Hidden Away (The Swept Away Saga, Book Three) Page 4

  “Including this vase I keep hearing about?”

  Grimacing slightly—everyone seemed more interested in the vase than Mark—I laughed and nodded. “Unfortunately.”

  “Well, I can certainly help get you set up with our missing persons unit, but I’m actually here to talk about the vase. I hope that won’t seem too harsh to you.” He smiled, his eyes still hidden behind his glasses, and I felt another pang of doubt, instantly thinking I shouldn’t trust this man for all the money in the world.

  “I’ll do what I can to help.”

  “Good.”

  Tilting his head toward the front desk, he waved at Marcus, apparently either thanking him or dismissing him. He motioned for me to follow him outside. It was then I realized a car had been sitting outside the doors this whole time, a black Sudan with windows tinted so darkly I couldn’t even see anything inside.

  “Are we going somewhere?” I asked, surprised.

  “Just to the station. I have a couple mug shots there to show you, plus that’s where we can get your report filed for your friend. You don’t mind, do you?”

  “No.” It sounded more like a question than a statement, my intuition telling me not to set one toe in the car. What could I do, though? He was a police officer. There was no need for me to be afraid of going to the station.

  Hesitantly following, I allowed him to open a door for me, thanking him as I sat down. As the door shut, I was plunged into almost complete darkness, the driver’s seat blocked from view by a glass partition, which was tinted just as darkly as the rest of the back of the car.

  The entry across from me opened and Detective Guster slid in beside me, popping a piece of gum into his mouth. “Nice, isn’t it?” he asked, motioning around us. “The drug team seized it from a dealer. It works well as an undercover car, plus, it provides comfort from the sun outside.”

  “I suppose.” Nervous, I tried to relax as we pulled away from the curb, heading out onto the street. It was hard to see where we were going through the tint, but the detective kept trying to draw my attention away from the window anyway.

  “We’ve had an outbreak of robberies involving ancient artifacts,” he said, watching me intently. “We think there might be a black-market ring starting up here. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

  “Why would I?”

  He didn’t seem to like that answer. “What about your friend, Mark? Would he know anything about it?”

  Suddenly, I realized I was being interrogated. I wasn’t just going to the station to have a look around and file a report. Detective Guster’s eyes seemed to burn as he looked at me, his mouth set in a displeased line.

  “Mark would never disrespect the history he loves by selling it to criminals in a black market,” I replied strongly, frowning. “And neither would I. If you’re hoping you’ve caught part of your theft ring, I’m afraid I’m going to have to burst your bubble—you’re looking in the wrong place.”

  He frowned, leaning back against the seat and folding his arms. “We’ll see about that, Scott Williams, age sixty-four, home state Maine, current owner of the Oak Isle Treasure Trove Company, and known artifact hound.”

  “What?” I asked incredulously. “I am not a hound!”

  “You’ve spent several decades searching for artifacts on the east coast. You worked for a dive company that was later tried and found guilty for stealing artifacts from some of the wrecks they worked on. Some of the members of your team have died, conveniently leaving you the sole heir to the company and any fortune you might find on Oak Isle. And now, suddenly, you’ve sent your friend here with an old vase, with no explanation on where it came from or how you got it. That all seems very suspicious to me, don’t you agree?”

  My mouth hung open in surprise, my eyes bulging as I looked at him. He had painted me as a thief and villain, just by putting a spin on my entire life. Even worse, he didn’t seem like he was about to be dissuaded by any retort I could make.

  “Am I under arrest?” I asked weakly.

  “That depends.”

  “On?”

  “On what you have to say to me.”

  The car rolled to a stop and I peered out the window, suddenly feeling like I was in a cage. It looked like we were in some type of parking garage, cement and darkness all I could see.

  “We’re here,” Detective Guster stated. “Get out.”

