Hard to Handle (2 page)

CHAPTER 2

“Terrance Antonoli is the youngest son of Salvador Antonoli, a very wealthy businessman in the construction and property development industry,” Renee stated through the speaker phone in Sam's car about fifteen minutes later. “Salvador's originally from Greece, but married a French girl and has lived in Paris for the last thirty years.”

Sam skillfully maneuvered his matte black Jaguar XKR-S across two lanes of the Jefferson Davis Highway to the off-ramp a few blocks from Mikayla's hotel.

“And the kid, Terrance? Anything noteworthy about him?” he asked Renee.

“Nothing to suggest he's into anything shady,” Renee noted. “Twenty-nine years old, typical rich kid. Looks like a bit of a playboy. He went to Yale University in the United States, then went back to France to work for daddy's company. Married the daughter of a diplomat, then launched the U.S. branch of Antonoli Properties about eighteen months ago.”

“So the threat could have been for his wife,” Sam added. “Where is she?”

“Selina Antonoli lives in Paris. According to In-stagram, looks like she's about six months pregnant with their second child.”

“Okay. I'm pulling up to the Hilton now. Send me anything else you can find on this Terrance kid that could explain what kind of shit he's involved in.”

“Sure thing, boss.”

They hung up as Sam pulled in to the alley behind the airport hotel. It was narrow and empty except for two large garbage bins and a stack of wooden shipping crates. As he strolled around the side of the building, he tried Mikayla's cell phone number again, but there was still no answer. The tension in his spine grew stronger as he thought through various scenarios in his head. There were many reasons why Mikayla Stone-Clement would ignore his multiple phone calls in the last twenty-five minutes, and almost all of them were innocent. But Sam couldn't ignore the slim possibility that she may be the target of the threat made to Antonoli. Particularly if his wife was all the way in France.

Sam walked through the main floor of the hotel toward the bank of elevators, where he could see several people waiting with an assortment of luggage and bags. But his eyes quickly landed on a single man, standing off to the side and pacing back and forth with an intense energy. The man was big and bulky, with hunched shoulders and a barrel chest under a long, black leather jacket. One of the elevators arrived as Sam was halfway across the open space, and the group of people slowly filed in, including the thug. Even as he burst into a hard sprint, Sam knew there was no way he could get there in time. The heavy metal doors closed softly just seconds before he reached them.

Pressing the call buttons with rapid impatience, Sam scanned the floor indicators above the four elevators and weighed his options. The elevator he had missed stopped at the third floor. He considered how long it would take to run up eight flights of stairs to Mikayla's floor, but knew it would be too long. One of the other three elevators was descending from the twelfth floor and, with any luck, would arrive without any stops along the way. That would put Sam only about three and a half minutes behind the thug.

The elevator he had missed was on the move again. Sam watched as it passed the fifth and sixth floor, then held his breath after the seventh. It stopped on the eighth, just as the descending elevator dinged to announce its arrival on the ground. He stepped aside as several occupants filed out slowly, covering his edginess beneath a calm, polite veneer. Alone in the cabin, he selected the eighth floor and pressed hard on the button to close the doors, though he could hear calls to hold and wait for other passengers.

Very aware of the security camera mounted in the corner of the lift, Sam placed a firm grip around the butt of his gun, which was secured against his back and concealed under the loose cotton of his shirt. About twenty seconds later, he finally stepped onto the eighth floor. The hall was empty and quiet. The directional sign on the wall sent him to the right. He walked forward, listening intently for anything alarming or out of place. At the door marked 815, Sam carefully leaned forward until he could press his ear to the surface. There was only silence. Maybe his instincts were off and the man in the leather jacket was just another hotel guest, despite the unsavory look of him.

