was aware that Gordon’s personal work files contained evidence he would need to carry out his mock trial.
Reginald Clark, The Prince, was the reason all of this was going down. How the hell could the justice system let criminals like him continue to escape punishment? Jim knew the answer…because of equally filthy scum like Gordon. Only, in Jim’s opinion, Gordon was far worse. He had been entrusted with a position of power—one that was supposed to protect the citizens. Instead, he used that power for personal gain with no care as to the protection of those under his jurisdiction.
Ian and Simon moved back to the screens providing their meager view into the building. Tallant resumed his monitoring of the front of the building.
“Jim.”
He turned to face Lucas, too preoccupied with ending this to wonder what his stepfather might have on his mind at this point.
Wise gray eyes searched Jim’s. “You’re tired. You haven’t slept in more than twenty-four hours. Why don’t you take a break? I’ll stay on top of things here. If anything at all changes, I’ll let you know.”
Jim forced air into his lungs, reminded himself that Lucas was only concerned for his welfare. “You haven’t had any sleep yourself,” he reminded his mother’s longtime friend and husband. A man who had been his father’s closest friend…a man who had helped Jim to survive emerging from the depths of sheer hell. Another person in Jim’s life to whom he had failed to show proper gratitude.
“That’s true.” Lucas smiled sadly. “But, truth is, I can’t close my eyes for more than a second…that second could be the one that would have made a difference.”
Jim summoned a similarly miserable smile. “How about some coffee?”
“I do believe we’re in the right place to see to that request.”
Inside the Colby Agency, 9:55 a.m.
Victoria Colby-Camp reached up with a shaky hand to check her forehead. The dull ache beneath the lump roared at her touch. She bit back the moan that accompanied the horrendous pain. Her vision was still clear, no more dizziness. Perhaps it wasn’t a concussion. She was strong. She could endure the pain…the uncertainty was another matter.
Hours ago her stomach had stopped the unsettling roil. She moistened her lips, wished for a tall glass of water. But the bastards had refused her water or any sort of nourishment. Terrorists. They could be called nothing else. These men had taken control of her agency, abused her staff and dragged others into the nightmare.
The man brought here in shackles and with a sack over his head, Reginald Clark—aka The Prince, had been beaten again. Former District Attorney Timothy Gordon now shared the conference room with her and Clark. Gordon had received a share of the mistreatment, as well. A black eye and split lip reflected his own physical abuse.
One of the enemy stood at the window, alternately monitoring their movements and keeping an eye on things outside. The weapon in his hand was warning enough to keep Victoria as well as the others still and quiet.
She rested her head against the wall. After her son had been forced to leave her here, she’d been dragged back to the conference room where she’d resumed her defeated vigil on the floor. The guard refused to allow them to sit in the chairs around the table. How much longer could this go on? She had felt the escalation of tension between the masked intruders since Gordon’s arrival. She’d heard a new voice she hadn’t recognized in the corridor outside the conference room door around one hour ago.
Or had it been several hours?
Soon after hearing the voice, she and Gordon had been ushered into chairs at the conference table. Clark, still shackled, had been hauled into one of the chairs positioned around the table as well. Then Leonard Thorp had come into the conference room and introduced himself. Victoria had recognized that the voice she’d heard outside the conference room had been his.
After a brief announcement that justice would prevail this day, he’d walked out beforeVictoria could demand any answers. The masked men had forced both Victoria and Gordon back to the floor, against the wall in a corner where their every movement could be easily monitored. Clark had remained shackled and seated at the table. His own tension had been visible in the defeated slump of his shoulders.
Victoria understood now what this unholy operation was about. Vengeance. She vividly recalled the case against Reginald Clark. He’d walked away a free man because of the district attorney’s inability to prove his case…and the jury’s conclusion that guilt had not been proved beyond a shadow of a doubt. She had served as one of the jurors who’d had no choice but to comply with the rules assigned in determining innocence or guilt.
Gordon suddenly leaned closer to Victoria. “This is your agency’s fault,” he murmured. “You won’t get away with this. I’ll make sure that you pay for this renegade behavior.”
Victoria turned her head to face him. His pale blue eyes were wide with fear and denial. His face, as she’d already noted, was bruised, indicating he’d taken his share of punches before being forced into the conference room with her and Clark. Despite the reality of the situation, Gordon still refused to own his part in the actions that had culminated in this travesty. That was too bad.
“Perhaps,” she confessed. “But we’re both here for a reason. I would wager it’s safe to presume that we’ve committed some perceived wrong against Thorp.” She shifted her gaze to the shackled man on the other side of the room. “As did he.” She turned to Gordon once more. “I’m certain if you really think about it, your alleged part in that wrong will come to you.”
Gordon clamped his mouth shut instead of hissing his argument, but his lips trembled with the effort. Like her, he feared the worst.
“If we survive this,” Victoria whispered to him, “I’m certain we’ll both be well aware of our sins.”
The door to the conference room abruptly swung inward and Thorp, who didn’t bother concealing his face or his identity, entered, followed by two of his hired thugs. One of the followers was the man in charge. Victoria recognized not only his voice and eyes when he got closer, but also his body language as he moved into the room. His bearing was far more composed and proud than that of the others. This was not the first siege he’d planned and executed.
Another man carried a box into the room, placed it on the floor at one end of the conference table. This same man made another trip to the corridor and returned with yet another box, then another and another. As the number in the stack mounted, Victoria recognized the boxes as those used to store office files. Official office files.
Next to her, Gordon swore beneath his breath. She turned to him.
“Some of my work files,” he murmured, his attention glued to the movements around the table.
Thorp pulled the chair next to the boxes away from the table. “You’ll sit here, Gordon.”
The former D.A. shared a look of sheer desperation with Victoria before one of the masked men yanked him up and all but dragged him to the table.
Victoria’s pulse skittered with the adrenaline now searing through her veins. So it began.
“Juror Number Eight,” Thorp announced as he pulled a chair from the other side of the long conference table.
Victoria stood of her own accord before the man headed toward her could reach her. She sidestepped around the bastard and moved to the middle of the long table and took the offered seat. That put her directly across from the accused, Reginald Clark.
Thorp took the seat at the head of the conference table, the one Victoria usually occupied. He stared down the long expanse of mahogany that separated him from Gordon. “Now, Mr. D.A., you have a second opportunity to make your case. It would be in