Eyes Wide Open: The Blackstone Affair, Book 3

My first instinct was to rip the lamp out of the wall and start bashing Karl on the back of the head with it. I don’t know how I didn’t. I wanted to hurt him, make him suffer in agony for a long, long time before he died. The evil my mind imagined for him was not fit for anyone to ever know. I’d have to keep it buried inside me forever. No problems there.

It took some time, but we got there eventually. Karl got bored in our small prison and started texting someone or playing a game, I couldn’t tell. That’s how I knew he had his phone and where it was. I would have to get it from him at some point and use it to call the only phone number I could remember—the phone number I’d had since my move to London four years ago. I did not know any other numbers by heart but I knew that one.

I thought about how I could get to Karl’s iPhone. In time I realized the only way was for me to dig deep into my psyche to where I was willing to go all in, as Ethan would say. To bet everything. To carefully leverage the risks—or the consequences. To try to win, or be willing to lose everything.

Anger would be the vehicle to get me there.

“You murdered my dad, you evil motherfucker,” I said quietly.

He looked up from his texting and stared at me. “He deserved it. Even way back I hated him for not letting me see you after it happened. He kept you secreted away from your friends, and from me. I wanted to help you and to be there for you. Your prick of a father shut me down every time I tried to talk to you.”

“He was protecting me by shielding me from further hurt. He was being a parent, you asshole!” I let my emotions build up inside me. “He loved me!”

“Yeah, well he was in the way. Killing him made my plan work better. Oakley was shitting a brick at the funeral. Did you see him sweating?”

“No,” I answered, “I was grieving for my father, you soulless shit.”

Karl smirked at me and I wanted to gouge his eyes out with a dull spoon. “Not like your dad when I took him out. He was one cool son of a bitch, even when he knew what was happening.” Karl looked me over dismissively. “He said your name right at the last . . .”

I couldn’t hold in the gasp, the agonized cry that poured out from my heart as I heard his nonchalant words, spoken almost as an afterthought. It was too much for me to accept. My father had died knowing what Karl intended for me.

“Don’t look so upset, Brynne. I told your dad I’d take care of you,” he said in a cocky voice, and then he turned his back on me.

Thank you, you fucking monster!

They say that under the influence of an adrenaline surge, humans are capable of extreme feats of strength. Mothers lift cars to free their children and stuff like that. I didn’t know if the effect could apply to me, but I didn’t care. It was lamp-bashing time—my very best option for the choices within my grasp. A nice solid stone-component base that would do the trick if it didn’t shatter from the force I was going to use when I hurled it at him.

Right. Fucking. Now!

I took ahold of the damn thing and launched it with all my strength at the back of Karl’s head.

I had done the shot put in high school, and I did it now. Contact coupled with perfect precision and brutal force. Karl went down like a rock in a pond. Maybe the stories about mothers lifting cars did apply to me.

I was a mother, and Karl just got reminded of that very important fact.

I grabbed his phone off the floor and did the first thing I could think of. I held it up to the window and took a picture of the skyline. Then I sent it to my old phone number.

I hoped I’d killed Karl, because it was precisely what he deserved, but I couldn’t be sure and I didn’t want to stick around to find out. I was getting out of here.

The door ate up a precious minute of time because he’d finagled a chain lock on the inside that took me a few tries to undo, my hands were shaking so badly. I knew we were up three or four stories, and that I had to get down to the street to find safety, but when I exited the attached flat, I found myself in a corridor. This place was a mess of architectural planning. Make that complete unplanning. I looked around for the best way out. The fastest way.

The corners and stairwells reminded me of the Mission Inn in Riverside that I’d visited with my parents as a kid. You could follow different paths and end up going in crazy loops, up and down stairs and around secluded alcoves that turned you right back where you had been before. Where were the elevators in this place?

I thought about Ethan and wondered again if he understood my message in the text, and how he would ever find me. Then I thought about the GPS stuff we’d discussed, and it came to me in a flash. Facebook! With Facebook you could check into places and post your location status with a built-in GPS application.

I flicked through Karl’s phone and found the Facebook app. I logged into my account and clicked Places. I let the app do its thing and selected the first location that popped up on the list of possibilities. I almost had to laugh at what showed. Number 22-23 Lansdowne Crescent. The Samarkand Hotel. I typed on my Facebook status, I’m here, Ethan, come get me. I tagged Karl Westman in “Who are you with?” and pressed Post, continuing my desperate search for the elevators, needing to gain distance from this place.

