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Excerpt from Book Three of The Conscience Series
In Good Conscience, Epilogue
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“Those dark days were gone—banished forever—never to return. She’d been his salvation when he was too focused on revenge to even realize that he needed saving. She was his life and breath and because of that he’d always go to extremes to ensure her happiness and safety, but he’d never be lulled into a false sense of security even if Operation Black Ice ended with him the victor. Here at Helstone, he’d taken the same security measures as they had in Pemberley because, frankly, the world was filled with assholes doing dangerous things and his family’s safety was paramount. But he was confident that Iceman’s past was dead and buried. No one would come calling. No one would find them. Liz Darcy had disappeared before leaving for Europe, never to be seen again. And when they’d stepped off their final train in Victoria Station, the Thorntons had emerged hand-in-hand, blending in with every other Briton heading toward their home. Although he’d been worse for the wear and in need of medical care beyond a temporary combat fix, they’d strode to the limousine waiting for them with Nick Higgins installed in the driver’s seat.
Just as he had promised, a new dawn...a new day.”
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For forty-three and a half minutes, Darcy was literally bound from head to toe, barely able to shake his head in frustration as he mentally prepared a personal SitRep.
Would-be professional polo player. Former Navy SEAL. Retired Assassin for a clandestine agency. Hell, I even moved to the idyllic English countryside where life was supposed to be boring. Boring? Understatement of the century. How did I not see this situation escalating? How the hell did this go sideways so fast? This sneak attack completely blindsided me!
His current predicament could have been avoided with a bit more critical thinking, but that ability seemed to have disappeared somewhere in between Rick’s wedding and Liz and his three rounds of the terrible twos and a one-year-old.
Damn it, why hadn’t he seen the signs earlier, considered the possibilities? He should have taken better care, but he had let his guard down, grown soft turning into “Mr. Nice Guy” instead of the stone-hearted Iceman. He should have broadened his toolkit, trained harder, stayed sharp with eyes in the back, side, and top of his head (even more than he thought he had as a dad.) And he never should have indulged in the chocolate sugar biscuits Dixon frequently brought into the stable. Further, after their second child, Tommy, was born, Liz told him to “calm down,” “relax,” “stop being so paranoid, smothering, and overprotective,” eventually ignoring every cautionary instinct, he had honed over twenty years combined in Spec Ops and contract killing. A hard red pill to swallow—but he had to admit since leaving the States seven years ago, he’d lost his edge, bending on just about everything Fitzwilliam Darcy of old had once kept within his tight control. Instead, he allowed a halcyon life in Derbyshire, as an alias—the mild-mannered horseman “John Thornton”—to lull him into a sense of false security. A happily-ever-after always had a price to pay! He should have remembered that, but with Liz...it was easy to misremember the hard days of abject pain and misery. It was easy to forget that evil existed outside the world they had carved for their growing family. Open doors were trouble, and that was what led to this nightmare. Someone opened the door, and the devil crept in. He was that someone, and the guilt gutted him.
Have you learned your lesson? After today you better shape up! The pensive, moody, and suspicious of everything and everyone Iceman of old would have been better prepared for this fuck up! Would have prevented it! That was your duty as husband and father! And as Liz’s partner, you should have taken her concerns more seriously.
From his seated position in the kitchen chair, they’d dragged into his office, he heard the gang of four drug addicts destroying the house with impunity. They were on a Bang and Burn operation, wreaking chaos and devastation in their dopamine fueled wake—clearly for the fun of it! Each crash, each maniacal cackle of laughter made him angrier—at himself—over his inability to put an immediate stop to the madness. Still, he recognized his fury was more fear and worry driving his emotional state. “Emotional” being the weakest link in his short chain.
Bloody Hell! Helstone Manor will never be the same. Life will never be the same. Liz is going to have my head for this kind of breach!
This fact cut him the hardest. Her safety, sanity, and peace were more important than his. Further, he’d failed to protect his family from yet another enemy at their door, but thankfully Lakmé took the baby to the village at Mommy and Me yoga where it was safe. Or was it?
Another thing for him to worry about!
Iceman, where the eff are you? I’ll tell ya where you are—you’ve melted, been neutered—turned into a frigging wuss! Your snake-like ability disappeared, along with five of your six-pack abs and murderous glare. Not so badass anymore–are you?
Iceman was gone, and that was his doing. He had promised Liz to leave that life in the rearview mirror, but that didn’t mean everything he learned should disappear with him, did it? Hell no!
He struggled, attempting to break free from the rope restraints tied across his chest, legs, and around his wrists at his back, strung down to his ankles. Iceman used to be Houdini, for God’s sake!
