“‘Don’t be dismayed at good-byes. A farewell is necessary before you can meet again,’” Tristan quoted. “Richard Bach.”
“‘Unless someone like you cares a whole awful lot, nothing is going to get better. It’s not,’” Monica said, giving him a half smile. “Dr. Seuss.”
Tristan crawled out of the car. Alex followed. Before shutting the door, Tristan stuck his head back in.
“Stay here. If we’re not back in an hour, take my car and find the police.”
Tristan dangled his keys in front of her and she took them without meeting his eyes.
“Be careful,” she said.
Both doors slammed closed and Monica jumped at the sound. She felt entombed as she watched the two men jog off down the street. She followed their progress through the dark, each becoming more like a transparent shadow, until they turned the corner and were out of sight.
The smell was grease and metal and stale air. She could hear the tugboats as they passed, so she knew they were close to the river. In a dark warehouse, Josie sat tightly bound to a metal chair. Her arms and shoulders cramped from the pull of the ropes even though she had given up her struggle long ago. Just in case she survived, she took in everything about her surroundings. She counted the number of skylights high above her head. She tried to make out the printed words on the hundreds of boxes and cartons stacked around her. Her mind raced with so many questions and not enough answers.
The stacked pallets obscured her view, but she could hear murmured conversation and approaching footsteps. Josie fought to keep her breathing under control while her racing heart created a countdown tempo against her chest. She couldn’t help but feel robbed by this. After finding Tristan and the first inkling of happiness, she was going to lose it all.
Jarred from her reflection, she felt a hand grip her shoulder. Four men stood before her, including her kidnapper. She looked them over carefully, trying to assess which one of them would do the job. Her mind was shutting down and laughter almost bubbled out of her as she took in the sight before her. It was a scene straight out of a mobster movie, complete with damsel in distress.
“McKenzi Delaune, it’s so good to see you again. Welcome home,” the man dressed all in black taunted as he began to circle her. “Please excuse our lack of fanfare.”
Josie followed him with her eyes for as long as possible, memorizing the scowl on his face and the venomous words that dripped from his thin lips. He was short, with a wide chest and a shirt that didn’t fit his muscled arms. His skin was pale, sickly almost, and stood out beneath his black hair and beard. Icy blue eyes glared at her. His voice carried so much hate and contempt she felt as though his words alone could cause damage.
He had that dominant, soul-crushing air about him. This had to be Dean Moloney. When he was standing directly in front of her again, he grabbed her chin and roughly turned her face toward the overhead light.
“So beautiful,” Moloney sneered. “You do look just like Earl, though.”
Josie bit down on her lip to keep from screaming. She wanted to tell him to keep her father’s name out of his evil mouth.
“Why am I still alive?” she asked.
“Because you’re the grand finale,” Moloney answered.
“What did I ever do to you?”
“Your father shut down my operation for six months.”
Josie’s gaze flickered over to the other men. They all seemed bored and unaffected by his dramatics.
“He’s dead. How much more punishment could you need?”
“His punishment was the loss of your mother. Though it did look like an accident. Right, Barry?” Moloney asked.
“Very unfortunate, sir,” Barry answered.
Moloney’s face held a devious smirk that, had her hands been free, Josie would have slapped clear off. The anger and hurt expanded in her until she felt like she would burst from it.
“You killed my mother,” she whispered, dropping her head to hide her tears.
“Of course,” Moloney answered. “Your father thought he could outrun me. I found out he was talking to the feds. That is why Earl is dead. He couldn’t keep his mouth shut.”
Tears blurred Josie’s vision but did not diminish the hateful glare she had on him. This man was the reason for everything tragic and wounding that had ever happened to her. She felt sick just being in his presence.
“Why me? Why now?”
“You know too much,” he answered. “You watched as we tortured truths from your father. You begged us to stop. You cried when we killed him. And then you escaped, making a fool of me and my men.”
“I have amnesia! I don’t remember anything before being sent to a home in California. I don’t know anything! You killed my fucking family and now you want me? Well, do it, you coward! Do it!”
Moloney laughed, his wicked cackle rising up through the building and echoing off the metal walls. Her tale of amnesia was humorous yet inventive, a smart attempt at self-preservation.
“As you wish,” Moloney said, smiling. “Barry.”
The oldest man nodded and pulled his pistol from its holster, raising it toward Josie. Her eyes searched his face for any sort of hesitation and found none. This was it for her. Resigned to her destiny, Josie took a deep breath and closed her eyes, waiting for the end to come.
“I love you, Tristan,” she whispered, her lips barely moving as she spoke her final words.
“Drop the fucking gun,” Tristan shouted.
He appeared behind Rob and Barry, his piece pointed at Moloney. He stepped forward, making his intentions clear. If Josie dies, so does Moloney.
“Right on time, Tristan,” Moloney said.
Frank reached for his gun, only to feel the press of metal to his temple.
“Don’t think so, cabrón,” Alex growled.
Josie, shocked by Alex and Tristan’s presence, sat speechless as she watched the triangle of guns before her—Tristan at Moloney, Alex at Frank, and Barry still focused on her. Her eyes darted from one to another, finally staying on Tristan. The sight of him, no matter the circumstance, was comforting. Her eyes raked over his intense face and she willed him to look at her.
“I said to drop the gun or Moloney eats this fucking bullet,” Tristan shouted at Barry, but the man did not flinch.
Fearless, Moloney spun to face Tristan, a Cheshire cat grin plastered on his face. He assessed the boy and the passion in his eyes. His plan had worked perfectly.
“Tristan, what an entrance. Still trying to play hero? Of course, I knew you would come. You’ll never make it out alive,” Moloney said.
“I don’t care, as long as she does.”
Tristan finally glanced at Josie and his heart broke. He’d avoided eye contact so that he could remain focused, but now he was a mess. The love of his life sat at the end of a cold, impassive piece of steel.
“Barry, drop your goddamned gun,” Tristan repeated.
Moloney shook his head and the standoff continued.
Rob stood motionless, watching the situation play out before him. He knew he could draw his gun and take one of them out before anyone knew what happened. The problem was, he wasn’t sure where his allegiances lay now. The tiny bit of compassion that remained inside him was fixed on Tristan. Rob imagined Monica on the end of that gun and he almost crumpled from the vision. Still, if he betrayed Moloney, he wouldn’t get any of the money. He wasn’t willing to risk that just yet.
“What do we do now? You want to trade your life for hers?” Moloney asked.
“No!” Josie shouted, somehow finding her voice.
“Be quiet, Josie,” Tristan told her, avoiding her pleading eyes.
She fought hard against the metal chair, thrashing about to keep their attention on her. She would not tolerate them taking Tristan from this world.