OWN HER: A Dark Mafia Romance(102)

Of course, I had no proof of it; it was just a gut feeling. But it was the only thing that made sense of her car being in the lot and her door open and her not answering her phone. Goddamnit.



I was back on the bike and on the road without thinking. I headed to the only place I could think he might have taken her, although it was a Hail Mary shot in the dark as to whether it would pan out. I’d only ever seen Fielding at Hardcore and at his gargantuan fugly McMansion of a home. I figured the house was my best shot. If he hadn’t taken her there, then maybe I’d find a clue as to where else he might have her; or maybe I’d find him, and get it out of him somehow.



I had to think this through, but I barely had enough time to do so. If they weren’t at the house, would it be best to not let him know I was there, and then follow him back to her? Presuming, of course, that he had her in some other undisclosed location. Or would it be best to overpower him and force him to tell me where she was? He was a cagey motherfucker, lowest of the low, a slick bottom-feeder.



I figured I’d just go with my gut and see where the moments took me. I couldn’t think to plan it well.



Damn, the woman had me near panic level.



Once I arrived at the gate to the suburban monstrosity, I left my bike parked behind a large berm that hid the property from street view but wasn’t too far from the wall. The dude had a freaking brick wall around the property; it probably rose about ten feet up off ground level, so it wouldn’t be an easy jump. I followed it around a corner, off street side, and finally found a section where a tree on the outside reached over some branches to his side. I figured this was going to be my best shot at bridging over, so I took it.



Success—god bless my regular workouts. Once over, I assessed the house and decided to just walk in direct. At this point, I was beyond covert ops. I wanted and needed action and result.



I approached the front door and tried the handle. It opened. No beeping of an alarm, no laser lights. I didn’t even see any cameras pointing at me. For being a rich freak sick-as-fuck depraved-porn killer, this guy was seriously lax about security. I guessed the fuckwit thought his big gate and pretty wall were enough to deter any unauthorized entrance. Well, let today be his unlucky day to realize otherwise.



The house was silent when I went in, and there were no immediately obvious signs nor sounds of movement on the first floor. With my gun in my hands, I began to search the house, approaching each room like it was booby-trapped and/or had military- or guerrilla-type guard. My careful approach ended up being unnecessary; I didn’t encounter anyone, friend or foe, in my search. I had gone through from the foyer to the living room through the dining room to a kind of service hall to the kitchen and looped back around through a hallway to a kind of den/TV room, and finally found myself in the library/study where the computer and books were, the scene of my hard-drive heist from less than twenty-four hours ago. Nada. No sign of life, no clues as to Fielding or Sienna.



Stumped for the moment, I tried to think my way through what I knew about Fielding, about this place, and about where Sienna might be. Little Joey Ronn had kept referring to this house as the house of mirrors. I wasn’t sure what was behind the phrase. I mean, yeah, there were lots of mirrors in the house: in the foyer, in the hallways, in the bedrooms and bathrooms. I just figured Fielding was a narcissist. It was not a great leap of the imagination.



Looking around the library, I noticed yet another framed mirror tucked into one of the gaps on a bookshelf. It was leaning against the wall, not attached to it. I picked it up and found a fucking light switch behind it, in the middle of the wall, not near the door. I flipped the switch, and one of the bookcase sections immediately opened hydraulically, pulling back to a large recessed alcove. This guy was a piece of work. So was his house, apparently.



Lifting my handgun from its holster, I stepped into the unlit cavern, and my eyes were drawn to the only point of light: the LED of an elevator call button. An elevator. In a hidden alcove. Behind a trick bookcase. It figured. What next with this fucking guy?



Not sure whether this was a smart move that might lead to helping me find Sienna, or if it would lead me in an opposite—but surely not an uninteresting—direction, I did the only thing a red-blooded American would do. I hit the call button, ready to investigate the dark side in this house of mirrors. That seemed to be what the moment called for.



By the time the elevator doors slid open, my eyes had adjusted to the darkened cavern, and I had thought enough to move one of the leather armchairs from in front of the desk to block the closing of the bookcase, just in case I had any trouble getting back out from the dark. If Fielding or someone came in in the meantime and removed the chair, I might be locked in and fucked, but I’d worry about that when I got there.