Bittersweet Chronicles: Pax (22 page)

“You sleep?” he asks.

“Not really. You?”

“A couple of hours. Mike’s out cold though.”

I snort. “Wish I’d known. I could have had that drink after all.”
      Joss glares at me.

I hold my hands up palms out. “Kidding. Just kidding.”

His lips purse, but then he changes tack. “Ethan texted, and the couriers will be here at eight fifteen a.m. Jason’s been in touch with the FBI, and they have news for us, so they said they’ll be up here in about thirty minutes. You want me to order some breakfast for everyone?”
      “Yeah, that’d be great.”

“Just a few more hours, man. Just a few more hours and we’ll have him back safe and sound.”

“Yeah,” I answer, not knowing what else to say.

He stands and makes his way to the door.

“Hey,” I call out. “Have you heard from Beth or Vaughn about Carly? Pax’ll never forgive me if I can’t give him an update when I see him.”
      “No,” Joss says. “He really fell hard for the girl, huh?”

“Seems like it. I mean, he’s pretty young, but maybe she’s his one, you know?”
      “Well, let’s make sure they have the chance to find out.” He leaves, and I go in to the bathroom and get ready to find out if my son is still alive.

**

Pax

I’m rushing up from the dark bottom of a lake. It’s cold, and I’m having trouble holding my breath long enough to make it to the surface. I can see a trickle of light coming from above, so I know that the surface is there, but it’s taking me forever to reach it.

When I can’t stand it anymore, I open my mouth and gasp, inhaling liquid and air mixed together. It sends shards of pain through my chest, and I try to expel the breath, expel the crushing weight that’s keeping me from getting the oxygen I so desperately need.

Somehow, I know I need to turn my head, and when I do, I feel the warm liquid running out of my mouth, making a path down my face and onto my neck, where I lose track of it in the haze that fills my head. I cough, and it hurts so badly that everything goes to static for a moment. Then I’m back at the bottom of the lake. This time, I don’t try to swim to the surface. I’m just too exhausted.

I sink farther into the ebony of the water, the chill enveloping me in numbness. But before I can hit the bottom, I hear my phone ringing in the distance. It’s the ring I programmed for Carly, and I panic, kicking hard to lift myself to the surface again.

“Sweet Home Alabama” keeps playing, and I’m frantic to get out of the water so I can talk to her. She needs me; I won’t leave her. I’ll figure out a way to get to her no matter what it takes. Vaughn can try to keep me away, and Lagazo can tell me that she’s dead, but I don’t care. Wherever she is, whatever she needs, I won’t leave her. I won’t.

**

Walsh

Breakfast is fast and furious. Jason’s contact at the FBI is going to be at the drop, but the deal has to include the local cops. I feel better knowing that a Fed Jason and Ethan trust is going to be there personally though. If the local police department isn’t on the up-and-up, at least we now have several guys around who can keep an eye on them.

The money arrives, and Ethan and Jason go into full-on security mode. Our whole floor is locked down until the car is ready to load up. We go out the back exit of the hotel, one armed guy driving the car, two assigned just to the money, and Ethan and Jason watching over Joss, Mike, and me. Under different circumstances, I might enjoy it; it’s like being in a Jason Bourne movie. Unfortunately, all I can think about is whether or not my life will still be intact a couple of hours from now.

Things are pretty quiet on the hour-long drive down to Bittersweet. Jason spends most of his time getting reports on the layout of the site where they want the money dropped. The FBI agent calls and confirms that he’s landed at the heliport on the roof of the Bittersweet hospital and he and the local police are in place to meet up with us.

When we get into Bittersweet, we go straight to a parking garage two blocks from the abandoned storefront where Lagazo instructed me to drop the money. A dark SUV, which I assume is holding the FBI guys, and two Bittersweet police cars are waiting there for us.

“What the hell is this?” a guy in police uniform with gray hair and a very angry face strides toward us as soon as we exit our rented Escalade.

He seems to know immediately that Jason and Ethan are the guys in charge. I guess the rest of us have “rock star” written all over us.

“I had the damned Feds on my home phone at five thirty this morning telling me that there had been a kidnapping of a celebrity with a ransom demand in
my
jurisdiction and no one had bothered to tell my guys about it until nearly twenty-four hours later,” he snaps as he jabs a finger at Jason’s chest.

