Runaway Model (13 page)

He didn't even want to do that. What was the fucking point? Talking couldn't fix drinking.

"My mom's an alcoholic too," she'd said. "I know all about trying to take care of her. Trying to rescue her."

"I shouldn't be talking about this stuff. About private family stuff."

But she'd been right. You can't save people. You can't lift them up. They pull you down. He'd fallen right into partying with his dad on the riverboats. It was fun. After all those long nights of study, he deserved a little fun. That's what he told himself.

He couldn't save his parents.

But, damn it, he had to try. He wasn't going to lose Kyle too.

Bryce was an expert at locating the rightful owners of mineral rights on a given patch of ground, but he was hardly qualified to track down a runaway English teenager. Kyle had already left Vegas to follow the tour. He could be anywhere along the line between Vegas and tonight's concert in Des Moines.

Now that he was money, Bryce's lawyers hinted he should drop the association with Arnold Geurne. In ninth grade, the two had attended the same science and technology high school, but they hadn't bonded over seismic maps. When you're fourteen and a risk-taker and one of your friends has a genius for organic chemistry... well... there are lots of experiments that seem like a better idea at fourteen than they do at twenty-eight.

The Louisiana State Police put an abrupt end to Arnold's chem lab and, indeed, his high school career. After the juvenile authorities spat him back out on the street, Arnold had turned his restless genius to computer networks. He was seventeen by that point, and he needed a hobby less likely to attract a life sentence if it landed him in adult court.

His other friends—science honor students to a man—had conveniently forgotten Arnold. Their own experiments with drugs? Never happened. Who needed drugs anyway when there was booze in every grocery store in Louisiana?

But Bryce knew they'd all made mistakes—and only one of them paid a price for what they'd all done. It didn't suit his notion of justice.

His parents forbid him to talk to Arnold. Of course they did. Like many alcoholics, they looked down on druggies. But they couldn't control Bryce once he went away to college.

The friendship might have faded away again after an awkward get-together or two. So many high school friendships do. But Bryce realized Arnold's hacking skills could be invaluable to a small-time wildcatter. Bryce was at the top of his class in petroleum engineering, but if he really wanted to strike it rich, he'd be competing with literally the largest and most profitable corporations in the history of the world.

In the months after Hurricane Katrina killed thousands of people and destroyed billions of dollars worth of property, Exxon-Mobil quietly announced they'd earned the biggest profits of any corporation in all of time and history. Bryce could never forget that. He couldn't fix the world but, by God, he could bring some of that oil money back to Louisiana where it had been produced in the first place.

On April 20, 2010, weeks before Bryce's college graduation, the foreign-owned and operated Deepwater Horizon rig exploded in the Gulf of Mexico, instantly killing eleven good working men and threatening the entire coastline of southern Louisiana. Like everybody else in the state, Bryce wanted payback for that one too.

Unlike everyone else, he had the ability to do something about it. Yes, Arnold's gifts were sometimes questionable in the eyes of the law. But they were a necessary evil to balance the scales. Even in the story of David and Goliath, David had a slingshot.

"Can you tell me where this cell phone is that goes with this number?" Bryce asked.

Nobody really snorted into their Red Bull® like that except to make a point. "Not legally, and I suspect you know that."

"But there's a way."

"Sure, there's a way. The NSA does it all the time. Ask Ed Snowden."

"Somebody would have to file a complaint, right? The cops aren't going to hunt us down just for reverse-engineering a phone number."

"This is true. But I have to wonder why you want this particular bit of information. I'm not seeing the upside here." Arnold bent the law for profit, not pleasure. He wasn't one of these hackers who did it all for the thrill of beating the Pentagon.

Bryce didn't say anything.

"The usual reason people ask me to do this is they're stalking an ex. It's possible the ex could make a complaint. I've never seen it go anywhere... but it's possible. And it wouldn't look real cool if it got into the media. You've got a higher profile these days than you used to. What's the name of that old song? 'Mo Money Mo Problems?'"

"I'm not stalking an ex."

"OK, man. OK."

"We've been working together a long time, haven't we, Arnold?"

"Sure, man. I never said I wouldn't do it. But I'd like to get paid in cash for this one."

