Game ON (An Ozzie Novak Thriller, Book 2) (Redemption Thriller Series 14) Page 4

  The lone apartment complex in Fern Forest was a forgettable wasteland during the day. It was as though some type of apocalyptic event had pinpointed the dwelling while leaving nothing but breathtaking views across the rest of the Big Island. Under the cloak of darkness, however, the eerie factor skyrocketed.

  Lights were not commonplace in many places across the island. In Fern Forest, they seemed to be a luxury that few could afford.

  A rush of wind blew in from the wall of darkness, rattling screen doors. Empty paper cups and wrappers tumbled across the open area below as Denise and I made our way back to Unit E. Mackenzie was nowhere to be found. Denise checked everywhere in the apartment for any sign of a note, but everything was just as we’d left it.

  I asked if she wanted me to make her something to eat.

  “Not much in the place right now,” she said, sitting on the couch, rubbing her face with both hands. “I haven’t had a chance to make it to the store recently.”

  I searched the pantry and found a canister of pistachio mix. I walked into the living room area, held up the container.

  “Mackenzie loves that as a snack.” She swallowed hard, then sighed. “I’m not really hungry, though.”

  The unending emotional roller coaster was wearing her down. “If you want to keep up your strength, you might want to have some. We can buy more for Mackenzie when she gets back.”

  I was speaking about Mackenzie as if she were at a sleepover at a friend’s house.

  “Sure. I guess.” I took a couple pistachios for myself and handed her the canister. My eyes were back on the print over her shoulder. The angle of the painting was looking down on the black-sand beach. Whitewater waves lapped against the shore.

  “Where did you buy this painting?”

  She chomped on some nuts. “Want to know the truth?” I was prone to offering up a sarcastic response, but now wasn’t the time. “Hit me.” I reached over and grabbed another handful of nuts and tossed them into my mouth.

  “We did it together, me and Mackenzie.”

  I squinted my eyes and leaned closer. “Seriously?”

  Denise chuckled. “I took up painting as I started my path to sobriety. Mackenzie would watch me all of the time, drawing pictures, coloring, sketching, doing something visual as I painted. A while back, we went hiking. I have this picture on my phone. One day, I started painting it, and she asked if she could help.”

  “She’s only nine, and she can do this?”

  “I did most of the ocean, but she painted the beach and most of the mountains.”

  In in the lower right-hand corner of the painting, I found their initials: DE + ME.

  “Wow.” My buddy back in Austin, an old high school friend named Tito, was an artist—and not the starving kind. He made good money painting nothing but Christmas vignettes. He’d found his true calling, he said. I knew he’d think this was incredible. I pulled out my phone and took a couple of pictures of the painting. “Where is this beach located?”

  “Northwest side, on the North Kohala peninsula. It’s the Polulu Valley Beach. We hiked down to the bottom. It’s even more breathtaking if you’re there.”

  “We’ll go there…as soon as Mackenzie is back.” I continued to find ways to act as if Mackenzie’s return was imminent and very close at hand. I was trying to give Denise hope, but I was doing it just as much for myself.

  Denise lifted from the couch. “I need to plug in my phone before I run out of battery.” I followed her to the edge of her room. Behind her door, I found a wall of framed photos of her and Mackenzie, from when she was a baby on up to what appeared to be present day, including one where Mackenzie had a cape around her shoulders and was holding a wand, a playful but serious look on her face.

  “What’s going on here?” I pointed at the picture.

  “It was Halloween from last year. She was Hermione.”

  The Harry Potter movies. Of course, any kid would be into that. I hadn’t really thought about what a nine-year-old girl might be into.

  “Where does she sleep?” I asked, looking around the sparse bedroom.

  “Up until about a year ago, with me in the bed. But then she said she wanted to start being more independent. So she volunteered to take the couch. It folds out into a bed. I try trading with her on weekends when I’m not working, but she likes her own world. I think sometimes she gets up late at night and draws in her sketchpad.”

