Deceived (35 page)

Lucky for him, there was disorder with the two groups providing security. With dark brown eye contacts, thick-framed glasses, and a good hairpiece, he didn’t worry that Sebastian would recognize him.

With each move that Taylor made, his mind raced through the variables, the likelihood of seizing her. Taking Taylor from the gala was his desired option. If he felt like he could get a kill shot, and get away, that was option two. He’d love to fire off a good shot while she was giving her speech, so that she crumpled in front of George Bartholomew’s eyes.

There were stairs on either side of the stage. Taylor was poised to enter on the right side of the stage. Two Black Raven Security agents that had accompanied Taylor were on either side of the stage, looking at the audience. Sebastian was next to Taylor. He was so close to them that he could hear their conversation.

“My father will not like my speech,” Taylor said to Sebastian.

He wondered what she meant by that. His pulse quickened. He didn’t like uncertainty.

She added, “Please do not let him interrupt me.”

Sebastian nodded. He turned from Taylor then, and spoke into his lapel mic to an agent who, presumably, was in the audience. “Let me know if George Bartholomew leaves his seat. Or moves.”

Sebastian reached for his cell phone, read a text, then said into his lapel mic, “Meet Brandon at the right entry door.”

With Sebastian focused on communicating with the other agents, he was able to position himself next to the stairs, next to her. Taylor hesitated, with one foot on the bottom stair. He reached for her forearm, and helped her stabilize. With his fingers on the soft, bare skin of her forearm, an electrical flash of sexual energy coursed through him.

Taylor’s high-heels were not made for stair climbing. With a gentle hold on her elbow, he guided her up the stairs. Her hair flowed long and loose, and ends of her hair tickled his hand. He let go of her arm as she reached the top. He caught a whiff of dick-hardening perfume as she turned to him. He held his breath, wondering if she could sense anything about him, if on some level she knew his connection to Lisa, Collette, and Andi.

Taylor looked into his eyes, and said, “Thank you.”

He nodded. “You’re welcome.”

He watched her cross the stage, turning to the crowd of more than a thousand people as she walked. The sea of elegantly dressed people became quiet as she approached the podium. An enormous flag provided a backdrop. Silk swatches in red, white, and blue adorned the walls of the museum. Tables had tall vases of white flowers. His eyes were drawn to the khaki green Hutchenson Landing Craft. The boat, and other museum displays, had been untouched by the party planners. The starkness of the displays reminded him of the serious nature of his business. His eyes fell on George Bartholomew, who was watching his daughter.

After greeting the audience, Taylor said, “I speak to correct an injustice, to reveal a truth that has been concealed for decades. This letter was prepared by the first Andrew Hutchenson. Today I have learned that it is the truth.”

As Taylor started to read the Hutchenson letter, shocked calm seized him. George Bartholomew stood. His face was mottled. He headed towards the door that led to backstage. His eyes scanned the crowd. As Taylor continued to read, mouths fell open. Eyes widened. People were still. Lloyd Landrum was pale. Motionless. Brandon stood near one of the entrances, on the right, his face turned towards Taylor, the green of his eyes visible even in the distance. Brandon’s eyes widened. Brandon seemed to be the only person in the atrium who realized that Taylor’s very public reading of the letter had more to do with what was going to happen in the current world, than what had happened in the past. Sebastian had his arms full with George Bartholomew, who was attempting to climb the stairs to the stage, as though by stopping Taylor he could undo the damage that she was causing.

Taylor had told Sebastian to keep her father from interrupting her speech, and the Black Raven agents followed her instructions, physically blocking George from climbing the stairs to the stage.

Calm. Stay calm, he told himself, as he kept his eyes on the red-dressed prize. He could simply shoot her as she read the letter. He counted six security agents, other than himself, who were backstage. She would die, but he would not get away.

Think, he told himself. Think. He needed money. It wasn’t a want. It was a goddamn need. He wanted to destroy George Bartholomew. Now, with the Hutchenson letter exposed, there was only one thing that was worth any amount of money to George Bartholomew and only one way to destroy him. That thing was wearing a red silk dress, high heels, and was standing not more than twenty feet from him. He breathed in, deeply. He was calm. He looked for options.