After what seemed like forever, I found the lifts and stabbed the down button, looking around for signs of Karl approaching, or of anyone for that matter. Why was this place so dead, and where were all the people? The doors opened for me and in I hopped. I pressed G for ground and didn’t take another breath until the doors shut me in and the lift began its lumbering descent.

Freedom was in my grasp. Almost out. Ethan would see my messages on my old phone and on Facebook and know where to come for me. I could call him as soon as I found a safe place like a restaurant or a shop.

The doors opened smoothly, and I stepped out into a dim courtyard sort of service entrance. This was obviously the rear entry of the hotel, not the front as I had hoped. I went out anyway, and that is when I heard Ethan call out my name: “Brynne!” The sweetest sound my ears could ever know.

I went toward the sound, focusing only on him. I could hear the urgency in his call, and I felt such relief. Ethan had found me; I was alive and everything was going to be okay.

“Ethan!”

I was running toward Ethan, to my love, and my whole heart, when I was snatched from behind by arms that grappled first, and then secured me tightly, entangling me like a fly in a sticky web.

“Nooooo!” I screamed in devastation.

“You didn’t think you could get away from me, did you, Brynne?” Karl’s disgusting drawl panted in my ear.

My attempt at killing him had obviously failed, because he now had a sharp blade pressed up against my neck, shocking me with its coldness, forcing me to stop struggling. The disappointment I felt was a bitter pill to swallow, but even worse was the heartbreaking sight of Ethan’s face in the twilight. He stood not less than ten yards away from me. So close, but not close enough.

Ethan’s flat-out run had come to a screeching halt, his arms splayed out in surrender, his head shaking back and forth in a silent plea to Karl not to cut me.

This . . . would be Ethan’s undoing. His fear of the blade would propel him into any kind of negotiation to free me. I knew it. Ethan would sacrifice himself to keep me from having my throat slashed. Karl could not have chosen a better trigger for Ethan’s fear in all the world.

♠

Events and sequences had come together in near-perfect harmony, but near was not enough for my needs right now and wouldn’t be until I had her safe in my hands again.

My dad had known exactly where to find the bell tower the second I showed him the photo from Brynne, as I knew he would. Nobody knew the city of London better than my father. St. John’s Notting Hill parish church held the tower she could see from the window. Dad said she had to have taken the photo from Lansdowne Crescent.

Elaina called Neil in the car as we raced through side streets, confirming Brynne’s location at Lansdowne Crescent in Notting Hill . . . and who had taken her. Karl Westman? I did not see that one coming, and had to fight the panic that rose up inside me. The only thing helping me to function at the moment was knowing that Westman had once felt an attraction to Brynne. If he wanted her for himself, then there was a better chance she would remain alive. At least that’s what I now prayed for with everything I had.

Elaina also relayed the message Brynne typed out on her Facebook post to me, and I had to dig deep in order to hold myself together. I’m coming to get you, baby. Again, Brynne’s brilliance in problem solving blew me away. Talk about grace under pressure. Maybe she’d missed her calling and should be working for MI6 instead of conserving art.

I even spotted her coming out of the building as we skidded up. She ran toward me and called out my name. My girl was alive and running into my arms. I was about to have her back where I could touch her again, and kiss her, and tell her how she was everything to me.

But that piece-of-shit cocksucker stepped in and put his hands on her. He snatched her up and stretched a blade across her beautiful, innocent neck. There was no worse horror for me than seeing the sight of my girl with a knife threatening her throat. Threatening her life.

Karl Westman was a walking corpse. My mission in life was to see that become a reality, even if I had to become a corpse along with him to accomplish it. As long as Brynne was spared I could live with my decision. Or die with it.

“You know you cannot hurt her, Westman. Whatever you want, you can have. Money? Safe passage out of Britain? Both of those things? I can make it happen for you, but you have to let Brynne go.” Too bad I’m lying and planning your death, motherfucker.

“I don’t have to do anything you say, Blackstone!” he screeched.

“The world is not big enough for you to hide in if you harm her. She’s out of your reach already, Westman. She’s untouchable to you. If you kill her you’ll be joining her within seconds. Don’t think my threats aren’t real. Look around you. You are marked all over the place. They’re on you—everywhere . . .”

