Kidnapped!. Jo Leigh

in the living room. Only then did he let his brother in.

      “What the hell?” Charlie said as he crossed the living room to the kitchen. “Were you in the crapper?”

      “You ever heard of calling first?”

      Charlie opened the fridge and took one of Michael’s Heinekens. He looked like shit, but that wasn’t unusual. Charlie was the only member of his family still living, and that was some kind of miracle because the way he played so fast and loose with drugs, booze and the horses, he should have been dead years ago. Nothing worked in Charlie’s life, never had. Ever since Michael could remember, Charlie had been the screwup. Part of that was probably due to their mother’s death when Charlie was only five, but that excuse could only go so far.

      Their old man had tried his best to get Charlie some help, but there wasn’t a rehab center on the East Coast Charlie hadn’t ditched.

      Michael supposed he loved his brother on some level, but that level was buried beneath a steaming pile of resentment. The old man had made him swear to take care of Charlie. Michael didn’t have the guts to go against a deathbed wish, although it probably would have been better for both of them.

      Michael would still be in military intelligence, and Charlie…

      “Mikey, listen. I know I promised I wouldn’t ask for no more money, but I’m in a hell of a spot.”

      Michael fetched his own beer and sat down in his leather club chair. He might as well be comfortable for the argument that was about to start the moment he said, “I told you, Charlie, the bank of Michael is closed.”

      Charlie sat down on the couch, his beefy hand holding on to his beer so tightly Michael wouldn’t have been surprised if it shattered. He really did look like shit. He’d been about thirty pounds overweight for years now, but at least when he was younger he’d been solid. Now there was a look of undercooked dough about him. It didn’t help that he was wearing a filthy T-shirt and jeans that hadn’t seen the inside of a washing machine in God knows how long.

      “Mikey, you don’t understand. I’m in a real mess. I had me this sure thing. You remember that trainer I told you about? The guy with the limp and the broken tooth? He swore, Mikey, swore to God himself that the race was fixed, that he’d done the fixing himself.”

      “I’m not bailing you out again. We already discussed that. You gave me your word.”

      “And I meant it. If I hadn’t heard the words from that trainer guy for myself, I never would have—”

      “Charlie, stop it. I don’t care why.”

      His brother, two years his junior and as different from Michael as day was from night, gave him a look of such hatred it made him sick to his stomach. He’d bailed Charlie out too many times to count, and this was what he got? One no, and Charlie looked as if he could kill him as soon as pass him the salt.

      “It’s Ed Martini, Mike. You know his reputation. He’s gonna kill me.”

      “He isn’t. What good are you gonna do him dead?”

      Charlie shook his head, a drop of sweat flying off the end of his long, dirty hair. “He said he was gonna make an example of me. You know what that means? He’s gonna kill me, but he’s gonna hurt me—bad—before it’s over. That dude, Jazz, who works for him? I swear to God, he’s a psycho. He loves to hurt people, Mikey. I swear to God.”

      Michael figured about ten percent of whatever Charlie said was true. The problem was, which part? “I’ll pay for you to go back to rehab. And if you stick it out, I’ll help you get a job and a place to stay after.”

      Charlie got up so fast his beer shot out of the bottle, soaking Michael’s shirt. “I’m not gonna live long enough to go to goddamn rehab. Don’t you listen? They’re gonna kill me!”

      Michael swore under his breath as he got up. “Just shut up, Charlie. Sit down and shut up. I gotta go change my shirt.”

      Charlie seemed surprised, as if he hadn’t noticed what he’d done, but at least he sat.

      Michael went into his bedroom and got another shirt from the dresser. As he changed, he debated giving Charlie the money. It wasn’t as if he was rolling in it, but he could spare some. He shouldn’t. He’d told his brother in no uncertain terms that he was finished. Yet how could he live with himself if Martini really did kill him?

      He tossed the wet shirt in the bathroom hamper, then went back to the living room. Only Charlie wasn’t there.

      Michael went to the door and looked down the hallway. Charlie was already on the stairs; Michael heard the heavy clump of his brother’s boots.

      He shut the door, locked the deadbolts and debated getting another beer. It was after ten, though, and he wanted to get up at five to make it to the gym.

      In his tiny living room he wiped the trail of beer off the floor, then turned out the lights. He’d more than likely get a call from Charlie tomorrow. And if he was lucky, he’d hear from Jerry Brody, too.

      “IF YOU DON’T WANT to do this, we’ll stop right here.”

      Tate tried to squeeze her hands into submission, but the shaking wouldn’t stop. “No, I want to. I just…”

      “I understand. But remember, you’ll have your safe word. You can use it anytime, and the moment you say it, everything stops and you’re returned safely to your home. No exceptions.”

      “So they won’t cover my mouth.”

      “Absolutely not.”

      Tate believed Dr. Bay and didn’t believe her at the same time. Jerry Brody sat across from her at the conference table, while Dr. Bay sat next to her. He didn’t look like a performance artist or a therapist. He reminded her, in fact, of the doorman at Sara’s apartment building. Round in the middle, shallow in the chest, his balding head his most striking feature.

      They’d been in the meeting for half an hour, and Brody had explained that he wasn’t in the business of hurting people. He would accommodate Tate’s wishes to the best of his ability and he would oversee her adventure himself.

      The first time he’d called it an adventure, she’d given him a look that should have seared off his eyebrows. After that, he’d approached her more carefully. Still, she wasn’t sure he understood the depth of her phobia.

      “I’d like to add that to the contract, Mr. Brody,” Dr. Bay said. “No covering of her mouth at any time.”

      Brody nodded. “That’s fine. You realize she won’t know when we’re going to take her? It’s a natural reaction to scream or call out. I don’t want any of my people being arrested.”

      “Please don’t talk about me as if I’m not here,” Tate said. “As for being arrested, it won’t happen if you do your planning adequately. Which reminds me—we’ll have to make sure that Michael knows the plan. If you surprise him, he’ll do a lot more than arrest you.”

      “Michael?”

      “Her driver and bodyguard.” Dr. Bay put her hand on Tate’s. “Don’t worry. If we decide to go ahead, we’ll bring him into the loop.”

      “He’s not going to like it.”

      “I don’t doubt it.”

      “Maybe there’s a way we can send him on vacation or something,” Tate said. She could feel her cheeks fill with the heat of embarrassment, which was something of a surprise. It occurred to her that she didn’t want Michael in the loop or to even know this fake kidnapping was being discussed. She knew he’d have serious objections, but worse than that, he’d think she was a fool.

      But he wasn’t afraid of his own shadow.

      “I’m sure,” Dr. Bay said, “that once he realizes you’ll be completely safe, he won’t have any objections. Perhaps he can take a meeting with you, Mr. Brody, and you