As Taylor neared the end of the letter, he was jostled by one of the Black Raven agents who was helping Sebastian restrain George. HBW security, loyal to George, were trying to keep Black Raven agents away from George.

He didn’t join the push and pull.

There were two ways off the stage. One would lead Taylor to her father and the pandemonium that now surrounded George. He walked to the other side of the stage, which was guarded by only one Black Raven agent. He knew which stage exit he would take if he were Taylor, and that was the exit that led away from her father.

She finished the letter, glanced at the stairway that she had used to enter the stage, saw her father, and the scuffle that surrounded him. She turned to the other stage exit, to him. He met her at the top of the stairs. She was pale. He guided her down the stairs by the elbow. She was trembling, and almost stumbled.

“I need to step outside,” she said. She gave him and the Black Raven agent an uncertain glance. “Would you mind stepping outside with me? I can’t breathe in here.”

He and the Black Raven agent, a twenty-something young man who seemed to have no idea of the earth-shattering importance of Taylor’s speech, guided Taylor to the nearest exit. Once outside, in a parking lot that was full of cars but no humans, he pulled out his pistol, and shot the agent in the head, before the agent could say anything into his mic. He reached out fast, grabbed a fistful of Taylor’s hair, wound it around his hand, and pressed his pistol into her mouth.

“Don’t even think about fucking giving me any trouble.”

***

Brandon’s gut twisted with the certainty of impending doom as Taylor read the Hutchenson letter. She was stealing thunder from a demon. Victor was going to be pissed as hell, and Taylor was going to be the target of his wrath. For a while, he stood there, stunned, but as Taylor neared the end of the letter, an urgent need to get to her propelled him forward, through the cavernous atrium to the stage. He dodged shocked party goers. He opened the door that led backstage as Taylor finished the letter. There, he saw one man in a tuxedo punch another tuxedo-clad man. One of Sebastian’s agents had George Bartholomew pinned against the wall.

Sebastian was yelling, in George’s direction, “Calm the hell down,” but Sebastian’s eyes were searching the stage. Brandon saw Taylor glance towards her father, then exit the stage on the opposite side of where he was.

“Let George go,” Sebastian yelled, “and secure Taylor. Now.”

Once he was free, George climbed onto the stage, and started speaking, putting a spin on Taylor’s revelation of the Hutchenson letter. His tone was calm. Brandon didn’t listen to him. Brandon was one step behind Sebastian as they ran behind the stage, to the other side. One of the first doors was a restroom. No one was in there, and the other interior doors, likewise, didn’t reveal Taylor.

Sebastian yelled into his lapel mic, “Where the hell is she?”

A Black Raven agent stepped up to them. “Robert guided her off the other side of the stage. There was HBW security with them. She needed to step outside for air.”

Brandon ran out the nearest exit door, which opened onto an alley, a side street, and a parking lot that was in the back of the museum. There was no movement. The street was empty, and the parking lot was full of cars and well lit, but there were no people in it. He ran through the alley, tripped, and almost fell over a lifeless man in a tuxedo with a bullet wound to his head. Once he regained his balance, he ran through the parking lot. He died a bit with each step that he took, each yard that he crossed without a glimpse of her.

“She’s gone,” he yelled to Sebastian. “He’s got her.”

Brandon called Joe, who arrived within minutes, with Tony and other NOPD officers. Two FBI agents who had been meeting with Joe at the station also arrived. The FBI Agents called for reinforcements. The NOPD officers and the FBI Agents, milling around the backstage area and the parking lot, together with HBW Security and Black Raven agents, looked to Brandon like a goddamn cluster-fuck of manpower.

Footage from a security camera stationed outside the museum’s exit showed Taylor stepping out the museum with two tuxedo clad men and showed a man’s effortless kill of Sebastian’s agent. The tape showed the man yanking Taylor’s hair and subduing her with a Glock pressed into her mouth. Brandon stared at the grainy image as it was replayed. The man was almost recognizable as Victor. The darker eyes could be a result of contacts, he wore glasses, and it could easily be fake hair. The man had managed to disappear into thin air with Taylor, after stepping out of the range of the camera.

