Capture (Siren Book 1) (2 page)

Three

Calder Roane

It's a dull party, even for one of these things. Not quite informal enough for the fogeys to bring their sugarbabies and mistresses, but not quite serious enough to merit lively conversation with their wives. Still, everyone who's anyone in the political scene within the nearest three counties is here. And even a few national level players, hence my being here.

My mom died a few months back, so most of the attention addressed to me is still condolences, delivered with an added dose of inquisitiveness whether that means the order of business will change. I don't see any reason it should, not with my brother and my mom's best friend both working their ends.

I hadn't anticipated taking over Mom's duties for a few decades, but there's no point to crying over spilled milk. And the grief’s long since blunted. Maybe people expect me to still be torn up about losing her, but the truth is that all my life, I’ve known she had one foot in the grave. With so many health scares, grief was always at the edge of my mind anyways, when I looked at her. And she had no patience for it; she wouldn’t want me to be here moping. Not when there’s work to be done.

I cast a glance around the room, making sure I've spoken to everyone worth connecting with. No need to stay too much longer, if I've already pressed palms with the big players. And the best thing about coming to these shindigs is after I get home, when I can change into something more comfortable and have a beer with Evan.

My eyes are drawn to a woman near the entrance. She can't have been here long; I'd have noticed her. Everything about her is attention-getting, from her dramatic curves, to the intensity in her eyes.
That
is a woman who can hold her own in a room of people twice her age.

One of the women squeezes her hand, and they exchange a few words as I make my way over. She glances at me as her companion leaves, dismay in her eyes. A second later, the look is hidden, and I'm left wondering if I read that right. No one's
ever
unhappy to have my attention.

“Calder.” I hold out my hand to her. “Are you here alone? I thought I knew everyone on the charity circuit.”

“I'm here with my—” she glances around. “He must be talking to someone right now.”

I flash her my most charming grin. “Lucky me. I get you all to myself.” I tuck her hand into the crook of my elbow and hold it there while I lead her to the bar. She bites her lip a little, but follows along. I must've been wrong about the initial impression. “Good turnout tonight, yes?”

Her eyes narrow. “I'd rather not talk about work stuff.”

“Of course.” I can't blame her there. Still, I'm doubly curious who she is. “You never
did
give me your name.”

The bartender approaches with her cocktail, and she accepts it with a regal nod. “No. I didn't.”

And then she turns away, slips her fingers off my arm, and disappears behind two other attendees.

I shut my eyes to savor the last whiff of her perfume as she passes, and to remember those astute brown eyes. Little does she know that she's piled gas on the fire; I
love
a woman with some sharp edges, who isn't afraid to offend or walk away. There's so few of them. I take a swallow of my whiskey, and shake my head. I've really not got time for this.

But there's something familiar to her... the haughty look in her eyes, the tipped-up outer edge of them... I went to school with a girl with eyes like that, as a kid. For a time, at least, before I was sent to boarding school.  She was much younger, and unnaturally quiet. But that girl's eyes were blue-green, so the deja vu makes no sense.

I really thought I
knew
all the power players in this area. Whoever the fuck she is, she
should
be on my radar.

I dive into the crowd to find her again, and eventually corner her near the string quartet. She's staring at them, transfixed. “You like music, I take it?”

She glances at me, and away. “And I can enjoy it better in quiet.”

“But good music is meant to be enjoyed with similar company.”

“Then you
really
shouldn't be here, should you?” Her lips quirk into a grin, at my determination.

I lean close, savoring the way she tenses at my proximity. “I like the company just fine here.”

She's close enough to kiss, and it's
damn
tempting. But without knowing who she is, I don't know what rumors that might start. Otherwise I wouldn't hesitate.

“We can talk when they finish the piece.” My voice doesn't sound hopeful, simply neutral. So what she does next gets my
complete
attention.

“No thank you. I'd better circulate.” She smiles at me, a chilly edge to it.

I want to press her for her name again, but she cuts me off. “I'm sure we'll see each other soon, Mr. Roane.”

