"The asshole who bought them got his neck slashed in the raid," I say flatly. "But the team got the girls home safely. Henry told you he wanted to keep the FBI and Interpol out of it. That's what you said, right?" He nods, and I press on. "Well, that decision got the perp killed instead of punished, and Elaine Darcy is pissed."
"Henry's mother," Dallas says flatly.
"She's right up there with Dad as far as old money goes," I confirm. "And with a former US Attorney in her family, not to mention congressmen and judges, she wasn't too happy that her son decided to go the vigilante route." I shrug. "So she got WORR involved. She wanted to know who else was responsible--that's how they tracked down Ortega."
He runs his fingers through his hair. "Christ."
"I know," I say, nodding. "Henry completely screwed up. Those girls could have been killed in the raid, too. But more than that, she wants to find this vigilante group and shut it down. That's one of WORR's mission statements, you know. To try to stop that kind of rogue activity. And it's why I knew about the investigation even before they had Ortega in custody. And then when Bill told me about the connection to us, it just blew me away."
He looks at me as if I've lost my mind. "You knew about the vigilante team and the Darcy twins first? Before Bill told you about Ortega? How?"
"I told you earlier. It's my next book." I shift on the mattress and pull my feet under me, more comfortable now that we're talking about my work. "It's a broader book than The Price of Ransom. That focused solely on the one case, but even as I was writing it, I knew I wanted to explore the dangers of vigilante justice. I mean, the Darcy girls could have died. Just like those kids in that school bus almost died because one of the parents hired that asshole Lionel Benson and his team of arrogant mercenaries."
"You're writing about Benson and his team?" Dallas asks, his voice tight.
I nod. Lionel Benson is a dishonorably discharged ex-Army colonel who funneled his particular talents into the lucrative world of vigilante justice. Unfortunately, he was more interested in earning a buck than he was in making sure that the kids he was supposedly rescuing were safe. When he and his team burst into that warehouse to try to rescue the children that had been in the bus, they focused entirely on the one child whose parents had hired them, and in doing so put the other kids at risk.
The supposed rescuers were battled back by the kidnappers, who ultimately received the ransom payment and released the children. Thankfully, the kidnappers were later apprehended by a team of international agents working with WORR.
At the time I wrote The Price of Ransom, no one knew the identity of the vigilante team that almost got those children killed. But about a month ago, after two kids in Nevada died in another purported rescue, Benson's team came to light. One of the team was injured during that raid, and when the FBI moved in--thankfully rescuing the surviving children--they also captured the injured vigilante.
Although Benson's arrest was publicly announced, most of the details from the investigation are still confidential. Even so, Bill told me that the captured man is cooperating in exchange for leniency, and that his testimony led to Benson's capture. The witness also told the investigators that Benson's priority during each and every raid was his bank account first, the safety of the child he'd been hired to rescue second. As far as Benson was concerned, any children without a dollar amount attached were collateral damage.
Fucking bastard.
I hug myself as I think about the similarities between Benson and my father, who'd sent in a team rather than contact the authorities because he was more concerned about making sure the press didn't learn about the kidnapping than Dallas's safety. Benson may have been all about the money, but wasn't my dad just as selfish?
Just thinking about it makes my chest tighten, and I have to breathe deep to fight off what I know is a rising panic attack. Finally, I swallow, then look up to meet Dallas's eyes firmly. I'm calmer, but my voice still hitches as I add softly, "You could have died in that botched raid."
"I'm alive, Jane. I'm standing right here." His words are gentle, but they don't soothe.
"No thanks to Dad and his team, though. You weren't rescued. Worse, whoever took us kept you for four more weeks after they let me go. A month, Dallas. And god only knows what they did to you during that time when you were alone."
I expect him to say something, and when he doesn't, I run my hands nervously over my thighs. I know he doesn't remember what happened after I was freed. Over and over he's told us that it is a blank. A gaping black maw in his memory.
The doctors don't know if that's the result of drugs or trauma-induced amnesia. But the bottom line is that he remembers nothing from the time he woke up without me to the day he was finally released in a London tube station. Sometimes, I think that's for the best.
I remember those weeks, though. I remember every minute. Mostly, I remember the fear that Dallas was dead.
The memories come hard and fast now that I've opened the door, and I hug myself as I remember the shock of fear that had slammed through me the night they'd come to set me free. I'd been awakened roughly from sleep, torn away from the warmth and comfort of Dallas's arms.
I'd cried for him as someone yanked me to my feet, then cuffed my hands behind my back. But he had just laid there, his eyes closed, his body eerily still. I'd screamed, terrified that he was dead, the sound of my cry cut short when the sharp sting of a palm landed against my cheek.
"He stays," the Woman had said, her voice a low whisper behind a mask and veil. She moved toward me from where she'd been standing across the room in the shadows. "You're going."
I shook my head, denying the words. I wanted out--dear god, I wanted out so badly--but not like this. Not without Dallas.
"You tell them nothing." The Jailer spoke from behind me, still clutching my bound wrists. His voice was low and mechanical, processed through a voice changer. I'd seen him only the day we'd been snatched, and the fact that he was here now terrified me all the more. "Nothing you think you know. Nothing you see as we leave. You keep your little mouth shut, and maybe he'll go home one day, too. But you say a word, and we'll know. You say a word, and he's dead."
They'd blindfolded me and taken me out. But the blindfold had slipped, and I'd been able to glimpse a few things. The texture of pavement. The color of a do
or. I'd heard the chime of a clock tower, the roar of an airplane. The thrum of construction equipment.
There'd been smells, too. The stench of rotten food. The tang of paint. The earthy scent of fresh dirt.
I felt the prick of a needle as they shoved me into a car, and the next thing I knew I was lying under a tree with a cellphone in my hand. I'd called my dad, my fingers shaking with each number I punched, and soon he and my mom and a four man team were at my side.
I'd crawled into my mother's arms, crying hysterically, terrified for Dallas, guilty for being so relieved to be free when he was still trapped. And I'd kept quiet, just like my captors had warned me.