Page 17 of Illusive
“Have they found her?” Ronan asked as he joined the other man.
“What are you doing here?”
Ronan shot him an arch look. “Where is she?”
“Does Mr. Cross know you’re here?” McLeod’s Scottish accent threaded music through his speech.
“If not yet, then soon,” he shot back. “Answer my questions.”
McLeod crossed his arms, displaying extraordinarily thick biceps. The man had a good twenty years on Ronan but was arguably more muscular. “I’m nae sure any of this is your business.”
Ronan held his temper with great effort. “Ireland and I are involved—personally and professionally. Whether you or your boss likes it or not, she is absolutely my business in every way.”
Arching a brow, McLeod reached into the inner pocket of his black suit jacket and withdrew his phone. “McLeod. Yes, he’s here. Really? Impressive. Just a moment.” The Scot gave him an amused smile. “It’s for you.”
“Answer me first,” Ronan demanded. “Or your boss can go fuck himself, and you can help him do it.”
McLeod’s gaze took on a hard gleam. “They’re still searching for the car.”
“How long can it take?” Ireland could fight.Wouldfight. She was a tigress. The silence and lack of movement were more frightening, knowing that.
“To find a black SUV in a multilevel parking garage?” the Scotsman said with biting sarcasm. “Have you paid no attention to the cars on the streets here?”
“We have the plate number.”
“And we’ve found three black SUVs so far, same make and model with the same plate on three different levels.”
“Mon Dieu.” Ronan’s stomach dropped. What the bodyguard described was terrifyingly sophisticated. He extended his hand for the phone and lifted it to his ear. “Save your breath, Cross, if you want to complain or threaten me. I don’t have the time.”
There was a long, weighted pause. Then, “Don’t get in the way or play hero.”
Cross’s voice was so frosty, Ronan felt the chill. “I’m not here for anyone but Ireland.”
He spotted another NYPD vehicle approaching, a white SUV, and stepped around McLeod to get a better look. Alarm froze him for a moment. His arm went slack and fell to his side, nearly causing him to lose the phone. Ronan’s chest grew tight, his breathing shallow.
“Here,” he said hoarsely, slapping the phone against McLeod’s chest and releasing it, forcing the Scotsman to fumble to catch the device before it fell to the sidewalk. He took a couple of shaky steps forward.
Behind him, McLeod spoke to Cross. “There’s a development, lad,” he said tightly. “The medical examiner has arrived.”
By the time Gideon convinced his family members to head to their respective homes and saw them safely en route from the Bellingham Hotel, the media circus he’d known was inevitable was already underway at the secondary crime scene.
When his limousine arrived at the parking garage used by Ireland’s abductors, local and national news vans lined either side of the closed-off street, their satellite uplink antennas deployed and aimed. Reporters were spaced out against the traffic barricades erected by the NYPD, with the garage entrance and the hive of activity centered there used as a backdrop.
Sitting beside him on the bench seat, Eva held his hand clasped between both of hers in her lap. He was trembling with a combination of white-hot rage and chilling fear, and she both offered and accepted comfort by resting her head on his shoulder. Victor sat across from them, alternating between texting and taking calls with the rest of the security team.
Ireland! Where are you?
Gideon tried to avoid spiraling into what-ifs that would only make it harder to focus. He looked out the tinted window,avoiding his wife’s incisive gaze. Until Angus had verified that one of the abductors was dead and not Ireland, Gideon had waited with his family and kept the horrific possibility to himself. The weight of uncertainty and terror was a burden that had almost crushed him. Eva had felt his inner agony, even though she hadn’t known the cause, and her quiet, undemanding support was the only reason he hadn’t lost his sanity.
If the men who had Ireland were ruthless enough to turn on each other, what else were they capable of?
As their driver pulled up to the barriers, Edoardo Tosti, the Director of Crisis Communications for Cross Industries, tucked his notes into the red leather portfolio on the seat beside him. Despite the lateness of the hour on a Friday night, he’d arrived at the Bellingham Hotel with commendable speed, ready to face the press in a tailored navy pinstripe suit with an elaborate cravat tucked into the open collar of his pale blue dress shirt.
“I’ve got my marching orders,” the director said, gathering up his leather satchel from the footwell. His salt and pepper hair was styled in a voluminous quiff, and his neatly trimmed beard remained mostly dark, with a perfect strip of white running down the center of his chin. He looked at both of them, then briefly at Victor. “I’ll see you in the Crossfire lobby at seven for the press conference at eight.”
Gideon nodded grimly. At this point, he couldn’t be certain what the press had been told. Depending on who’d called in the tip—a first responder, a dispatcher, a witness—it was entirely possible the media knew things he didn’t yet. But he’d been told the first seventy-two hours after an abduction were the most crucial for recovery, and a direct request from him and Eva for tips was already being coordinated with the mayor’s and police commissioner’s offices at the NYPD’s request.
Eva reached forward and placed her hand over Edoardo’s. “Thank you, Edo. We appreciate you.”