I've
got
to figure out who she is. This is a fairly small sea, and that is a
really
interesting fish, to have come from nowhere.

Four

Milla

The reason I'm here just walked in, his clothes stretched taut over his paunchy frame. As tempting as it was to plumb Roane for information, or plant the seeds, I'm not ready for him yet. Too many people who’ll notice he’s gone. Not enough time to get a plan in place for ensuring they can’t track us to each other, once I
do
target him. So I keep focused on my purpose, following the newest arrival in the corner of my eye as I circulate, and make small talk until my more attainable mark and I are almost next to each other.

He steals glances at me out of the corner of his eye when I laugh. When he finally turns to me, his eyes raking me up and down, I know I have him. He offers a clammy hand to me. “I don't believe we've met, Mrs.—”

“Miss, thank you. Rachael.”

He nods, though his attention seems to be fixed on my tits. “John.”

I shake his hand briskly, and he raises it to his lips. I titter awkwardly, though his touch is like bugs on my skin. I wonder if he flirted with the widows of the men who died in workplace accidents after he bribed the safety inspectors. I want to slap him, but no one here would ever know why I did. It would be counterproductive. My breath empties from my lungs, replaced by rage. It fills me so strongly it parts my lips. He seems to take that for flirting, and leans closer. “Are you as bored as I am?”

I cock my head. “If these things were
fun
, giving your time to them wouldn't be
charity.
”

He laughs, a rich deep guffaw that still has somewhat of a baying hound in it. I grin, try to make him think I was happy to have elicited that strong of a reaction. Surely someone like me... here... he would expect me to be off my guard, waiting the men to pat me on the head and shut me up.

“Haven't seen you around. Is your family from the area?”

I rattle off the lie I spent hours practicing, just in case I needed to justify my being here. The people who organized the event and know the guest list
aren't
on the guest list. “Sort of. A bit further upstate. I'm passing through the area, so Daddy recommended I start pulling my weight, making the social rounds as I come through. It's not backpacking in Europe, but—” I shrug, noncommittally.

“Well, you can only travel so long before the wanderlust fades and you've got nothing. Better to build friendships, build your network. You never know when you'll need an experienced hand to offer you a job, or support your non-profit.”

I shrug, at least somewhat the petulant child.

“Are you still in college?” He stares at me closer. “No, you
can't
be. If you were, I'd have heard about a streak of professors struck dumb.”

I snort. “That was corny. But no. Graduated last year. Economics.”

“Really? We might have some common ground, then.” His eyes trace me up and down, weighing risk vs. gain. “If you're ready to ditch this party, I'd be happy to talk it over further with you, over a nightcap.”

I bite my lip as though considering it. I already know my answer.

He puts a little more wood on the fire. “I'm in the Roanes' inner circle. Handle day to day for Calder. Second-in-command.”

I raise my eyebrows—that
is
quite the brag, quite the get for a social climber. Even though he's lying, and technically only fourth-in-command. “I guess, why not? What's one drink gonna hurt?”

He downed the rest of his liquor, and took my elbow. “Let's get this show on the road, then.”

He kisses my cheek, and the smell of the liquor on his breath brings bile to my throat. I have to remind myself that it's
good
that he's already treating me overly familiarly. Even as out of shape as he is, he's still got me on weight alone. I need all the help I can get, and the element of surprise isn't to be sneered at.

He barely waits for his driver to shut the door before he's making a move for what he wants. His palm lights on my thigh, and he leans close to me, as though watching for an opportunity to kiss me. I prattle on, doing my best to unintentionally close those opportunities before he sees them.

I want to hit him, want to beat that pudgy face until it loses the limited structure his skull gives it. Not just that he'd
dare
touch me, that he'd
dare
take advantage of an inexperienced girl looking for an academic mentor... No. It's a general apoplectic fury at the symptoms of his selfishness. Whether it's the prettiest young woman at a party, or a favor that gets several people killed, he gives more of a shit about
his
bottom line than about the world around him.

Please,
please
, don't let me have to fuck him before I get my moment. For the love of
god
.

