Frederick was pretty sure Thorne would be more concerned that Gwyn not be murdered. He walked to the man who lay on the ground on his stomach, his hands and feet secured by zip ties. So let’s see if we can’t make Junior here tell us what he knows.
Looking over his shoulder, he saw that Clay had taken the girls a short distance away and was talking to them intently. Probably filling them in on everything that had been happening.
He bent over the survivor, keeping his voice quiet but deadly. ‘Tell me where you were taking us.’
‘Go to hell,’ the man spat, his spittle landing on Frederick’s shoe.
‘I probably already am,’ Frederick muttered, yanking him to his knees. Twisting his fingers in the man’s hair, he jerked his head back. ‘Tell me.’
The asshole tried in vain to twist out of Frederick’s grip. ‘Go. To. Hell.’
Goddammit. He did not want to do this. Crossing his fingers, Frederick jabbed them down into the hollow of the bastard’s throat, ignoring the hacking cough and the writhing. Abruptly he pulled away. ‘Tell me.’
Lungs heaving, the man turned toward him and threw up. Luckily Frederick had been anticipating that and jumped out of the way.
‘Tell me,’ he growled, and put his fingers back on the same spot. He tapped. The man puked again.
‘No,’ he begged. ‘No, no, no.’
Palming the front and back of his captive’s head, Frederick pressed . . . hard. A sharp scream of agony burst free and Frederick released him. The man collapsed on the ground, shaking, the front of his trousers growing dark as he lost control of his bladder.
Frederick grabbed him by the hair again, jerking him upright. ‘Tell me.’ He put a little pressure on the hollow of his throat. ‘Tell me and I’ll stop.’ He added more pressure, aware of the time passing. The cops would be here in a minute, and as soon as this guy heard sirens, Frederick’s leverage was gone. ‘He won’t know it was you.’ A little more pressure. A little more puking. ‘Tell me.’
‘A boat,’ the man rasped. ‘He’s on a boat.’
‘That’s good.’ Frederick eased off, then pressed again. ‘What’s the name?’
‘Se? . . . Se?or del Mar.’ He bit the words out and moaned. ‘He’s going to kill me.’
‘Not if I catch him first,’ Frederick whispered. ‘That’s your best hope right now. Where is it docked?’
The scream of sirens started up in the distance, and the man spat at Frederick again, tears streaming down his face. ‘Go to hell.’
Frederick released him, letting him tumble to the ground. ‘Tell me where it’s docked. If we get to him, he can’t kill you. I’m your best chance at surviving this.’
The man moaned. ‘Chevalier. Now leave me alone.’
Suddenly drained, and feeling the full impact of his actions, Frederick stepped away and made a beeline for the trees where the van had been hiding. Dropping to his knees, he retched, losing everything he’d eaten that day. Which, luckily, was not a lot. His head fell forward, vile memories swirling in his mind, memories he truly thought he’d buried forever.
But there was no such thing as forever.
And they’d seen. His daughters had to have seen him, or at least heard the bastard’s screams. Everyone in a five-mile radius had heard the bastard’s screams.
God. I am a horrible person. At least now they could find Thorne and Gwyn. Need to get up. But his body would not cooperate, his knees buckling every time he tried to stand. He was shaking all over.
‘Shh. It’s all right.’ Taylor’s voice was warm in his ear, her hand rubbing his back in slow sweeps. ‘You’re okay. We’re okay. We’ll get Thorne and Gwyn back.’ She pressed a water bottle into his hand. ‘Drink.’
He struggled with the cap. ‘Fuck,’ he muttered.
She knelt beside him and pressed her lips to his temple. ‘Let me help you, Dad.’ She took the bottle from his hands and managed the cap in a single capable twist, then eased him back so that he sat on his heels. Lifting the bottle to his lips, she whispered, ‘Drink.’
He obeyed, more than aware that their roles had switched, his child caring for him. He rinsed his mouth and spat, then drained the bottle in a few greedy gulps. He was still shaking, but not as violently.
She stretched her arm across his back. ‘You’re okay.’
‘I know,’ he murmured. ‘But I wish you hadn’t seen that.’
‘Well,’ she said practically, ‘I can’t disagree with you there.’ She pulled at him until his head rested on her shoulder. ‘What did you find out?’
‘He’s got a boat. The Se?or del Mar.’
‘Lord of the Sea,’ she said softly. ‘Makes sense. Tavilla’s gang is Los Se?ores de la Tierra, or Lords of the Planet.’
Yes, it did make sense. ‘It’s docked at a marina called Chevalier. We need to get word to Joseph. Maybe he’ll know where it is.’
‘Clay will tell Joseph. He’s behind us, texting him now.’
‘Listening,’ he murmured unhappily. He hadn’t wanted anyone to see him torture the man into confessing. Clay was supposed to have kept his daughters from witnessing that. And if Clay and Taylor had been listening, Daisy probably had been too.
Taylor sighed. ‘Yes, we were listening. He was worried about you, Dad. So was I.’
‘I’m okay,’ he said. ‘Because you told me so.’
‘Then it’s true, because I’m rarely wrong.’ She laughed when he scoffed at that. ‘The marina being named Chevalier makes sense too,’ she added. ‘It means knight. If he’s the Lord of the Planet, his gang would be his knights.’
That Tavilla had likely named his marina was troubling. That meant it might not be an actual marina at all, or not a public one, at least. ‘The man’s a fucking poet.’
‘Hopefully a dead poet, soon enough.’ She blew out a careful breath. ‘How did you learn how to do . . . what you did?’
The word is ‘torture’, baby. But he didn’t say that. No need to make this uglier than it was. But the answer came spilling out of him before he could call it back. ‘Experience.’
Her flinch was tiny. ‘You were trained when you were in the army?’
‘No.’ He clamped his lips together, unwilling to say more.
But Taylor was a smart cookie. She went very still and exhaled another careful breath. ‘Daddy?’ she whispered, her voice suddenly small. ‘Did that happen to you?’
It was his turn to sigh. ‘We are not going to speak of this.’
‘Please. I need to know.’
No, you don’t, baby. You really don’t. But again he answered. ‘Central America in the eighties. I was captured for a few weeks. It’s over.’
‘No, it’s not. Not if it does this to you. But . . . I’ll respect your wishes.’
‘Thank you.’ He looked down at his clothes. ‘I need to change.’
‘Yeah, you do. Come on, Dad. Let’s go to Clay’s house and get you cleaned up.’ She rose, then pulled him to his feet with her.
His knees still wobbled, but he could lock them in place. ‘Thanks, honey.’
She blinked a few times. ‘I love you, Dad.’
He turned and . . . sighed. Because Daisy and Clay still stood there. Hoping so hard, he opened his arms, and then breathed again when Daisy walked into them and hugged him.
‘You smell really bad, Dad,’ Daisy whispered.
He bent to kiss the top of her head. Her mother had been so tiny. ‘I know. I’m sorry.’
‘I’m still really mad at you. But we’ll talk later.’
‘That’s fair.’ He nudged Taylor. ‘That asshole kicked Clay in the ribs, really hard. Make sure he takes care of himself.’
‘Sure thing.’ Taylor left him to put her arm around her other dad.
‘Clay seems nice,’ Daisy murmured.
‘He is.’ He turned to look at her. ‘And you did some great shooting today. You saved us. Thank you,’ he said.
She tipped her head back, lifting one side of her mouth. ‘You’re welcome.’
She walked with him out of the trees to where the police were now gathered. He was surprised to see Joseph with them.
‘You’re gray, Frederick,’ he said.
‘Thank you. Did you lose the van with Thorne and Gwyn?’