Sam was about to pull back and knock on the door when he heard movement on the other side of the thick metal slab. He had only seconds to prepare before it swung open with the same thug ready to step out of Mikayla's room and back into the hallway. The man paused for a couple of moments, clearly surprised to find Sam standing only inches from him and wearing a ferociously menacing expression. Sam used the opportunity to punch the stranger in the nose with a quick jab. The man's head snapped back, and his blood sprayed forward from the fracture of his bridge. Unsatisfied, Sam pulled back and shot the heel of his palm into the man's neck, crushing his windpipe.

The thug stumbled back into the room, clutching his face and making desperate gurgling sounds as he struggled to breathe. His face and hands were quickly stained red as he bumped into the wall behind him. Sam then slammed a hard right hook into his temple, and watched dispassionately as the dead weight of the large man slid to the floor, out cold. With a quick step back to scan the hallway, Sam was relieved to see that it was still empty and otherwise silent. He entered the hotel room and shut the door behind him, then quickly removed the loaded handgun from the man's shoulder holster. Then Sam drew his own gun and cautiously crept forward to clear the rest of the room. The man on the floor was likely a lone assailant, but he knew better than to make any assumption.

The bathroom was directly across from the front door, with the small living room and dining space off to the side. The bathroom was still damp and steamy from a recent shower, but all three areas were empty. Sam continued forward, starting to feel hopeful that Mikayla was not in the room. Maybe she had showered, then gone out for dinner or on an errand, managing to escape whatever her attacker had intended. But the moment he looked into the bedroom, he knew that wasn't the case. He heard her rapid, shallow breathing from the opposite side of the room before he spotted the top of her head just above the edge of the mattress.

Sam lowered his weapon and rushed around the king-sized bed, trying hard to stay calm and prepared for anything, but failing miserably. He found her sitting on the floor with her knees folded and arms wrapped tightly around them. She had changed out of the black dress and into slim, stretchy yoga pants and an oversized tank top. Her feet were bare. There were no signs of blood or obvious injury.

“Mikayla!” he stated softly.

She jumped, clearly startled by his voice, then looked up at him with rich brown eyes that were wide with fear and trepidation. Sam quickly looked back out toward the front door to confirm her attacker was still knocked out, resisting the urge to inflict more damage.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, stepping a little closer.

She shook her head to say no.

“Okay. Stay here and don't move,” Sam instructed. “I'll be right back.”

He waited for her slow nod of acknowledgment before he turned away, shoving his gun into the waist of his pants. Back at the front entrance, he stepped over the prone assailant to enter the large bathroom, and found two hotel robes hung on the back wall near the shower. Sam quickly pulled off the belts and stepped back outside to find Mikayla standing a few feet away just outside the bedroom.

“Is he dead?” she asked, her hands clasped tightly in front of her.

“No,” Sam told her as he noted that the blood flow appeared to have stopped and the man's windpipe had opened up enough for shallow breathing. “He'll live, at least long enough to provide some information.”

He quickly got to work restraining the attacker by flipping him on his stomach and hog-tying his wrists and ankles together with the belts. But he could feel Mikayla's anxiety and her eyes watching his every move until he was satisfied that the thug was completely immobilized.

“Why don't you have a seat and tell me exactly what happened,” Sam suggested as he straightened up and walked over to the small bar area in the living room. She let out a deep sigh and took his suggestion, lowering herself gracefully into the small two-seater sofa. Sam took out a miniature bottle of brandy from the small fridge and poured the liquid into one of the glasses on the counter. Mikayla accepted it and took a small sip before she began speaking.

“I was in the shower for a while, and when I got out, I saw that you had called a few times,” she explained in a quiet but calm voice. “I was going to call you back after I finished packing my suitcase. Then there was a knock at the door. I just assumed it was you. But, still, I asked who it was. He said it was a delivery.”

Mikayla took another, bigger drink of brandy, then squeezed her eyes tight as the liquor burned its way down her throat.

“I should have known something was wrong, I wasn't expecting anything,” she admitted. “But I opened the door, just a crack, and it was enough for him to shove his way inside.”