His hand slides up my skirt, exploring, questing for the underwear I didn't wear. I let out a nervous giggle, and keep rattling off
every
discussion I can think of pertaining to economics, hoping it'll become an anti-aphrodisiac. I just need to buy a little time. Get him alone.

But when his fingers graze my pubic hair, I don't pull away. What's one more sin on his pile? And what's this, compared to all I've already been through?

“Umm, he can—” I lead his eyes toward the driver, as though self-conscious.

He sighs, and his eyes narrow. “It's
fine
.” But he backs away, doesn't touch me again until we're walking up the steps to his elaborate home. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch where the driver goes, on the off-chance that he sticks around. It's not a
terribly
long trip back to the ballroom, where my car is, but I need to be able to do it without attracting attention.

His foul mood seems to linger; we've barely made it into the foyer when he storms into the room it opens into, to a liquor shelf. “Another drink?” He pours a generous glass, and has half downed it by the time I get myself to answer.

“Yeah, sure.”

He nods, and pulls another glass over, refilling his as well.

Bingo.

I dig in my purse for my best friend, my hard-won sedatives. The ampule is cool in my hand, a pleasant contrast to how the need for action courses through me feverishly. I step close to him lightly, as though getting ready to press my body into his, and he turns toward me. But at that moment of contact, it's just my friend in his neck, and his body slumping to the ground in my arms, nearly lifeless.

Five

My arms ache, but I lean forward to watch John in the monitor. Hauling him in was a
doozy
, and I'll be feeling the muscular strain for days. Even spending the time after I finished sitting, massaging cramping muscles, they're still sore. But it'll all be worth it when he wakes up, sees his companions. Never a bad time for a reunion.

They're all on the floor. Safe and sound, for the moment. Sleeping like little angels, heads cushioned on a low-lying pipe that cuts onto the floor. It's taken me weeks to round the three of them up; the other two travel fairly regularly, having risen in rank, and it took quite a bit of luck to waylay them in the area.

All for this. The show getting underway as soon as the last dose works its way through them.

It's a relief being home. And the
Siren
is home, moreso than anywhere else. Her decay is wholly natural, the final stage in her life cycle. Not one man slitting another's throat for the money in his pocket. Really, it seems fitting; here everything they worked for is so far away it might as well be on another planet. In here, there's only
my
world.

The distortion in the mic pickup changes; someone must be moaning. I raise the lights a little, so I can see better into the room. Oh,
good
. Janice is waking up right now. Very soon John W. should be up as well. John C., the one I just got done capturing will be out a while. I estimated his dose fairly strongly. Better that than having him wake up on the way. Never take chances with the big men.

Years studying schedules, watching for openings, hoping to confront them quietly. And then fantasizing about which end they karmically deserved the most when
that
failed...

And it's started. My eyes bore into the monitor, my hunger to be as close as I can eating through me. Janice sits up, shaking her head blearily. He eyes settle on John C. It takes several delicious seconds to sink in; I catch myself holding my breath. She shrieks, the sound blaring through the mic and making my ears ring. I turn the volume down slightly, though I fumble since there's no way I'm removing my eyes from that screen.

A second later, she realizes that there's fabric against her bare calf—John W.'s slacks. I penned them up separately after capture, only just dragging them back in here with another light dose, administered while they slept. So this is the moment of truth. Will they have any clue why they're here?

She shakes him, and he stirs. And then the screams start.

The tears well in my eyes and pour down my cheeks, obscuring my view. I had no idea the adrenaline could feel like this—I know what's coming for them, and it makes my lips tremble with joy. They shake John C. But he doesn't move. The voices escalate, though the mic can't make them intelligible, and she seizes his wrist, thumbs his pulse. Then she drops his hand, and punches the pipe. The metallic clang makes me giggle, the first time I've laughed like that in
years.

I lean closer to see what she's squinting at—shock aside, she's been here two days. She shouldn't be this upset to still be here—did she
really
think she was going to wake up in her own bed? And even her new companions shouldn't upset her
that
much. Through the pixelation, I realize that John C.'s lips are the wrong color.

