Rock Redemption #3: Rock Revenge Trilogy, page 7
Carson.
On the ashes of his old home.
The place Simon had destroyed with glee in his heart.
His chest tightened and swirled with the need to bellow out a shout.
“You have twenty-five minutes. Just you, Simon.”
Before he could answer—or ask for more time—the line went dead.
Simon hurled the phone at the wall, blind rage fueling him across the room to Ian. Ian scrambled back, shock widening his ocean-colored eyes at the attack. Simon shoved his forearm along his fragile throat, ignoring the bruises he’d already given Ian, and lifted him up against the partition. The room trembled and wavered in Simon’s periphery as Ian’s face went red, then purple.
Ian clawed at his arm, gasping for breath.
If there was a scream trapped between them, Simon couldn’t hear it above the rushing hate and anger clogging his senses.
Ian’s girl slammed her fists into his back, but Simon barely felt it. Everything inside him was frozen.
“If anything happens to Margo—anything—there is no corner you can scuttle off to that I won’t find you. There will be no body. No blood. I will end you in ways that no forensic team could imagine.”
Then he stepped back and let Ian drop.
Zoe dropped into a protective cage around Ian.
The gesture threatened to crack open his frozen heart, but he didn’t have time to worry about their feelings or the unfairness that Ian’s girl was here and his was not.
The room was eerily silent as he turned and faced Donovan and Aidan. “Get me there—I don’t care how. I don’t care what fucking laws we break. Get me to my wife now.”
After that, he couldn’t keep track of what happened. Aidan had people setting him up with a tracker and listening devices. They tried to tag him, but Simon was already shaking them off to plow his way through the maze of people set up in Donovan’s control room.
“Simon, for fuck’s sake, hold up.” Nick grabbed his arm.
“I don’t have any time.” Nick and Simon were similar in height, but Simon was practically vibrating on his toes to move. “If this was Li, you’d be the same.”
His best friend paled and didn’t have much to say after that.
He grabbed the black bag stuffed with his money. It meant nothing. He’d literally take a lighter to it for Margo if they asked him to. He barreled down the hall, but a huge fucker blocked the elevators.
He could feel someone behind him, but his sole focus was moving forward.
A word from Aidan, and the stunt double for the Incredible Hulk stepped aside with a snarl.
Donovan and Aidan followed him into the elevator as the rest of his team split between two other elevators.
Aidan crossed his arms over his huge chest. “This screams bad idea.”
“I don’t care.” Simon’s voice was flat and brittle. “They’ve given me no time. For fuck’s sake, it takes me half an hour on a good day just to get from Santa Monica to Ripper Records.” Simon sliced his hand through the air.
“I know.”
Simon swiveled his head to Donovan. It was the first time he’d spoken since the call. “If you know, then help me.”
Donovan rattled keys in his pocket then opened the keypad in the elevator and punched in something before snapping it closed again. “I don’t have time to get a chopper in the air. It’s on the fucking roof, but there’s nowhere for me to land in that part of the city and this bastard knows it.”
Simon’s eyebrows shot up. Donovan’s usually cool, cultured voice was acid and laced with a harsher accent than Simon had ever heard in the years he’d known the mogul.
Aidan swore. “Whatever you’re thinking, no.”
Donovan’s voice was still coated with something dark and wild. “What would you do if it was your woman? Your brother?”
Aidan’s fists tightened at his sides. “The difference in that question is that I’m trained to deal with this sort of thing. This is why you brought me in on this, Lewis. I’m here to make sure everyone gets out alive.”
Donovan’s eyebrow arched. “You may know your way around the dirt of a desert and the heat of the jungle—even the bowels of New York City. But this is Carson. It has winding, broken streets where people don’t look up from their fucking feet. Dead ends and parallel streets that lead nowhere. LA isn’t your home.”
Simon frowned. How did he know that?
Aidan sighed. “You’re fucking my plans to hell and back.”