An ear-piercing, synthesized song blasted from the den television. This kind of music always got under his skin, torturing his equilibrium like nails down a chalkboard. Death Metal was massage music compared to this nightmarish stuff. The nonsensical lyrics repeated ad infinitum, taunting him in his prison. He would scream from insanity if his mouth wasn’t stuffed with a smelly, dirty sock. Shit, he’d endure BUD/S training all over again if it would only STOP!
From his side of the door, he heard the jacked-up ringleader stomping through the kitchen, chanting over and over, “I am Gorr,” as the torture song played in the background. The other three egged him on with claps and cheers. Another druggie yelled, “Look at me, Gorr! I’m naked! I’m naaaaked, dammit!”
He would laugh at the insanity of it all if he wasn’t pushed to his edge. Powerless to fight the absurdity, he closed his eyes, attempting to mind-meld the police, Higgins, or Dixon—or anyone!! It truly was worse than water boarding. The Chi-coms could use this method to get anything they wanted! The Navy could use this as a new psych test for Hell Week!
Given it was afternoon, he considered that drug use might cause a “sundowning” effect, making users more aggressive and out of their heads, but these weren’t pensioners. Apart from a bad withdrawal, the worse they’d get was the shits—and a visit from Iceman once he gets free.
But what if they OD?
Suddenly, something shattered. One of the terror gang screamed in the chaos. Another cussed, “Oh, fuck!”
Panicked, he thrashed, but couldn’t break the impressive knots. These babies weren’t simple square knots, they were military grade and he let it happen. Four against one was not a fight he had been prepared to take on in his ill-equipped state, but he was confident they would regret their decision once he showed them that Special Warfare Operators had all kinds of mad skills. He’d get loose in minutes. Suurrre, he would! It didn’t go as planned.
To their credit, the devils were a fearless, ruthless, unified bunch—the likes of which he’d never faced before. Even the toothless one scared the crap out of him with that crazed look in his dark eyes! And each one had their own brand of psychological torment to inflict on him, employing it for maximum manipulation and damage. They were masters in it, like they’d been brainwashed in a CIA MK Ultra Program—now activated to unleash unholy hell using their special skills.
Sure, he’d willingly inflicted his own unholy war across the globe. One shot, one kill Darcy—righting wrongs, destroying sinister men like Diablo, burning cartels to the ground, restoring lives—had never thought twice about murdering over one hundred and five evil bastards in his wake, but this kind of sneaky villain was new to him. The mastermind of the terror cell, although not the oldest, was the worst of them, a lifelong addict on a bender—and the others followed his lead when promised a fix. Like all druggies, once-learned lessons of right and wrong were abandoned and replaced with frenzied degeneracy under the influence.
The music volume raised, vibrating the hardwood floor below his feet.
On no! The torture song again! Only now they’re singing the German version—on a continuous loop. And they’re smashing shit in time to the music! But what? Dishes on the kitchen floor? Lord, I’m not a praying man, but I promise, I’ll never ask for anything again, just...get me out of this. Make them stop! I give up! I can’t take it anymore! Make it stop! If...I...could...just...
Crashing the chair onto its side, he managed to turn to face his desk.
Need phone...need help...reinforcements from security.
He positioned his bound body to get enough leverage without pulling his hands from his arms when he pushed both feet against the furniture.
The desk rocked as he kept pushing, hoping to upend it and drop the phone. He winced and grunted; the rope tore at his wrists.
Why had he not installed an Alexa? For security reasons. Oh, the irony. Not that it would understand grunting, anyway.
Again, he pushed the desk harder this time. The lamp crashed onto his head, but that didn’t stop him. Adrenaline now kicked into high gear.
Somehow, he dragged himself to the office door then thrust both feet against it with all the might he had left in him—each time cracking his wrists against the seat of the metal chair.
Bang! Bang!
When I get free...those...shits...better run for their lives! Bang! They’ve awoken...a sleeping giant, now! No more...Mr. Nice Guy!
They must have heard his thoughts because the music abruptly stopped; the commotion ceased. Silence fell, as though demon spirits exorcized from Helstone. He imagined the woman in Poltergeist: “This house is clean.” Absolute calm—except for the synthesized torture lyrics repeating in his head.
Had the naked gang moved outside for their next phase of destruction? Or was the drug binge over? Had they overdosed?
Any coolness demonstrated earlier disappeared at the possibility of “bodies.” He thrashed, fighting against the restraints and assaulted the door with his feet—but nothing gave way except for his hope.