Westman panicked just as I hoped he would, frantically stretching his neck out to turn his head and look around for any marksmen ready to take him down. It was the opening I needed, a distraction just long enough to shift the balance of power.

My opportunity presented itself, and hesitation was out of the question. My eyes were on Brynne’s as I lunged forward to take him down. If this was it for me, I wanted my last view on this earth to be of her.

I felt a whoosh of air slide right by my cheek. A flash of light radiated outward in my lefthand peripheral vision. I had an idea what the first one was. I didn’t want to imagine what the second thing was. Or from whom.

There was the metallic clang of the blade falling to the courtyard stones. The thud of an impact on flesh. An involuntary groan. A scream. Then the three of us were on the ground in a mess of bodies. I had only one purpose, and that was to get my hands on my girl, and it didn’t take me more than an instant to do it. I rolled us away and looked around and up. I couldn’t see a shooter up on any of the walkways, but if they were professional I shouldn’t be able to.

Westman lay on the cobblestones on his back, dark blood pooling from the side of his head. I hoped the bullet he’d just taken to the skull had been painful, but he probably never knew what hit him. Too bad I can’t thank the person who’d delivered it.

“You okay, baby?”

“Yes!”

It was enough. I took Brynne with me as I scrambled away and out of the courtyard. I just ran with her, not bothering to wonder how it was possible I wasn’t hit or why my body still worked. I was fairly confident I had just dodged a bullet and narrowly missed the arrow shot from Ivan’s bow. But where had the bullet come from? Did the Secret Service just take Westman out in an undercover hit? Now was not the time to speculate—that could come later, and I knew my lads would find out anything there was to know. I had precious cargo in my arms and she was all I cared about.

I ran us to my car, put Brynne in the back and got in after her. My dad was there, ready and waiting for us, thank God. No, thank Mum. I told Dad to drive us out and get us home.

I looked her over in the backseat. I checked her neck, gripping her face in my two hands, and saw no blood.

“You’re okay . . . you really are okay, aren’t you?” I babbled like an idiot, and made little sense, probably. I wanted to stare at her forever and never let go of her eyes. Her eyes told me she was alive. Brynne was alive!

She nodded with my hands still cupping her cheeks, her eyes wet with glassy, beautiful tears looking up at me. “You f-f-found me,” she stuttered, “I’m okay, Ethan . . .”

“I told you I would always find you . . . and tonight you made it possible,” I whispered against her lips. “You did it.”

I thanked my angel up in heaven first, and then I crushed Brynne to me and held her against my heart. Her heart and my heart both beating together, in the backseat of my Rover, the very same place where we’d started on the night we’d met at the beginning of May when I convinced her to let me give her a ride. And what a ride the last months had been. Very bumpy and full of unexpected twists and turns, but in the end, worth it because of this moment—and where we were going right now—forward into a future together.

I held on to her the entire drive home. My greatest love, and my greatest potential loss, was safe in my arms and I just couldn’t let her go.

I didn’t speak much during the ride. When Dad drove into the lot of the building, I thanked him for his help and said I’d ring him later. I carried Brynne up through the garage lift entrance.

“I can walk,” she said against my chest.

“I know.” I kissed the top of her head and told her, “But I need to carry you right now.”

“I know you do,” she whispered, and then rubbed her cheek against me and closed her eyes, inhaling deeply. She was breathing me in. I understood her need for that too.

The part about holding her, holding me up, still held true. I would have to do this for her always—for as long as my body would allow me the strength to lift her. Holding Brynne to my heart was necessary for me to . . . exist. Talk about needing another person. It didn’t get any stronger for me. If things had been different, if outcomes had turned tragic, then my time in this life would be at an end . . . and other things wouldn’t matter anymore. And I wouldn’t want it any other way. With Brynne it was my truth. Wherever she went, I needed to be right there with her.

We still hadn’t spoken much, but it didn’t bother either of us a bit. I carried her into the bathroom and turned on the shower. I set her up on the counter and removed her shoes first, and then her shirt, and then the rest of her clothes, piece by piece, until she was perfectly and beautifully naked. I looked her over carefully and saw nothing but her perfect skin, gratefully unmarred by signs of abuse. Then I did the same with my clothes, and carried her into the shower.

We just stood under the spray and held on to each other . . . and let the water wash us clean.