  Just then my eye caught a closed laptop on a tray. “The email you got that warned you about not going to the attorney general... Do you still have it?”

  She nodded. “Want to see it?”

  “Yep.”

  “My phone is so old, email isn’t very reliable.” She pulled open the laptop and logged in. A moment later, she was opening her email account. She pointed at the email with her finger and then clicked to open it up.

  The message was exactly how she’d worded it. Not a surprise. My eyes went straight to the sender’s email address: anonymous@bluegoose.com.

  I forwarded the email to my personal account.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “First, I wanted to make sure I have a copy.” Then I opened a browser and searched for the bluegoose domain.

  A million search results came back in under a second, or so the page claimed. I clicked on about thirty links through the first three pages, and none had anything to do with a domain of bluegoose.

  “I’m not sure it’s a real address,” I said, rubbing my chin.

  “That shouldn’t be a surprise, right?”

  “True,” I said, still staring at the email, hoping somehow that a clue of Mackenzie’s whereabouts would suddenly pop up on the screen.

  She received another text from Gwen while we were staring at the laptop. I went into the kitchen, poured myself some water. She walked in a few minutes later.

  “So I guess we wait until morning and hope to hear from Humala?” she asked, her eyes surveying the mess of dishes.

  “I think it’s best. We’ll be here just in case…” I stopped short, but she knew what I meant.

  “You can take the bedroom. I’ll take the couch,” Denise said.

  “Says the girl who looks—”

  “Hey, you know the rules. Never tell a girl she looks tired.”

  So true. I’d never had to use that phrase with Nicole. She had this youthful, vibrant look almost all the time. “I’m taking the couch,” I said.

  “Okay, okay. I’ll throw you a pillow and blanket.”

  A few minutes later, she came out of her bedroom in a gown that stopped mid-thigh. She’d washed her face, put her hair up in a scrunchie. We made the couch into a bed, turned off the lights, and said goodnight. Ten minutes after she disappeared into her bedroom, I heard the floor creak. I could see her silhouette at the edge of my bed.

  “You just going to stare at me? That’s kind of creepy,” I said.

  “Do you mind?”

  I pulled back the sheet. She put a leg on the bed, but stopped before snuggling up against me. “You’re married, Ozzie. We shouldn’t do this.”

  “This is nothing more than the parents of a little girl helping each other get through everything. Strictly platonic.”

  I felt like she’d smiled, but I couldn’t be sure. She tucked in next to me.

  We were still for a minute or so. Then she turned on her side and slowly rested her head on my chest. I could feel a small pull for Denise. But I knew most of it had to do with learning about Mackenzie, her kidnapping, and wanting to replace the anxiety with something positive.

  “Your marriage… Is there something you’re not telling me?” she asked out of nowhere.

  “You read me pretty well.”

  More silence.

  “I guess you don’t want to tell me. That’s okay.”

  “No, that’s not it.” I took in a deep breath. “Actually, I guess it is.”

  “I’m not trying to steal you from her.”

  “I know. Nicole and I had a gre
at thing. Until it wasn’t. Life is unpredictable. At least mine has been recently.”

  She squeezed my shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

  I kissed the top of her head. “Let’s see if we can get some sleep.”

  A second later, the apartment door slammed open.

  9

  Denise shrieked directly into my ear, and my heart slammed into my chest. Heavy boots shook the floor as I swung back the sheet and tried to get out of the bed.

  A soft glow from beyond the door outlined two men. Both appeared to have chrome domes. But I saw no smaller figure. No Mackenzie.

  “Where is my daughter?” I demanded.

  They didn’t respond. The short one tripped over a kitchen chair, then tossed it against the wall like it was a pillow.

  Denise was in my way. I pushed her off the bed until she landed on her butt. “Stay down!” I yelled, whipping around in a low stance.

  I looked at the shadowy shapes of the intruders. “Tell us how we can get Mac—” I started.

  The short guy plowed into my chest like I was a blocking dummy. And “dummy” was most fitting, because for some stupid reason, I’d thought they were going to listen to me, answer my question.