  The station looked like every police drama I’d ever seen. Gray walls, long, bright lights, cubicles, and general business was everywhere. Officers were in uniforms, others in suits like the detective, and there were several people who looked like secretaries. The phones were constantly ringing. Here and there, a person rushed by with paperwork, and every now and then, someone wearing handcuffs and a scowl would be escorted past the room I’d been put in.

  Thankfully, since I wasn’t technically under arrest, I hadn’t been shackled and led around like a common criminal. The thought of it made me rub my wrists gently, grimacing as I imagined the cold metal around them.

  “I promise, I don’t know anything about your theft ring or black market,” I stated again, turning away from the window to watch Detective Guster once more. “And Mark didn’t, either.”

  “Then why is he missing? Where did he run off to, if he wasn’t trying to escape the law?”

  “I don’t know,” I replied, frustrated. “But I know Mark. He would never do anything like that.”

  Shaking his head, the detective glared at me from his seated position behind the table. “I think you and your friend picked that hotel as a drop space. He left the vase and took off. Whoever you two sold it to broke in and took it. The whole thing was a set up.”

  “If that was the case, why on God’s Green Earth would Mark use his real name? And why would I come to the scene of the crime?”

  “Maybe you’re just stupid.” He shrugged, standing. “Criminals aren’t always the best at thinking things through.”

  “You are being very demeaning,” I said sourly. “I can’t help you. I can’t tell you what I don’t know.”

  “I can arrest you for obstructing justice, you know that, right? I don’t have to prove you’re a thief to lock you up right now.”

  “And I can request a lawyer at any time,” I shot back. “But I’m trying to comply with your interrogation and not give you any more reason to think I’m guilty.”

  “You want a lawyer?” He sounded like he was bullying a small child, striding over and getting in my face, trying to intimidate me.

  The action only made me angrier, though, and I smiled tightly, finished with trying to work with him. “If you insist on acting like this, then, yes. I would like a lawyer.”

  “Fine,” he snapped. “Wait here a while. I’ll be back with your precious lawyer.”

  Storming out of the room, he slammed the door behind him, drawing the attention of several peoples, and headed down the hall to the right, disappearing from my view.

  I knew my rights. I didn’t have to be treated this way, locked in a room, accused and threatened. Never in my life had I felt that law enforcement was a mess of horrible individuals. It was always my stance that there were a few bad apples, but after watching everyone here let Detective Guster scream at me like a child and berate me, I was starting to think that maybe there was no such thing as good cops.

  Sitting down, I sighed, resigned to the fact that I would now most likely be stuck in this room for the next several hours, waiting for a lawyer. Then I would be questioned again. Hopefully I would be allowed to leave after that. There were no legitimate charges that could be brought against me.

  The time passed slowly, with nothing to entertain myself with. After sitting for longer than I would have liked, I rose and went to the window again, staring at the hub of activity outside. It occurred to me that there were no windows filled with sunlight, only the harsh, bright light of incandescent rods overhead.

  Suddenly, one of the lights exploded with a magnificent pop. The woman bene
ath it screamed, cowering to the floor, the papers she’d been holding scattering around her.

  Another pop sounded as the room erupted into chaos, people diving under desks and running from the space. Others pulled guns out of holsters, pointing them away from me.

  Slowly, I realized that the office was under attack. Men in riot gear swarmed through the door that led to the parking garage, guns blazing as they fired at the officers, mowing down anyone who got in their way. One of the detectives jerked back, falling over a desk and becoming still.

  Gunfire sprayed around the entire space, shattering the window in front of me. Coming to my senses, I flung myself onto the floor, crawling to the back corner. Glass shards stuck in my skin, stinging and burning, bullets still flying into the room and embedding themselves in the wall. Desperate, I knocked the metal table over on its side, dragging it toward myself and using it as a shield. Throwing my arms up over my head, terror ripped through me.

  What was happening?

  Praying I wouldn’t get shot, I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to ignore the screams and shouts outside. It sounded like a world war had erupted in a matter of seconds, explosions and smoke filling the air. Coughing, I pulled my shirt over my face, feeling like I was in some type of terrible nightmare.

  “Get up!” A voice yelled in my ear and I jumped, staring up at one of the men in riot gear.

  No, not a man. A woman.

  “Move, now!” she screamed, grabbing me by the arm and hauling me to my feet.

  Kicking the table out of the way, she pushed me to the side, peering through the kicked open door. Not even looking back, she moved into the fray, firing her gun at the left side of the room. “Let’s go!”

  Her command couldn’t have been for anyone but me, and was so forceful that I found myself obeying without even thinking, running out behind her. Instantly, four more people in riot gear swarmed around me, creating a human shield on all sides. As one, they moved through the room, shepherding me along like some lost lamb. We were running, guns still firing, shouts echoing, sparks and bits of cement raining down on the group. Smoke made it hard to see what was happening, but it seemed like the entire police department was holed up on the other side of the room, using the desks as shields.

  The group around me surged forward, bursting through the door they’d entered from and into the garage. There was fighting here, too, both shooting and fists flying in hand-to-hand combat. There must have been at least double the number of riot geared individuals here, fighting one on one with the members of the police department. It was as if the law enforcement had doubled in size as well, people that I hadn’t seen before joining the skirmish in a bloodthirsty frenzy.

  Detective Guster appeared out of the haze, blood dripping down his forehead, shouting as he shot at the woman who had grabbed me.

  “Clear a path!” She was clearly the leader of the group, everyone doing exactly as she said in the small mob around me as she led them to a car waiting on the other side of the garage.

  Guster was having none of it, though, firing again and again, taking down one of the attackers as they rushed him. This caused the woman to growl and hold up a hand, halting the circle.

  Breaking away from the rest of us, she swung her rifle around her back and met Guster head on, dodging another shot and punching him right in the face. Grabbing his gun, she wrestled it from his grasp, grunting as he kneed her in the stomach, her armor taking the brunt of the hit.

  “You’ll never find it!” he snarled in her face, grabbing her arm and twisting it the second he’d had the upper hand. “So long as there’s air on this earth, I swear, a Dog will never set sight on it!”

  Huffing, the woman stamped on his foot, throwing her head into his face. Pained, Guster released her, reeling backward, hands not hiding the blood now pouring from his nose, as well.

  “I’ve never met a Black Knight who was able to keep a promise,” she said smoothly. Raising the gun she’d stolen from him, she fired once, right between his eyes.

  It occurred to me that the shouting I was hearing was my own voice, my hands desperately beating the shoulders and backs of my new captors as I watched the detective crumple to the ground. It was to no avail, though.

  Rushing onward, the group escorted me and the woman to the waiting car, all but shoving me inside and shutting the door in my face. There was no handle to open it or a way to roll the window down, but I clawed at the exit all the same, still shouting and screaming for help.

  Something sharp stabbed into my neck—a needle. Shocked, I felt whatever substance they’d pushed into my system take over, the world going dark around me as I slipped into a still slumber.

  My arms were burning, as well as my head. It felt like I’d been clobbered with a large baseball bat. Groaning, I tried to lick my lips, the inside of my mouth feeling like cotton.

  “Would you like some water?”

  Starting, my eyes popped open and I sucked in a breath. I knew that voice. Where had I heard it? It was much calmer now, not as . . . commanding.

  Above me, a low ceiling displayed a recreation of the Sistine Chapel, the walls covered in paintings and framed documents. It was as if every inch of the space had been covered, the paint behind it all not even visible.

  Glancing over, I saw a woman in a business suit staring at me. She was seated at a round table, a man and another woman with her. They all faced me, apparently waiting for me to join them in the empty chair beside them.

  It all came back as I watched them, slowly. This was the woman who’d dragged me out of the police station—who’d shot the detective in the face. I recognized another of the group as one of the soldiers who had ushered me into the car.

  These people had kidnapped me.

  Blinking, I looked down. I was resting on a lounge chair, unbound, my glass wounds bandaged nicely.