Janice collapses in the corner crying, staring at John C. John W. starts CPR on fat John. My heart skips a beat with his. I don't know if I hope John C. is dead, or if that would be a disappointment.
Damnit,
I swear to myself as violently as I know how,
I knew he had too much to drink, for that heavy a dose.

It seems too easy, too gentle. He deserved worse. Janice's sobs cut through the static, taking on an otherworldly quality.

But finally, John W.—now the
only
John—gives up. He huddles in the corner, shaking, looking at his hands. I wish they'd at least
talk
to each other. I'll have to see if I can get better mics by the time the next few come through.

John looks up, and for a moment his eyes skitter off the camera. It reminds me of the
last
time I saw him.

“—Have not had
any
untoward contact with Mr. Roane's office, nor with any affiliate of Roane Industries or the Winchester Naval Repair Yard.” John grins winningly, if a bit nervously, at the man holding a mic in his face.

“But what about the $100,000 transfer?”

“I'm afraid I really have no answer to your question. We run a
huge
ship here, no pun intended, and while we keep it as tight as we can, I'm not a bean counter. I don't know
anything
about the transfer you're talking about.”

“But the—”

“Next question.”

I glance from the TV to Dad. He's looked so... old... the past few years. And while he swears he doesn't
mind
hauling toolkits to the 'yard and getting his hands dirty like the rest of them, something's been bothering him.

“I tell you, Millie. That idiot's gonna run the whole thing into the ground. Sure, sometimes you've gotta know how to bend the system; but this is politics, not the circus. It only bends so far. You've gotta know how far you can push before it breaks, too.”

I don't know what to say, or what he's talking about, so I turn back to my art project, paint coloring my fingertips. He ruffles my hair. “How's it coming, buggle?”

I lift my picture up to show him and a gob of paint runs down the center of it, and plops on my leg. He laughs, and rolls his eyes. “You've gotta wait for it to dry, remember? Don't touch wet paint.”

He eases off the couch, drops to his knees next to me, to help me smear the paint back into place. “What is it, anyways?”

“It's a ship!”

“Which one?”

“The one in the woods.”

He shivers, and the emotion affects me. Uh oh—I went there with Evie's older brother, but we weren't supposed to say he took us. “The
Siren
's a beauty, ain't she?”

Dumbly, I nod.

“Don't go there again. It's not safe. She hasn't been safe for thirty years. I don't know why they haven't invested in taking her apart. Guess it's too expensive in the short term. But remember—she looks pretty, but she's like the gingerbread house.” I love my fairy tales,
especially
stories with lots of food, like Hansel and Gretel. “She looks heavenly from the outside, but if you go in, you'll get eaten alive.”

I nod again
.

John's crawled over to Janice to sit near her when I blink the last of my reverie away. They converse in low voices that the mic won't pick up. But their pained expressions tell the whole story.

The
Siren
is going to eat them alive. And I'll be here watching.

There's a fuel leak in the room they're in. There's not much left in the beast, but more than enough toxic fumes. If they don't move, they're dead.

It would be a shame for this to end so early. For what they've done, they deserve to suffer.
Not
to go out in their sleep. I run through their options, if they're desperate enough to look for them. The only exit's a pipe in the ceiling, higher than they can reach, even one sitting on the other's shoulders. I'd expected that with three of them, they could figure something out. But even then, I didn't care too much.

But the two that are left still might be able to do it if they're willing to use the corpse's goddamn gut as a stepping-stool to get the extra foot or two of height. And
if
they don't lose their balance in the process and tumble through the loose rail I left on their other side, to the piping twenty feet below.

For all Janice's time spent inspecting, making little notes about flaws, to lever management for little bribes to ensure the fines never make it on their record, she's never actually been
exposed
to a fuel leak. And for all the bribes John accepted to make sure the violations that
did
get passed on went away, he's never so much as been on a
ship
.

Either they'll adapt and learn, or they'll see the fate they would have let happen to any of us bestowed on them instead.

I don't know which is more satisfying. For them to prove how
completely
incapable they are, or for them to prove that somewhere in there
might
be the human potential to change.