Page 98 of Played

MASON

To all of our surprise, the gates are open when we arrive. Conor peers through the windshield like he’s expecting something to happen as the car crawls along the gravel drive. Nothing comes.

“I would have expected them to have more security,” he says to Shane, who hums his agreement. As we get closer to the house, I notice King’s bike, and I’m filled with both panic and relief.

We climb out of the SUV, and Conor grabs a black gym bag from the trunk. I don’t want to know what’s in there, so I don’t ask. My heart is already racing hard enough to explode. It goes on racing as we climb the few stone steps. So we’re just going to ring the doorbell? Like regular visitors?

Conor does exactly that, and the three of us glance between each other while we wait for an answer. “Looks like they’re not coming,” Shane says after what feels like forever.

Conor shrugs. “I guess we let ourselves in?” He pulls a huge steel mallet-style hammer from the bag and starts smashing his way through the door, looking like a cross between Thor and Don Corleone—if the latter were Irish.

Shane draws a gun from inside his coat, and my hammering heart comes to an abrupt stop. But this is why I asked for their help. My gut assures me that this is exactly what King needs. A minute later, Conor has destroyed the lock enough to get us access.

All three of us step cautiously inside the house and are met by the twin barrels of a shotgun being held by Kyngston Worthington III. “Get the fuck out of my house,” he snarls.

“Get King out here and we’ll go,” I say.

“He’s not here.”

Lying piece of shit. “His bike is outside.”

“Don’t give a fuck. I just told you he’s not here. Now get the fuck out of my house before I shoot you all.”

Conor snorts a laugh and pulls a gun of his own. Both Ryan brothers point their guns at Kyngston’s head. “You could try, old man.”

There’s a movement from the other end of the hallway, and a woman calls out Kyngston’s name.

“Stay the hell away, Emmeline,” he shouts.

She wanders into the fray wearing a silk housecoat, seemingly unaware of her husband’s command. One hand stuffed in her pocket and a glass of wine in the other, she stumbles into the no man’s land between us all.

“Get out of the way, Emmeline,” Kyngston orders. “Now.”

Shane says, “Knee.”

Deafening gunshots crack through the air. For a few seconds, I have no idea who fired and who was shot.

Kyngston wails in agony and crashes to the marble tile, clutching his knee.

Conor sprints to him and stands on said knee, and the sickening crunch of bone and cartilage fills the reception hall. “Where is he?” Conor growls.

Tears run down Kyngston’s colorless face. “The b-basement.”

Shane and I make our way to Conor.

“Where all dirty little boys go,” Emmeline says, slurring her words.

As casually as he would pluck a piece of lint from his pants, Shane smacks her on the temple with the handle of his gun, and she slumps to the floor.

I step over her, my eyes locked on her piece-of-shit husband. “Where is the basement?”

He snivels, and Conor presses harder on his knee, causing him to shriek. Gasping, he jerks his head toward the sweeping staircase. “Behind there.”

“Watch him, Con,” Shane says. “We’ll go find King.”

We locate the door to the basement and find it padlocked. Shane shoots through it, and I wrench the door open. Cold, damp air rushes over us. I peer inside the dark and feel for a light switch on the wall, but I’m too impatient. Using the flashlight on my cell phone, I jog down the steps and shout King’s name.

There’s a metal jangling sound, and I shine my light in the direction it came from. Fuck, it’s him. He scrabbles backward, his hand over his eyes as the arc of light from my phone reaches him. There’s that distinctive metal sound again. Jesus fucking Christ. Are they… chains? That motherfucker has him chained in the basement.