She paused, as though not wanting to finish the story.

“What did he do, Mikayla?” Sam prompted in an even, dispassionate tone.

There was a pause for a few seconds, until she let out another deep sigh and closed her eyes as though trying to block out the memory.

“He shoved me up against the wall with both his hands around my neck. Then he squeezed so hard that I couldn't breathe. I think I blacked out a little, except I could still hear him laughing. When I opened my eyes again, I was lying across the bed, like he had thrown me there.”

Sam shoved his hands into the front pockets of his jeans.

“Anything else? Did he say anything?”

Mikayla cleared her throat.

“He laughed again, then said: ‘Tell Antonoli that the message wasn't a threat, it was a promise.'”

“Then what happened?” he prompted.

“That's it. He walked away and I rolled off the bed. Then I heard the scuffle at the door before you came into the bedroom.”

“How's your throat? Did he hurt you?” Sam asked, resisting the urge to check for injuries himself, very aware that he had no right to console her now. Not after she had come to him for help and protection earlier that evening and he had so cruelly dismissed her concerns. Still, the urge to touch her was so strong, he had to physically hold himself back.

“No, not really,” she replied, placing one of her palms over the long stretch of her delicate neck. “I might be a little bruised, but nothing serious.”

“Okay. Why don't you finish packing?” he suggested. “I'll take care of him.”

She looked up into his eyes with an alarmed glance.

“What are you going to do?”

“Get some information about who hired him for this job and anything else he knows. I can be very persuasive,” he added at the skepticism written clearly on her face.

Mikayla finally nodded before draining the cup of the remaining brandy and putting the empty glass on the coffee table in front of her. Sam watched as she walked back into the bedroom and slid the pocket door closed behind her. He planted his hands on his hips, reviewing everything he already knew about the rapidly evolving situation. Whoever was trying to squeeze Terrance Antonoli out of the very competitive real estate development market was obviously serious and quick to back their words with action. But tonight's attack only created more questions for Sam. Like why had the son of a successful European builder chosen to branch out in the U.S., and how had he managed to piss off a faction of organized crime so quickly? Because there was no doubt that the fellow he'd tied up, and who was finally showing signs of coming to, was working for an established syndicate.

Sam walked over and crouched down next to the assailant, whose breathing was almost back to normal.

“Seems like you've landed yourself into a spot of trouble, mate,” he said in a deceptively calm voice. “Why don't you save us all a lot of bother and tell me what I need to know?”

The guy tried to speak, but it came out as a series of grunts.

“What was that?” Sam asked.

“I don't know nothing,” the stranger finally choked out.

“Why don't you let me be the judge of that? Let's start with who sent you on this assignment.”

“I don't know,” the man replied.

Sam nodded, not at all surprised or put off by the response.

“All right, then let's start with something easier,” he continued as he took out his cell phone and took a picture of the man's face, then sent it as an attachment in a quick email to Renee. “Like your name, for example. But keep in mind that, in about five minutes, I'll know everything there is to know about you, mate. So my question is just to establish a rapport, demonstrate how reasonable I can be if you make this exercise an easier one.”

“Nick.”

“Come on, you can do better than that. Nick what?”

Sam watched him struggle to swallow.

“Francesco. Nicolas Francesco.”

“Good job, Nickie-boy. Now how did you end up in this hotel room with a very specific message to deliver?”

“I got a text message with instructions, that's it.”

“Well, you must work for someone, Nickie. So why don't we start there?”

“I don't work for anybody, not official-like. I just take the occasional job, no questions asked.”

“Okay, okay. So what about this text message you received? Do you still have the number?” Sam asked patiently.

“Yeah, in my cell phone.”

“Good. You've done pretty good so far, mate. But I think you can do better,” Sam continued as he quickly fished the phone out of Nick's jacket pocket. “Who's your contact for these occasional jobs you do? Who sent the text message?”