Tony pressed replay on the video footage. Brandon’s gut roiled as he stared again at the image of the man, the handgun, and Taylor. It took a certain kind of man to put the business end of a pistol in the mouth of an innocent person, and this man did it with the unflinching ease of someone who had no soul. The smooth, easy movement told Brandon he was looking at his brother. George Bartholomew walked into the security room in time to see that frame. George stood at Brandon’s side, drew a harsh pull of breath, and mumbled, “Good God.”

Brandon turned to him. His hands were balled into fists, which he longed to put into George’s face. The look of abject horror on the man’s face, though, kept him from physically wounding the man who suddenly looked old beyond his years.

Brandon simply said, “Your arrogance did this.”

Sebastian stepped between Brandon and George. Brandon looked at his friend, drew a deep breath, and almost said,
Son of a bitch, You were supposed to be protecting her
, but his cell phone rang and blocked his ill-advised words of blame. The caller was one of his lawyers who was at the Mortgage and Conveyance Office. “I’ve got two properties that are linked to one of the aliases. I’m texting you and Sebastian the addresses now, with GPS data. One is a boathouse. The other’s a camp. I think. From what I can tell, it is in New Orleans East, almost on the edge of the parish.”

As Brandon relayed the information to Joe and Sebastian, Joe motioned for the lead FBI agent to join them. “Victor won’t be at the boathouse,” Brandon said. “It’s too congested there, in the marina area. The boathouse has to be Victor’s jumping off spot to get to the camp, which is in a more isolated area.”

Joe said, “We can check the boathouse pretty quickly, but the camp address isn’t a street address. It’s on the marsh side of New Orleans East, in the outflow canal area. On water. I don’t think that you can access it by roads.”

“You can’t,” Brandon said. “I know the area, because I take my boat out there. Hurricane Katrina took out the road that was there, and it was never rebuilt. The camp is only accessible by water. I know how to get there. I’m going. Now.”

“You can’t just go,” the FBI agent said. “We need to plan logistics. We need boats. If he’s there, we’ll need negotiators. Marksmen.”

“Bring whatever you need,” Brandon said, “but I’m going now. You don’t have time to plan every detail. You’ll only screw up if you delay.”

Brandon’s eyes fell on George, who said, “He wants my money. Or he wants me. He can have anything.” George choked back a sob, then regained composure. “I need to be with whomever gets there first. I need to tell him he can have anything.”

“Not a good idea,” the FBI agent said.

George’s wrath fell on the agent. “You are not going to tell me what I need to do to save my daughter.” He turned to Brandon. “Please. Take me with you. To save Taylor, I will give him whatever he wants, even if it means my life.”

Brandon held George’s gaze. He nodded. Brandon turned from the group. Within seconds, the FBI agent was at his side, with George and Sebastian.

The FBI agent said, “You need to wait.”

Brandon kept walking, but glanced at the agent. “I didn’t get your name,” Brandon said.

“Agent Todd Reeves. Who are you?”

Agent Reeves had big brown eyes and a short hair cut. He looked ridiculously young and inexperienced and he actually stepped in front of Brandon, as though to stop his forward progress.
Jesus
. Victor could kill this guy with his eyes closed.

“I’m Brandon Morrissey. The man who took her is my brother. I’m responsible for her. She’s mine,” Brandon said, his pulse racing. “Mine,” he added, and shot a glare at George Bartholomew. “She doesn’t know it yet, because I only realized it when she gave that damn speech, and now I have to rescue her before my brother hurts her, or worse.” Once Taylor was safe, he needed to figure out how to persuade her that he wasn’t the dumbest fuck-up that she’d ever met. “Get the hell out of my way.”

Agent Reeves didn’t move. Brandon wondered whether he could punch the agent, knock him out, and get away with it, but then Reeves was joined by another FBI agent who also stood in front of Brandon.