7,19 €
Mehr erfahren.
- Herausgeber: Orenda Books
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Serie: Lori Anderson
- Sprache: Englisch
Single-mother Florida bounty-hunter Lori Anderson returns in another nail-biting, high-voltage read. When Lori is kidnapped, and her family threatened, she has 48 hours to save them … or lose everything… 'A real cracker' Mark Billingham 'My kind of book' Lee Child 'Like Midnight Run, but much darker … really, really good' Ian Rankin A price on her head. A secret worth dying for. 48 hours to expose the truth… Single-mother bounty-hunter Lori Anderson finally has her family back together, but her new-found happiness is shattered when she's snatched by the Miami Mob – and they want her dead. Rather than a bullet, they offer her a job: find the Mob's 'numbers man' who's in protective custody after being forced to turn federal witness against them. If Lori succeeds, they'll wipe the slate clean and the price on her head – and those of her family – will be removed. If she fails, they die. With North due in court in 48 hours, Lori sets off across Florida, racing against the clock to find him and save her family. Only in this race the prize is more deadly – and the secret she shares with JT more dangerous – than she ever could have imagined. In this race only the winner gets out alive… 'Lori thinks with viper-like speed, speaks with strength and acts from her gut. Steph Broadribb has constructed a thoroughly believable world full of substantial yet flawed characters. I quite simply love this series, I leap in with total faith and just let myself go. Deep Dirty Truth is a thrilling, assertive and energetic read' LoveReading 'Sharp, thrilling and one hell of a ride. This series just gets better and better!' Chris Whitaker 'Brilliant and pacey' Steve Cavanagh 'Perfect for fans of Lee Child and Janet Evanovich' Alex Caan 'Broadribb's writing is fresh and vivid, crackling with life … an impressive thriller, the kind of book that comfortably sits alongside seasoned pros' Crime Watch 'Fresh, fast and zinging with energy' Sunday Mirror 'Romping entertainment that moves faster than a bullet' Sunday Express 'Stylish with an original take on the lone wolf/bounty hunter theme. This is a novel alive with tension and intriguing twists. … There's a good deal of wit at the expense of the complacent, anachronistic, loud mouthed quick-fisted mobsters. Just a whole hell of a lot of fun' New Books Magazine 'This is every bit as lively an outing for Broadribb's heroine as its predecessor, and the pace is satisfyingly unrelenting' Barry Forshaw's Book of the Month, CrimeTime 'Fast-faced, page-turning thriller … It is so refreshing to read a thriller with a female central character. Especially when that female is as all-round compelling as Lori Anderson' CrimeSquad 'Nerve-wracking and so fast-paced you won't have time to even stop and breathe … a totally cracking book three' Jen Med's Book Reviews 'A compelling and thrilling read, with a kickass protagonist readers are going to love' By-the-Letter Book Reviews 'With a heroine who jumps off the page and a fantastic supporting cast, this series is a sure-fire winner for anyone with a pulse' SJI Holliday 'Fast and furious … a book you genuinely can't put down' TripFiction 'The best one yet' Ginger Nut 'A tightly plotted, breathlessly paced, action packed, character driven novel that reads like the best blockbuster action movies' Beardy Book Blogger 'Addictive, fun, bang on the money from first page to last!' Liz Loves Books 'Superb' Hair Past a Freckle
Das E-Book können Sie in Legimi-Apps oder einer beliebigen App lesen, die das folgende Format unterstützen:
Seitenzahl: 432
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018
Ähnliche
PRAISE FOR THE LORI ANDERSON SERIES
‘Sharp, thrilling and one hell of a ride. This series just gets better and better!’ Chris Whitaker
‘Deep Dirty Truth is an exhilarating and addictive read. Every time I put the book down to do stuff in the real world, I couldn’t wait to pick it back up again to see what else was in store for the characters and myself. A compelling and thrilling read with a kick-ass protagonist readers are going to love’ By-the-Letter Book Reviews
‘WOW. The third instalment of the kick-ass bounty hunter Lori Anderson series was the best one yet! Tense and exciting with no let-up from the very first sentence’ Ginger Nut
‘I’ve just finished Deep Dirty Truth and I think I need some oxygen as I’m all out of it! Breathless stuff. Best Lori yet, and that’s the deep dirty truth of it’ Beardy Book Blogger
‘Best book I’ve read in 2018 – amazing, fast-paced thriller!! Download to your kindle NOW!’ Ian Cash
‘Deep Dirty Truth is really good, gripping, and unputdownable, and I am already looking forward to reading the next book in this fantastic series!’ Book after Book
‘While most of the narrative concerns Lori, you also get to see what is happening with JT, Dakota and Red. Each time it switched I was anxious to go back again, the timing is that perfect. I read a lot of books that have more than one narrative and it takes a great author to get it as perfect as it is here’ Steph’s Book Blog
‘It’s a thriller with bite, grit and attitude. If you love punchy dialogue, break-neck speed and unrelenting action, then this is the book for you … Lori Anderson is THE bounty hunter/all-round crime fighting, no-nonsense hero that you need’ The Book Trail
‘Fast, confident and suspenseful’ Lee Child
‘Like Midnight Run, but much darker … really, really good’ Ian Rankin
‘A real cracker … Steph Broadribb kicks ass, as does her ace protagonist’ Mark Billingham