Unable to do anything, he held back terrified tears—yes, actual tears—and shifted from the door. He had no choice but to wait for Liz to return home to discover what had transpired in the den and kitchen.
Motionless, he fixed his gaze onto the clock. Soundless minutes of fear ticked away. His bloody head throbbed, and he had to pee. Minor issues considering what might have happened in the kitchen! It wouldn’t be the first time he relieved himself, nor openly cried tears of anguish.
The only easy day was yesterday, he buoyed. Isn’t that the bloody truth? Yesterday, I drove my shy Katie to ballet class and sat in the back, watching her twirl around the room like a little angel. The sock held his blubber at bay.
The front door opened.
“Babe? We’re home!”
Thank God. It’s Liz.
Unbearable seconds passed.
“Oh. My. God!” she yelled. The baby screamed, too.
Oh Fuck. It’s bad. It’s really bad.
An agonizing minute passed. (Yes, he counted seconds.) She was probably checking the naked bodies for life—or searching the house for the gang of four. Maybe calling the police or ambulance!
“Fitzwilliam Darcy John Thornton, where in the hell are you?”
I’m screwed. She used all four names. But that’s excellent news—they’re not dead!
“I left you with one job—one!”
Here it comes.
The office door flew open, almost hitting him in the head. Boy, was Liz a sight for sore eyes. His lopsided gaze scanned up her long legs to her knit brows. Even steaming mad, she looked amazing with her high ponytail and pink yoga pants. Emma, his little angel with her blonde hair sticking up from the ponytail at her crown, clung to Mommy and blankie. Right away, the baby smiled and cooed, “Da...ddee.” His heart squeezed.
“Yes, sweetie. That’s your daddy.” Liz burst out laughing, not just a giggle, but a full-blown—wicked—belly laugh, which he had no choice but to endure. His feisty wife could be so cruel when she wanted to make a point. Even the baby laughed! Already she was just like Liz.
With her free hand, Liz drew her weapon of choice, ready to shoot. “Smile for the camera, Daddy,” she teased, snapping a photograph of him. “Uncles Rick and Charlie will love to see this on Facebook!”
Savage woman.
She was kidding, of course, since he strictly forbade all forms of social media for ongoing security reasons.
“Serves you right. You ignored my warning, didn’t you?” she said.
He grunted, wishing she’d bend down and remove the gag so he could defend himself, but she obviously planned on keeping him silent. He blankly stared at her smiling face and dancing eyes. She was mocking him.
He blinked. Shame-faced, he admitted to himself, You’re right. I’m sorry.
“Was it a selective-hearing thing? Or an ego thing? Or was it just your typical Fitzwilliam-thinking-he-knows-best thing?”
A little of all three.
“I cautioned you of the danger before I left the house. What word didn’t compute in that brain of yours? Clearly, it was both words—together.”
Danger? More like hell unleashed.
“When I said absolutely no sugar for the kids, it was a directive, a clear warning—definitely not a suggestion.”
He’d swallow hard if he had any saliva left in his mouth.
“Were you not in the room when your sister said Brandon shouldn’t have candy, especially if it’s red?” she asked.
She was serious about that? How was I to know red dye is kryptonite for kids? I don’t spend hours on the internet researching food additives and their color! I’m breeding and training a dozen thoroughbreds and just delivered two foals! I barely have time to text!
“And by now, you should damn-well know better than to let our kids have sugar. What were you thinking?”
That I’d be the nice guy by giving them a little candy, some of those Valentine conversation hearts I brought home for you. Okay, so...in hindsight, not a good idea—at all! They devoured them like fiends. Okay! You’re right. I fucked up!
But in his defense, she cautioned him about a lot of things, most of which were nothing like this! He truly had no comprehension hell would release its demons from little hearts that read “kiss me” and “my boo.” They looked so innocent, and she even said, “Oh, sweetie. I love these. They’re so fun and yummy!” Hell, he grew up on sugar and he never destroyed Pemberley! Candy, like Wacky Wafers, didn’t make kids wacky!
Liz paused, waiting for his reply, but he was obviously a little indisposed. His tongue was currently stuck to cotton.
“Oh! And you know the Millefiori vase you bought me in Italy on our honeymoon? Poof! Gone. Smashed to smithereens along with what appears all my dishware. You owe me a trip to Italy now.”
Never mind the doghouse, he was deep in a steaming pile of dog shit—BIG time. She loved that vase. How the hell did they get up on the top bookshelf? We had baby-proofed this place big time when Ricky was born.
