The Equalisers. Debra Webb
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the price she paid for getting in bed with the devil. Her stomach knotted violently and she pushed the painful thoughts away.
Yes, she’d made a mistake. But surely God would not consider taking her child from her reasonable punishment for an innocent error in judgment. She refused to believe as her parents did. If that made her evil, then so be it.
Clearing her mind of the ugly past that represented her dysfunctional childhood, she shuffled through picture after picture, her heart bursting with equal measures of joy and sadness. Ata playing on the balcony outside her former husband’s home. Her baby’s face pressed against the glass of a car window. Him toddling around her ex-husband’s mother in the market.
Davenport’s man had gotten very close.
Close enough to reach out and touch her baby.
She held the pictures against her chest and lifted her gaze to the waiting investigator. “How soon does he think he can make a move?”
This was the moment she had waited for—prayed for—night after night for so very long.
“We have a problem, Ms. Harris.”
Her heart dropped, landing somewhere in the vicinity of her stomach.
Raymond Davenport was not a man she could even hope to read or assess in any way. His expression remained as impassive, as utterly devoid of emotion as a lamp post. But something in his tone, the subtlest note of defeat or disappointment had dread crushing against her vital organs and seeping deep into her bones.
“I don’t understand.” There couldn’t be a problem. Not now. They were so close. “You said your man had gotten close to my son.” She held out the pictures. “The proof is right here. What could go wrong?”
“We’ve had no further contact since I received the photos.”
Fear, stark and brutal, roared through her, ruptured the thin membrane of hope. She instinctively knew that this was very bad news.
“On an extremely sensitive job like this one,” Davenport went on, “when you lose contact for more than twenty-four hours that usually means only one thing… trouble.”
She didn’t want to hear this. Dear God, she did not want to hear this. It couldn’t be true… please don’t let it be true.
Davenport leaned forward, propped his hands on his desk. The hard-earned experience and cool distance usually in his eyes were overshadowed by something softer, something very much like sympathy. “Ms. Harris, I understand how badly you want to get your boy back. Believe me. I have two sons of my own and grandkids. Every day you have to wait is pure hell, but…”
She wanted to speak up… to tell him not to say more. She didn’t want to hear what she knew was coming. But she couldn’t force the words from her lips.
“… yours is not the first case like this I’ve worked. The culture we’re dealing with in this situation is completely different. Winning by legal means is impossible, you’ve learned that the hard way. Stealing the child back is usually the only option for a parent faced with these circumstances.”
He paused, and in that moment Willow recognized with slowly building horror that, in this man’s opinion, all hope was lost… again.
Before she could protest his unspoken assessment, he continued, “That said, your position is different in yet another way. Your ex-husband and his family are… unique.”
In this instance unique was just another word for untouchable. The al-Shimmari family was connected, socially and politically. Immense wealth added to their power. The Kuwaiti authorities wouldn’t dare cross the family.
“Are you saying I should give up hope?” She wouldn’t. Never. Never. She would keep looking until she found someone who could help her. If not this man, then someone else. Nothing he could say would change her mind.
“I’m saying, Ms. Harris,” he offered quietly, far too quietly for such a brusque man, “that you’re looking for a miracle and you’re not going to find it. Your ex-husband will order the execution of anyone who gets close to the child. If my man is dead—and I suspect he is—then no one is going to be able to get close enough to get your son back.”
With a strength she couldn’t fathom the source of, Willow restrained the tears that threatened. “Thank you, Mr. Davenport.” She stood. “I assume the pictures are mine to keep.” How she said this without her voice wobbling she couldn’t imagine.
He nodded. “Of course.”
She squared her shoulders in an effort to hold onto her disintegrating composure a moment longer. “You’ll send me a final bill?”
“Let’s call it even, Ms. Harris.” He pushed out of his chair and stood, another first in her presence. “You take care of yourself now.”
Somehow she pivoted on her heel and walked out of his office. She didn’t recall crossing the sidewalk or even getting into her car. Awareness of time and place didn’t connect again until she was driving away, the pictures of her son spread across the passenger seat.
Choosing Davenport had obviously been a mistake. She tightened her grip on the steering wheel. Of course it had been. If he’d lived up to his renowned reputation, she would not be leaving empty-handed. This was nothing more than a minor setback. She would find a new private investigator. A better one. Someone who could get the job done without any excuses. She would start her search for someone more qualified right now. This minute.
… you’re looking for a miracle and you’re not going to find it.
She blinked back the emotion brimming on her lashes. No. Dammit. He was wrong. She was not looking for a miracle. She didn’t need a miracle. All she needed was a man cunning enough and fearless enough to get the job done.
Chicago, Illinois
Same Day
JAMES COLBY, Jr., Jim to the handful of people close to him, waited several minutes before he entered the bar.
It had been a long time since he’d gone into an establishment like this. Maybe not long enough, he mused as he took a long look around. Places like this represented his old life… a life that, thankfully, no longer existed.
The room was dimly lit, the cigarette smoke thick in the air despite the current regulations on smoking in public places. A scattering of tables stood between him and the bar that snaked its way around the length and width of two walls. Few of the stools were occupied and even fewer of the tables. Then again, at 6:15 p.m. it was still fairly early. The crowd, if there was to be one, likely crawled out of the woodwork later in the night.
But Jim wasn’t looking for a crowd. Actually, the fewer patrons the better for his purposes. He seriously doubted that the man he’d come to see would hang around once the place got busy. All the more reason to stop wasting time and to get this done.
Spencer Anders sat on the stool farthest from the entrance, his back to the wall. He’d watched Jim enter the bar. He watched now as he approached.
Some three yards from his position was an emergency exit. Jim supposed Anders could use that egress for a hasty retreat if he wasn’t in the mood for company. But he didn’t. He sat there and continued to observe the man closing in on his position.
Jim strode across the room and took a seat a couple of stools this side of the other man. No need to crowd him.
“Spencer Anders?”
Anders downed the last swallow of his bourbon. “That’s right.”
“My name is Jim Colby. I have a proposition for you.”
“Well, Jim Colby—” Anders placed his empty glass on the bar “—you’ve been misinformed as to my status.” He stood and tossed a couple of bills on the bar to cover his tab. “I’m not looking for any propositions.”
Jim