‘This is romping entertainment that moves faster than a bullet’ Jake Kerridge, Sunday Express
‘If you like your action to race away at full tilt, then this whirlwind of a thriller is a must’ Deirdre O’Brien, Sunday People
‘Stripper-turned-bounty hunter Lori, with her sickly young daughter in tow, gets into high-octane escapes when she sets out to bring her former lover and mentor to justice. Lively’ Sunday Times Crime Club
‘Sultry and suspenseful, it marks a welcome first for an exceptional new voice’ Good Reading Magazine
‘A bit of everything – suspense, action, romance, danger and a plot that will keep you reading into the wee small hours. I loved it’ Daily Record
‘Bounty hunter Lori Anderson returns in this instalment of the high-octane US trilogy. Gutsy Lori is tasked with bringing in an on-the-run felon, her only chance to save her daughter’s father from jail. Fresh, fast and zinging with energy’ Sunday Mirror
‘As Anderson follows Fletcher’s trail to California, she faces insults, attacks, and deceptions from a host of people connected to the fugitive, including his brother and his lover, with grit and determination. Readers will cheer her every step of the way’ Publishers Weekly
The constant juggling of work and motherhood, aggression and affection, danger and domesticity make Lori a seductive star, excitingly extraordinary and yet still identifiably ordinary. The result is entertainment all the way… don’t miss it!’ Lancashire Evening Post
‘The non-stop twists and turns draw in readers like a magnet and keep them hooked to the action right up to the emotional conclusion’ Burnley Gazette
‘Another electric humdinger of a read. Bounty hunter Lori is thrown in the deep end when she agrees to hunt down a murderer in order to strike a deal with the FBI. The clipped, almost unsentimental tone allows the fast-paced story to explode from the get-go’ Liz Robinson, LoveReading
‘Lori Anderson is back with a bang … a sharply written, fast-paced thriller with bucket loads of heart. With a heroine who jumps off the page and a fantastic supporting cast, this series is a sure-fire winner for anyone with a pulse’ S.J.I. Holliday
‘Another adrenaline-fuelled, brilliant thriller from Steph Broadribb. Trouble has never been so attractive’ A.K. Benedict
‘Pacey, emotive and captivating, this is kick-ass thriller writing of the highest order’ Rod Reynolds
‘A relentless page-turner with twists and turns that left me breathless’ J.S. Law
‘Fast-paced, engaging and hugely entertaining’ Simon Toyne
‘Brilliant and pacey’ Steve Cavanagh
‘Excitement and exhilaration flies off every page’ David Young
‘An explosive, exciting debut’ David Mark
‘A hell of a thriller’ Mason Cross
‘A setting that zings with authenticity’ Anya Lipska
‘Fast, furious and thrilling’ Graeme Cameron
‘A series that will run and run’ Howard Linskey
‘A blistering debut’ Neil Broadfoot
‘If you love romantic suspense, you’ll love this ride’ Alexandra Sokoloff
‘A stunning debut from a major new talent’ Zoë Sharp
‘Perfect for fans of Lee Child and Janet Evanovich’ Alex Caan
‘Powerful, passionate and packs a real punch’ Fergus McNeill
‘Delivers thrills at breakneck pace’ Marnie Riches
‘Assured and emotionally moving’ Daniel Pembrey
‘Crying out to be a Hollywood movie’ Louise Voss
‘High-octane and breathlessly paced’ Ava Marsh
‘One of my favourite debut novels for a long, long time’ Luca Veste
‘A fast-talking, gun-toting heroine with a heart of gold’ Claire Seeber
‘A top crime talent! Unputdownable’ Helen Cadbury
‘Relentless, breathtaking and emotionally charged’ Jane Isaac
‘A gritty debut that will appeal to Sue Grafton fans’ Caroline Green
‘Great action scenes and great atmosphere’ C.J. Carver
‘Crazy good … full-tilt action and a brilliant cast of characters’ Yrsa Sigurđardóttir
‘Broadribb’s writing is fresh and vivid, crackling with life … an impressive thriller, the kind of book that comfortably sits alongside seasoned pros’ CrimeWatch
‘Delivered with both energy and colour. Lori is an unusual protagonist, and Orenda Books’ venture into action-thriller territory proves (in Broadribb’s capable hands) to be as successful as the company’s moody Scandinavian offerings’ Barry Forshaw
‘Fast-paced, zipping around the south-eastern US with chases, fights, ambushes and desperate escapes … There’s a sensitivity in the telling of Lori’s struggle to save her daughter that gives this a bit more depth than other action thrillers’ Crime Fiction Lover
‘Steph Broadribb has written a fast-paced action thriller … I’m loving this series – it’s fresh, fun and a rollercoaster read each time’ Off-the- Shelf Books
‘Steph Broadribb has created a genuinely authentic, kick-ass, realistically flawed heroine who I will now follow anywhere – a breath of fresh air on a hot summer’s day blowing right through the thriller genre and turning it on its head … Addictive, fun, bang on the money from first page to last!’ Liz Loves Books
‘Nerve-wracking and so fast-paced you won’t have time to even stop and breathe. This is a one-sitting kind of a read, so think carefully about when you are going to pick it up. Once you start, just like Lori facing down her target, you won’t want to back away until you turn the very last page. A totally cracking book three’ Jen Meds Book Reviews
‘This was a superb novel that I thoroughly enjoyed reading. It is a thrilling, action-packed read that once you pick up you find hard to put down’ Hair Past a Freckle
Deep Dirty Truth
Lori Anderson Book Three
Steph Broadribb
In memory of my wonderful Dad – Jim Broadribb.
I miss you every day.
With love, always.
Contents
Deep Dirty Truth
1
I never saw it coming. Got totally blindsided. That’s the God’s honest truth.