"Yeah, no worries." Bryce pulled a thick envelope out of his jacket.

Arnold didn't bother to count it before he made it disappear into a back pocket. He tapped some keys, working faster than Bryce expected. Apparently the necessary software was already installed.

"The phone's turned off. But it pinged last at the Wells Fargo Arena in Des Moines. Before that, it pinged at a place not too far away called Indiscreet Martini Bar. Smells like a preparty and concert to me."

It smelled the same to Bryce.

"Thanks, Arnold."

"I can set up a program to alert you and send notifications to your phone when that one moves. But you know there's no guarantee that whoever you're looking for is still with the phone."

"Yeah, Arnold. I do know that."

"I don't know what you're into here, man. Whatever it is, be careful. There's a lot of people relying on you. Me included."

"It'll be all right. Don't worry, Arnold."

Bryce took one of the corporate helicopters to Bismarck Municipal Airport. The armed bodyguard who flew with him was an Angeleno named Leon Roberto who'd served in both Afghanistan and Iraq. The three other bodyguards who met him on the ground had also seen service in Iraq.

Some—most—of his extensive security staff were former police officers. But Bryce wanted soldiers for this engagement.

Not too many. Six mercenaries on American soil verged on a private army.

Not too few. He didn't really know who was after Kyle but he knew the boy was attractive and you couldn't ask a sex trafficker to back down just by saying "please."

Considering that Bryce had to make decisions based on very little information, a four-man team seemed to be about right. 

The best thing about the corporate jet wasn't the leg room or the conference table or the selection of bourbons in the mini-fridge. It was the fact that you didn't have to wait in a security line. If an evildoer ever hijacked a personal jet this size and slammed it into a skyscraper, big fucking deal. The skyscraper would laugh. And your average oh-so-concerned citizen couldn't give a fuck if a fracking investor and his four mercenaries ended up as tomato paste.

Thus the FAA didn't require the security screening you had to endure every time you flew on commercial aircraft.

All the pilot had to do was ask, "Ready?" and all Bryce had to do was count up to four to be sure all of his bodyguards were there, and then they were on their way. There was a co-pilot and a flight plan, but there wasn't a flight attendant.

Bryce could pour his own drink. "Bourbon, anyone?" he asked, but he was just being polite, since he already knew the answer.

"I'll make some protein drinks in the blender for the team," Roberto said. "No alcohol for us."

Protein and T, Bryce guessed.

His bodyguards' drinks were prettier than his—almond milk, agave syrup, strawberries, whey protein powder, and pine pollen. Worthy of being immortalized on Instagram.

Hell. Bryce considered a second bourbon and branch, but he already knew he wouldn't. Time to put on his game face.

***

T
he jet landed at a small general aviation airport outside Des Moines, where they'd been met by a Mercedes SUV. Not sure where to start, Bryce told the driver to head for the arena. They might be able to pick up the trail there. They'd gone a few blocks when Bryce's throwaway rang again. He didn't recognize the number. It wasn't the one that called before.

"Yeah?" He wanted to sound casual. Like he didn't give a fuck and he didn't have anything going down.

"Do you know a Kyle Auburn?" An American voice. Western. Sometimes a Canadian could sound like that, but an Englishman never could.

Not Kyle's attacker then. Someone else. Who? And why would he think Kyle's last name was Auburn?

"I'm Bryce Auburn. What happened? Is Kyle OK?"

"I'm head of security for Stoney Rockland."

"How nice for you. I'm CEO of Bryce Yourself Petroleum. If you've done anything to hurt Kyle, I guarantee I can buy and sell Stoney Rockland and you will be very, very, very goddamn sorry."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. You misunderstand me, sir. Your brother was assaulted tonight before Stoney's gig in Des Moines, Iowa. Kyle seems to be confused and a long way from home. We just want to get him safe where he belongs."

It seemed as if the man believed, or was pretending to believe, that Kyle and Bryce were brothers. Really? Bryce's central Louisiana drawl was slight, but Kyle's northern British accent was thick as molasses. Well, there was such a thing as adopted brothers and stepbrothers and even brothers separated at birth, so Bryce might as well play along with it.

