Demand - Lisa Renee Jones Page 0,92
you’re not—”
“Protection it is,” he says, turning away.
Kayden turns me and removes the goggles I didn’t even know I still had on. “You okay?”
“I have these weird, crazy emotions going on that I can’t even lock down.”
“That’s understandable. I can talk to him alone.”
“No. I want to do this.”
“Well, then,” he says, placing Annie in my purse and zipping it up, “let’s go see what he can tell us.”
Five minutes later, Kayden and I are sitting at a round table with Blake in a small room.
“First,” Blake says, “who I am. My brothers and I run Walker Security. I’m former ATF, my older brother Royce is former FBI, and Luke is a former Navy SEAL. We not only have our own team, we also worked with a group of local investigators to get here today.”
“How did you find her?” Kayden asks.
“I’m a damn good hacker. She was on the grid and she disappeared. When she disappeared, I knew we had trouble. When I couldn’t find her despite my skill, I knew we had big trouble.”
“So I ask again,” Kayden says, “how did you find her?”
He keys his iPad to life and flips a photo around to show us. “That’s Ella crossing the Italian border. That was our first big break. I then hired a group called The Jackals, who gave me a lead that brought me here.”
“Fucking Jackals,” Kayden bites out.
“You know them?” I ask, glancing up at him.
“We’re Treasure Hunters,” he says. “They’re the pirates I fired.” He eyes Blake. “They’ll sell her out.”
“They were paid well.”
“Pirates never get paid well enough. What do you know about David?”
“A doctor with nothing remarkable in his background,” Blake says. “Pretty average. He vanished with Ella, and I haven’t gotten a ping on him at all.”
“He’s dead,” I say. “Don’t ask details; I can’t remember how. I just remember that I ended up with no passport or money.”
“I actually know that part of the story,” Blake tells me. “And that you ended up with a man named Garner Neuville. He told our people that he spooked you and you ran. He’s been looking for you.”
“And he can’t be allowed to find her,” Kayden says. “But The Jackals will help him in two seconds flat. So you, Blake Walker, are just good enough to find her, and just bad enough to get her in trouble.”
“I’m good enough to save her ass, just like you. The Jackals don’t know I found her. I’ll redirect them back to France.”
“Do that,” Kayden says. “Do it now.”
“Consider it done.” Blake flips to another screen on the iPad and hands it to me. “Sara’s wedding.”
Tears instantly form in my eyes at the sight of Sara in a gorgeous rose lace dress, next to a man in a tux. “She looks gorgeous and he’s hot.” I swipe at tears, and Kayden squeezes my leg. I hold his hand and ask Blake, “Who is the man? Is he a good man? Does he love her?”
“Chris Merit is his name, and he’s a world-famous artist who’s passionately in love with her.”
“Artist.” A memory comes back to me. “Did I . . . Was there a storage unit?”
“Yes,” he says. “You bought it during summer break to make extra money, and it had artwork and several journals in it. Sara took it over when you eloped, and it led her to Chris.”
“Summer break. You’re saying I was a teacher?”
“Yes.”
Memories ebb and flow. “I was teaching. . . . But that isn’t me. Something doesn’t add up.” A thought hits me. “Do you have photos of my parents?”
“I do,” he says, taking the iPad and showing me a shot of my mother.
I smile and show it to Kayden. “My mom.”
“Swipe,” Blake says. “The next one is your father.”
The fifty-something, balding man in the photo is the one I remember being in my mother’s hospital room, long after my father died. “That’s my bastard, drunk, asshole stepfather. Not my father.”
“Sorry about that,” Blake says. “Swipe again.”
I swipe and inhale at the sight of a red-haired man with strong features. “That’s him.” I show it to Kayden.
“Mr. Badass himself,” Kayden says. “I wish I could have met him.”
“Interesting that you call him a badass,” Blake says. “He was CIA and at such a high level that I can’t get to him—not by hacking, or with my contacts. And that’s saying a lot.”
My gaze jerks to his. “CIA? Not military?”
“No, not military.”
“I’m not a schoolteacher,” I say, certain of it.
“You were one.” Blake reaches for his