Magic Tides (Kate Daniels: Wilmington Years #1)(3)

I said yes because I loved him. And because we needed to get out of Atlanta, where everyone knew who we were and what we were capable of. If we stayed there, Conlan would never experience anything resembling a normal childhood. Okay, so “normal” was a stretch, but at least here he would be treated as just another shapeshifter kid, not the son of a former Pack leader, a wonder-child capable of miraculous things. Bottom line, we’d needed a secure base, so we bought Fort Kure at a steep discount and proceeded to sink loads of money into it. The walls were done, so was the front gate, and the rest of the house inside was coming along. Slowly. Very slowly. If everything stayed on schedule, it might be habitable by fall.

I found Paul by the gift shop, which we planned to convert into a stable. He was talking to a man I didn’t recognize, and he seemed upset. Paul didn’t get upset. He was an optimistic guy who looked at a collapsed wall with an attitude of “I can fix it” and frequently did. The man he was talking to was about ten years older than Paul, which put him in his late forties. They had to be related—both had the same bronze skin, dark curly hair, and aquiline noses.

“…Can’t.”

“I know,” the man said.

“If I give you that money, I can’t make payroll. The work’s already done. I must run the payroll. I can’t ask my people to work for free.”

“I know,” the man said again. There was a brittle finality to his voice. He had resigned himself to “no” but was too desperate to not try.

Paul dragged his hand through his hair. “Look, I’ve still got Dad’s truck.” He dug into his pocket and pulled a keyring out. “I never got around to fixing it. Take it, sell it for parts. It won’t bring much, but at least it’s something…”

Paul saw me. His mouth clicked shut.

“Hello,” I said. “I’ve met Jason. He says your nephew was kidnapped.”

The two men stared at me.

“This is my brother, Thomas,” Paul said finally. “Someone took his son. We’re trying to scrape together enough money to try to buy him back.”

“Do you know who took him?”

“Yes,” Thomas said.

I waited. Paul nudged him.

“The Red Horn Nation,” Thomas said finally.

“Who are they?”

“A local gang,” Paul said. “They control a lot of South Wilmington. Mostly they deal in drugs, but they steal kids too.”

“How big are they?”

Paul frowned. “Fifty people? Maybe more.”

A nice round number. “Are they holding him for ransom?”

“No,” Thomas said.

“Have you tried the cops?”

“These are dangerous people,” Thomas said. “The cops won’t bother them unless there is evidence. I don’t have evidence.”

“Then how do you know who took him?”

“There were witnesses.”

And if those witnesses went to the police, bad things would happen to them. Right.

“How old is your son, and when did they take him?”

Thomas didn’t answer.

“Darin is 16,” Paul said. “They took him five days ago. Why is the age important?”

“Because little kids are usually sold to sexual predators or to families who want a child. Teenagers are sold to someone who will keep them confined. Transporting them is risky.”

Darin was probably still in the city.

“You were gathering money, so you know where they are,” I told Thomas.

He nodded. “They have a house.”

“Good.” I pulled the rag off my head. “Wait here. I’m going to change, and we’ll go and get your son back.”

“You don’t understand,” Thomas said. “They are…”

“Bad people. You’ve told me.”

The Barnhill brothers looked skeptical. It was probably my winning ensemble of stained tank top and torn shorts.

My husband walked out of the north tower and jogged over to us. He was almost six feet tall, with blond hair and gray eyes, and he was built like a champion grappler in his prime. The two men instinctively stepped aside to make room for him.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” I told him.

“What’s going on?”

“Paul’s nephew has been kidnapped by a local gang. About 50 people. I’m going to get him back.”

Curran grinned at me. “Will you be home in time for dinner?”

Paul and Thomas looked at him like he had lost his mind.

“Naah. Eat without me.” I stretched my shoulders a bit, gave him a quick hug, and headed to our bedroom.

“Red Horn kills people,” Thomas said behind my back. “Your wife…”

“Will enjoy the exercise,” my husband said. “You know what they say. Happy wife, happy life.”

Five minutes later I walked out wearing my work clothes: a pair of jeans loose enough to kick someone taller than me in the face, a gray T-shirt, and a pair of soft boots. I wore a utility belt on my waist and a sword sheath on my back. The handle of my sword protruded over my shoulder. I’d braided my hair, and there were two throwing knives and a Bowie in the sheath on my thigh.

I gave Curran a quick hug.