See, we’ve gotten ourselves into a routine of sorts – me, JT and Dakota. Living all together in my two-bed apartment at the Clearwater Village complex, playing our version of house. It’s still a little awkward, with each of us taking time to find our rhythm in the shared space of each other’s lives. But, you know, all that domestic stuff? It’s starting to feel real good, kind of natural. I should’ve known something bad was lurking around the corner, and some kind of evil was about to storm in and mess it all up.
Because that’s what happens when you’ve a dirty secret in your past, and a price on your head from Old Man Bonchese – the head of the Miami Mob crime family – because of something he’s discovered you did ten years back. Someone you killed: a lying, cheating, murdering mobster. Thomas ‘Tommy’ Ford; my wife-beating, son-of-a-bitch husband.
First they thought JT was responsible. Nearly had him killed a couple of months back – multiple stab wounds, busted ribs, punctured lung and a heart attack. But he’s strong. A fighter. And he’s convalescing well.
But they wouldn’t let it go. Word was they’d got new information and were now gunning hard for me; raising the bounty, getting every low-life, bottom-feeding asshole to think they should chance their luck.
As it was, they waited until September 19th to make their move. The day started with a shared breakfast of bagels and cream cheese, followed by me taking Dakota to school and leaving JT to do the dishes before his physical therapy appointment. It seemed like a regular day; just like the day before, and the day before that. But the schedule got changed up. Our rhythm violently disrupted. And by 08:29 that morning our world was shot to shit.
2
WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 19th, 08:24
It’s mad busy outside the school, and I can’t squeeze the Jeep into the drop-off area, so I continue along the street a ways before finding a spot that’s clear. I glance in the rearview mirror at Dakota as I shove the gear into park. She’s fiddling with her cellphone, brow creased and front teeth biting her lower lip in concentration, playing whatever game is the latest craze.
‘Come on, honey. You don’t want to be late.’
She nods, but doesn’t look up. Jumping out, I run around to her side and open the door. She puts the cell into her bag and I gesture for her to get out. She’s got a coy expression on her that usually means she’s revving up to ask something.
She takes her time unfastening her belt and gets her bags together real slow. Clears her throat. ‘So JT said it would be okay, Momma, and you know how much I love the Tampa Bay Rays.’
Her love of the Tampa Bay Rays is new. It started the moment JT said they were his favourite local sports team, second only to the Yankees. I lift her science project – a papier-mâché model of the planets in the solar system – out of the trunk.
‘Sweetie, hurry.’
She dangles her legs out of the Jeep. Her knee socks are scrunched around her ankles, her shoes are new, but the toe of the right one is already scuffed. ‘So can I?’
They’ve been talking about it the last three weeks. JT wants to take her to a ballgame at Tropicana Field and she’s keen to go. I want them to have some father-daughter time, even if we haven’t yet told her that JT is her father, but I’m worried the trip is too soon. Not for their relationship, that’s doing just fine, but for JT’s health. He’s still healing, and although the external bruises have faded now, he’s no way close to being back to full strength. Standing for any length of time makes him dog-tired and he still can’t walk any kind of distance.
‘Maybe, honey.’
Dakota sits on the edge of the seat. She pushes her strawberry-blonde bangs out of her eyes and looks up at me through long lashes. ‘But why only maybe? Why not yes?’
I smile. She’s persistent. Determined, just like her momma. ‘How about soon?’
She frowns. ‘It’s better than no, I guess.’
I laugh. ‘Yes, it is. Now, scoot.’
She grins, and slides out of the Jeep. Swinging her bags over her shoulder, she takes the science project and trots towards the school gates. I stand on the sidewalk in the morning sunshine, leaning on the trunk, and watch her join the flow of kids rushing into school. She’s been through so much in the past year, yet she seems happy. She’s been abducted, seen men die and been in fear of her life. That’s stuff no nine-year-old should ever have to experience.
As Dakota reaches the school gate she turns, waves and disappears inside.
I watch her, daring to hope the psychological scars are fading. The guilt that what happened to her was because of me, because of my job, remains heavy in my chest, and I know I’ll never forgive myself for it. But I have to push through. Move on and stay focused on the future. We all do.
On the street close behind me, a vehicle brakes hard, pulling me from my thoughts. I hear a door slide open and glance over my shoulder, glimpsing a van with blacked-out windows that’s stopped, butted up against my Jeep, blocking me in.
I start to turn. ‘Hey, what are you…?’
Two men with shaved heads jump out of the vehicle. Hands yank me backwards. Fingers dig into my shoulders and hips, pinning my arms. I kick back, fighting hard, but they’re pulling me off balance. I can’t get any power into my blows.
The voice in my right ear is low, menacing. ‘You keep wiggling, you’ll only die tired.’
I pay their warning no mind. As they haul me across the blacktop I’m screaming, bellowing, frantically looking for someone who can help. But there’s no one; the other parents are inside the school gate, out of sight and oblivious. I’m too far away.
‘Let me go … get your goddamn hands off—’
Tape is slapped across my mouth, silencing my shouts. Trapped inside, my screams and curses echo in my head. Rough hands hood me. The black material turns the world around me dark.
Then I’m off the ground, lifted up and back. I’m still fighting, punching, bucking against them, but I’m outnumbered and they’re too strong. I’m losing the battle. Seconds later they release me. Gravity drops me onto the floor of the van. Pain shoots through my hip, my knee, my elbow. My face hits something solid and I hear my jaw crack. I taste blood in my mouth.
The door slides shut. The engine fires, and we’re moving.
Less than fifteen seconds from start to finish.
I doubt anyone even knows I’m gone.
3
WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 19th, 08:31
Panic never helped no one, and I’ll be damned if it’ll get the better of me.
Heart punching in my chest, double-speed, I take stock of the situation. I’m on my back – not a good position as it leaves my stomach exposed, my vital organs vulnerable to easy damage, so I arch my back, turn myself over.