“We’ll follow at a distance. Giving him a chance to get there within the timeframe.”
The elevators opened to a garage Simon had never seen before. Cars gleamed under the low lights. Dozens of cars in sleek black lines or gunmetal grays with a polished sheen that only extreme money could buy.
Donovan Lewis’s kind of money.
The man in question opened a lockbox on the wall beside the elevator. He pulled down two keys.
“How long since you’ve driven a motorcycle, Simon?”
Simon’s eyebrows shot up. “A few years.” But the hum under his heart opened and the ice began to melt. Donovan pressed a button on one of the fobs and the lights blinked to life on a dangerous looking motorcycle.
“Jesus.” Simon took the keys. “I…”
Donovan held up his hand. “I would do the same. There is nothing I wouldn’t do for the woman I love.”
Simon paused. He’d never seen Donovan with a woman other than a photo here and there at some party. Never the same. Never one who seemed much more than a prop. But there weren’t words enough for thanks. Or time to ask the questions he had. There was only one goal.
“There’s a private access road through there.” Donovan nodded down the darkened ramp to the left. “It will dump you out a block from the freeway. Aidan and I will follow.”
Aidan was already pacing, speaking into some weird earpiece that reminded Simon just how far out of his sphere he was. But he couldn’t think about that. Or just how much it meant to him that Donovan would do this for him. A hoarse whisper of thanks would need to be enough.
He swung the bag of money around to the front of him and belted it down over the center of the bike.
“Simon!”
He ignored Aidan’s voice and threw his leg over the seat.
“Keep your fucking phone on so I can find you,” Aidan growled.
That he could do.
Simon simply nodded, then found the innocuous push button to start the engine. It rumbled to life, and the sound bounced off the cement with a menacing roar.
Simon had much preferred cars to motorcycles when he was buying his way through his first advance. But there was a freedom to a motorcycle and he’d spent a few reckless months driving one. One good thing about them—they could get anywhere in this fucking city.
He prayed for the chill to regrow over his heart. His safety meant nothing next to Margo’s. He set the helmet on his head and took off, his brain automatically telling him to slow down. The beast of an engine was a lot more than he was used to. It was a fucking loaded Ducati he had no business on.
But he shut off that bit of respect for the more responsible life that had grown and thrived with Margo, and then flourished thanks to the child they’d created.
Right now, he needed to be the Simon who had been wildly reckless just as an excuse to feel alive.
The one who craved speed and pure adrenaline.
He crouched lower on the rocket and raced to the woman he loved more than anything on this fucking planet.
Glancing at his watch, he punched it harder—winding between cars on the freeway as the miles and minutes clicked by as if he was running through molasses, not doing over one hundred on the straightaway.
With eight minutes to go, the gridlock he’d feared closed in on him. Horns blared as he swerved to the shoulder, and when that didn’t get him anywhere, he weaved his way through the cars on the steep ramp into Santa Monica.
The hub of local traffic met with perpetual vacationers creating the worst part of his city on a time clock. People craned their heads out windows to scream at him as he scraped a few cars as he squeezed through the virtual parking lot of vehicles. He caught the ire of a cop and swore as he pushed forward.
If only the cop could help. The sirens might put a dent in the crush of cars, but cops had questions. Cops had order and rules. Cops wouldn’t allow him to do anything like this.
There was no safety for him right now.
There was only one goal.
Carson.
Sunlight crept over the city, glaring at him ominously as more minutes bled away. Finally, he pulled away from the exit and the sleeker streets gave way to hatch marks and potholes.
From the bustling to the broken in one turn.
Sweat slicked down his back, chasing the icy dread. How could they bring her here?
He could not lose her here. Not in this ravaged place where hope died a thousand deaths.
A school bus full of children rumbled down the main street, belching diesel fumes in its wake. He swallowed down the bile. Babies. Children. Here where he’d scrabbled and bled to get away from.
