Chapter Twenty
Alex
One billion in ransom money is fucking chump change with what I could collect on a weekend. It almost seems too easy when the kidnappers direct me to the abandoned boathouse. Everything feels oddly calculated, like it’s all been predetermined, right down to the way I park two blocks away and march headlong through the thick woods.
I shuck the bag of money over my shoulder while dodging fallen branches, bowing beneath low-hanging vines, and sneaking around thick tree trunks. Bugs buzz in the overbrush and herald the arrival of spring, though I’m not feeling as cheerful as they sound. There’s still the hint of a chill in the air whenever I pass under a thicket of branches that cast shadows on the ground.
Ahead, the boathouse looms, appearing awfully normal in the middle of the afternoon. I crouch low to the ground and glance around to drink in my surroundings, noticing the lack of cars and henchmen. If the Persian wants to trade, why would he pick somewhere like this where students might show up at any second? What’s he playing at?
The idiot on the phone sounded less competent than a criminal mastermind but seemed eager enough. If I had to take a wild guess, he was more of a lackey than the actual Persian, a middleman who got paid the sort of wages that any man would want from running errands for a literal psycho.
I have to assume the billion dollars on my shoulder is for him.
When he mentioned the Persian wanted the notebook as well, I pretended not to hear him but made a phony copy just in case. I don’t think something like that would fly under his radar. Having both money and the notebook would give someone a world of power.
The kind that I could be using to win this town over.
At the door of the boathouse, the crickets chirp wildly, almost warning me against going inside. But I can’t stop now. Coach Neill is counting on me—and only me. The boys decided to withdraw their support of this endeavor, putting me in a corner with my hands tied. If they didn’t want me to act recklessly, then they should have done this with me.
But no, they had to pass it off like it was nothing. Like she was nothing. After everything she’s done for me, I can’t just leave her in the dust. I owe her my gratitude—and my life. She put up with the worst kind of attitude while training me to be a badass.
Leaving her here would destroy the last little bit of good in me.
I kick open the door while drawing my gun, extending it just as I’ve been taught. Two portly men stand on the other end of the dock with a battered woman who can barely stand. I’m marching toward them when I’m struck by a vivid memory, one that makes my stomach recoil as soon as I recognize the men in front of me.
“No,” I groan while lowering the gun. “It can’t be.”
The grubby man with grease in his hair who smelled like liquor at my uncle’s party stands next to a man who looks almost exactly like him. They share a sinister grin, appearing like mirror images as they step forward, motions matching as though orchestrated perfectly for this scenario. Everything is synchronized.
Who the fuck planned this?
“Is that for us?” the one on the right chimes.
“Is that for us?” the one on the left corrects while gesturing to my body.
I cringe while taking a few steps back. “Don’t even think about it.”
“Too late, sweetheart,” says the one on the right. “It’s a shame one of us didn’t get what we wanted out of you.”
The one on the left nods. “Damn shame.”
For a moment, I’m stunned, trying to tell the men apart. After staring for a while, details make themselves evident, like the mole one sports on his earlobe and the scar on the neck of the other. The one with the scar must be the guy from the party.
He smiles and bows his head. “I’m Bobby.”
“And I’m Simon.”
“We’re the Sanderson brothers.”
Simon nods. “Quite the pair.”
“A daring duo.”
“Easy to fool people.”
I shake my head and then step forward as confidently as I can muster, tossing the bag to the ground. “And I don’t give two shits. The deal was a trade. Release her.”
“Don’t forget that the terms have been updated,” Bobby says. “The Persian wants the notebook.”