Unlikely Ally, page 1
Unlikely Ally
Violet Carter Series book#3
BY: B.P Stevens
Copyright © [2023] [B.P Stevens] – All rights Reserved
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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Description
Amateur detective Mason Carter is determined to uncover the truth behind his sister's murder no matter the cost.
With a nudge in the right direction from a familiar but unknown source, he makes it a step closer to getting the truth. For Mason, the truth leads back to the very beginning—his father's hometown. Following a dangerous trip down memory lane and on the brink of answers, Mason becomes a possession of the Beauford family.
Meanwhile, his father has decided to let go of his grudge toward his son to save him from the trouble he is chasing. Little does he knows, he is too late. Mason is kidnapped and subjected to unimaginable torture at the hands of Damien Beauford. After days of physical and mental abuse, Mason is offered a chance at freedom—only it is by an unlikely ally.
The joy of his newfound freedom is short-lived as he finds himself right back into a war zone with the very family he has just escaped. Back against the wall, Mason is forced to be brave and resourceful when it seems impossible.
When he thinks he's seen it all, Mason is left with another question when a woman bearing an uncanny resemblance to his sister shows up. This suspense series will leave you on the edge of your seat!
Table Of Contents
Next Time, I’ll Mind My Business
Lydia
My motorcycle purred in a way it hadn’t heard in years. It made me appreciate it a little more.
I could feel the hairs on the back of my neck bristling with anticipation in the wind. If I thought I had been driving recklessly before, I hit a new high. I cranked the throttle, and the engine roared even louder. The scenery flies by too quickly to make out anything. The wind pushes against me and my bike, trying to slow me down. I ignore it and go even faster. I knew the risks if I fell off at this speed, but the thrill of the ride—and the importance of what I am going to do—pushes me to keep going.
I'm not sure how much time I have to spare to stop Mason from marching to his death. It’s not something I want to think about, but I know I have to be realistic.
The tall cross on the large white building indicated I had returned to my neighborhood. It's been a few years since I've been inside the building, but I can recognize it anywhere. I gradually began to decelerate. A few seconds later, I realize how good of an idea it is because my bike starts to shake in a way that I had forgotten was possible. I'm aware that the engine is slowly getting too hot. It reminds me why I stopped using this metal contraption in the first place. As if sensing my disdain at the moment, the motorcycle begins to sputter. Even though I am driving at the speed of a turtle, I'm still thrown off of my Dodge and into the bushes ahead. I hit the ground with a thud, and my bike skids a few feet away.
When I've recovered from the hit, I scramble to my bike. I try starting it up but get nothing but a coughing response—stupid bike. The engine is probably wrecked. I should have gotten rid of this thing years ago. I kick my bike to the side in an angry outburst before having to stand it up so I can roll it back to my house.
I brush a few specks of dirt off my clothes, checking my body for any new bruises to add to my collection. Thankfully, there are none. I grip my Dodge and roll it down the street, my sour mood deepening as I realize I'm going to be even more behind schedule now.
Scarcely into my walk, I begin to sweat buckets. There is no sunlight out to add to my misery, but the weight of my load is more than enough to heat me. Still, I can't bring myself to let it go. Me and my sentiments. The only silver lining is that no one is around to witness my mortifying display.
About twenty-five minutes later, I arrive at my house covered in sweat and dirt. I throw my bike in the garage without a second glance. The car will get its debut from here on out. I unlocked the front door and got to work diligently on my laptop, sifting through the information until I find Mason’s new address. Although he has been off my radar since I sent him the last letter, I never imagined he was spending his time moving out of his parent's house.
After going through all of his social media accounts and finding nothing significant, I decide to go old school and trace his location through his IP address. I have the settlement and street he's moved to in less than ten minutes. I give myself a mental high five for my excellent detective skills and write the address down. I stick it in my pocket before rushing to the bathroom.
Once I'm in, I splash my face in cold water to wake me up. Afterward, I prepare a sandwich and grab a handful of money out of the metal safe under my bed. I may or may not need it, but I prefer to be prepared. I fail to recognize I'm gnawing at my nails again until it's time to unlock the door. It's something I rarely can control, particularly when I become anxious.
I step out the door and start my journey, this time in my car. I drive until the address I have for Mason is a few miles away. Everything leading up to the destination seems normal enough, but after the hour mark, the area becomes increasingly desolate. The once vibrant cityscape is now replaced with buildings that are blocks apart, then miles. It's so still and quiet that it almost feels like I'm in a vacuum of space, except for the occasional sound of a dog barking from some unseen corner. Had it not been my fault Mason was about to make a stupid decision, I wouldn't be doing this.