Jason remains very calm, his military training kick in. “Chief Andrews,” he says without missing a beat. “I’d like to introduce you to my client, Walsh Clark. Walsh, this is the Bittersweet Chief of Police.”

I step forward with my hand extended. Chief Andrews gives me a perfunctory nod and ignores my hand. I pull it back and cross my arms as Mike snorts behind me. He’s never had a great deal of respect for law enforcement.

“Don’t try to distract me,” the Chief says, addressing Jason again. “I want to know what the hell you all thought you were doing calling in the Feds before I even knew about this situation.”

Jason keeps his easy bodyguard pose, his stance relaxed but aware—legs slightly spread, hands linked loosely in front of him. “The victim is the only son of my client. As I’m sure you know, Mr. Clark has considerable resources being a very high-profile individual. In consultation with his personal security staff”—Jason gestures to Ethan—“he decided to postpone alerting the authorities until we had a better sense of who and what we were dealing with.”

Chief Andrews is gearing up for another tirade just as one of the doors to the SUV opens and a guy who is obviously with the FBI steps out. He’s a few years younger than Jason, but he has an air of confidence to him that leaves no doubt he knows exactly what he’s doing.

He reaches us in three long strides. “Sorry about that, gentlemen,” he says, nodding quickly. “Hi, Jason,” he says. Then he turns to the rest of us. “Had a last-minute call from Washington I needed to deal with. I’m Agent Nick Warner. I’ll be coordinating the extraction of the victim. Now, let’s take a look at the site plan and I’ll tell you how I think this needs to happen.” He gestures at his car, and his body language clearly says,
This isn’t optional.

Chief Andrews huffs out a bitter sigh while Ethan’s stoic expression breaks for just a brief second before he, Andrews, and Jason all walk to the FBI car.

Agent Warner hangs back with Mike, Joss, and me. He puts his hand out me. “Mr. Clark, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m sorry about your boy. We’re going to make sure we do everything possible to get him back to you safe and sound.”

“Thank you,” I answer, my voice raspy.

He shakes Mike’s and Joss’s hands as well. “If you gentlemen will come over as well, we’ll take a look at what’s going to happen.”

We all follow him.

“Mr. Clark, you have a pretty important role in all of this. Are you feeling okay about it?”

I remind myself to unclench my fist that’s hanging at my side. “I’m ready to do whatever it takes to get my son back,” I grit.

“Good. Then let’s go get him.”

The instructions given to me for making the money drop were pretty standard kidnapper crap according to Agent Warner. I’m supposed to come alone, place the duffel bag with the money in a trash can outside an empty storefront in downtown Bittersweet, then go directly to another location a few blocks away, where Pax will be waiting. I was, of course, cautioned not to contact the authorities, et cetera, et cetera. I guess the bastard who has Pax isn’t terribly imaginative.

The team splits up—Jason goes with me, and Ethan heads to the location where we’re supposed to get Pax. Mike and Joss go with Ethan, along with two local police officers and one FBI agent. Warner, several more local police, and the chief come with me. The hope is that they can keep the money and make a couple of arrests.

I drive to the drop spot. Warner is in the car with me, but he sits in back where the windows are heavily tinted and stays as low as he can. When I pull up across the street from the storefront, I turn the ignition off and take a deep breath.

“You okay?” he asks quietly.

“Yeah. I think so.”

“Just remember: our guys are on that roof across the street. They can see everything you’re doing as well as a bunch of stuff around that you can’t. They’ll keep you safe, and once you drop that bag, they’ll wait and watch for the pickup. They’re here to make sure these guys don’t get away. You ready?”

I nod once and then climb out of the car, taking the duffel bag from the passenger’s seat with me as I go. My heart is racing and there is so much adrenaline pumping through my system that I have to quell the urge to flat-out run to the trashcan across the pavement. But I work to look as casual at possible, keeping my sunglasses on and waiting at the curb for a couple of cars to pass before I slowly walk across to the opposite sidewalk.

My skin is tingling, and I flex my free hand, trying to remember that I’m in public, in broad daylight. That, before the next hour is up, I’m going to have Pax back.

I step onto the concrete in front of the storefront and can’t help but glance in the windows. It’s dark inside, odds and ends scattered around, but I see what might be a flash of movement and freeze, my breath stopping in my chest.

