“Or so she says.”
“When the Raptors captured me, she was the one to help me get away,” I said. “I trust her. I have to. Otherwise, I don’t have anyone else to help me. They took my boyfriend, Jo.”
Jo paused, her eyes widening. “You’re kidding.”
“I wish I was,” I said. “Donovan got to him while I was still locked up at the clubhouse. I have no idea where he was. That was my other reason for coming here.”
“He’s definitely not being held at the storage unit,” said Jo. “I would’ve seen them bring him in. Nicole, I hate to put this thought in your mind, but what if he’s already dead? We know Donovan’s track record isn’t exactly squeaky clean, and he seems to get some sort of sick pleasure out of torturing non-BRS members.”
My throat closed up at the thought of finding Wes the way I’d found O’Connor, unceremoniously dumped into a deep freezer until BRS found a way to get rid of the body. Jo had another point though. If Wes was still alive, Donovan certainly wasn’t treating him to tea and crumpets. “No. Wes is the only bargaining chip they have for me. They gave me twelve hours to get out of town before they kill him.”
“Why aren’t you heading for the hills then?”
“Because I won’t be threatened out of bringing BRS down.” Jo led us along the pathways that avoided the security cameras’ lenses as we walked to Lauren’s car. “When I started this whole thing, I knew that they needed to be exposed. That hasn’t changed. If anything, my experience with the Raptors has only encouraged me to get even. I’m getting Wes back, and I’m nailing Donovan Davenport, Catherine Flynn, and the rest of the Raptors to the wall in the process.”
Wes awoke in dizzy confusion at the click of snapping fingers. His head swam, and his stomach still felt fragile. He tried to inhale, but a stabbing pain in his nose prevented him from taking a full breath. His vision was obscured. At some point, someone had covered his face with a burlap bag, and his hands were still bound behind his back. He knew he was in a car—the rumble of the engine beneath his smooth leather seat was enough of a clue to figure that out—but the images that rushed by outside the backseat window were too blurry to make out a location.
“Stay awake, Officer,” a familiar voice, the owner of which seemed to sitting next to Wes, taunted. “I promised your girlfriend I’d keep you alive until midnight tonight, and I like to pretend that I’m a man of my word. Make a right at that stop sign, Wickes.”
Wes felt the vehicle slow and turn. “Where are you taking me?” he forced out through the haze of his injuries. His broken nose was clogged with dried blood, and the back of his head throbbed. He swallowed another bout of nausea.
Donovan chuckled. “It wouldn’t be any fun if I told you, would it? Wickes, pull in here.”
The vehicle bounced over a bump in the road, and Wes felt the transition from the smooth pavement to a rough dirt road. The car jolted to a stop, doors opened and closed, and Wes heard someone approach his side of the vehicle.
“Out you get, McAllen.”
Donovan seized Wes by the upper arm and dragged him from the car, out into the cold. Still blinded and queasy, Wes struggled to find the ground with his boots. As his labored breaths warmed the inside of the burlap bag, Donovan led him roughly away from the vehicle. Through the gaps in the burlap, Wes saw a large building looming. When they reached it, Wickes pushed open a heavy sliding door, and Donovan forced Wes inside. The air indoors was hardly warmer than the temperature outside. Wes shivered as Donovan shoved him along, focusing all of his energy on keeping himself conscious.
“Sit down,” ordered Wickes, but before Wes could obey, Wickes planted his hands on Wes’s shoulders and propelled him toward the ground. Wes plunked down into a waiting chair, grunting as the unexpected jolt caused another wave of pain to flood through his body.
“Easy, Wickes,” cautioned Donovan. “Remember what happened to O’Connor. We can’t go overboard with this one. I have too much riding on it. In fact, go into the office and get him a cup of water and some painkillers. We need him alert.”
Wes listened foggily as Wickes’s footsteps receded, echoing through whatever building they were in. Without warning, Donovan whisked the burlap bag off of Wes’s head. Wes blinked, trying to clear his bleary eyes.
They had taken him to a giant empty warehouse. The brick walls and polished concrete floor sucked all of the warmth out of the building, and the windows were set so high that Wes had no hope of looking out of them to get a sense of what area of town the Raptors had taken him to.
Donovan leaned down, propping his hands on his knees, and awarded Wes with a pompous smirk at eye level. “Let me tell you something, Officer McAllen,” he said. “This is even more satisfying than I thought it would be.”
Wes gazed vacantly at the floor. He would not appease Donovan by biting back. Instead, he focused on taking steady, even breaths. It was a common tactic to ease anxiety, but it also helped Wes to avoid thinking about vomiting on Donovan’s shiny, leather chukka boots.
“Oh, you’re doing the silent treatment thing,” observed Donovan. “That’s fine. I don’t actually expect you to speak yet. Hastings did a number on your head. A little too overzealous, in my opinion. Then again, who am I to judge? I killed George O’Connor.”
He said it nonchalantly, as if the brutal act had no effect on his conscience whatsoever. Wes, on the other hand, couldn’t help but betray a tiny hint of disgust
