Sweet Seduction Surrender (27 page)

"I asked first," he deadpanned.

"I phoned Detective Pierce," I admitted, reluctantly, and then held my breath again.

"Oh, you did, did you?" he asked with a raised eyebrow, but didn't glance in my direction. We were heading for the motorway, and by the looks of it, the South bound lanes.

"I wanted an update on Tremayne. Whether he'd presented himself to the Police yet."

"And he hasn't," Jason supplied.

"No. He landed at ten this morning in Auckland, but they haven't heard from him since."

Jason frowned. "What's Pierce's take on that?"

"Officially, they're not concerned. They expect him to have a viable excuse and turn up on their doorstep by tonight."

"Unofficially?" Jason asked, flicking his gaze towards me.

"Unofficially is a closed book right now. We're on our own."

Jason huffed out a breath of air as he turned the SUV onto the motorway, indeed heading South.

"Where are we going?" Both our homes were back the other way.

"Manurewa. The only property that Tremayne owns, which flies under any official and legal connections to him or his businesses, is a warehouse in Manurewa."

"You think the art might be there," I surmised.

"Or at least a clue to Tremayne's whereabouts. If we're lucky, even Tremayne himself might be there. Pierce, even outside of the official investigation right now, would have looked into his legally owned properties. He and the art are obviously not at one of those. So, that leaves the property in Manurewa."

"And you got all of this off radar?" I asked, intrigued that an underground network of informants could provide such specific information.

"This warehouse being linked to him, yes. But there's more," he added, flicking me another troubled look.

"What?" I didn't want to speculate. Jason's anxiety could mean any number of things. It wasn't worth the worry to work them all out in my mind.

"Tremayne has business dealings with Declan King."

I sucked in a shocked breath of air. "What does that mean?"

"Well, even legit businesses deal with King from time to time. He has his fingers in many different pies. Not all of them are fronts or laundering opportunities for the man. It could be all above board and there was nothing on radar to suggest otherwise. But any connection, legal or not, to Auckland's crime lord, is cause for unease. Especially where Nick and ASI are concerned."

"You think Tremayne is working with King to frame Nick. A revenge type scenario."

"It's the most obvious conclusion to make," Jason agreed.

We exited the motorway in silence, both of us contemplating what this new piece of information could mean. It finally all made sense. Tremayne was the tool with which King could lash out at my brother. For his interference in recent interests King had. For the rescue of Ben Tamati's woman, Abi Monaghan, from King's clutches.

I'd met Abi at a barbecue at Dominic and Genevieve's, the one that Jason had stood me up at. She was courageous and beautiful, a strength of character contained in a soft shell. She seemed fragile and sweet, but from what I'd heard through Nick, she was capable of so much more than looking pretty. And King had wanted to use her, in his turf war with Roan McLaren; Abi's former mob boss in Wellington, where she grew up.

All of this stemmed back to then. To the lock-down. To the operation Pierce was on in Wellington, using ASI, and in particular Ben and Abi, to arrest that horrible man. But things had settled. Nick had arranged an agreement with King, one that should have avoided this outcome. I mean, ASI was partially responsible for getting Roan McLaren out of the way, freeing up King's interests in Wellington and the whole of the North Island of New Zealand. King should have been pleased with ASI's involvement. Should have been thanking Nick, not framing him for a crime.

But whoever said criminal masterminds were sane. In Declan King's mind this was probably all perfectly justifiable. Payback for a slight. Or a warning not to cross him again.

Just then, Jason pulled the SUV onto the side of the road we were on, behind a high chain-link fence bordered by thick bush. We were concealed from whatever stood on the other side. I was guessing, that it was Tremayne's warehouse.

"What if nothing's here?" I asked, peering futilely out of the side of the car.

"Then we go to plan B," Jason said, pulling his cellphone out of his pocket.

"Plan B?"

"Yeah. Pray to God that the Police are better at this than us."

His phone connected to whoever he was trying to contact, which became apparent on his next words.

"Horse. What have you got for me?"

