“Where’s what?” asked Wes.
“The footage,” hissed Flynn. She crawled across the floor to where Wes still knelt on the cool, polished concrete. With one manicured hand, she gripped the front of Wes’s police uniform, bringing his face within an inch of her own. “The security footage. The tapes that your girlfriend’s damned father so exquisitely captured my first murder on. The tapes that your girlfriend’s mother stole from the Black Raptor Society’s clubhouse in order to put me in an early grave! Those tapes, McAllen! Where are they?”
She shook Wes violently, and he took hold of her hands in an effort to remove himself from her grasp. She was surprisingly strong. Her rage rumbled through her and into Wes. In his weakened state, he could only hope to hold his head still enough to not inflict any more damage as she rattled him like a rag doll.
Brooks inched forward to inspect the contents of the trunk. He reached in and pulled out a handful of VHS tapes. Wes caught a glimpse of them; bright, primary colors splashed across the jacket sleeves, displaying bubbly font and animated characters.
“They’re kids’ videos,” said Brooks, disbelief evident in his tone. He shook one tape out of its cover, examining the tape itself, then dropped it back into the trunk and took out another. “They’re all just kids’ TV shows. What the hell?”
Flynn’s fingers tightened at the collar of Wes’s shirt. “McAllen,” she breathed, so close to Wes’s face that he could smell her minty mouthwash. “Let me make myself perfectly clear. If, after all this time, I am not in possession of that security footage and you have no idea as to where the real tapes are, then you are of no further use to me. Your life has no value to me. You become obsolete. With this knowledge in mind, contemplate your response to me very cautiously before you reply to my next question. Where are the tapes?”
Wes only stared into Flynn’s obsidian eyes. He could see his own reflection in them, the projection of his pale, defeated expression gazing blankly back at him. He had no idea where the tapes were—he had no idea that they had even existed before his time in the Raptors’ warehouse—and he was certain that Nicole did not know of their existence either. Anthony and Natasha had left a mess for their daughter to muddle through, intentionally or not, and now Wes and Nicole had to pay the price. Wes felt numb, but the lack of any emotion served to quash the despondency that rose underneath.
“McAllen,” she warned. “Tell me.”
“I don’t know,” whispered Wes.
“Pardon?”
“I don’t know where the tapes are,” he repeated in a stronger voice.
Flynn inhaled through her nose, her nostrils flaring. “Then you give me no choice.”
Her hands encircled Wes’s neck, and she pressed her thumbs to Wes’s windpipe. He coughed, pushing at Flynn, but Brooks approached him from behind, captured his hands, and held them behind his back. His vision blurred, and fireworks of light began to play at the edges of his perception. This was it then. He couldn’t breathe… couldn’t move. He allowed his eyes to flutter shut. Nicole’s face appeared before him. They were back at Machu Picchu. She whirled around, her arms wide as if to welcome the massive expanse of blue sky into her very soul. A laugh echoed through the mountains around them, and Wes could hear it now. The warehouse vanished entirely, and as his lungs surrendered what was sure to be his last breath, he gave himself over to unconsciousness.
“Catherine!”
Suddenly, the pressure around Wes’s throat disappeared, and he keeled over, resting his forehead on the cold concrete and drawing in a desperate, rasping gasp as the blood returned to his head. Footsteps echoed around him as Flynn got to her feet, and Wes heard the warehouse door sliding back into place.
“Orson,” Flynn greeted her brother cordially. Wes tipped his head to the side, watching from his place on the floor as a tall, suave man with black hair shed his winter coat and draped it over the open trunk. “How did you find us?”
“Lauren disclosed to me that you have appeared troubled as of late,” said Orson, taking his sister by the shoulders. “But the real question is this: why did you not come to me as soon as you realized you were in a tight spot? Sending Donovan in to kidnap a police officer—these things should be discussed by all of the council members before—”
“Donovan conducted that raid on his own,” corrected Flynn as she dipped out of her brother’s grasp. “I merely took advantage of the situation. Besides, Donovan’s irrational behavior is no longer a concern of ours.”
“I see.” Orson nodded then gestured at the trunk. “And this?”
“A farce,” spat Flynn. “A red herring left by that bitch Natasha, no doubt. God only knows where the real footage is. And this one is useless.” She gestured to where Wes sat doubled over, positively lost, on the floor. “His head is as empty as Anthony Costello’s heart once was. No wonder the girl admires him so.”
“If the boy has no further information, there’s no point in keeping him,” agreed Orson. He strolled over to Wes, using his boot to flip him over to one side. Groggily, Wes stared up at him. It was the first time he had seen the leader of the Black Raptor Society in person. Orson looked benign enough. His eyes seemed to be made of a softer material than Flynn’s, and there was no animosity in his expression. Nevertheless, his words hit their mark. “I’ll take care of him. There’s no need for you to stress yourself over his disposal, Catherine.”
“But—”
“Catherine,” said Orson gently, returning to his sister’s side. “Why did you not confide in me? If I had known, after all these years, that you were still harboring