  I tripped over a toy of some kind, slammed into the wall. A shelf of books and doodads rained on top of me, but that mattered very little. The tank of a man had crushed my lungs—I was unable to take in air.

  A panic signal went off in my brain. The man was throwing punches into my gut. With everything I had left in me, I torqued right and sent the thug flying. He landed on a sharp corner of the fallen bookshelf. I could see him wincing in pain.

  I got to my hands and knees and grunted out a breath. Relief.

  “Ozzie, look out!”

  I jerked my head to the side to see a boot headed for my rib cage. I quickly brought up my arm and twirled away. The boot—which was about as large as a water ski—slammed into my forearm. The pain was instant and intense. Was my arm broken? Maybe, but I saw an opening. Using my opposite hand, I grabbed the heel of his shoe and pulled up, springing to a standing position. His feet were swept off the floor, and he landed on his back and head.

  “Where’s my daughter, goddammit?” Denise yelled, suddenly at my side.

  What was she doing? It was obvious they weren’t here to negotiate or give us more information on turning over Mackenzie. “Get out of here,” I screamed at her. “Run!”

  The short one was back on his feet. I could make out his features a little better. He looked native to the island or somewhere in this part of the world and wore a Fu Manchu goatee. His arms looked like cannons. He lowered his stance, and I prepared for another hit.

  Denise screamed something I didn’t understand and ran toward the tank. She hurdled the other man, who was still trying to find his way to his feet.

  “Stop!” I yelled instinctively. But a second later, she rammed into the tank, flailing her arms and feet. With one hand, he grabbed her wrist and whipped her behind him like she was a yo-yo. She hit the door to her bedroom and dropped to the floor.

  The tank growled and ran right for me. I didn’t budge for a couple of seconds. I wanted him to pick up speed and home in on an unmoving target. A blink before he reached me, I stuck out my leg, turning my body, and then hooked my arm under his and flipped him over my leg. He tumbled headfirst into a side table and lamp. I whipped my head around.

  Denise wasn’t on the floor. She was nowhere to be seen. Glancing out the apartment door, I saw no sign of her or any movement outside the door.

  I quickly realized I should have never taken my eyes off the tall man. Something slammed into my head, and I stumbled backward until I hit the wall again. The blow had rocked me. Stars flashed all around as I fought to maintain my balance. It was a lost cause. I brought a hand to my head and felt a bump and a gash. The smell of copper filled my senses.

  The tall man yelled and swung an arm at me. I caught a glimpse of a chain and a short, black baton—he had nunchucks. He let gravity take me to the floor. The weapon connected with my back, cracking me precisely on my shoulder blade. For a moment, my whole left arm tingled and then went numb. I writhed in pain, rolled over on the floor.

  Another blink. I saw the dark ceiling, and, a second later, the tank leaped on me like a professional wrestler, his knees pounding into my gut. The compression was deep. My breath left me again, but I wondered if all my organs were still intact. I somehow found the energy to rock left and right, finally rolling him off me.

  I looked up and saw the nunchucks a foot from my head. I realized my hand was on some type of notepad. I flipped it at the tall man’s face. It threw him off a bit, and the nunchucks clipped my shoulder.

  White-hot pain rippled down my arm, but I knew it was better than taking another blow to the head.

  I had to get those damn nunchucks out of his hands. They were the great equalizer.

  From the floor, I lunged for his knees—I might have hyperextended one or both of them. I grabbed hold of his lower legs. He pounded my back with an end of the nunchucks, but I didn’t let go. I pulled back, but he wouldn’t budge. I climbed to my feet just in time to get a baton to the face.

  More stars. Now I tasted blood.

  Before aonther breath passed my lips, the tank grabbed me from behind, locking his arms behind my neck. The tall man came at me and whirled the nunchucks. I turned just in time for the baton to nail Tank in the head.

  Bull’s-eye. If I hadn’t been in the fight of my life—where the hell was Denise?—I would have snickered.

