I turned on the highway, scanning every black car I passed. Nothing. I pressed down on the gas pedal. I didn’t have the luxury of worrying about keeping a low profile. I had time to make up for, and if a cop wanted to pull me over, he could chase my ass all the way to the car that held Scar. In my Aston Martin, there was no fucking way a cop could keep up anyways.
Minutes passed. No sign of her. It was entirely possible they’d changed cars, but I wouldn’t have a hope in hell of spotting her then. So, I ignored the bleak possibility and kept looking for an expensive, black car and a driver with a scar across his cheek.
Ten minutes…twenty. Fuck, they’d changed cars. It was the only explanation. Driving at over a buck ten, I would have caught up with them by now. My stomach churned violently to think I could very well have driven right past her if she was concealed in a different vehicle.
I swerved off to the side of the road, cutting in front of two lanes of traffic to get there—I didn’t give a fuck. I yanked the phone out of my pocket and dialed the number of the only person I could call. The only person who might have a hope in hell of pooling resources to help me track her down.
There was no point in putting it off. If there was any hope the prick could help me find her, I’d gladly stand in front of his bullet once she was safe.
The phone rang once…twice. Every second was excruciating. Impatience crawled beneath my skin while barely checked rage simmered in the veins beneath.
Three times. Four. For fuck’s sake, pick up.
“Hello?” a smooth, deep voice answered.
“James Donovan? Your daughter’s been kidnapped, and I need your help to get her back.”
“Who is this?”
Was that a flicker of concern in his voice? God, I hoped so.
“I’m the man who took your daughter.” There was no point in beating around the bush.
The line was silent.
“You kidnapped my daughter and now you want…what? Ransom?”
Yeah…this is where the explanation got convoluted. All I had was the truth, and I was going to have to find a way to make that enough.
“I don’t want your money. I need your help. I was wrong. She showed me that. I was trying to get her away, but my employer…was a very powerful man, and his goons got her.”
“Let’s say I believe you for a moment. What is it you think I can do?”
“I know despite the humble appearance, you’re still involved in many…shady markets” I hedged, mindful of the possibility of a phone tap. If I helped get the guy thrown in prison, his usefulness would plummet.
“And you want me to find out if there’s been any commotion lately?”
“That’s all I want. Just information. Any buyers unhappy about a missing purchase, or contracts put out to retrieve a product.”
“I suppose there’s no point in asking who I’m speaking to…”
I didn’t have to tell him. It wouldn’t seem the least bit suspicious for men in our particular field, but if I told him who I was, it would show I was putting myself out there. My name was well known in our circle. It might help him take my call seriously. “My name is Derek Vaughan.”
Silence again.
“Where are you?”
My location? And if the man just put out a price on my head and looked for Scar on his own? Then she’d be safe. That’s all that mattered. It was worth it.
“I’m heading up through San José now. She was taken from a motel on the outskirt of Cartago approximately twenty-seven minutes ago.”
“All right.”
All right, what? What the fuck did that mean?
“You believe she’s being taken north of your location, I assume?”
“Yes. My guess is the assailant is bound for somewhere in the vicinity of Sonora.”
“Keep heading north. I will meet you in La Fortuna in three hours. Leave your phone on and I will contact you with an exact location when I land.”
It was like grating salt in wounds to take orders from James Donovan. Weeks ago, I’d been ready and eager to rip away everything right in front of his eyes and then shoot him between them. Now I was essentially begging for his help. “Fine,” I gritted out and slammed my thumb down on the off button.
It seemed my intel on him had been correct. James Donovan had most definitely been leading multiple lives. Getting from the States to La Fortuna, Costa Rica in a matter of hours meant he either still had a plane on standby or could get one easily. He also hadn’t made any mention of the information I needed being difficult to get.
Then why? Why did he live in an ordinary home, letting his daughter work at some photo-processing shop? He could have been living, and keeping Scar, in the lap of luxury all these years. Instead, he’d buried himself so deep in ordinary and anonymity that if Marcos and I hadn’t been hell-bent on finding him, he would have remained buried.