What the hell!” Flynn shouted.
The car careened left, skidding sideways on the slick street, as her body was flung back toward the passenger seat. She ignored the sharp twinge in her right shoulder as she reached down and grabbed the door handle. She saw Austin Flynn, wide-eyed with horror and fury, try to simultaneously regain control of the car as he reached for the automatic door lock. But he was too late.
The door opened, and Jessie flung herself out. The car was low to the ground, but when she landed, it still felt like all the skin was being ripped off her back. She barely had time to register that or the ear-piercing screeching of the car's tires before she started rolling, like a barrel careening uncontrollably down a hill.
She came to a stop on her side and had a close-up view as the orange sports car skidded off the road onto the sidewalk, before slamming violently into a telephone pole.
Suddenly, the street was quiet. The only sound she could hear was her own raspy breath. And then, as darkness enveloped her, nothing at all.
CHAPTER THIRTY ONE
Hannah knew something was wrong.
Rufus hadn’t gotten a single call since they’d been at this house, almost twenty-four hours now. And he’d told her the only reason he would make or receive a call was if something really good or really bad had happened. The stricken look on his face told her it wasn’t the former.
She walked over to where he had stood up from his spot on the couch and tried to listen in to what was being said, but all she could hear on the other end of the line was an unintelligible male voice with what sounded like a British accent. Rufus’s responses, all monosyllabic, weren’t much help in clueing her into the situation either. After less than a minute, he hung up.
He looked at her with an expression she’d rarely seen from him: indecision. He didn’t seem to know what to say or how to say it. He swallowed hard and looked like he was about to speak, then stopped.
“Don’t sugar coat it,” she told him flatly, grabbing his phone as if it might hold the answers she wanted. “That will only make it worse. Just tell me. I can handle it.”
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