  I should have known better than to allow even a mental laugh. The tall man snatched his nunchucks and then flicked his wrist—the deadly baton was headed between my legs. I tried closing them, but I was too late. The nunchucks brushed my thigh, and then—as if it were programmed to find its target—connected with my groin. Actually, it thumped my right nut.

  I folded like a cheap chair. On the way to the floor, a glint of light cut across his face, and I saw the guy sneering at me. His teeth didn’t look human. Each one was jagged like a canine, but there were gaps in between each tooth. He had to be the ultimate case study for orthodontists.

  A punch to the jaw from the tank, and I was down for the count. I looked up to see the tall man rearing back his arm for another bone-breaking crack with the nunchucks. I was cornered between the bed and wall. The tank was looming over me. No weapon in sight.

  A crackle in the air, and sheet rock exploded above my head. Dust sprayed all over me and the tank. Someone had fired a gun.

  Both thugs literally jumped in the air. Twisting and turning to escape, the tall man slipped and fell to the floor.

  Denise was standing at her bedroom door, holding a gun with two hands.

  “Where is my daughter?” she screamed to the point of shaking.

  The tank lunged over me across the couch bed, then rolled off the other side. The tall man threw his nunchucks at her. They clanged off her shins. She dropped, but the gun went off again. Another misfire. This one hit the far wall just as the tank slipped out the apartment door. The tall man was right behind him.

  I bear-crawled over to Denise, who was holding her shins, writhing in pain. I grabbed the gun from the floor and looked toward the door.

  “Where is my baby, Oz? What have they done with Mackenzie?”

  I didn’t know the answer. “Are you okay?” I asked as blood trickled off my head onto her gown.

  She didn’t respond. She was too despondent.

  I made it to my feet, tottered over to the threshold of the front door, and looked outside. Other than wrappers swirling in the wind, all was still. No sign of the men, a moving car, or even the glow of brake lights.

  I looked at the gun in my hand, then turned back to Denise, who was limping toward me shaking her head, her hair matted to her wet face. Three feet from me, she broke down and pressed against my chest. My pain points were too many to count, but I knew it felt nothing like the agony in her heart.

  10

>   I dug a fingernail into my forearm to try to divert the pain away from my face. My eyes shifted up to watch Denise’s friend, Gwen, focus on the task at hand—using cotton balls to blot rubbing alcohol on my open cuts.

  “I know this stuff is painful, but it will keep you from getting an infection. Trust me.”

  I clenched my jaw until she finished.

  “Tough part is over, big man,” she said, tossing the used cotton balls into the trash. Her little golden retriever, Sandy, ambled over and sniffed inside the open cabinet. “Always looking for a treat, aren’t you, Sandy? Even at two in the morning,” she said, rubbing his ears until he basically dropped to the floor in sheer ecstasy. She looked up at me with the start of a smile. “Just rub their ears, and it’s pure heaven for a dog.”

  I started to lift my eyebrows, but that sent a stabbing pain into the open wound on my forehead.

  She came back to where I sat at the kitchen table and examined my wound. “You’re bleeding again, just from that little flicker of your forehead.” More cotton balls, and then bacitracin and butterfly bandages.

  I glanced over my shoulder and found Denise in the same position she was thirty minutes after Gwen had given her a clonazepam—conked out on the couch. Her hands were tucked under her face, which, surprisingly, was still hardened with stress.

  “She needs her sleep,” Gwen said, putting up the first-aid kit. “Poor thing has been put through…” She paused.

  “Hell?” I finished for her. Gwen made coffee and pulled two mugs from a cabinet that didn’t shut all the way. The linoleum floor was stained and had punctures in it. The walls looked like they’d been painted during the Eisenhower administration. The house, nothing more than about eleven hundred square feet, tilted toward the back. This was barely a livable space, and it made me sad that she paid any amount to reside here.

  “Sugar?” she asked.

  “No thanks. Any flavored creamer?”

  She looked at me as though I were speaking pig Latin.

  “Black is fine, especially after tonight.”

  She sat on the other side of the wobbly table and sipped from her mug.