A few more uneasy minutes later, I'm in his new neighborhood. A sense of unease trickles through my body as I drive down the street and see that many of the windows on the houses are covered with shutters. It's like the people living here do not want to be seen. Five minutes later, I'm at the end of the long street and in front of Mason's new address.
I switch off my car engine before walking up to the door, hoping that whoever’s home isn't asleep—which is crazy when I think about the fact that it's so early in the morning. I am about to give a loud knock when the door suddenly swings open, revealing the face of an irritated man.
“What could you possibly want from me?” His voice drags out with a giant yawn. The bags under his eyes tell me he’s been up for a while, and I can't help but feel embarrassed that I'm further depriving him of sleep.
“I'm a friend here to see Mason,” I say with a nervous smile. He looks at me as if I'm a lunatic. Obviously, he’s not in the mood to answer my questions, but I don't plan on leaving until I get some answers. After a few tense moments, he tells me exactly what I have been dreading.
“Mason is out of town.”
I groan in frustration, knowing I have a new journey ahead. Although disappointed, I thank the man for his time and start walking back to my car. All of the suspense I feel from the uncertainty is killing me. Having a sudden light bulb moment, I spin on my feet, yelling out to the man. The door is shut again.
"Excuse me," I speak even louder, rushing up to the door and pounding on it. There isn't an immediate answer, which makes me think he is deliberately ignoring me. Suddenly, I hear the lock click, and I take a step back. I know he'll be angry, but I don't scare easily.
"What?" The harshness that comes at me is warranted.
"When did he leave?" I ask condescendingly. I know I'm making him angry, but choose not to give it any thought.
"A while ago." Before I have time to reply, the door slams in my face. I know attempting a repeat won't get me anywhere, so I remain still. A while ago could mean anything from a day to ten. I couldn't help but let out a heavy sigh, knowing that I had to find him or his body.
Automatically, my hands move to my lips to bite my nails, but I resist the impulse. It's bad enough that Mason has gone to such a place of vice, but now I had to do the same. I deserved it for giving in to my curiosity. Next time, I'll just keep my nose out of other people's affairs.
Still sitting in Mason's yard, I look up his father's hometown, knowing precisely that it is where he went. A few seconds later, a map of Rose Hill takes up my screen. I'm not too thrilled at the fact it's a reasonably decent-sized town. Finding Mason will be a little difficult, especially if he is keeping a low profile.
I zoom in, pinching the screen. Anxiety washes over me as I discover the drive will take almost three hours. Driving when I'm feeling sleepy is dangerous, and I can already feel the fatigue starting to set in. Drawing in a few deep breaths, I pull away from the yard and make my way to Rose Hills. The faster I can get this done, the better.
Nobody Knows the Trouble I've Seen
Mason
As my eyelids flutter open, I'm met with complete and utter darkness. It's challenging to keep track of the duration I've been here, but I'm certain it's been at least five days, maybe longer. The air is stale. Since yesterday, I can swear I've heard the sound of whispers echo in this building. It's hard to determine if these people are real or not. Even my judgment is off.
My stomach rumbles loudly, desperate for nourishment, yet it's the least of my worries. With each passing day, my legs and arms grow weaker, making it increasingly difficult to have any optimism about find ing a way out of this place. At least I have water to look forward to drinking. Although I'm being fed, Damien is sure to give me a drink every two days. "Keeping me alive long enough to kill me," he calls it. It's not as if I have any other choice, but it doesn't make the prospect any more appetizing. I'm so thirsty that my tongue feels like sandpaper. Each swallow I make feels like I'm tearing chunks out of my throat.
I attempt to get comfortable, knowing that it's not a possibility. The walls of my prison are rigid, and they rub against my injured, sore skin with each movement of my body. Even the small grains of dirt on the ground cause pain. I take my mind off things for a moment by looking out of the tiny window in the warehouse. I can see a sliver of the outside world, but it's too far to reach. The sky is a murky gray, and the clouds are so heavy that they almost completely blot out the sun. If I squint hard enough, I can make out a few faint, wispy lines of light peeking through the gaps in the clouds. It's not much, but it's something.
The sound of quick footprints knocks me out of my very temporary distraction. I wince, my swollen eyes closing even more as a reflex, and turn toward the sound. Perhaps it was Damien and his group coming to finish me off. A morbid part of me wished it were the case—at least I'd be out of my misery—but I know it's not. They were there again to torment me, questioning me with numerous queries that I had no response to. It would be predominantly about my father and why he came to town. I guess I understand why they believe I would know about my father's movements, but unfortunately, I am just as ignorant as them.
