Page 3 of Ravaged With You

Suicide. Why the hell had his friend committed suicide?

And why hadn’t Red picked up on it? What kind of friend was he that he’d missed the warning signs? Sure, Mel had been acting off lately—tricky negotiations for a hotel supply contract was what he’d said, but Red had known that wasn’t all of it. There’d been something else on Mel’s mind, but Red had never pushed.

Dear God, he should have pushed…

He’d assumed the troubles were between Mel and Jo. They’d gotten married a few years before the grand opening, and he’d been the best man. Which had been both a pleasure and Red’s worst nightmare. Because though he would never tell another soul, and especially not the woman herself, the thought of Jo in another man’s bed just about killed him.

A totally ridiculous reaction since he couldn’t have her. Hell, he’d pushed her away with both hands.

A woman like Jo deserved better than a guy with Red’s fucked up issues. But ridiculous or not, his gut had been in knots the day of the wedding. And as he stood by his two friends’ side while they exchanged vows, Red had felt light-headed from the intensity of emotions warring within him. Blood red jealousy and, surprisingly, bittersweet relief. Because at least Jo would be happy. Something that would never happen if she’d ended up with a guy as screwed up as him.

Except now it looked like Mel had been screwed up, too. Everybody had their weak spots. Their vulnerabilities that could push them over the edge.

He ran his fingers through his hair and told himself to back off and get his shit together. He needed to call the cops and let them do their thing. He needed to call Jo and let her know what had happened.

Bottom line? He needed to put aside his anger and his confusion and his grief. There were things to handle, and he was the man at the rudder.

“Right.” He drew in a deep breath, then started to put the phone back where he found it. He stopped cold, though, when it rang, the screen showing no caller ID. He hesitated, but answered it.

“I would say that I’m sorry your friend is dead.” The voice was filtered, and Red couldn’t even tell if it was a man or a woman. “But I’m not.”

“Who the hell—”

“He was a bad man. He made bad choices. He kept something that didn’t belong to him. Something that belongs to me.”

He looked around, trying to locate the speaker. They knew he’d found the body, so the person must be watching him. But watching from where?

“I’m listening,” he said as he slowly stood up, then walked to the windows that looked out onto the hall.

Whoever was at the other end chuckled. “That would be too easy.”

Cameras. But where were they mounted? A quick scan of the room revealed nothing.

“What do you want from me?”

“I thought that would be obvious. I want what belongs to me.”

“What are—”

“Keep this phone. If you value your life—or the life of his wife—you won’t give it to the police. You’ll call them, of course. But you will say it was suicide. An investigation would be most inconvenient.”

“What did he take? What is it you want back?”

“In case you didn’t know, your partner’s phone passcode is 798465. An interesting little number. Almost as interesting as the last video that’s saved on his phone. Take a look. And remember—keep the phone. It’s our link to you. And, though we found nothing of note, perhaps you can uncover a clue to where your partner has stashed our package.”

“If you think—”

“I don’t mind killing you, but if you do what I say, I’ll forgo my jollies and let you and the little wifey live. If you speak to the cops, though … if you refuse to help me regain what is mine, I will kill you. But I’ll kill her first. Watch the video, Charlie. And don’t make your partner’s mistakes. Be smarter. I’ll be in touch.”

The phone went dead, and some of the tension drained from his body. He shot a look at the tub his friend was in, his heart heavy. “Mel, buddy. What the hell did you get yourself wrapped up in?”

He didn’t want to, but he knew he had to watch the video. He keyed in the passcode, thankful that his training had cemented the number in his memory.

He found Mel’s photos, and the last addition was a video, timestamped just a few hours ago.

Someone thin and dressed head-to-toe in black held Mel by the back of the neck. His partner’s body was weak, his efforts to struggle useless. They’d already beaten him, the bastards. More than that, they’d already tampered with the CO2 scrubbers, allowing gas to accumulate to toxic levels. The assailant was masked. Mel was not.

Then the assailant shoved Mel forward, his face going into the bubbling, semi-liquid mash. One second. Five. Fifteen. Forty. One minute.