My captors have other ideas. One grabs me, pulling me across the van floor. I kick hard at them. Feel my toe connect and hear a grunt. The moment of triumph doesn’t last. I feel more hands on me, flipping me onto my side and clamping me still. My arms are yanked behind me and I feel tape against my skin, binding my wrists, then my ankles. Next moment they’ve gotten me hogtied. They’re are fast, practised and methodical. This isn’t their first time.
So I make a choice and quit fighting. Conserve energy. But I’m sure as hell not giving up. I’m harvesting data; every sound, every bump in the blacktop, every gradient in the terrain, is a clue about where they’re taking me.
I close my eyes. Listen real hard. At first I mostly hear the thump of my pulse gunfire loud in my ears, but as I force my breathing to slow, clearing my mind of panic, more sounds start to register.
The muffler’s rattling and the air conditioning is dialled up high. I hear low voices, male, up front. I can’t make out their words, but I can tell that there are two of them. Wondering how many others there are, I move about the van floor, act restless and try to push myself up with my elbow. Rough hands on my shoulders and my hips force me down hard. My face slams against the floor. Pain shoots through my forehead.
A third hand presses down on me. The same voice as before snarls in my ear, ‘Quiet down, bitch.’
I don’t appreciate his tone, but I’ve got me my answer: there are two people riding in the back with me, so with the pair up front that makes four in total. Four guys sent to grab one woman.
Numbers like that tell me these people take no kind of chances.
We come to a stop, at an intersection I’m guessing. Over the blowers of the air conditioning, I hear a blast of Miley Cyrus. It’s to our left, likely coming from another vehicle. Then the van’s engine guns hard, and we take a left, leaving the music behind.
I need to get my bearings but it’s tricky without any visual references. I think back to the route we’ve taken, run through each of the turns made since leaving Dakota’s school. I feel about-faced, but figure we’re maybe going north-east. Heading out of town. Question is why; is this a random snatch, or am I their target?
Right now, there’s no way to know for sure.
My captors are silent. The blacktop is smooth, the turns minimal. The van coasts on at a steady speed, doing nothing that might attract attention.
I concentrate on my breathing. Try to ignore the musty stench of the hood, the oppressive gag of the tape and the sweat running down my back. I push away thoughts of Dakota and JT, and the fear that I’ll never see them again. There might be four of these guys, but I’ll never go down easy. I’ll wait it out, looking for my chance to fight back.
Minutes later the van brakes and we start to reduce speed.
I flinch as a hand grips the back of my neck. ‘No noise, no tricks.’
We’re almost at a stop. I hear the buzz of a window being lowered and the clatter of coins hitting metal. The hand around my neck squeezes harder.
‘Have a nice day.’ A woman says from outside the van. There’s a pause, followed by an electronic ping. Then we’re moving again.
The window buzzes back up and the pressure on my neck releases. I know where we are. The woman was in a teller booth. We’ve just passed through a toll.
My captors used coins – they don’t have a resident’s sunshine pass that would’ve allowed them to use the lane for automated toll payments, and that means they’re most likely from out of town.
As the van reaches cruising speed two things are real clear: we’re on the freeway, and we’re not in Clermont anymore.
Not a car jacking.
Not robbery.
Not rape, at least not yet.
Then what the hell is it that these men want with me?
Again I run through the turns we’ve taken since leaving Dakota’s school. I concentrate hard on the direction we’re taking along the freeway. I think about the enemies I’ve made during my time as a bounty hunter, and the threats I’ve gotten since. The realisation of who could be behind this slithers up my spine and into my mind like a copperhead.
I clench my fingers together. Grit my teeth beneath the tape.
I’ve seen the faces of the two men with shaved heads, and I’m clear about what they’re capable of. If I’m right, if these men work for who I think they do, then my situation is way worse than a random abduction. If I want to live, I have to figure out a way to get free. I need to be ready. Stay vigilant for any opportunity. Because one thing’s for sure: these men are playing this game for keeps.
If they get their way, I won’t get out of this alive.
4
WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 19th, 12:54
We take a right turn off the highway. The wheels judder across the uneven track. The muffler rattles louder. I wince as my ribs bash against the van floor. The men up front are talking in low voices. I figure we’ve reached our destination.
Minutes later we brake to a halt. Doors open. Heat floods the vehicle. There’s shouting, new voices, then I feel hands grip my ankles and I’m yanked across the floor of the van and dumped onto the dirt outside.
They cut the hogtie but keep my wrists and ankles bound. As they haul me to my feet I feel sensation start to return to my limbs. Pins and needles stab at my muscles, waking the nerves that went numb hours ago. My mouth’s as parched as a storm drain in the dry season. I could really use a drink.
Doesn’t happen. My captors keep me gagged and hooded. Powerless. Disoriented. That tells me that they’re still being careful, not taking chances. The hood blinds me to my surroundings, and if I can’t see where I am, I can’t figure out the best escape route.
‘Barn two,’ a man says. His accent has a hint of New York about it. I search my memory, but I come up empty. ‘Get yourselves to the house when it’s done.’
I inhale sharply. When it’s done – what does that mean?
The hands grasping my arms lift me off my feet and drag me across the dirt. I want to fight back, but that’s not the smart play here. I have to conserve my energy, pick my moment real careful. So I go limp, make them work harder at moving me. Tell myself to bide my time and hope to hell I have time to bide.
The guy on my right mutters under his breath about me being heavier than I look, and the one on my left grunts in agreement. Even through the hood I can smell his cheap cologne; it’s vinegary and applied overzealously. The scent of a low-rank foot soldier aspiring towards a style they know nothing about.