The footsteps outside grow louder, and I feel my stomach twist in knots. When the door finally creaks open, it's slow and nerve-wracking. I force my eyes to stay open as the midday sun floods the room, temporarily blinding me. When my vision slowly comes back, I can see a silhouette of a figure in the doorway moving toward me. I swallow the sharp lump in my throat and wait for the person to make their presence fully known.
The lights flick on. They don't make much of a difference, but it's the first time I've seen anything other than darkness in days.
The person moves forward, followed by another. The sound of chains rattles as they move closer. When they reach the center of the room, I see that it's Damien leading another prisoner in my direction. Although he is just arriving at this place, he already looks defeated. His clothing is torn and dirty, and he has a string of bruises covering his entire face. A previous beating, no doubt. Damien locks his prisoner up a few feet away from me. An air of superiority crosses his face as he notices me sitting there, motionless. The same smugness had been there when he and his gang of misfits attacked me. His eyes burn into mine as he moves closer, a malicious smile now on his lips that makes my stomach turn. I want to launch myself at him in a desperate attempt to take out some of my frustration, but I'm too weak. He knows this too.
"Don't worry; it's his turn today."
He exits the room as quickly as he entered, leaving the stranger in the same condition I am in—chained to the wall and barely breathing. The lights go out, and the door slams shut loudly. I wait a few minutes until I'm sure Damien is really gone before letting my guard down a little.
I am spared another day. But why?
"Hey," The prisoner speaks up, making me whip my head in his direction. I try to adjust my eyes to the dimness and look over at the new prisoner to get a better idea of what he looks like. The majority of his face and features are obscured by darkness, but I can tell he’s staring back at me. I can also tell how tall he is, even sitting down. When he calls me again, I answer.
"Yes?” I answer back in a raspy voice. It feels like my vocal cords are tearing apart when I speak. I’m tempted not to say anything further, but a conversation is better than the silence that has been absorbing me these past however many days in this warehouse.
"How long have you been in here?" His voice is as dry and grating as mine. I think for a moment before I answer, trying to remember how many sunrises I think I've seen. I have been falling in and out of consciousness regularly, so there’s no telling how accurate I would be. I figured a better way to keep count was by how many beatings I have received—or remembered.
I take in a deep breath, my chest burning with each exhale, and finally answer him. "I don't know, maybe five days. It's hard to keep track in here."
I close my eyes, turning away from the man silently. Although it is probably good for my sanity, I feel too weak to continue the conversation. I listen to the sound of the chains clinking against each other on my arms. It's a constant reminder of how dire my situation is. I continue to stay in the same position, straining to keep my spirits up.
"What are you in for?" I ask, trying to distract myself.
His answer is simple and to the point. "Murder and attempted murder." He shrugs his shoulders like it's no big deal. I wonder how many times he has committed these crimes.
"If you don't mind my prying … who was it?"
"One of Arthur's nephews. They nearly beat me to death too." He spits something I assume is blood. I can't help but notice how proud he sounds of himself. Doesn't he know that is a death wish? I had heard plenty of stories at this point, reports of Arthur's retribution, and for much less. The whole town is terrified of him. Then a thought hits me. I'm not in a position to judge. I’ve made just as many stupid mistakes. And who would pay for them?
I pose my internal question to the man. “Do you have any relatives?”
He shakes his head in response and says he has none. I can tell it makes him sad, but it’s a positive in the long run. They would be the ones to bear the brunt of his errors.
Still, I understand his pain since I've also lost someone close to me. I thought about it. At least I still have my parents. Even if our relationship is a strained one, I know they have my best interest at heart and will always be there when I need them.
"I'm sorry," I reply. He ignores my pity and goes on to question my reason for being here with him. "Snooping around their family."
"Aren't you a brave one," he says sarcastically. I can't help but smile, knowing he's reminding me of my recklessness. It isn't long before the muscles in my face start to spasm a bit from underuse.
"Did you find what you were looking for?" he asks. I don't have to think about my answer before responding.
"Not really. Some blanks are filled, but the big picture is still unclear."
"The big picture being …"
"My sister. Someone in their family murdered her, and now I'm trying to find out who."
"What do you plan to do once you've found out?" His tone insinuates something dangerous. I nip his train of thought by quickly retorting, "Take them to the police."
The hearty laugh that follows makes me feel a little foolish. "The Police? Are we talking about the Beauford family anymore?" He chokes and spits again. "You'd be better off seeking revenge yourself. The police are just another tool in their pockets to keep their secrets." His words hit like a ton of bricks.
He was right. The local authorities have never been any help to me. Why would they be any different here? They are most likely mixed in with the Beauford family, just like many people in town. But what else could I do? On my own, I was not strong enough, nor was I prepared to go up against a family as powerful as the Beaufords.
