Chapter Twenty-Two
Too fucking late.
I glare at the van as it rounds a corner in the distance, my hands gripping onto the balcony rail as if I might pull the damn thing off. I could have run when I heard her scream, could have turned and chased the back stairs to her, or gone inside for my gun, but then I wouldn’t have seen the plate, and that’s the only thing I’ve got now. That, the echo of her voice calling for me, and the image of the guys who shut the doors.
They’re not faces that will be forgiven.
“Where are you?” I snap into the phone, still scanning the area from my high vantage point. Shame the ninth floor is giving me nothing but traffic and people who aren’t Gabby.
“An hour out of Antwerp,” Quinn says quietly. “Thought you could do with some sense knocking into that head of—”
“They’ve taken her.” I hear the sharp intake of breath as I head back into the apartment and sit back in front of my laptop. “You happy now? You were right.” Silence lingers on the line. I sneer at the empty sound, brow raised, and pull up every fucking contact I’ve got that could find that van. Fake plate or not.
“How?”
“She went out to get coffee. I was asleep and…” I stop, irritated enough at myself without having to recount the fucking events to a brother who’s judging every damn move I’ve made. “Black van. I saw three of them.”
More silence comes after that, giving me time to calculate each possibility that could come for us now and send the plate number to several contacts, Quinn included.
His phone beeps, the message coming through as I read through the Yakuza info again.
“I’ve got the plate details,” he says, a snide chuckle coming across the line that fills me with a dread I’m trying to supress. Dread’s the last thing I need. Cold gets this done. Cold and ruthless. Quinn’s always been right about that if nothing else, and for once it’s ebbing through me with no thought for the decency I’ve tried to hold onto my whole life. “I’ll check the ports and access out of Antwerp.”
I stand and start pulling my things together, barely acknowledging the apartment around me as I tow luggage and crap I don’t give one fuck about. It’s enough to have me staring blankly into the room and idling, hatred crawling through my skin and warning me of that Cane blood that’s riling itself up inside. I’ll kill them if they touch one damn hair on her head. I’ll do it bare handed, let that hatred consume me until there’s nothing left of me.
“I can hear the Cane in you, brother.” Another chuckle comes down the line at me as I stare into space. It has all the resentment and bitterness for Cane life washing what was left of honour out of me completely.
I snarl into the phone and let it come as I pull in breaths, let it pour visions of her scared and alone to the forefront, so I can focus on what needs to be done. He knows this shit, knows it’s balled up inside me even after all my time dampening it down. He’s always damn well known, hasn’t he? No matter how much I’ve tried to keep level and calm, be the honest one who keeps him in check, he’s always seen it in me. He’s asked for it when needed. “She’s safe, Nate. Calm down. She’s useful to them for the time being.”
“I know that,” I snap at him. I do. For now, at least. “I’ll meet you at the airport.”
I end the call and pick up my laptop, choosing to leave everything else behind as I swing on my jacket. Nothing else is needed, only the focus that becomes more acute with every step I take out of this apartment down towards the road below. I stop on the sidewalk and look around, imagining her here, and then notice the empty coffee cups on the ground, liquid still spilling from them and muddying the pristine snow.
My hand raises for a taxi, flagging him down, but I wander to the coffee as he pulls over and rub my toe in the stuff, trudging it into the snow some more until it becomes a murky mix of sludge and stain. I’m transfixed by it for some reason, analysing it for clues maybe. But there’s nothing, is there? Only the latent imprint of her hand holding two cups, a smile on her face as she comes back to me and proves she can go out on her own. One for me. One for her. Two cups. Two. Together. I look at the cups, still side by side, coffee bleeding together and mingling.
The taxi horn beeps, causing me to glower at the interruption and just about stop the desire to yank the guy from the car. Fuck him. And fuck these streets. Why the fuck did I let her bring us here? Chicago was safe. Quinn was right, and now she’s gone and it’s my own damn fault. I should have locked her down, kept her safe and secure so I could control everything around us.
My feet crunch through the snow to get to the car, the door slamming behind me as I tell the guy to get me to the airport fast. All there is on the journey is a rally of emails and phone calls coming in from contacts, none of them knowing a damn thing to help. Why would they? It’s fucking Antwerp. I know no one here. The only hope I’ve got is that my information from the files Quinn sent, along with whatever he’s managed to get out of Marco about Andreas, is enough to counter the move the Yakuza are about to make. I don’t even know if it’s her they’re really after anymore. It’s more likely her brother. Hell, it could be Cane.
That’s been enough of a deviation to have me locking everything we have up tighter than it’s ever been, solidifying it into something transferable should the need come, and moving it out of Quinn’s control. Land, acquisitions, money—it’s all clean now, and most of it is hidden in plain sight through channels he knows nothing of, but it’s not the paper trail they’ll be after if they are coming for us, not entirely. It’s the network, the power Quinn’s trying to hold on to. Legal or not, they’ll want it all from him regardless of how well I’ve hidden it.
His life, too.
That shit’s not acceptable.
We arrive eventually, and brusque steps have me travelling through security and into the first-class terminal, searching for our jet through the windows.
“Sir?” a man says. “Can I help?”
“There,” I snap at him, pointing at Andrew as he walks down the steps from the jet and starts talking to the guys refuelling. “That’s my pilot. Get me out to him.”
“Sir, if you could just come to the lounge I can go through procedures and checks before—”
“I’ve been fucking checked,” I grate out, snapping my eyes back to the plane and noting Quinn at the top of the steps. He looks into the terminal, hands in his pockets and a smile on his face as if he’s got all the time in the world. He hasn’t, and nor have I. “That’s my brother. The Cane plane. Out. There. Now.”
“Yes, Sir.”
I’m hurried through without any more conversation from the fool, doors opening for me now they’ve realised who I am. Damn right. The fucking cart they offer to pretentious dicks gets waved off as useless as I get to the tarmac. I keep walking towards the bottom of the jet’s steps instead, intent on usingmypower to get this job done before it turns messy.