They continue dragging me across the dirt.
I hear the distant clank of machinery. The sun’s high and hot. This morning, in my hurry to get Dakota to class, I forgot to put on sunscreen, and now the rays burn my skin. The air is still, no hint of a breeze. I figure it must be near on lunchtime, and I wonder if JT is worried yet.
‘Here?’ the cologne-wearer says.
‘Yeah.’
I smell them before I hear them. Way stronger than the cologne, and a whole lot nastier. Then I hear the stampede of cloven feet across baked earth, and the grunts and snuffles getting louder.
Pigs.
I tense. Dig my heels into the dirt and swallow hard. If they toss me into the pigpen I’m a goner for sure. Hooded, with my arms and legs bound, I’ll stand no kind of chance against a herd of hungry swine, and, from the noise they’re making, they sure sound hungry.
The guy to my right laughs and jabs me in the ribs with his elbow. ‘You can smell ’em then, our little pets?’
I try to get my heart rate under control and think logically. It makes no sense to snatch me and drive all those hours just to feed me to these beasts. If they wanted to get me dead right off the bat then a bullet in the head would’ve done the job real nice. They’re messing with me, but I don’t think they’re going to kill me, not at this moment anyways. So I force my body to relax, release my heels from the dirt and wait to see what happens.
We keep going, past the pigs and a few hundred yards further. Moments later, even through the material of the hood, I can tell from the change in light that we’ve passed from sunshine to shade. The stench of the pigs is replaced with sweet meadow hay. I figure we’re inside barn two.
Seventeen steps later the men spin me around and push me backwards against a pillar. The wood is rough and splinters rub raw against my skin. Cologne guy holds me upright, as close to the pillar as he can make me, while the other one ties me. They use rope this time. I feel him loop it tight, around my neck, my waist and my legs. My wrists and ankles are still bound with the tape. They leave the hood on.
The one with the growly voice slaps me on the shoulder. ‘See y’all later, blondie.’
‘If you’re lucky,’ cologne guy adds.
I say nothing; the tape over my mouth is keeping me silent. I hear their footsteps retreat, and the bang of a door slamming shut. Then I’m alone.
It doesn’t take long for the discomfort to set in. My muscles ache right from the get-go and before long they’re burning from the forced immobility. My head throbs like a bitch. My mouth’s dry and I feel nauseous – a sure sign of dehydration.
They’ve tied me real snug. I feel along the rope where it’s closest to my hands, but there are no knots for me to try to loosen, and the tape around my wrists is too high for me to get a finger through. I bend my knees and try to slide down the pillar, but I’m stuck; the noose around my throat won’t shift.
I’m all out of options. All I can do is wait.
Time passes. The fire in my muscles intensifies. The temperature rises and I sweat rivers, my clothes turning damp against my skin. I need the bathroom bad.
No one comes.
I withdraw inwards, using memories to distance myself from the pain. I think of how my morning began, and it seems like a world, a lifetime, away: waking snuggled against JT with the light streaming in through the window; his lopsided smile as I kiss him awake; the feel of him inside me as we make love in the shower – getting clean and being dirty all at once; then later JT, Dakota and me having breakfast – bagels, juice and coffee – JT and Dakota chattering about Tropicana Field, me smiling at the easy way they banter with each other. The concentration on JT’s face as he tries to braid Dakota’s hair for school; the way she thanks him even though his best effort is a clumsy, half-assed job. Me laughing and telling him practice makes perfect. Him looking at me all serious with those old blues of his and telling me he’ll keep on practising; and how in that moment I knew he was talking about more than just the braids.
In the couple of months we’ve been playing house we’ve never made each other any promises. I’ve said before, a promise is just a disappointment bought on credit, but that don’t mean I’m not curious, maybe even a touch hopeful, to see how things play out. I want to give us a chance. After everything we’ve been through, we owe ourselves that.
I clench my fingers together. Grit my teeth.
So, whatever else happens, there’s one thing I’m sure about.
I refuse to die here.
5
WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 19th, 16:58
I come to with a jolt.
I’m choking. Disorientated. Blind. I try to cough, but my lips are locked closed. I claw for my throat, but my hands won’t move. By body feels numb, my limbs heavy and alien. Panic grips me. My pulse thumps in my ears. I can’t get enough air.
A door bangs. Men’s voices come closer.
‘You still here, blondie?’ one growls.
His mate laughs.
The stench of vinegar-like cologne makes me remember. I’m in a barn, held captive by these people; my mouth is forced shut by tape, there’s a noose tight around my throat. My legs aren’t supporting my weight and I’ve slumped forwards onto the noose – that’s what’s choking me. I coax my muscles into action and push back against the pillar, ignoring the bite of wood splinters in my flesh. The grip of the noose loosens a fraction and I inhale through my nose. Feel my heartbeat start to return back to normal and wonder how long I’ve been unconscious. Wonder what the hell will happen next.
I don’t have to wait long to find out.
They release the noose, cut the tape around my ankles, and I drop to the ground, my legs too numbed by cramp to hold me. With my hands still bound behind my back there’s no way to break my fall and I face-plant onto the dirt floor. The impact knocks the breath clean out of me.
The men laugh.
The growler prods me with his boot. ‘On your feet.’
Asshole. I don’t move. Refuse to flounder at their feet. I can’t get up with my hands tied, and I can’t tell them that because of the gag. They’re going to have to figure it out for themselves.
It takes a minute, but they catch on. I can tell by the smell that it’s cologne guy who hauls me to my feet. Shoving me in my back he says, ‘Walk.’