He figured Kyle had his reasons. They might not be good reasons, but Bryce wouldn't fuck him up. Not yet.

"Let me speak to Kyle."

"He's a little woozy. We're not getting much sense out of him."

"Let. Me. Speak. To. Kyle."

A little silence. Then Kyle's voice, much slowed-down, like a recording played back at half-speed.

"It's Nigel, love. He found me."

"Who's Nigel, Kyle? Talk to me."

Silence.

More silence.

Then: "I'm sorry, Mr. Auburn, but Kyle has blacked out again." Again? "We think he was slipped a date rape drug." No no no no no. "Fortunately, one of our security noticed an older man trying to walk him out of the show. But it's going to be awhile before Kyle is ready to talk."

"What did the police say?"

"Your brother begged us not to inform the police."

Of course. Kyle wouldn't want to take the risk of being deported. And Stoney's security would be just as happy not to have any public record of a sexual assault on a fan at one of their concerts.

"So what happened to the predator?"

A long pause. "He got away, Mr. Auburn. Look, I'm not really comfortable discussing this matter on a cell phone. Your brother's privacy is at stake."

"Where are you?"

"We're backstage at the Wells Fargo Arena in Des Moines. Des Moines, Iowa." That was the second time he'd mentioned the name of the state. The man clearly had no faith in Bryce's grasp on geography.

Bryce leaned forward toward the driver. "The Wells Fargo Arena. How long?"

"Ten minutes, sir."

"I'll be there in ten," Bryce said into the phone.

No doubt all stadiums had nurse's stations backstage somewhere, just in case a performer or a fan partied a little too hard. Kyle's face was the color of the white sheets on the roll-around cot. His eyes were shut and perhaps a little swollen.

"He's still out for the count, but he's breathing normally." The middle-aged woman in scrubs was a reassuring sight, evidence that someone with medical training was on the scene. "I'm Dr. Jacobsen. You can call me Laura, Mr. Auburn."

He shook her hand. "Then you must call me Bryce." But his real concern was Kyle, not the social noises.

"I'd like to see the lab tests but I think someone slipped Kyle a memory blocker. It's been a problem in this area for some time. It usually makes the victim rather passive and suggestible, so the rapist can argue later that the victim went with him willingly. Kyle got too much for his weight, and he passed out."

"Will he be OK?"

"He'll be fine. But it's lucky he did pass out. It was the way the predator was walking him out that drew the attention of the security crew."

Speaking of which, a bald man in his late thirties stepped forward to introduce himself. His short, heavily-muscled three-hundred pounds suggested he'd been a valued member of his varsity wrestling team in his younger years. "I'm Marshall Daniels." Stoney's security chief.

"How did the predator get away?" Bryce knew he might owe Kyle's life to this man, but he was still angry.

"It was a crowded stadium, Mr. Auburn. My team wasn't willing to pull their weapons on an unarmed man in a crowd. He simply made a break for it." Daniels shrugged. "We thought we'd catch up with him outside the building, but he was a little too fast. And we weren't willing to call the police against the victim's wishes. In an attempted sexual assault, especially of a young man... well, you appreciate that it's a sensitive matter. A privacy issue. Most young men aren't happy about filing a police report that could become a matter of public record."

And the publicity team of most big stars wouldn't be entirely happy about filing such a report either. Maybe they really hadn't tried all that hard to stop the bad guy from making his escape. They'd tell themselves the important thing was that the victim was safe. They didn't need to make a big mess for everybody by actually detaining his attacker.

Fuck 'em. Kyle knew who it was. Bryce would find out and hunt him down and make him pay.

"Bryce." Kyle's voice trembled. "You're here." His dark eyes blinked themselves open. There were no golden highlights tonight. The pupils were blown so wide they looked black.

Now he was struggling to sit up. He moved as if his slight body weighed a thousand pounds. Bryce bent to help him.

"I didn't think... how did you know I was here?" Kyle blinked several times, as if he were fighting to clear his head.

Bryce had to speak carefully. He wouldn't mention Kyle's phone call, and he couldn't mention Arnold.

"It's that invisible tie between brothers. We've talked about it before. I somehow knew that you needed me, so I was already on the company jet when Mr. Daniels phoned me."