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FUCK.
How much longer would it take to find those bastards? With every ticking minute, I couldn’t ignore images of Pim being tortured, Pim being sold, Pim being raped.
I trembled with a mix of fever, agony, and out of control rage at letting her down.
As minutes turned to hours, more and more pain layered, more and more guilt suffocated.
Goddammit, I can’t just sit here anymore.
I was doing everything I could—enlisting every hack, contacting every narc, but sitting still felt as if I didn’t care. As if knowing she was out there with strangers wasn’t the most urgent, heart-shattering problem I ever had to solve in my life.
Hoisting my broken ass from my chair, I slammed my laptop closed.
Fuck it.
I couldn’t stay here anymore. I had to be out there—storming the streets and physically hunting. Anything to keep my mind from spinning into deep, dark places.
Hobbling from my work-station, I flinched as my cell phone rang, chirping across my desk. The sounds of Calais couldn’t drown out the piercing ring as I snatched it and fumbled to answer.
The screen showed it was a patched intercom call from the bridge. Not what I wanted. I wanted a tip from a blocked number from a snitch on Calais streets. I wanted a criminal spilling an address for his reward.
My temper frayed, but I pressed the phone against my ear. “What is it, Jolfer? Be quick.”
If it had anything to do with docking issues or pier fees, I wasn’t fucking interested. I wasn’t moving from this wharf until I had Pim. End of story.
“Just received an interesting radio communication.”
“Interesting how?” My heart rate spiked at a thousand miles a second.
“A man named Mercer. Said he made a mistake and has something of yours. Gave an address.”
The world stood still.
I stopped breathing.
I stopped hurting.
“Hold on.”
Hopping back to my laptop, I wrenched open the lid and waited for the web browser to pop up. One-handedly, I typed in the name Mercer and pressed enter.
Immediately, images of the same bastard who’d mowed down the Chinmoku, myself, and my cello, stared arrogantly back. My eyes skimmed contradicting articles. Some claimed he was France’s golden boy with more charities and good will to his name than the goddamn Queen. Other whistle-blowers called him a ruthless psychopath. An abuser of slaves. The lowest form of scum.
A two-faced bastard.
Same as all the rest.
“The address?”
Jolfer cleared his throat. “A chateau in Blois.”
“How far away?”
“According to my calculations, four to five hours by car.”
Way too long.
“And by air?”
“About an hour and a half, give or take.”
Still too long. But my only option.
“Tell Martin to prep the helicopter.”
“Right-o.”
I hung up.
I didn’t know what sick game this bastard was playing or what fire-power would welcome me. I didn’t know how I’d overcome my injuries to deliver the vengeance he was owed, or what I’d do once I’d delivered it.
But I didn’t care.
I had an address.
Pimlico was at that address.
And I was taking war right to their motherfucking doorstep.