I stumble forwards, but don’t fall this time. Force one foot in front of the other, wobbly as a minutes-old colt. One of them grabs my arm and pulls me along faster. It’s all I can do to stay upright.
We pass from the darkness of the barn back into the light, but the sun is weaker than before, and the heat’s not as intense. I want to ask where we’re going, but I can’t. All I can do is keep going forwards as directed, hating the feeling of powerlessness.
The man on my left growls a command: ‘Step up.’
I do as he says and my feet land on wood. The heels of my cowboy boots clonk across boards and I wonder if we’re on a porch. A few steps later and I hear a door creak open. They push me inside.
I smell fresh bread and gardenia blooms and wonder where the hell I am. Cologne guy is still behind me, pushing. I keep walking.
‘Stop.’ Growler says, grabbing my elbow. ‘This is you.’
I hear another door open, and Growler pulls me hard to the left. The door closes again, and I hear a bolt scraping across wood.
Growler releases my arm. ‘Hold still now.’
I do as he says.
He removes the hood first. The light is unbearably bright and I snap my eyes shut, then start to blink rapidly, trying to adjust. Next he rips the tape from my mouth.
I inhale hard. Open my eyes. See I’m in a bathroom that’s decorated in more shades of pink than I’d ever realised existed. ‘What the—?’
‘No cussing.’ Growler cocks his head to one side. ‘Ain’t that kind of house.’
‘You’re kidding, right?’ My voice is rasping. My throat’s dry as the desert. ‘It’s okay for you to abduct me and hold me here as your captive, but damn me to hell if I dare to take the Lord’s—’
The blow comes fast and hard to the side of my head. Oftentimes I’d have moved with its momentum and stayed standing, but I’m too weak and groggy, so I crumple to the floor, landing on my ass on the fluffy bath mat.
Growler looks down at me. ‘I warned you, this is no place for bad language.’ Rubbing his knuckles, he shakes his head. Looks almost apologetic. ‘This pains me as much as you. I sure do hate having to hurt a woman.’
I glare at him. My hands are still bound, but I feel around on the mat behind me, searching for anything I could use as a weapon. ‘Trust me, honey. I’ve taken worse than your little-girl punch.’
He watches me a moment then shrugs. ‘Guess that’s okay then.’
I find nothing of use. Keep staring, appraising my enemy. Growler’s about six foot tall and medium build, real tan with cropped dark hair, and older than I’d reckoned on – nearer fifty than thirty – wearing cargo pants and a white wife-beater with a plaid overshirt. I take note that underneath the shirt he’s got a gun in a shoulder holster, and note the bulge around the left ankle of his pants – a back-up piece is strapped there, for sure.
‘So what now?’
Growler doesn’t answer. He steps behind me and kneels down. I tense. Get ready to scoot forwards. Then I hear the rip of tape and my wrists are free. I rotate my arms gingerly. Wince as I massage my wrists where the tape has cut into them.
I glance over my shoulder at Growler. ‘You don’t like to hurt women, huh?’
‘Freshen up. There are clean towels in the closet and toiletries in the rack.’
‘I’d rather you took me home.’
‘Not my call. Right now, I need for you need to get washed and presentable.’
I shake my head. ‘For what?’
He steps back around me, heading to the door. He raps on it twice in quick succession. As the bolt slides back, he turns to look at me. ‘Do as you’re told, and don’t think about trying anything funny.’ He nods towards the window. ‘There’re bars on the outside. You’ve got no way to get free.’
I wait until he’s out of the room and the bolt’s been drawn back into place on the outside of the door before I move, not wanting him to see how unsteady I am. Easing myself to my feet, I stagger forwards and grip the washbasin. My head’s spinning, and my vision’s blurred. I lied to Growler; his punch was pretty damn hard.
I splash cold water over my face. Feeling half crazed with thirst, I duck my head down and let the water run over my lips. I take a mouthful and swallow. Cough from the liquid hitting my parched throat, and spit it out. Try again, but it still makes me gag. I try smaller sips and manage to keep some water down.
There’s banging on the door. ‘Hurry up in there, you hear? Get in the shower.’
They’re listening to me. I glance round the bathroom, wondering if they’re watching too, but see no obvious cameras. It doesn’t make sense, this change in the way they’re managing me. Why tie me hooded in a stress position in the barn for hours without any interrogation, and then bring me into the house for a shower? It’s like no kind of abduction technique that I’ve ever heard of.
The move inside this house has given me a bunch more information, and there are things bothering me a whole lot more now than when these men were treating me mean. This bathroom has bars on the window and a lock on the outside of the door. Unless it was put there for my benefit, it seems they have a habit of taking prisoners into this bathroom. And Growler saying he didn’t like it when he had to hit women makes me think they could be in the business of abducting women against their will; sex trafficking. Making my abduction about my gender rather than me personally.
But that doesn’t ring true. If my hunch about where we are geographically is right, then the people holding me dabble in sex trafficking, drugs and a whole lot more bad business. But the reason for them snatching me, and my being here, will be personal. Dead personal.
I shudder. The only way to know for sure is to play this through to the end.
Moving across the room to the closet, I open the doors. Inside it’s stacked with towels, aligned into sizes and sorted by colour. I pick two red ones and close the closet. Stepping across to the corner closest the door, I fold my clothes into a pile on the wicker chair and step into the shower, pulling the smoked-glass screen closed behind me.
The shower is powerful. I let the water cascade over me, washing away the sweat and dust. I find shampoo in the rack and wash my hair. I’m rinsing away the soap when I hear a door bang. Spinning round, I peer through the glass, but it’s too opaque and I see nothing. Heart thumping, I shut off the water and reach for a towel, wrapping it around me before opening the shower door.
