Freeing Him: A Hart Brothers Novel, Book 2 (36 page)

“Nick? What’s going on?”

“You don’t remember?”

“No.”

He proceeds to explain.

“I’m sorry. I should’ve listened to you,” I say.

“Forget about that. I’m just glad you’re going to be fine.”

“What’s the verdict?”

“Severe dehydration, broken arm, several broken ribs, broken collarbone, lacerations, contusions, and a severe concussion,” Nick explains. “You’ll be here for a few more days.”

I lift the sheet and see the cast on my broken arm. Then I try to remember what happened, but there’s nothing other than leaving the house and riding for a little while.

“Why can’t I remember anything?”

“The doctor said it may come back. It has to do with your head injury.”

“Head injury?” I start to panic, thinking about all those poor people who suffer for years in the aftermath.

“Well, yeah. Concussions are brain bruises, so they’re head injuries.”

“Right.”

Nick looks at me. It’s odd because it’s not like he’s chastising me, but there’s something else … something different.

“I was going crazy, Gemini. I was so worried about you, I called the police.”

“Thank you. For caring.”

He stands and faces the small window. He’s always been a quiet, gentle sort, but now I feel like he wants to yell.

“Nick, I understand that you’re angry with me.”

“No! You understand nothing about any of this!”

“Okay, maybe I don’t. I already apologized. I don’t know what else there is for me to say.”

He inhales … like he’s been underwater forever. “There’s really nothing else for you to say. Just promise me you won’t do that again.”

“I promise.”

He walks over to me, kisses my forehead, and says, “I’ve got to get to work. I’ve missed a few days as is. I’ll see you tonight.”

“Okay. Thanks, Nick.”

Things between us
aren’t the same. Nick and I can’t seem to get back on track. I can’t put my finger on it, but since I’ve been released from the hospital, he’s edgy and nervous. And I’m walking on eggshells, afraid I’ll piss him off. He’s always been so sweet and kind, but this new Nick is different.

Two weeks pass, and one night I wake up in severe pain. I’m experiencing the worst headache of my life and I can’t even remember going to bed. Nick rushes me back to the hospital and they do another CT scan, MRI, and an MRA to rule out a blood clot. All the tests are normal and I’m diagnosed with post-concussion syndrome. The headaches hit arbitrarily and indiscriminately. They come with no warning and bulldoze me like a damn tank. 

Post-concussion syndrome. I’d heard news reports about professional athletes who dealt with it, but I never gave it much thought before this. It sends my life straight to fucking hell. I begin waking every morning feeling like someone is taking an axe and splitting my skull into two. The neurologists prescribe all sorts of medicine, but nothing helps. The migraines are relentless, crippling me for days. Noise and light are unbearable. I’m moody, depressed, not at all the same girl I was before the accident.

When Nick eventually leaves for good, I can’t blame him. I don’t even like myself anymore.

Every specialist I visit tells me the same thing. This syndrome can last, in rare instances, for years. They tell me I need to find my headache triggers. I’m meticulous about keeping a diary, but nothing adds up. For months, I record everything I eat and drink, the weather, my mood, and try to piece together the mystery. But there is no rhyme or reason. The migraines are random things, hell-bent on destroying me.

That’s when I turn to drinking … a lot. Riding my bike is out of the question. My prior fearlessness is gone. Now I’m frightened of everything. What if I’m riding and one of these headaches hit? What will I do? What if I’m out shopping and one starts up? Or, God forbid, what if I’m driving? I can’t function when they attack. I have to curl up in a ball and lie as still as possible until they pass. Sometimes it takes hours, and sometimes days before they go away.

My drinking gives way to other things. At first it’s only weed, which seems to help. But then I want to escape from everything, so I start Xanax. And then I move to Lortab and Oxy. I mix all of the above, trying to forget the pain. Every day I look at the calendar and wonder how much more I can endure. Gone are my dreams of becoming a marketing specialist for mountain bike manufacturers. Gone is the girl who’d won so many mountain bike races. Gone is the strong, fearless girl I once was. In her place stands a scared, lonely drug seeker. If it weren’t for the money I’d inherited when my mom died, I’m not sure where I’d be … most likely living on the streets.

And that’s why I decide to leave Colorado and move back to Texas. I know I need to be closer to my roots. I grew up in San Angelo. I know I can’t go back there, but Austin seems to be calling me. I find myself packing my things and loading the trailer that will take me home. Secondary to the migraines, it’s a long ride. They force me to stop often and I don’t dare drive with one. But I finally make it and settle in to living back in Texas.

Austin is a hip town, filled with restaurants, clubs, and eclectic shops. It’s on the edge of the Texas hill country where the landscape changes from rolling terrain to rugged hills. It’s quite beautiful and very different from San Angelo, where the land stretches far and wide, with barely a rise in the road. Austin has a couple of lakes if boating is your thing, and it’s the live music capital of the world boasting festivals and concerts galore. It’s a great place to hang because it offers something for everyone.

Unfortunately, I’m not able to partake in any of that fun. Living in Austin hasn’t exactly brought any of that excitement into my life, though I’m not sure I would call this
life
. More like existing.

The blaring ring
of my phone wakes me. I’m pissed. I rarely sleep this deep and the one night I do …

“This had better be damn important, Huff, to wake my ass up in the middle of the night.”

