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“What else?”
“I found a tent and makeshift living area, which indicates that someone has been living here recently,” he answered. “Though there’s nothing personal with any of the items, there’s no doubt that someone was using this empty building as a shelter.”
A million thoughts raced through my head, and though there were so many theories that could be created, the facts were still simple. “So, someone lured her to Westchester with the promise of a job interview, but there was never a job,” I surmised. “Is that what you’re saying?”
“Not with absolute certainty,” he admitted. “That’s just what it looks like from the way that she’d been dressed, their interactions, and the empty briefcase. There is nothing else clerical in the building that would suggest a place to conduct a real interview.”
“Keep looking,” I ordered. “I will be there in fifteen minutes.”
“Of course, Pakhan,” he replied before hanging up.
As soon as we disconnected, I called my brother. “Bogdan?”
“Maksim already told us what’s going on,” he replied evenly.
“I need everything that you can find on the building,” I told him. “1465 North Westchester.”
“Not a problem,” he promised. “However, what if there isn’t anything on the surface?’
“Do what you can,” I instructed as calmly as I could. “If you cannot find anything substantial, then I’ll call Sartori and see if we cannot borrow Morocco Carrisi again.”
“Of course.”
With that, he hung up, and I knew deep in my gut that he wasn’t going to find anything significant on the building. If a homeless person was taking up residence there, then it had to belong to a corporation that didn’t care about its value anymore. While the Sartoris, O’Briens, and us owned a lot of property in the state and most of Port Townsend, we didn’t own everything. So, if a transient had made the place their home, then it was probably safe to say that it was a building long ago forgotten and neglected. Plus, since brick and stone buildings weren’t subjected to the vulnerabilities of wooden structures, they didn’t need to be checked on as much.
When I finally pulled into the parking lot, dusk was hitting the sky, and it wasn’t lost on me that it might be harder to find Samara once it got dark. However, I had no doubt that we would find her. The alternative wasn’t acceptable to me.
Chapter 30
Samara~
I was tied to a chair, possibly about to die soon, and all I could do was mentally complain about how he hadn’t cared about my injured ankle when he’d tightened the ropes around my legs. Even over the bandage, it had hurt like a sonofabitch, and this really was probably just me finally losing my mind.
Also, as my luck would have it, instead of being a bumbling idiot that talked too much like in the movies, he’d known what he was doing the entire time, and so there hadn’t been a chance to escape without the possibility of the gun going off. He’d kept a safe distance between us as he’d led me out the backdoor to a rather nondescript compact sedan, then had instructed me to get into the trunk after placing a sack over my head to keep me from getting creative on the way to wherever we were now. At first, I’d been fine with a sack over my head, but then when he’d ended up tying my hands to the trunk’s hinges, not so much.
At any rate, when we’d finally arrived to wherever the hell this was, he’d been careful about letting me out of the trunk, leaving the damn sack over my head as he had orally directed me where to go. He hadn’t underestimated me the entire time, and that was going to be a problem if I had any hope of getting away from the nutjob.
When I finally heard footsteps echoing across the hardwood floors, I knew that we were at another abandonment. While the place looked to be an actual house, it was clear that no one had lived here for a while. I also had no idea where I was, which was very concerning. While the drive hadn’t been long enough to suggest that we were no longer in Port Townsend, I had no idea if I was still in Kotov territory or somewhere else. In fact, I had no idea if Mr. Simons-Is-My-Alias was an O’Brien or Sartori, though his fair looks would make me automatically think O’Brien.
“Sorry about that,” Jack Simons lied. “I had to make a phone call.”
Even though I knew that it wasn’t going to help my current situation, I still asked, “Why am I here? Why are you doing this to me?”
He cocked his head a bit. “Does it matter?”
“No,” I answered honestly. “However, seeing as how I’ve never done anything to anyone, the least that you could do is explain to me why I’m here.”
“You think I care about your peace of mind?” he mocked.
“Obviously, not,” I shot back.
Then he took a seat on one of the rickety chairs that’d been left in the kitchen, and I wondered if it was going to be able to hold his weight, which told me that I must really be losing my goddamn mind. I mean, why on earth would I care if he fell on his ass?
“How about this?” he posed. “For everything that you can tell me about Avgust Kotov and Maksim Barychev, I’ll consider letting you live.”
He was lying.
“What makes you think that I know anything about Avgust Kotov or Maksim Barychev?” I huffed, trying to sell my story of ignorance.