I wait for five, ten, fifteen seconds, but nothing else moves, and I expel the air from my lungs, my head spinning from the lack of oxygen. I look around the street. There are a few people walking a block down where there’s a coffee shop and FedEx station, but on this block, it’s nearly empty, the occasional car speeding by. No one’s paying any attention to the rock star with over a million dollars in a gym bag on the sidewalk. I turn and drop the bag into the garbage can that is next to the door under the shop’s awning. I admit it’s a smart drop spot, hidden in the shadows of the building.

I am taking a step away from the building, ready to cross the street and drive like hell to get to Pax, when I hear it. A cell phone playing Sweet Home Alabama. A cough. Then another one—from inside the store. A low moan follows a split second after, and something deep inside me breaks loose. It’s undoubtedly the most foolish thing I’ve ever done in my life, and considering I spent a decade as a drunk rock drummer, that’s saying a lot, but I don’t stop to check the impulse or second-guess the gut reaction. All that goes through my mind is,
Pax
. I know my boy when I hear him, and he’s in that building.

My hand is on the door before Warner can leap from the car across the street. I hear him shouting, “He’s going in. Repeat: he’s going in. Cover!” as I swing the glass door wide and charge into the room, expecting gunshots to ring out, glass to shatter, all hell to erupt. Instead, I’m greeted by carnage. One man lies on the floor, a pool of blood surrounding him. His face is gray, his body motionless, and even in those few seconds I stare at him, I’d guess that he’s far beyond help.

At his feet, partially slumped against the wall, his legs bent at an odd angle, is my son.

“Pax!” I yell as I bolt across the small space, stepping over the other man’s body as if he were a piece of trash in my way.

I kneel down, smoothing Pax’s hair off his forehead. His eyes are closed, his skin pale as a sheet, and blood is running from his mouth, down his neck, and onto his shirt.

“Oh, God.” I hear my own voice ring out as if it’s not a part of me just before the door to the place slams open, glass flying onto the floor as heavy boots pound and cops pour in. I throw my arms around Pax’s head and turn my back to the room in a misguided attempt at protecting him—from what I don’t know.

There is chaos, bits and pieces of multiple conversations coming at me from all sides.

“All clear!”

“That’s John Lagazo.”

“Anything outside?”

“Where is our vic supposed to be?”

But as I unhunch from around Pax’s body, I feel a hand on my shoulder.

“Mr. Clark?” Warner says quietly. “Is this your son?”

I nod as I lean back so he can see Pax. He immediately puts two fingers to Pax’s throat to check for a pulse, and I wonder in the back of my mind why I didn’t think to do it myself.

“He’s still alive,” Warner says as he pulls a walkie-talkie out. Then he presses the button. “This is Federal Agent Nicholas Warner, badge number 72789. We have a man down. GSW. We need emergency response to 901 East Hampton ASAP.”

He puts the walkie-talkie back in his pocket and then eases Pax the rest of the way onto the floor. I sit and cradle Pax’s head in my lap, looking down at his white countenance.

Warner lifts up Pax’s T-shirt and there’s blood, dried and fresh, covering his right side. Warner takes the shirt and wipes at the area. Pax moans in response.

“It’s okay, kid. I’m here,” I whisper in his ear as I watch Warner’s face for some sort of clue about how serious this is. “Dad’s here, and you’re going to be fine.” I swallow, fear that I’ve just lied crawling through me like a legion of spiders.

“Here’s the wound,” Warner says, pointing to a ragged hole the size of a quarter, torn flesh and blood oozing out of it.

“It’s not bleeding that much. That’s good, right?” I ask, desperation saturating my words.

He darts a glance at me as he puts his ear next to the wound. His brow is drawn down into a scowl. “A lot of the bleeding’s probably internal,” he snaps. “I think it’s punctured his lung.”

As if on cue, Pax coughs, his entire body shaking with the motion. He makes a gagging noise, and Warner quickly flips his to his side. More blood runs from his mouth, covering the leg of my jeans, where his head still rests.

“Shit,” I whisper.

Warner leaps to his feet. “Where the hell is that ambulance?” he yells to the room at large. “We have a vic with a GSW, and we are
not
losing him after all of this!”