He wanted to shout at them to move—to drive out of here and away from the crazy shitbag who only cared about his money.
Away from the violence that had dared to come for him and his.
Memories crashed in on him as an old mailbox came into view. It was still busted, still pointing to the sky from the day he and Nick had taken a baseball bat to it with drunken glee.
This street still held so much suffering and loss. The houses seemed unchanged. More gravel than grass created splotchy lawns that made the houses look even more derelict. As if time didn’t come in here and do anything to help, just to harm.
He knew firsthand.
Hot wind slapped at his unprotected skin as he slowed to a crawl. His engine howled down the quiet street. People were still sleeping or crawling out of their dismal dens for work—those who actually held down jobs.
The fetid stench of trash day slapped him in the face. The distant, chugging garbage truck had barely started its rounds. Chaos in the quiet.
Where was she?
In that van?
He swerved to the right. The old rusted-out van was too obvious. They wouldn’t be so stupid.
Though here he was driving a motorcycle that probably cost as much as three of the houses on this block. If Jerry didn’t get him, some asshole with a gun would.
He kept his head down and dread rotted his gut the closer he came to the plot of land he’d razed. Sweat stuck to his back and belly as he protected the only thing of value to these people—including his own mother.
God, how had it come to this?
His woman and their growing child were beyond compare. They shouldn’t be touched by this. He’d worked too fucking hard to get out of here.
Distantly, he wondered where Aidan and his team was. Were they still miles away?
Was he truly all alone in this?
Nerves crawl up his spine and threatened to choke him. It was time. Past time as he rolled up to the shattered sidewalk. It looked as if someone had taken a sledgehammer to it in a drunken rage.
Maybe he had one day.
Maybe his old man had done it.
Simon had rarely been sober when he’d been on this street. He’d been too worried about a flying fist or blocking out the wails of someone finding a similar fate in the next house down.
He pulled the bike up the curb, and the sidewalk crumbled under the back wheel as he pulled into the middle of the ruined plot of land that used to be his house—never a home. At least never in any true sense of the word. Maybe there had been some good there before his memories were merely nebulous drunken rages by the man purported to be his father. But he doubted it.
Seemed as if there were monsters on both sides of his family tree.
He flicked out the kickstand and climbed off, then unstrapped the bag of cash from the body of the bike and curled his fingers over the leather handles.
Across the dirt and gravel, beyond the weathered scrap of fence, a sleek black car pulled up one street over. His personal alarm system jangled and buzzed as the door opened and a booted foot came down on the cracked sidewalk.
The man was tall and broad, with closely cropped blond hair. Sort of a cross between Dolph Lundgren and Jason Statham. Both men had previous run-ins with fists—or boards—and their noses.
This guy? Probably more than a few.
Simon swallowed against the very real fact that he was there alone with a metric fuckton of money. From the opposite side of the car, another man emerged. He was much slighter, with a receding hairline dotted with sweat. He wore a suit that probably started off crisp, but even on a cool day in California, the heat was far different from England.
Assuming he was the British one. Or maybe they both were. Who fucking knew?
The two men came closer, their gait deliberately slow. Dolph scanned the area behind mirrored glasses, his arms at ease. Probably because of the bulge under his jacket.
Simon had never been about guns. He’d lived by his fists and feet for more years than he could count.
He was a million miles out of his league here.
“Where is she?”
Instinctively, he knew the shorter man was Jerry. The smarmy slickness came off him in waves. And the sweat on his upper lip told Simon that he wasn’t entirely about this life.
Instead of that knowledge making him feel better, his nerves jumped a few more notches from bone-deep fear to sheer terror.
A wildcard made things so much worse.
“Hello, Simon. Glad to see you made it.”
The other man’s smirk made Simon want to beat Jerry’s head into the cement. “Where is my wife?”
Jerry lifted his chin. “She’ll be here shortly.” He opened his arms. “Don’t you trust me?”