A long pause, where I couldn't hear a word on the other end of the line.

Then Jason said, before hanging up, "I owe you, man."

The phone got pocketed and a gun replaced it in Jason's hand. He checked the chamber, put the safety on and flicked his eyes back up to me.

"Tremayne's here. Has been since not long after he landed back in Auckland. But he had a visitor half an hour after he arrived."

I could guess.

"Declan King."

"Yeah," Jason spat. "But King left and Tremayne didn't." He held my gaze. "Whatever is in there, may not be pretty."

I knew what was coming next.

"I'll keep a look out," I suggested, and saw immediate relief wash his entire face and frame.

He offered me a small smile, picked up my cellphone from between my legs and handing it to me said, "Phone Pierce. This isn't what we think."

But before I could ask him what exactly he meant by that, he was out the door and scaling the fence.

Pierce was assembling a team and heading our way. He'd blown a gasket, at the fact Jason had gone in, when the intel from Jason's military contact had indicated possible foul play. He was infinitely relieved to hear I was sitting safely in the SUV outside, hidden from immediate sight.

I wasn't inclined to agree with the detective after he'd pointed all of that out. I'd realised, from Jason's warning of things possibly not being pretty inside the warehouse, that I wouldn't have wanted to witness whatever Jason was uncovering right now. But it hadn't actually occurred to me that he may be in danger. King had left, according to Horse, whom I could only assume had satellite imagery to back up that fact. If King wasn't here, and no one else was seen entering the building, then the only person - or body - inside would be Tremayne's.

But now my mind was racing, making up darker and darker scenarios inside my head, all of which led Jason down a bleak path. I consoled myself with the fact that he was trained for this sort of thing. That although affected by his past, he was not ruled by it. That Jason was more than what most people saw and assumed.

My perfect imperfect man.

There was nothing for me to watch here, no entrance to view through binoculars. The road we were parked on was a side street running parallel to the much larger and well travelled Weymouth Road. There'd been half a dozen cars pass by, but on the whole, the industrial looking area had the feel of slight neglect to it. As though most of the warehouses here were unmanned during the day, or simply abandoned. The economy was not what it used to be.

I started tapping my fingernail, one of the only ones left that I hadn't chewed to the quick, against the handle of the door in an impatient rhythm that matched my elevated heart rate. Jason hadn't made any communication with me through the walkie-talkie since he'd climbed over that fence. Surely, he would have let me know by now if he had found Tremayne or if the warehouse was bare. I had no idea how big the building was from my vantage point inside the car. But I was certain I could get a feel for its size if I stood up and peered through the bushes.

I took a hurried look up and down the road, making sure to survey every direction before I exited the SUV. Inside or outside the car, at this location, was still a safe bet; not a soul walked the street. I approached the fence and peered between the leaves. A rather large blank wall met my eyes. I tried to get a better perception of size, but from the angle I was looking and with the obstruction of the bushes, I couldn't see an end to the vastness of dirty white concrete that loomed through the fence.

I fiddled with the walkie-talkie, trying to decide if I should check up on Jason. Finally anxiety and impatience took their toll and I brought the device to my face, pressed the button and spoke into the receiver.

"Jason? What's happening?"

There was a crackle, as though he was trying to pick his walkie-talkie up, or as though he was frantically trying to turn it down, and then nothing.

Panic seized me. Had I made a mistake contacting him when he was investigating a suspicious location? He hadn't said not to, but then I also hadn't been that stupid when he was inside ASI. Maybe he assumed I understood it was for emergencies only. My nail found my teeth and I gnawed on it for a second, then without anything else to do, I turned back to the SUV to climb inside.

A startled cry escaped my lips as I rotated to face the vehicle and found a man the size of a mountain standing before me. Between me and the car itself. He was huge. And had beady eyes a little too close together and bushy eyebrows arrowed down into a V. However, it wasn't the
Deliverance
facial appearance that sucked all the air from my lungs, but the bulging muscles protruding beneath his too small t-shirt sleeves, the stretch of barrel-shaped chest that stood threateningly in front of my eyes, and the very real looking black gun he held in his beefy hands, pointed at me.