He grunted again, swearing to himself to not tell her that one of the gang had a mouth like a sailor, which he had nothing to do with—today.
How could he have known their nephew Brandon had a monkey on his back, arriving at Helstone with a suitcase stash of that gummy bear garbage? And he sure as heck didn’t know the six-year-old had been doping up his cousins Ricky, Tommy, and the once sweet—now possessed—four-year-old Katie for a week. It only came to light when Tommy spilled the beans five minutes after tying the last knot. God, he loved his youngest son’s inability to keep a secret, and his heart swelled that he executed a bowline knot all by himself. Yup, Tommy had crazy skills that excelled his older brother’s.
And speaking of skills, his own skill set was entirely different from Liz’s. He’d like to see her calculate wind direction and speed, bullet speed, velocity loss, barometric pressure, and yardage to a moving target at the end of her rifle all before taking a single shot! Or...or...endure one hundred and twenty hours of hardcore SEAL physical and psychological torture trials on four hours sleep! Who was he kidding? She’d probably ace anything he taught her.
Liz was an extraordinary woman in her own right. There was no way he could ever come close to her impressive skill set: supermom giving life to four amazing humans, super wife and lover, talented artist and horticulturist, and a remarkable teacher, even dancing that Gummy Bear torture song with the kids while learning and teaching them German! She knew children better than most parents. She ran the house, the kids, and him in absolute synchronicity. Shit, he was just a worn-out Frogman, retired hitman turned pony breeder and trainer, and a last-minute fill-in babysitter in “Uncle Dixon’s” absence.
Cut me some slack.
Her viper tongue didn’t let up and, feeling every bit the shitty father and uncle, he just continued to lay there on his side—attached to the chair—bound and gagged as she flayed him like a pig turning on a rotisserie—over flame. Oh, don’t get him wrong, he absolutely loved this about her. Liz never held her punches and made him a better man. Admittedly, he was still a work in progress after this babysitting mess.
“And you let Ricky and Tommy tie you up again? Because...” She shook her head in disbelief. “Because, why...you think your sons are gonna be big, badass SEALs like their daddy and these are vital skills every six- and seven-year-old should learn? What’s next, axe throwing? skydiving? Harley lessons?”
Actually, snorkeling in the Bahamas—and, yes, knot-tying is a basic essential for every Navy Tadpole.
Again, she laughed. “You must be proud. You taught them so well, they bested you. Iceman, beaten by a seven-year-old, two six-year-olds, and a four-year-old.” She took another photograph. “Look, you’re a terrific dad and your kids’ idol, but you’re a terrible babysitter. You’re fired, darling.”
Thank you, God!
Stepping over him, she walked into the office. “Isn’t daddy silly today? But we love him, don’t we? Yes, we do. He gave me you, and Ricky, and Tommy, and Katie,” she said in her mommy voice to Emma. She removed the scissors from the desk drawer, then placed them on the floor beside his hands. “Here, Iceman, and when you’re done getting out of this mess you created, carry the sugar-crashing kids up to their beds, wash your daughter’s honey and pecan-covered face and hair, and put some clothes on Tommy, who for some reason is laying stark naked on the den floor. At least he showed some common sense and kept his shoes on to avoid glass.”
Again, shown up by a six-year-old. That’s my son! But is he laying on the glass?!
She sauntered to the door, leaving the gag in place. Staring at her departing tight bottom, he grunted, which she ignored—of course.
“I’ll say it again—every four grams of sugar equals one teaspoon. How much did you give them?” She turned around for his response.
He blinked.
“I thought so.”
Shaking her head, she laughed at him again. “Now, I’m going to put the baby down for a nap and get out of these clothes. I’m not mad at you, Fitzwilliam. In fact, I’m quite sympathetic, having gone through a similar episode on Ricky’s second birthday. So, I’m fully willing to nurse your war wounds. Heck, I’ll even give you the opportunity to salvage your damaged ego while apologizing to me...in the shower.” She waggled her eyebrows, then chuckled, adding. “Oh...and don’t even think about that Spottswoode Cabernet you brought home last night. It’s like red-colored sugar for your baby-making sperm. I’m not ready for another mini-Fitzwilliam.”
Is that code for “bring up the Spottswoode?”
What would he do without this incredible woman and their beautiful children? Death by boredom. Halcyon life? You betcha. Happy Ever After? Absolutely. Just ignore his earlier ramblings borne out of frustration and panic. These were the best days—the finest days of his life no matter who he was, Daddy, Fitzwilliam, Iceman, John, or Mr. Nice Guy. It was all a fabulous adventure beside Liz.
Inspiration Song: