Page 15 of Sigma
I forget modesty, forget that I’m only wearing a bikini bottom and a tank top, running after Duke. The guards are visible, called in from the perimeter, now that it’s too late—I see them all, pacing, weapons at the ready, fingers across the trigger guards.
Rin’s room is open on three sides, the wall behind her bed shut, the rest open. No sign of struggle, although Rin’s room always looks like a battle royale had happened. Nothing out of the ordinary.
On the center of her bed, a blank check, pinned to the mattress by a big black KA-BAR knife. Written in neat block letters, in red ink, one word:
SHE
That’s it. Nothing else.
Three letters.
The check has no identifying marks, no account holder, no address, not even account number or routing number, just the plain, pale-blue paper, the Payable To line, In The Amount Of line, the box, date, the notes and signature lines.
Duke looks at me. “Who?”
I swallow hard, shake my head. “I don’t know.” I choke on a sob. “I don’t know, Duke. Who? You tell me! We’ve made no enemies since Cain was taken out. The opposite, if anything. We’ve donated billions of dollars to charities, built hospitals, schools, dug wells, sent cargo planes of food, organized search parties and rebuilds after earthquakes and floods. Every takeover and acquisition has been friendly and professional. Who…” I shake my head, confusion and fear now mixing with pure, unadulterated rage. “Who would do this?”
“I don’t know either.”
“Have you called Harris or my husband?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “No. I showed you first.”
“Call Harris. Get things in motion—do what A1S does.” I hold his eyes. “When it was me, or Layla, that was one thing. Whoever did this? He took my fuckingdaughter.”
Duke’s eyes are the scary eyes of a man who has done awful things in the name of protection and war. “Understood. We’ll get her back in one piece, Key.”
“You had fucking better.” I know it’s not his fault—if they could snatch my daughter out of her room, off a private island guarded by five armed guards as well as Duke freaking Silver, without making a sound or firing a single shot? This was a professionally executed grab.
Duke’s jaw grinds. “Out from under my fucking nose.” He closes his eyes, breathes out slowly, carefully. “I can’t fucking believe it. How fucking sloppy have I gotten?”
Temple touches his shoulder. “Don’t, Duke. Clearly, whoever did this was a consummate professional. There’s not so much as a footprint.”
I knife downward with my hand. “Enough. There’s no point assigning blame. It’s done. Now we get my daughter back.”
Duke whirls, phone at his ear. “Yeah, boss—we’ve got a situation…”
I’m outside, still heedless of my state of undress, dialing Valentine’s number. It rings twice, and he answers. “About to start the meeting. What’s up, babe?”
I don’t waste time or words. “Someone has kidnapped Corinna. Right off the island, under our noses. No one was hurt, not a shot was fired, there’s no footprints, no struggle, nothing. Duke is sending Harris the only…evidence.”
The silence is long and profound. “Fuck.”
“Who would do this, Val? After all these years, who?”
“I don’t know.” A pause. “One moment, gentlemen. I’ve just become aware of a family emergency.” To me, then. “Get off the island. Take everyone to the penthouse in Miami. It’s fortified, guarded, and monitored. Leave your phones, leave everything. Get dressed and go.”
“Okay.”
“Key?” His voice is like ice. “We’ll get her back.”
“And god help whoever took her.”
He hangs up, then, and I merely toss the phone aside, into the dirt at my feet. Moving on autopilot, I get dressed quickly in sensible clothing, jeans, a bra, T-shirt, socks, sneakers, hair in a ponytail and a ball cap. By the time I’m done, Killian, Layla, and Bryn have been apprised of the situation and are dressed, gathered in the kitchen.
“We leave our phones, take nothing but the clothes we’re wearing.” I scan the faces of my loved ones—including Duke and Temple. “We don’t know who, how, or why, so we’re operating under the assumption that whoever took Corinna is a threat to all of us.” I glance at Duke. “We have transportation out of here?”
He nods. “A seaplane to get us to St. Thomas, and a jet to Miami from there.” He’s armed to the teeth, wearing a bulletproof vest over a plain black T-shirt, magazines for an assault rifle as well as sidearms in the webbing. He’s carrying a full auto submachine gun by a strap clipped to the front of the vest. “Let’s go.” He points, and two of the guards lead the way, moving in the tactical crouch, weapons at shoulders.