  “Where am I?” I asked, my voice raspy.

  “Washington, D.C.” Her voice was crisp and businesslike now, not terrifying and murderous. “You’ve been asleep for about twelve hours. We wanted to give you time to relax and ourselves time to tend to your wounds.”

  The words confused me. “Why?”

  “You don’t want to keep glass shards in your arms, surely.” Smiling lightly, she leaned back in her chair, raising an eyebrow.

  “No, I mean, why did you kidnap me? Who are you?” Struggling, I sat up, pausing as my head spun lightly for a second.

  “I think you mean why did we save ya, mate,” the man said, in a thick Australian accent. “We coulda left ya there, if we wanted.”

  “Peter.” It was a warning from the woman leader, her eyes turning cold as she stared down the man in the black suit.

  Frowning, he glanced away, huffing slightly.

  “Mister Williams—do you mind if I call you Scott? There are a lot of things we need to explain to you. If you’d like to join us all at the table, we can get introductions out of the way and move on to the business at hand.” She smiled again, her eyes sharp and focused as she stared at me.

  Swallowing hard, I tried to ignore the warning bells going off in my head. These were not people who should be messed with, that much was clear. As I glanced around the room, there was no door that I could see and no windows. All that met my gaze was the overwhelming amount of decoration around me. Gingerly, I left the lounge and occupied the empty chair, resisting the urge to laugh nervously.

  “Very good.” Sitting up straight once more, the woman cleared her throat. “My name is Lucy. Lucy Cavanaugh. You may or may not have noticed my military training during your extraction.” Her eyes twinkled as she smiled slightly. “Extractions can sometimes be a messy business. I apologize for any alarm we may have caused you. As for my role here, I am the Grand Master of The Order of The Knights Templar.”

  Unable to help myself, I laughed outright, looking around the room, as if waiting for someone to jump out and yell “surprise! We got you!”

  No one did.

  “You can’t be serious,”
I asked, staring at her with disbelieving eyes.

  “Why not?” She appeared thoroughly amused by my reaction, as if she’d expected no less from me. “Because I’m a girl?”

  “No, because The Order of The Knights Templar was destroyed back in the thirteen hundreds. I know you don’t mean The First Order of The Knights Templar, either. They are a strictly male society.” Studying at each of them in turn, I felt my stomach drop as they all continued to stare at me with somewhat amused expressions.

  “You’re right on both accounts,” she agreed. “However, I am still the Grand Master.”

  “Only half the Knights were destroyed back in the day, mate.” Peter, the Australian, rose from his seat and nodded toward me. “Peter Smith. Second in Command. Served my time in Her Majesty’s Navy before joining the ranks here. Lucy and I don’t always get along.” He shot her a look then, followed by a friendly smile. “She’s the best GM this Order has ever had, though. I’d follow her anywhere. Which, coincidentally, is why I agreed to the asinine plan to get you outta the Black Knights’ hole in the ground.”

  “Black Knights?” Confusion rattled me. I must have been part of some horribly elaborate ruse. Maybe Mark would be the one to pop out and say the whole thing was a joke.

  “Allow me,” the other woman stated, nodding toward Lucy and Peter. “My name is Rebecca O’Rourke. I’m the secretary around here, in charge of making sure everything we do is recorded. I’m also in charge of the care and protection of all the records our Order has ever kept. Unlike the others, my family has been part of this secret society since it was first founded, during the Crusades. I was trained from a very young age in the art of war and secrecy. However, that is not the reason we have brought you here today.”

  Carefully, she brought a box up from under the table that she’d been holding on her lap. It was old and worn, the brown wood seeming like it was barely held together. At first glance, I thought it might be more than three hundred years old.

  As if guessing what I was thinking, Rebecca smiled and nodded. “It’s around three hundred and eighteen years old, if I’ve done my research right.” Turning the case to face me, she tilted it upward, so I could see the top. There, unmistakably carved into the cap, was the name Scott Williams.