“I wouldn’t be calling if it wasn’t.”

“Shoot.”

“You’ve had three messages from a Colton Knight. Says he’s with the FBI and needs to talk with you. Says it’s urgent. And the dude sounded like it was more than urgent. I didn’t bother you with the first two, but when the last one came in, he sounded right upset.”

I groan. Colt’s a close friend from my former military days. “Yeah, I know him all right. He’s a good guy. I’ll take care of it. Thanks, Huff.”

“Sorry I bothered you, boss.”

“No worries, man. Talk later.”

Troy Huffington was a great employee. He wasn’t one of those pains in the ass who asked me for permission on every tiny detail. But I wish he’d called me sooner on Colt. This must be important. Then again, how would Huff have known that?

I quickly press Colt’s number and he answers on the first ring.

“Agent Knight.”

“Colt? Drexel Wolfe. I hear you’ve been trying to reach me.”

“Damn. Took you long enough.”

“Sorry, dude. I was sleeping. Like any self-respecting citizen would be doing at 3 a.m.”

“Shit. Since when have you been self-respecting?”

“Ever since I got away from your ass, that’s when.” I chuckle.

“Yeah, right. Listen, I need you. We have a situation. In Austin, Texas. Are you familiar with Austin at all?”

“A little. Why?”

“Ever hear of Dirty Sixth?”

I laugh. “You gotta be kidding me.” Dirty Sixth is a section of East Sixth Street that is similar to Bourbon Street in New Orleans, but on a much smaller scale. It’s open only to pedestrians on weekends and other special events and is the location for many clubs and bars where partygoers hang out.

“Not at all,” Colt says.

It’s not hard to miss the seriousness in his voice. “Okay, you got my attention. What’s up?”

“We’ve had a string of young women who’ve gone missing from the bars on Dirty Sixth. Random disappearances. We think it may be human trafficking.”

“No shit?”

“No shit. No trace of them. We’re up to thirteen now. And we’re afraid if we don’t put someone in there, it’s gonna get worse. I’ve got two sets of feet in now, but I need another. My problem is that I’m shorthanded. I need bodies on the outside watching the area so I want to know if you’ll go in wired and start checking things out.”

“Yeah, I can do that. How much time do you need?”

“At least a week, maybe two.”

After a quick calendar check on my phone, I say, “Yeah, I can clear off a few things. When do you need me?”

“Yesterday.”

“Got it. Tell me when and where.”

Colt provides the necessary details.

“Not to worry, man. I’ll be in position tomorrow night.”

After we end the call, I text my pilot. Then I try to go back to sleep.

My plane lands
at two thirty and a car meets me on the tarmac. The 103˚ heat of Austin slams into me like a freight train, after coming from Denver, where the weather was in the low eighties. I throw my gear in the back of the SUV and punch the hotel address into the GPS. Soon, I’m on the expressway, on my way to meet Colton and his men. He’s waiting for me in the lobby when I arrive.

“Hot enough for you? This is like Vegas,” I complain.

“Tell me about it. I’ve got men stationed on rooftops wearing Kevlar at night. It’s like the Iraqi desert in full battle gear. You luck out. You’ll be inside with the AC.”

“Good to know,” I say, feeling sorry for those poor guys who get the rooftop duty.

“Come on. Get checked in and then we’ll go up and I’ll brief you.”

When we walk into the suite, six heads turn my way. I know two of the guys—Hugh Phillips and Dylan McElroy. Colt introduces me to four more, tosses me a bottled water and we start in on what’s been happening.

Dylan hands me a packet and I pull out photos of the young women who’ve disappeared. All young and beautiful, their lives ahead of them. Gone without a trace. As I glance over each page, I’m as baffled as these guys are. There isn’t anything we can sink our teeth into. Every one of these victims vanished into thin air.

“No witnesses?” I ask.

Colt shakes his head. “Not a single one.”

“What about roommates?”

“Half of them didn’t have roommates. None of them had boyfriends.”

“Well, shit. That rules out the number-one suspect,” I say.

Colton adds, “That would’ve been ruled out anyway. Why would one guy take all these women? If he had relationships with one, why go after all?”

I have to ask this, even though I hate to. “Serial killer?”

“Possibility, but no bodies,” Hugh answers this time.

I rake my hand through my hair. I normally keep it cut short, but I haven’t had time for a trim in a long time, so it’s longer than usual. “All of these are happening on Dirty Sixth?”

Heads bob up and down.

“Did any of these girls have friends they were out with or were they out alone?”

“They all came alone. They usually met friends out, but they never came in with anyone,” Steven says.

“So you’re telling me that all these girls were targeted. The perp knew exactly who he was going to meet and he also knew if these girls would be alone. They would be easy to overtake.”

“Exactly. He, or they, have been watching these girls and have been very careful about who they’re taking,” Colton says.

I shoot him a look. “Explain.”

“Every one of these girls either lived alone, or had roommates that were gone for an extended length of time … like, all summer. Their jobs were the type where they worked from home and didn’t report in anywhere. They had minimal contact with their families so if they went missing, no one would know for a few days. It was orchestrated down to the greatest detail.”

I shake my head. “They’re pros.”

“No fucking shit.” Dylan stands and stretches. “Here’s the thing. We’ve been casing the clubs now, but we don’t know how or who to watch.”