Blood Love

Now: Day 2

"Don't fuck around with me," Jason growled, shoving the guy against a wall. His head rattled and blood spilled from his nose, and he was a bit too delirious to even beg for mercy anymore. "Where's Richie Blake?"

            Oslo had called him back and given him the name and location of this sleazy son of a bitch. After virtually no sleep and another taunting voice message, he wasn't in a very forgiving mood. He wasn't in any kind of nice mood, period.

            "Please," the man begged, coughing up blood.

            Jason wrapped his hand around the guy's throat and slammed him against a wall. "Where. Is. She?"

            He loosened his hold just so the man could speak. "Forty . . . two . . . avenue . . . rock."

            "What?"

            "Street . . . name . . . rock . . . village."

            "What does that mean?"

            "Can't . . . breathe . . ."

            And then the guy passed out.

            Jason let him slump to the floor. "Great," he muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. Just great. Perfect. An address to nowhere, with three days left.

            Then don't just sit here with your thumbs up your ass.

            Right.

            He dug around in the man's pockets until his fingers bumped against the familiar feeling of a cell phone. The cocky jackass didn't have a password, so he hacked right in and got exactly what he was looking for. After shoving the phone in his pocket, he grabbed the sheets off the hotel bed and intricately knotted them around the guy's wrist, attaching him steadfastly to the bolted leg of the bed, which basically meant no escaping anytime soon. So either old enemies would come to pay a visit or starvation would strike first. Jason was putting his money on some jaded buddies in a vengeful mood.

            His knuckles ached. Ice was due tonight, to at least do something about the swelling. He was doing a bit too much punching these days. He moved to the sink to start rinsing off the blood, and the phone rang. Peering at the caller ID, seeing the name, it boiled his blood. He answered it before he could clear his head and order his thoughts, because all he wanted to do was rip into the guy.

            "Hello—"

            "Richie Blake, you goddamn son of a bitch."

            A long pause preceded a slow chuckle that did nothing but grate sharply on Jason's nerves. "Jason Lambargo. What a pleasure. It took you long enough."

            His muscles strained as his entire body wound up tauter than a string. "Where is she?"

            "I'm sorry, I don't know who you're talking about."

            "Hayley, you bastard. Where the hell is she?"

            "Hayley . . . ah, now, does this sound anything like her?" Jason waited, breaths seizing in his throat when a high-pitched scream crackled through the other end. An animalistic roar escaped his lips. He saw red. Everything was red.

            "I am going to kill you," He seethed to Richie. "I am going to kill you so slow you'll be able to watch me rip your intestines out."

            Richie Blake laughed. "Deep threat from somebody who doesn't even know where I am."

            "Beg to differ on that one."

            "I bet."

            "What do you want, Blake?"

            He made a jeering noise. "What do I want?"

            Every nerve-ending in his body was wired. Every synapse in his brain, and every thought, chanted kill, kill, kill. Find Hayley. Protect. Protect. Protect. But he couldn't. All he could do was talk with this asshole. "You know what I mean. What do you want? I know you didn't kidnap my girlfriend for shits and giggles."

            "I don't know, Jason. Maybe I did. Maybe I just hate your fucking guts so much I just did."

            "Blake."

            "Oh, my God, Jason, you're no fun, I swear. Here," he said, voice drifting in and out. He must have been moving around. "Talk, bitch."

            And then she spoke, after a long, haggard breath, "Jason."

            Just hearing her voice, hearing her breathe, was the only thing he needed just then. He had to close his eyes and suck in a long gulp of air before murmuring, "Hey, baby."

            "You haven't . . . come . . . and rescued me . . . yet."

            Her breathing was labored. She must have been hurt. Murder coursed through his veins. "I know. I'm coming, princess."

            "I'll kick . . . your ass."

            Despite everything, he smiled. "I sure hope so."

            Hayley started to say something else, but her voice dissipated and was replaced by Richie's crude snickering. "Adorable," he muttered. "You know what I want, Jason, and now you know your little bitch is alive. You have three days to get it to me, or she dies."

            "That's two."

            Richie paused for a moment. "What?"

            "Two, Blake. Every time you call my girlfriend a bitch, that's another broken bone."

            "Well, gee, Jason, I'm so scared."

            "You should be," he growled, and then hung up, because Jason Lambargo always had the last word. And his life may have been a swirling vortex of bad to worse, but he sure as hell knew one thing for sure:

            He was getting Hayley back, if it was the last thing he ever did.

            The guy fastened to the bed chose that inopportune moment to wake up. On his way out the door, Jason kicked him in the head and stepped on his cell phone, and then left without another word. He started up his car, burning rubber out of the hotel parking lot. Night was falling and his next checkpoint was at least a good three hours away. No telling what kind of hell Blake could put his girlfriend through, and quite frankly, Jason had no wish to imagine it. Compartmentalize. It was crucial in his life, but since that red-headed firecracker burst through, he found that particular ability difficult. He had ground to cover, and that was it. He had ground to cover, and three days to do it.

            There was no more time to waste.