He shook his head. 'Lady, we haven't gotten to the fun part yet. Not by a long shot.'
Dr. Tyson Phillips had gone to bed with his wife over an hour ago, knowing sleep would be a lost cause. His demons weren't that humane.
When Elizabeth's breathing settled to a steady pace, he rolled out of bed, shrugged into his robe, and nudged his feet into slippers in the dark. Guided by the dim nightlights along the upstairs hallway, he walked toward the bedrooms of his boy and girl. He touched a hand to each door, his way of grounding himself in reality. They were his world. His kids and his wife of sixteen years meant everything.
Too bad he hadn't realized it sooner. Guilt tugged at his heart.
He made his way to the study. After flipping on a desk lamp, he poured himself a glass of brandy from a crystal carafe on a console table, gulping down the first of many. With the decanter in one hand and a glass in the other, he wandered farther into the room filled with scholarly books and his credentials framed on the wall.
Raising a glass, he saluted the sham of his life.
'A man isn't a failure until he starts blaming someone else.' He paraphrased an old quote that held more significance for him now. 'Well, if you're looking for someone to blame, look in the mirror.'
He slouched into the leather chair behind his desk and set the carafe in front of him.
When he was a younger man, he believed providing for his family meant material things. Money was power. But all that changed after he'd been downsized at the prestigious Biotech Industries back in the States. He felt like such a failure on all fronts—a stigma he couldn't outrun.
'You used to be bulletproof, Phillips.' He downed another glass. 'And oh, so gullible, you egotistical loser.'
When presented with an escape to Brazil, it seemed like such a fresh start at first. Charboneau enticed him with the position of director at a notable genetics research facility in Cuiaba—Genotech Labs. It made him feel whole again. In the end, the man's flattery seduced him completely. Why didn't he question such a gift horse? Like being offered an apple in the Garden of Eden, he got suckered by bogus promises.
Soon after he'd moved, the cold reality hit. His feelings of impotence had been a beacon to Charboneau. Now he wished he'd never met the man.
'God, you fucked up everything.' He torqued his jaw in frustration.
Every damned day, he lived like a king in this country, thriving in complete denial of his fraud. He perpetuated the lie in front of his wife and kids, knowing he was little more than a common criminal. In time, guilt softened his backbone and sapped his strength.
Now, he sat at his imported cherrywood desk in his extensive library, all the trappings of his life surrounding him. He stared at his reflection in the empty crystal snifter of brandy. His face warped with the thin coating of liquor on the glass. Failure had aged him, infused his blond hair with streaks of gray. Creases along his forehead and around his pale gray eyes had deepened with his inadequacies. Like
And time had run out.
Along the far wall, a grandfather clock stroked the top of the hour. Slowly, his eyes searched for the cell phone sitting on his desktop. He waited for the call he knew would come. It had been prearranged.
Even still, when it chirped, the harsh sound made him nearly jump out of his skin, yanking him from his self- indulgence. He grappled for the phone and flipped it open in a rush, his hands trembling with the heat of too much alcohol. Before he uttered a word, a man's voice commanded his attention.
'She's back. And this time, the foreign woman has someone named Delacorte with her. He says that the woman is the reason he's here. He claims not to even know Charboneau . . . and that he has no link to the Chicago syndicate.' The man's voice was low and furtive, his accent more pronounced than usual.
Gritting his teeth, Phillips condemned the man on the other end of the line. Yet he despised himself even more. He'd been tethered to the bastard for what felt like an eternity. No matter what happened now, he would deserve whatever fate held in store.
'Oh, and because he says so, you believe him? How nice.' The doctor stood and paced the floor behind his desk. He found it more and more difficult to hide his disdain. One day his arrogance would get him killed. 'You assured me that when she left she'd be arranging for the ransom. The money was supposed to be a distraction to get her out of town, but now she's back. And she's got company. Why is this man with her?'
'He says he's here to free Charboneau. And he's demanding proof of life or no payday. The arrogant bastard.' A wicked chuckle told him the man found Delacorte's purpose to be a ridiculous endeavor. Yet no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't hide the alarm filtering through his voice.
'What? How can we do that now? You said—' Phillips stopped, trying to regain his composure. His head throbbed with a mounting pain. 'We're in way over our heads. I didn't sign on for this. Charboneau is one thing, but now—'
'Don't panic. Believe me, Delacorte will find out how dangerous a path he walks. I have a grand welcome planned.'
'Oh, just great.' He spat his reply before he could stop himself. Closing his eyes, he waited for the response he knew would come.
'You know what's at stake, you pompous ass. And you're not going to fuck this up . . . not when we're so close to pulling this thing off.' Uncharacteristic humor tinged his voice. 'Besides, one little Polaroid and we might even get them to wire the ransom to the Swiss account. Pure gravy.'
'I thought you weren't interested in the money.'
'I'm not. A million dollars is nothing by comparison. Yet for a man who grew up with so little, I find money hard to ignore. In the end, if they don't pay, it won't matter. I've got bigger plans.' His tone grew adamant with a familiar resentment. 'Charboneau's an outsider. He had no right to rape my country. If anyone has the privilege of doing that, it is me.'
Rape was rape, no matter who performed the despicable act. The subtlety of this concept in exploitation missed the mark with his partner in crime. Phillips felt the blood rushing through his system. The heat of it flushed his face. Slowing his breathing, he collapsed into the leather chair once again, defeat in his voice.
'I just wanna stop the killing.'
Again a vulgar cackle erupted from the phone.
The man's sinister laugh mocked his plea. The sound made his skin crawl. 'Don't tell me you've suddenly developed a conscience, not after what you and Charboneau tried to do. There's only been one change since this whole thing began. You've got a new benefactor, that is all.'
This time his voice hushed to a macabre whisper. 'And your old backer is not going home, except in a box ... if they even find the body.'
The room closed in on him, the eerie gloom suffocating him. Would the killing ever stop? How had he gotten sucked into this quagmire of corruption?
'Oh, God, please don't remind me.' He pressed his fingers to the side of his head, trying to squelch the migraine he knew would be inevitable. 'I just can't—'
'You can ... and you will.' Cruelty shaded the man's voice. He knew the sound well. Then a repeated threat churned beneath the surface, like the many caimans and piranhas in the Paraguay River of the Pantanal, ready to strike with razor sharp teeth. 'How is your lovely family, by the way? I hope they are in good health . . . and will remain so.'
He wouldn't have to wait for the torment of hell. Hell's fire was on the other end of the line. 'Please . . . you've got nothing to worry about. We still have a deal. Just leave my family out of this.' He closed his eyes, drawing in a shaky breath. Sweat trickled down his temple, even in the cool stillness of his home.
'Nothing would please me more. Stick to the plan. These Americans have nothing, but it will not stop them from visiting the clinic . . . from wanting to speak to you.'
'What if something goes wrong?'
'Look, if they become a nuisance, I'll take care of everything. I've got surveillance on them now. Remember, this is my turf. Are we clear?'
'Yes, I—' The dial tone interrupted him. The man had already hung up, not waiting for his answer—so cocksure he knew what it would be.