Simon ignored the question. People had underestimated him all his life. He wouldn’t say a fucking thing beyond what was necessary. “That wasn’t the deal. Money for Margo—period.”
“And she’ll be here momentarily.”
Simon’s hands fisted at his sides, the seams of the bag digging into his right palm. “Is this the part where you give me your reasons behind all this? I have to tell you, Jerry, I’m not interested.”
“You Kagans, such base creatures. Eat, sleep, fuck. Never any interest in how things work.” He tapped his temple with a sigh. “It’s disappointing.”
Simon sucked back a snarl. “I’d say you’re the base creature here.” Simon tossed the bag of money in front of him. “I don’t want to play. I want my wife back.”
Jerry’s gaze darted to the bag, then back to Simon. “That’s not going to be possible.”
Simon’s throat constricted. “There are no cops here, no one but us.” His voice sounded hollow and distant as his vision narrowed to a pinprick. “You don’t need to do this. I know this was all a mistake—let’s just end this now.”
“Mistake? No, this was the plan all along. Ian never comprehended the bigger picture. I knew his whore of a mother would never be worth the money. I always needed the bigger fish. This was always the endgame.”
Jerry waved Dolph ahead. He reached inside his jacket and smoothly pulled out a very large black gun. It wasn’t showy. No gleam of metal, just matte black and dangerously real.
The car door opened again, but Simon didn’t look away from Jerry. He didn’t need to know if the bullet was coming for his brain, or for his gut.
He couldn’t bear to see if it was Margo coming toward him—or if it wasn’t.
“Where’s Margo?”
“She’s gone. Don’t worry. I didn’t hurt her. Well, I mean, she’s dead. But it was quick. I don’t hurt women.”
“No.” The early sun dimmed and everything seemed to tilt. Simon didn’t even realize he’d slammed onto his knees until the pain radiated up through his legs and spine.
A shadow loomed over him, but he couldn’t bring himself to look up. His eyes were as dry as the dusty wind whipping up between them. He sagged forward, gravel digging into his knuckles.
Not Margo.
Their lemon drop.
Both gone.
His head tilted back and the wail that came out of him startled Jerry back a step.
“Jesus, shut him up.”
Dolph came forward, his gun raised.
Simon closed his eyes and prayed that there was something more after this life. That at least he’d get his girls in some fashion.
He jerked at the shot, but there was no pain.
Was that it?
Was he so very numb without her that he wouldn’t even feel his own death?
Fitting.
“Celeste, what the fuck are you doing?”
The ground seemed to tremble as if a tree had gone down beside him. Simon’s eyes snapped open to find Dolph’s sightless eyes staring right up at him. There was a small hole just shy of the center of his huge forehead.
Horror surged up out of Simon’s gut and he was afraid he’d hurl. He fell back on his ass, scrambling away from the body.
“Not Simon. That was never part of this deal. No part of this was to be Simon or his wife.” A dark-haired woman stood in the middle of the desolation and the dirt. She wore a dress in an oddly brilliant red. The land around them was so colorless and bland—even the grass didn’t hold green. And yet she was as fucking bright as a ruby and holding a small gun out in front of her. Her hair was stacked up in an intricate twist, her throat long and elegant. She was older, but there was an ageless beauty to her.
And she had the craziest fucking eyes he’d ever seen.
His eyes.
Jerry held his hands out to her, slowly walking toward her. “Celeste, darling—”
“Not Simon. Never Simon.” Her voice rose on the breeze and carried around the space in an echo. It was shrill and barely this side of sane.
Jesus.
The screech of tires dented the chaos in his brain.
The woman—his mother. It had to be his mother. Sweet Jesus, he looked so much like her it was jarring. Except for the crazy.
The gun didn’t even shake in her hand.
“Where’s Margo? Please.” He had no shame in the rawness of his words. “Please tell me she isn’t gone.”
