Destiny Mine (Tormentor Mine #3)(28)
I laugh, realizing what Marsha is doing, and tug her off the stage before my friend starts making out with the musician right then and there. According to the rumors at the hospital, she’s done crazier things when drunk.
We push our way through the still-clapping audience and burst outside, the frigid February air doing little to cool our excitement. I’m still buzzing from the alcohol and the performance high, and Marsha is excited as well, laughing and chattering about what just happened and how she can be my agent so we can both be rich if I make it big.
We’re having so much fun I forget for a moment that none of this is real, that my life right now is just one big waiting game. However, when I get into a cab to go home, I remember, and my high fades without a trace.
While I was out singing and getting drunk, another evening passed.
Another day ended without Peter returning.
22
Peter
I think about contacting Sara as we land at a small private airport in the foothills of the Great Smoky Mountains, some ninety kilometers from Asheville and only a few states away from her. It’s beyond tempting to pick up the phone and call her, so I can hear her voice. But if I did that, the Feds—who are still watching her and listening to her calls—would be all over her, once again doubting her story and putting her through the wringer.
It’s not the first time I’ve considered reaching out to her. I think about it all the time. As careful as the Feds are, I could still get one of the men I hired to watch her to surreptitiously pass her a letter. It would be risky, but I could do it.
What stops me are not the logistics, but that I’m not sure what I would say—and what Sara’s reaction would be to getting such a letter. As much as I’d like to think that she misses me as much as I miss her, I know there’s a very real possibility that the fragile accord we built toward the end of her captivity is gone, that being back home has made her hate and fear me again.
She might be hoping I’m gone for good, and getting my letter would upset her.
Besides, what can I tell her about why I’m staying away? I can’t disclose anything about Novak and Esguerra—too dangerous if the letter got intercepted—so that leaves me with basic assurances that I’m still alive and coming for her.
Assurances that she could easily interpret as a threat if she’s happy to be home without me.
I can tell that my guys are dying to say something about the situation, but the rule about No Sara Talk remains in place and they know better than to break it. So they keep quiet, and I focus on getting through the days without Sara, relying on the daily reports about her to feed my obsession.
A couple of days ago, she went out with her friend Marsha and ended up singing at a lounge, performing one of her songs in public. Just reading about that filled my chest with a warm glow, and I instructed the Americans to record her the next time, so I could listen to her and watch the reaction of the audience. I feel absurdly proud at the thought of my little songbird putting herself out there like this, shaking off her inhibitions and displaying the talent that I’ve always known was there.
Of course, pride wasn’t my only reaction to that report. The idea of her going out to places where other men might hit on her is like a burning coal in my side. Sara is mine. The physical distance between us doesn’t change that fact. So far, the reports haven’t indicated anyone seriously sniffing around her, but that doesn’t mean it hasn’t happened. With the FBI constantly tailing Sara, my men have to be extra careful, and there are times they simply can’t get close enough to make sure some asshole isn’t begging her for a phone number or offering to buy her coffee.
If I could have a listening device on Sara herself, I’d do it in a heartbeat.
I’d plant a chip inside her brain if I could.
“You ready?” Yan says, and I realize I’ve been mindlessly cleaning my gun for the past minute instead of grabbing my bag and getting off the plane.
“Yeah,” I say, reassembling the gun and stuffing it into my waistband. “Let’s do this.”
Lyle Bolton, Wally Henderson’s first cousin, owns a small organic grocery store in Asheville. As far as his friends and neighbors are concerned, he’s a kind, peaceful man, with the requisite two-point-five kids—two preschoolers and a baby on the way. His pregnant wife is a stay-at-home mom, and to the outsiders, they seem like the perfect suburban couple.
Too bad none of them know what our hackers have uncovered.
We wait for him in the hooker’s mountain cabin, our SUV parked out of sight behind the shed. Technically, the girl is an escort, but sex for money is all the same as far as I’m concerned. Bolton comes here every Tuesday and Thursday on his way back from the local farms, where he gets produce for the store. His wife is completely clueless, and so is everyone else in the community.
Nobody would imagine that the quiet, churchgoing Mr. Bolton, who’s passionate about animal welfare and the environment, would pay a barely legal “escort” to let him defecate on her twice a week—after he beats her up.
Henderson has his buddies keeping tabs on Bolton’s home and work, which is why this cabin is a perfect place to question the fucker. His dirty little habit is a secret from everyone, his cousin included, and thanks to all the precautions he’s taken to account for this stretch of time, nobody will come looking for him until he doesn’t show up at the store some four hours later.