The bathroom’s empty, but someone has been inside.
My clothes and boots are gone. In their place on the wicker chair is a glass of orange liquid and a bag of cosmetics. Hanging from the mirror is a dress: a floaty, cute chiffon number with blue flowers on cream. There’s a note pinned to it. Reaching out, I rip off the paper and read what it says.
Wear this. Make yourself pretty. You’ve got ten minutes.
6
WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 19th, 17:26
Wear the dress. Look pretty.
This kind of sexist bullshit drives me bat-shit crazy. I pound on the bathroom door. ‘Give me back my clothes. I’m not wearing a damn dress.’
I recognise cologne guy’s snigger. ‘It’s the dress or nothing.’
Son-of-a-bitch. I’m tempted to go with nothing just to throw mud in their eye, but I know that could be inciting more trouble, and I’d do best to avoid that, given the situation. I towel myself dry and reluctantly put on the dress. It’s low cut at the front and virtually backless; the skirt is long and will be difficult to run in, which is a problem, because I need to run.
I take a black eyeliner from the bag and draw it across my lids, trying to ignore that my hand is shaking. Staring into the mirror, I force myself to face the facts. Growler took off the hood, knowing that I’d see his face. I caught a glimpse of the two goons that lifted me outside the school too. People who go to all this effort – plan a snatch and grab this thoroughly – don’t make rookie mistakes. I’ve seen their faces because they either meant me to, or it doesn’t matter a dime. And the usual reason for it not to matter is because they don’t intend me to leave this place alive.
I inhale hard. Drop the eyeliner into the make-up bag.
I’ve lived a life, several lives. I was the daughter of a violent father, the wife of a violent husband; oppressed by weak men who only knew how to express themselves with their fists. Now, at thirty-two years old, I’m living something close to the life I hoped for. I’ve got a successful career on my own terms; I’m mom to Dakota; I’m lover to JT. I don’t want things to end. Not this way.
There’s a bang on the door and I jump.
‘You decent?’ Cologne guy calls. He laughs. ‘Don’t matter none anyways, I’m coming in.’
I hear the bolt being scraped back. Blinking away the dampness in my eyes, I grab the flat glass dish that holds the soap and slip it into the back of my panties. It’s not much, but it’s something. Because, whatever they’re planning to do to me, there’s no way I’ll go down without a fight.
The door opens.
Cologne guy lets out a long whistle. ‘Well, would you look at that?’
‘Enough already.’ Growler pushes past him. He looks me straight in the eye. ‘Put out your hands.’
He’s holding a pair of metal handcuffs. Damn. He puts them on me and my options will be a hell of a lot more limited. Maybe I should make a move now. I calculate the odds. Two on one and they’re both packing heat. I have an soapdish. Even with luck on my side those odds don’t look good.
So I do as he asks and watch him snap the cuffs around my wrists. ‘Where are you taking me?’
Cologne guy sniggers.
Growler shoots him a look. Glances back at me. ‘You’ll find out soon enough. Now move.’
They lead me out of the bathroom and along a hallway to the kitchen. The place is neat and clean, furnished in a traditional ranch-house style, with freestanding wooden dressers and a huge dining table in the centre of the kitchen where places are set for eighteen. In the middle of the table is a vase of gardenias.
This is a home, with family pictures on the walls and notes for a grocery run on the chalkboard beside the stove. I glance at the photos as we pass but I don’t recognise anyone. What I do recognise are a lot of the locations: they’re all in Miami.
Growler and cologne guy take me out through the back door. There are a bunch of vehicles – pick-ups, SUVs and Jeeps – parked around back, and I see four men stationed at a high gate positioned this end of the long driveway. They all have automatic weapons.
A ways ahead of us along a dirt path are four huge barns, but they don’t lead me that way. Instead we hang a left across the yard and walk around the house to a paved sun deck screened off by a white picket fence and high hedge. Beside me I can feel the two men becoming tense.
Weird. I glance at Growler. ‘You sure we’re going the right way?’
‘Quiet,’ he says.
We walk in silence. I case out the surroundings, alert to any opportunity for escape. Aside from the gardens we seem to be surrounded by some paddock land, and then a dense forest of trees for as far as I can see. There’s no other property in sight. I’d be crazy to try and make a break for it now and I’m betting my captors know it. Handcuffed, with no vehicle, my only choice would be to run into the trees. Chances are, in their numbers, with all the vehicles and firepower at their disposal, these men would shoot me easier than they could a raccoon in a trap. I figure I need to hold on a while longer.
As we reach the far side of the deck, cologne guy opens a gate, gesturing for me to go through. Only Growler comes with me. We walk around the end of the house and then I see it. I see him. And everything falls into place.
I halt abruptly.
‘Keep it going,’ Growler says, taking hold of my elbow and dragging me forwards. ‘He doesn’t like to be kept waiting.’
That maybe so, but I sure as shit am in no kind of hurry.
Across the vast swimming pool, on the far side of the veranda, a table has been set for two with white linen, silver cutlery, and china plates. As we move towards the table, the man sitting there looks up.
I clench my fists. We’ve never met, but I can guess who he is. He’s in his seventies, trim with the straight posture of an elder statesman and black hair, greyed only a fraction around the temples. He’s wearing a dark suit with a white short-sleeved shirt, but as a concession to the heat he’s removed the jacket and draped it over the back of his chair.
He nods to Growler, who removes my cuffs. Then watches him turn and leave, only looking at me when we are entirely alone. He takes his napkin from his lap, folds it neatly on the table, and stands, fixing me with his gaze. ‘Hello Jennifer Lorelli Ford.’
