Relentless - By Cherry Adair Page 0,113
Your father left us a usable clue after all.”
“We did need the cane he left.” Isis leaned both elbows over his seat back so that her still-damp, fragrant hair brushed his cheek. “But this is the same, since they’re mass-produced. I’m sorry, Connor. Are you shocked?”
“Shocked?” Heustis asked, pulling into an abandoned parking lot behind a small warehouse and cutting the engine. “What does it tell you?”
No one made any move to exit the vehicle.
“The principal players. From the bottom.” Thorne started evenly reading off the names. “Brengard. Boris Yermalof. Dr. Khalifa Najid—and the Earl of Kilgetty.”
“Who?” the Mossad operative asked, puzzled.
“The head of the black market ring we’ve been trying to apprehend for the past five fucking years is my father.”
THORNE WAS GRIM-FACED AS they entered the warehouse through a side door. Both men were armed. He’d handed Isis his cane when they got out of the car. Even though she was pretty sure he’d done so because he didn’t want anyone inside to see he was less than fighting fit, she considered the gesture tacit permission to use it on Dylan should the opportunity present itself.
Never prone to violence, she decided she could make an exception for the slimy-snake-turncoat-turd and was eager for that opportunity to present itself.
Thorne had already cautioned her to stay behind them, but he put his arm out, slowing her steps just as a reminder. They passed from blinding sunlight to shadowy interior.
Inside, the huge metal warehouse was as hot and unpleasant as being inside an oven. In the far corner, a bright light was trained on a man tied to a metal chair; the rest of the space was almost midnight-dark. Isis saw that the high windows had all been painted black, blocking natural light once the door was closed behind them.
Her hand rested on her camera bag. The place was atmospheric, threatening, and scary as hell. She could shoot some amazing images here.
Maybe later.
A man cradling an Uzi in his arms like a baby stepped out of the shadows. “Your Lordship,” he said with faint British mockery, and with what Isis presumed was a smile curving his lips for a second.
Lordship?
“Cloud,” Thorne greeted him briskly as Heustis melted into the darkness. “Who’s up first?” He jerked his chin in the general direction of the distant lights.
“Starting on the help and working our way up. The others are being held over there.” Cloud used the nose of his big-ass gun to point in the opposite direction, where Isis could just make out small groups of people but couldn’t identify who was who.
“We have seven of them here,” the other man added, all business. “Just got word a sec ago that Yermalof was caught with his”—the man’s eyes flicked to Isis—“in flagrante delicto. He’ll be joining us soon.”
Thorne’s eyes narrowed a fraction. “Who’s in charge?”
“Ran Beck. Want to have a word?”
“I do. Let me read him in on a new development first.”
“Right. He’s over there sitting on Najid.”
“Come along,” he told her. As if she’d wander off on her own.
“Your Lordship?”
“I don’t use my titles.”
Isis grabbed his arm to slow him down a little. “Titles, plural?”
“This is neither the time nor the place.”
“We had this conversation in the right time and place and you told me you—”
“Here’s Brengard.” They approached the first cluster of four men, who were gathered around Dylan. He was trussed up attractively like a turkey, lying on his side on the floor, legs curled up behind him, ankles tied neatly to his wrists. Even in the dim lighting she saw his face was red with anger. And sweaty, she hoped, with fear.
Thorne clearly knew the men, and after a brief greeting he introduced them to Isis. “She’d like a private word.”
“Ten feet do it?” a short, wiry guy asked. Thorne nodded.
Taking her chin in his hand, his face in deep shadow, he looked down at her and said evenly, “Leave enough of him to answer questions when you’re done.”
Dear God, he trusted her to control her anger around the man who’d tried to kill her father? And steal his legacy? Thorne knew her better than she knew herself, because seeing Dylan made her feel homicidal.
Dylan writhed on the floor. “Wait a damn minute! I demand my rights! I’m an American citizen—you can’t—”
For a moment she contemplated kicking him in the balls, but then he wouldn’t do much but whimper and groan and that wasn’t going to get her any answers. She walked around his thrashing legs to crouch near his