Catch and release, p.11
Catch and Release, page 11
"I don't know."
"Did you contact him or do anything else recently that might get him thinking you're still alive?"
"No," she said. "I haven't had any contact with him. Aside from the postcards."
"And there's no chance Sydney could have done something? Reached out to him?"
"Why would she do that?"
"I don't know, but something must have happened to get him looking for you after all this time."
"I told Sydney her father was dead and that he was a piece-of-shit criminal with friends who might come looking for us. I explained how we had to change our names and make a new life in Florida. Even at eleven, she understood that."
Connor squinted as an onslaught of headlights beamed through the windshield.
"So, what's your plan?" asked Debra.
"Once I know you two are together and safe, I'll get to the bottom of this."
Debra glanced over her shoulder again. "Why are you doing this?"
"You're in trouble, and I'm in the business of getting people out of trouble."
* * *
Connor was about thirty miles from Indian Rocks Beach when his phone rang. It was on the third ring when Connor realized it wasn't his personal cell, but the one Little Freddie had given him.
"Connor?" said the man on the other end of the line.
He recognized the voice.
"I'm at the beach house, and I've got your baker. I don't want her, though, only Debra. Bring her to the beach house, and you and Sydney can walk away."
"I don't know where she is," said Connor.
"Bullshit. The girl says you went to the airport to get her. You've got an hour. Bring Debra here, or I kill this one. Slowly." The line went dead.
"They've got Sydney?" Debra smacked the phone out of his hand. "You said she was safe."
Connor realized his miscalculation as the phone bounced off the console and fell to his feet. Little Freddie hadn't given him the phone for updates. He'd been tracking him.
That's how he found the bakery and the beach house.
"We need to go to the police," said Debra.
"That's a bad idea."
"But Sydney—"
"I'll get her."
"How? What are you going to do?"
"I have experience fixing things when they go sideways. I'll get your daughter."
* * *
Connor exited the highway, doubled back a few miles, and stopped at a stoplight next to a convertible. He reached for Little Freddie's cell phone on the floor and flicked it into the back seat of the convertible as the light turned green. A few minutes later, they arrived at Debra's apartment.
"Do you have a weapon in there?"
"No. I hate guns."
"Me too, but sometimes they come in handy." He handed her his personal cell phone. "Put your number in there, and I'll call when this is over."
"If my daughter's there, I'm coming with you."
"No way in hell. You're staying right here until this is over."
"I heard him say he'd kill her if I didn't come."
"He came to Tampa to kill you and likely me too. You show up at that beach house, and you're dead. He'll kill you regardless."
"I can't just sit up there and wait for a telephone call."
"Look, we don't have a lot of time, and the longer we spend arguing, the less time I have to get over there."
Debra closed her eyes tight, thought for a moment, then typed her number into Connor's cell phone. She handed the phone to Connor, unlocked the passenger door and stepped out.
"Get her back," she said.
"I'll get her."
He kicked the rental into gear and tore out of the parking lot.
19
PLAN B
Boone watched Sydney as she stared at the plastic bag in front of her.
"You should eat," he said. "It may be a while before you get another chance."
"I don't really have an appetite."
He clicked on his cell phone and studied the screen. "Looks like they're making a run for it."
"What?"
"Connor. He's going in the wrong direction."
"Good," she said. "I hope he gets my mother far away from here."
* * *
When Connor arrived at the beach public parking lot, he already had a plan in his head. The small footprint of the cottage was a problem. With a larger home he could enter through the basement or the second floor, but with only three rooms, Sydney's place didn't present many options. In the Army, he'd participated in too many close-quarter combat trainings to count, and that training provided a significant advantage.
There were five elements required for a successful assault. Detailed planning, surprise, method of entry, violence of action, and speed. He knew Sydney's vacation home because he'd been there. It was only for a few minutes, but it gave him enough time to note the layout, the choke points, and the obstacles he'd need to avoid. The element of surprise was on his side, he hoped. Boone would have realized by now the cell phone was traveling away from the beach house. Whether or not he bought it was another matter. Connor also knew how he'd enter the property, but that was more a point of availability, not strategy. The front door was out, as were the windows in the living room. His only option was the bedroom window. It was the only entry point not visible from the main room.
The last two elements, violence of action and speed, were up in the air. There's a reason SWAT teams repel down ropes and smash through windows even though they don't have to. That violent action creates a psychological advantage, stirs up a shit-ton of confusion, and puts the enemy on their heels. Connor didn't have that in his toolbox. Speed was likely also out. Connor would have to enter quietly, and the house was too small to generate a lot of momentum, though he'd conjure up what he could.
Connor studied the area before he stepped out of the car. There was a beach party with two dozen people drinking and dancing around a twenty-foot bonfire a hundred feet away from the lot. A few couples walked the beach, while a handful of others watched the calm surf ebb and flow. It was too dark to see anything else.
He popped the trunk, walked behind the car, and removed the carpeted trunk liner. An unimpressive car jack and tire iron were latched to the bottom with plastic fasteners. He popped the tire iron out and jostled it in his hand. It was light for a piece of metal, but it would have to do. He preferred a straight iron. Those were easier to swing. This one looked like a metal plus sign with four different sized lug nut wrenches on the ends. Not ideal.
The plank boardwalk that led from the parking lot to the beach houses was out. Boone would be eyeballing that from the house, and Connor wasn't about to give him advance notice of his arrival. There was one thing the boardwalk had going for it, though. The palm trees that flanked the boardwalk offered a place to stash the tire iron in case Connor needed it later. This model was too large and would be clumsy in a close-quarter fight. There was also a chance Connor could drop it during a scuffle and find it buried in his own skull. Given a choice, he preferred using his fists. They were more versatile than this hunk of metal and, when used correctly, just as dangerous. That didn't mean the tire iron was useless. It just wasn't Plan A.
Connor looked over his shoulder and checked the bonfire crowd, who seemed to have no idea he was there. He crouched and placed the tire iron at the base of the third palm tree from the parking lot, nearly slicing his hand open on the tree's sharp bark. After tilting it just right and pressing it into the sand, it was concealed from anyone not looking for it. He didn't think he'd see it again. It was only there if things went south.
Connor dashed off the boardwalk and strolled a quarter-mile out of his way so he could approach Sydney's home directly from the rear, the only side with no windows. The clouds blowing in from the sea swallowed up any moonlight, allowing Connor to approach in near darkness.
When he arrived at the home, he made his way to the bedroom window. Peering inside, he could see Sydney sitting alone in the living room. Boone wasn't in sight, but Connor knew he was in there somewhere. Likely near the front door so he could cut off Sydney's exit and Connor's entry. The bedroom was the only blind spot.
The solitary bedroom window was the horizontal type that slid open to the side. This style usually had two latches, one at the top and one at the bottom, but this one was a cheaper model. It only had one latch in the center. Lucky break.
There are two ways to open this type of window from the outside. One method requires inserting a thin piece of wire between the panes. Simply loop it around the latch and pull it open. He had no wire. That left option two. Horizontal windows ran on tracks, and by applying the right amount of pressure, they could be easily popped off.
After checking that no one was watching, Connor removed the screen from the window and placed his hands on the glass. He pushed in on the window and to the right, toward the latch. By carefully rocking the window back and forth, he could lift it off the track, pulling it away from the latch. When done quickly, the maneuver was effective but loud. Since there was an armed man inside the house, loud wasn't an option. Connor had to take it slow. He gently pushed on the window, applying as much force as he could without shattering it. He pushed to the right and up, trying to dislodge the pane from the locking mechanism. After a minute, he had rocked the window enough that it was pulling away from the track. A few more tries, and it popped off the latch. Connor carefully lifted the window out of the frame and set it inside on the floor. After checking over his shoulder again, he climbed into the bedroom.
* * *
Boone sat in the kitchen watching Sydney consider the now cold Styrofoam container. He thought about calling Connor's cell phone again, but he assumed he'd already tossed it. Connor may not have realized he was being tracked from the beginning, but he'd know now. It was the only explanation for him discovering the beach house. That wouldn't escape Connor.
He thought he heard something from the side of the house. A slight popping sound. The noise itself wasn't enough to warrant attention, but the sound combined with the sudden change in pressure and the burst of humid, salty air wasn't something he planned to ignore.
* * *
Inside the bedroom, the scent of Chinese food hit Connor. Something spicy. He crept to the door, which was open halfway, and peered through the narrow gap between the door hinges and the wall. Sydney sat with her head down, staring into her food, but he couldn't see anyone else. He shallowed his breath, convinced it was loud enough to hear throughout the house. When he looked at Sydney again, she wasn't looking down at her food. She was looking right at him.
Boone would see her looking too. Time to move.
Connor exploded into the room and charged right into the big man, who was coming to check the bedroom. Connor threw two heavy right hands just below his left eye. Both connected, but he didn't go down. Connor surged forward, looking to snap Boone’s kneecap with his boot, but he was quick for his size. Boone pivoted out of the way and Connor's foot landed awkwardly on the side of a paint can. As Connor struggled for balance, Boone lunged, taking them both to the ground.
Two quick punches found Connor's ribs before Boone climbed on top of him. He wrapped his right arm around Connor's neck and tightened his grip in a rear choke. Knowing he was seconds away from blacking out, Connor tilted his chin and found the gap in the V of Boone’s elbow. It bought him a few more seconds of consciousness, and he used it to his advantage. Next to them were two unopened paint cans, an aluminum paint tray, and a hammer. He reached out and found the hammer as Boone repositioned his arm and reapplied the choke. This time he locked it in, and Connor felt his trachea collapsing. He swung the hammer wildly behind him. The first two swings missed, but the third connected with something. Air rushed back into Connor's lungs, and he struggled to his feet. As he found his balance, a fist the size of a beer can slammed into his lower jaw. The room went dark before Connor hit the ground.
* * *
When Connor opened his eyes, he was sitting on the kitchen floor with his back against the refrigerator. The left side of his face was numb. His vision was blurry, but slowly returned as he blinked the fog away.
Boone stood over him. Sydney was sitting on the floor near the bedroom door, her legs pulled toward her body. Her face was buried in her knees, and she rocked back and forth like a kid trying to block something out. Shock was setting in.
"Where's Debra?" asked Boone.
Connor tried to rub his jaw, but his arms were taped behind him. He looked down to find his legs taped at the knees and ankles.
"Where is she?" he repeated.
"Not here." Connor was surprised his jaw still worked. "She's long gone."
Boone picked up the 9mm from the counter and raised it to Connor's face. "I don't ask twice."
Connor's brain wasn't firing as clearly as it was before hitting Boone’s fist with his face, but he knew Little Freddie’s man wasn't going to shoot him. He was all threat and no leverage.
"I think Little Freddie would be a bit pissed if you killed the only person who knows where his wife is."
Boone drove his black wingtip into Connor's knee. The blinding pain hit him before the cracking sound. When the pain subsided enough for him to see again, he looked up.
"Beat me all you want. I'm not telling you anything."
"You'll talk."
"No, I won't," said Connor. "You're dealing with an ex-Army interrogator. I'm not going to tell you anything, even if I die right here on this floor."
Boone thought for a moment, went into the living room, and returned with Sydney. He kicked her legs out from under her, pressed her face against the kitchen countertop, and placed the 9mm to the back of her head.
"Last chance. Where's Debra?"
Connor shook his head. "You're big, and you have a hellava left hook." He tasted blood in his mouth. "But you're not going to kill her either."
"That so?"
"I figure you were sent here to kill Debra, but not her. Little Freddie won't take kindly to you offing Sydney." Yes, definitely blood. "We both know you're not going to kill Freddie's only daughter. You've got no leverage."
Boone thought through his options. Connor needed him to realize where Debra was, or at least where Debra might be, and then drag Connor and Sydney there with him. If Connor was to survive this, he needed to get out of the beach house. And he wasn't going to get out on his own.
Boone pushed Sydney to the ground and then grabbed his cell phone and tapped the screen. When he looked back at Connor, his eyes were brighter than a moment ago. "You took her back to her apartment. That's the first place I went when I got to Florida."
"Why would I do that?"
"Because it's safe there. You're not going to the police. You wouldn't bring her here. Too dangerous. You'd stash her somewhere. Her apartment likely. That way, she can pack her bags and be ready in case you have to run for it."
Boone was connecting the dots Connor hoped he'd connect, and now it was time to go. He had to take Connor and Sydney with him. He couldn't risk leaving them here alone, and besides, if Debra wasn't at her apartment, he'd have to go back to the drawing board with Connor.
"Get up," he said, grabbing Sydney by the arm and pushing her against the front door. "Put your hands in your pockets."
She did, and he grabbed the duct tape and wrapped a thick strip around her waist, trapping her hands inside her pockets. He pushed her aside and then looped his arm through Connor's arms and lifted him to his feet. "You next." He jerked the tape from Connor's hands, nearly dislocating his wrists.
Connor complied, and Boone wrapped a thick strip around Connor's waist. He tore the tape from the roll and then added a second wrap.
Conor expected to talk himself out of the beach house, but he hadn't counted on the tape. It was a smart move. In the darkness, it would look like Connor and Sydney were simply walking with their hands in their pockets. Much more natural than having their hands tied behind their backs.
Boone ripped the two tape bands from Connor's legs and then pushed them both out the front door. He followed close behind, gripping the silenced 9mm inside his suit jacket.
"Walk."
Connor led the way to the boardwalk. He assumed Boone had parked there because there were few other options. He walked at Sydney's pace, staying close to her side. The bonfire crew still partied on the beach. After a few minutes on the boardwalk, the public parking lot came into view. Conor knew what would happen next, and it wasn't good. Boone would toss Connor and Sydney into the trunk, or maybe the back seat, and then drive to Debra's apartment. He was right to check there. If he knew which apartment she was in, she wouldn't last long. He'd kick the door down and plug her. Then he'd come back for Connor. Game over.
Connor fixed his eyes on the palm trees ahead. Sydney slowed, and Boone nudged her forward with a massive shoulder. Connor's eyes shifted between the palm trees and Sydney's feet. When they were close enough, he stepped in front of her. Her left foot tripped over his right and she stumbled forward, taking two quick steps before losing her balance and tumbling off the right side of the boardwalk. Connor slipped off the left. When Boone reached for Sydney, Connor was already twisting his lower back against the sharp palm tree bark, shredding the duct tape and part of his shirt. Sydney was nearly to her feet when Connor found the tire iron. Connor swept Sydney's legs, dropping her again. He wanted her out of the way. When Boone turned, the tire iron connected with his jaw. Teeth and bone fragments littered the boardwalk.
Plan B.
Big Boone went down but braced his fall with his hands. As he tried to stand, Connor swung again, connecting to the side of his head. Boone twitched violently. Connor brought the tire iron down again. The twitching stopped. It was over in seconds.
Connor helped Sydney to her feet, ripped the duct tape from her waist, and they ran the rest of the way to Connor's rental. The bonfire seemed to be dying down, and Connor wondered how long it would take someone to find the dead man on the boardwalk.