I frown, unsure how to interpret what’s going on here; the dinner placement versus the undertone of menace. ‘It’s been a long time since I’ve gone by that name.’
‘Time to revisit the past then, I’d say.’ He gestures to the chair opposite him. ‘Sit, please.’
I stay where I am. My hands are free and I figure I could overpower him easy enough. ‘And if I don’t?’
He gives a little smile and sits down. Picks up his napkin again and spreads it over his lap, smoothing it free of creases, before glancing pointedly towards the gate that I came through, and then over to another gate on the other side of the house. I follow his gaze and see both gates have a man with an AK-47 standing behind them. ‘Then I’ll be disappointed that you chose for things to get ugly.’
Outnumbered and outgunned, I step towards the table and sit down.
He nods. ‘Good girl.’
Patronising bastard. I lean forwards, close my hand tight around one of the silver knives. ‘I’m not anyone’s girl. You had me snatched off the street, strung me up in your barn and are making me wear this damn dress.’
He winces as I cuss. Closes his eyes like he’s in pain.
‘I want to know why the hell I’m here.’
He shudders as I say the word ‘hell’, then his eyes snap open and for a moment he looks at me with undisguised fury. Then the emotion is gone, the fury replaced by a neutral mask. When he speaks his voice is low, and his tone dead serious. ‘Well, Jennifer, the way I see it, we’re overdue a talk about how you trapped and murdered one of my boys – Thomas Ford.’
He smiles at me, and in that moment I know for sure that I’m a dead woman walking.
7
WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 19th, 18:01
It’s not always easy to spot a mob guy. They don’t all look stereotypical gangster, and it’s not like they wear buttons shouting about their allegiance. The foot soldiers might get inked, but those higher up the food chain, they’re a whole other ballgame. Respectable, that’s what you’d think if you saw them. And that’s what I’ve heard folks say about the man sitting opposite me, Old Man Bonchese – that he’s nice and respectable. But they don’t know what business he’s in.
I do though, and it sickens me; the drugs and the girls, the clubs, casinos and sweet-sixteen massage parlours. He’s been head of the Bonchese family for more than thirty years, ever since his papa was executed gangland-style outside one of their clubs. Under the Old Man’s direction the Miami Mob’s empire has grown ever bigger, and the business it does has gotten more twisted. No matter what he looks like, he’s a monster. And from the way he’s treating me, it’s clear he enjoys playing with his prey before going for the kill.
He gestures towards the platter of shrimp on the table. ‘Eat, please.’
I fake like I’m not hungry, even though my belly rumbles at the sight of the food. I want him to get to the point. ‘Why the dress, don’t you believe women should be allowed to wear pants?’
Old Man Bonchese takes a shrimp from the stack. He stares at it for a long moment before ripping off its head with a swift, brutal movement. Looks back to me. ‘I’m all for female equality, but I wanted you to feel like a woman for this meal, just in case it’s the last one you have. The dress is a gift. A kindness. From me.’
‘I feel like a woman whatever I’m wearing.’ He’s talking crap. The dress robs me of my own clothes, ones far more suited to fighting my way out of this place. He’s using it to try to control me; same with the use of my married name. He wants to delete the person I’ve become and turn me back into the girl Thomas Ford used to beat on. But it won’t work. ‘So what is it you want to say to me?’
The anger flares in his eyes again. ‘Your Tommy was like a son to me, and like a brother to my eldest boy, Luciano. He was important to the family.’
I’d seen pictures of what my husband did for the Bonchese family; of the people he beat because they couldn’t pay their gambling debts, and the body of a man he’d killed for them. JT was the bounty hunter sent to find Tommy when he skipped bail before the trial for that murder; that’s how we met and the pictures were what convinced me to help him. But Tommy found out and came back to take revenge for my betrayal.
‘Tommy killed my friend, Sal,’ I say. ‘Shot her at point-blank range because she was calling the cops when he started beating on me. She was only seventeen – just a kid – but he didn’t hesitate to pull that trigger.’
‘Regrettable, I’m sure, but not really of my concern.’
I feel rage building in my chest. Clench my fists. I trained as a bounty hunter with JT so that I could find Tommy and take him to jail to serve time for what he did. ‘He had to pay for what he did.’
‘So you murdered him in cold blood.’
I shudder. Remember standing in the back yard of the cabin where we’d tracked Tommy. JT went in through the front but something went wrong. Tommy escaped through the back, and I was blocking his exit. When he saw me, he laughed. Said he didn’t care none that he’d killed Sal. Lunged for me, saying that now it was my time to die.
‘It was him or me. I shot him in self-defence.’
He narrows his eyes. ‘Way I heard it was you emptied your gun into him.’
I hold the Old Man’s gaze as the memory of Tommy’s bloodied, bullet-riddled body slumping onto the dirt replays in my mind. Clasp my hands together to hide that they’re shaking. ‘I had to be sure.’
He closes his eyes and exhales hard. ‘And so it’s true what my son tells me: you were the one who killed Tommy. It wasn’t the bounty hunter who claimed to have done it.’
I nod. JT had taken the rap for me, and had got a price on his head from the Miami Mob as a result, but I hadn’t known that until ten years later. Recently though, the mob had somehow discovered I was the shooter. ‘Yes.’
‘Then the way I see things, it’s just like the good Lord said – an eye for an eye. And that’s what I want.’
An eye for an eye; my life in revenge for Tommy’s. I slide my right hand across the tablecloth and clench my fingers around the knife. Think of my baby girl Dakota, waiting for me at home with JT, and know I have to try and get free and clear now, whatever the odds.