"Ms Anscombe," he said in a gruff voice that matched his physique. "Come with me." The 'with' was pronounced,
wiff
.

OK. Not good. I glanced up and down the street, but still there was no one to see this abduction taking place. I momentarily contemplated flicking a knife at him, but with the gun aimed at my chest and his finger already on the trigger, not to mention the fact that he was probably not alone and Jason was facing off against this goon's counterpart right now, the idea was soon quashed. I'd bide my time. The goon hadn't frisked me, so I was still armed.

And in the theme of his obvious assumption that I was nothing more than a non-threatening woman, I cowered, bit a trembling lip and said in a wavering voice, "Who are you? What do you want?"

"Mr King would like a word," he said, taking a towering step closer.

I shouldn't have been surprised. We'd concluded King's involvement, but we'd had intel advice of his departure. Had he returned? Or was I being taken somewhere else?

A large hand wrapped threateningly around my upper arm, the steel point of the gun was thrust into my side painfully, and the goon pulled me along the length of the fence.

"Where are you taking me?" I demanded, my heart in my throat and the shaking in my legs no longer for appearance sake only.

"To Mr King," the man said, as though I was missing a few brain cells.

The itch to pull a knife and defend myself was enormous. I'd been trained to combat this sort of situation, but reality is a great leveller. The gun felt real. It
was
real. When I'd trained, the weapon used against me had been fake, the outcome; one of bruises and a crushed ego. But here, on the side of a road in South Auckland, I knew if I pulled my Kukri and wasn't fast enough to take the mountain beside me by surprise, there'd be no bruises, only blood.
My blood.

I had never considered myself a coward, but in that moment, fear for my life overrode all my training. Simply turned me into a victim, not a Kombatan martial arts specialist.

How had Jason survived in a world this real?

Genuine tears trickled down my cheeks, a sense of despondency invaded my mind. I had expected so much more from myself than this. I felt disappointed and disgusted at my weakness.

We entered a gate at the edge of the property and crossed a short, weed strewn, neglected piece of concrete to a closed door at the rear of Tremayne's warehouse. My captor banged three times on the door with a meaty fist, the sound echoing out across the small courtyard and resounding inside my frantic chest. I might have jerked.

The door creaked open, the darkness inside momentarily making it impossible to see who had given us access. By the time I was dragged across the threshold, only the back of another medium build man could be seen, walking away from us towards light at the end of a brief corridor.

A second twitch of my body as the door clanged shut at our backs. I was fast becoming a bundle of nerves and little else. I needed to get a handle on my reactions, settle my mind, ease the drastic clench of my heart. I needed to focus on my training, on Johnson's words of wisdom in my mind.

But all I could hear was Jason.
"If it comes down to it, you do whatever you have to do to stay safe. Even if you have to leave me behind."

Suddenly, seeing Jason before contemplating anything else was imperative. The need to ensure he was still alive stole all other thoughts from my mind, and replaced all other fears. If I could ensure Jason was still breathing, then I would consider looking out for myself. Retaliating, searching deep within my psyche and finding that place my Kombatan trainer had given me; the strength required to not be a victim, to fight back.

Having something to focus on other than the feel of my too large captor's hand on my arm, or the press of the gun barrel in the side of my torso, was liberating. In a way only being with Jason had ever been. I clasped the sensation, concentrated on my immediate goal, and started surveying my surroundings.

We'd passed several rooms; doors open, revealing office like spaces. Whatever this building had been in the past, it was barely used now. The offices were empty, only gathering dust. No obvious solutions appeared in any of the abandoned spaces.

I turned my attention to the door at the end of the hallway we were in, the one the smaller man had just opened and walked through. Light shone brightly on the other side of the door frame. It had been that light which spilled out from beneath the previously closed door and illuminated the corridor. The blinds were all closed on the empty offices we'd walked past, the only source of lighting came from that room ahead.

I blinked, concentrated on the brightness, willing my pupils to react swiftly so I wouldn't be light blind when I entered the room. Not that I intended to do anything immediately upon arrival there, but somehow the need to be prepared was forefront in my mind. That, and the need to see Jason as soon as possible.

A part of me wished I hadn't been so eager. Because the instant I was hauled through the narrow opening, out into the brighter, larger space, my eyes landed on him. Everything,
everyone
, else vanished. Just me and the crumpled form of Jason several metres away.

He was bloody. I couldn't tell if the blood was someone else's or his, and if it was his, if it was superficial or not. He
was
breathing, but his eyes were closed and his limbs unmoving. He'd been beaten, that much was obvious, and I wondered how anyone could get the drop on Jason, and not wear a few cuts and bruises themselves.

I forced my eyes to leave the shattered looking shape of the man I loved and scanned my environment, looking for evidence that Jason had fought back. Two other men stood in the room. One was the medium built man who had opened the back door, dressed in jeans and a polo shirt, with geek styled mousy brown hair and horn rimmed glasses. The other was tall, distinguished and in an expensive suit. He was also dark skinned.

Declan King.

Neither of them had a scratch on their bodies. Jason had been ambushed, caught unawares. Or had decided fighting back was not possible.

My eyes continued their careful inventory of the room. It was larger than I had expected, large enough to house a basketball court
and
the spectator stands, I should think. Large enough to house all of Tremayne's art, sitting innocuously in one corner. Large enough to house Declan King and his men, with Jason at their feet.

And large enough to house Richard Tremayne. Who looked in similar shape to Jason, but his chest was not rising and falling in the same steady rhythm. My eyes settled on Tremayne's still form, unable to pull away from the sight of a dead body. Of a dead
person
I had known.

If I had thought our lives were in danger before, it was nothing to the realisation of how true that was now. The evidence of just what Declan King was capable of; there on the cold concrete floor, discarded, no longer needed. Terminated.

I flicked a steady gaze back at King.

"Did he renege on your deal?" I asked, surprised at my courage, at the fact I could challenge this man at all.

But a pit of anger had invaded my body, settled in my stomach and spread ice cold tendrils throughout my frame. I was furious. With Tremayne. With the mob boss who stood imperiously before me. With the sight of a once magnificent soldier lying broken on the floor.

It was the type of anger that stole all reason. My head was trying to tell me,
danger, danger, danger
. My body was simply saying,
bring it the fuck on!

"He was superfluous to requirements, my dear," King said, in an unusual accent; somewhere between Kiwi and a type of French.

"What was he getting out of this?" I asked, needing clarity in something, even if it was only in uncovering Tremayne's motives for now.

"He was not aware of his role, at all," King said, sounding amused and bored at the same time. "Merely a tool I needed to get the job done."

"But you made him approach me?" I couldn't quite work it out. Tremayne had sought me out for a reason, it had to be because of this man.

King let out a loud burst of laughter. It echoed around the room. Jason didn't even stir.

"I would not work with one such as him, Ms Anscombe. But I am not opposed to using his type. Money hungry and elitist. Everything I was not growing up."

Ah. A glimpse into the mind of a megalomaniac crime lord with something to prove.

"But his infatuation with you proved interesting," he went on. "And useful. You do know he was obsessed with you, don't you my dear? Couldn't stop talking about the young, pretty designer he had employed to decorate his new showroom. The plans to have you do the rest of his chain of art stores. The desire to add you to his collection of perfect pieces. For show. For his ego. For his amusement and because he could."

But he couldn't. I'd turned Tremayne down. Had he gone to King and asked for a favour?

"So, he approached you, when he couldn't get what he wanted from me?"

King rocked back on his highly polished expensive Italian made leather shoes, clasped his hands in front of him and smiled a too white toothed grin.

"You don't get it, Ms Anscombe," he said, condescendingly. "I used him. Nothing more. It was for my purposes that his store was burgled. It was for my amusement that your brother's firm was implicated. It was because
I
can. He merely presented an avenue I hadn't considered before. You."