"Because the German asshole who grabbed him tried to trade freedom for intel. He knows, Dallas. This dickwad Mueller knows who the sixth kidnapper was."
The words were simple. The impact on Dallas wasn't. His blood turned to fire. The room turned hot and red. He wanted to beat the shit out of the sixth man. He wanted to curl up into a ball and cry.
He wanted to finally know the truth.
There had been two in charge of the six fucks who had snatched them--and surely this sixth man could identify his employers. First, there'd been the main guy who sat back, keeping his hands clean, but who was dirtier than all of them. That man lived in Dallas's memory only as hints and impressions. He'd been smart. He'd kept his distance. But he'd been the puppeteer, the one who'd hired the six and pulled all the strings.
Dallas and Jane had come to think of him as the Jailer, and he'd spoken directly to Dallas only twice. He'd told Dallas that he deserved it all--every moment of agony, every pang of fear, every prick of humiliation.
And then there was the Woman. She was supposed to feed and tend to Dallas and Jane, but instead she brought pain and fear along with a twisted darkness and a bone-deep shame that hadn't faded even after Dallas was free of the confinement of those mildewed walls.
But he wasn't fifteen anymore. He wasn't locked in the dark, tortured and hungry and helpless.
He might be damaged goods, but he had money and power and he knew how to wield both like a goddamn medieval mace.
"We're getting close to ending this thing," Liam said. "We use this douchebag's intel to grab the sixth. We interrogate him. Get him to tell us who hired him. It's the last puzzle piece, Dallas. We get that, and you can finally say that it's over."
Dallas closed his eyes and drew in a breath, soaking in the words. Liam was wrong, of course. It would never really be over. But he couldn't deny the anticipation that was building in him. The fantasy that he really could end this.
For himself.
For his sanity.
But most of all, for Jane.
Seventeen Years Ago
"You're a bloody git, you know that right?" Quince Radcliffe leaned casually against the doorframe as Dallas hurried to shove his feet into his sneakers. He'd already pulled on a pair of threadbare jeans, having stripped out of the sweatpants he'd been wearing as he laid in bed reading Nietzsche instead of working on tomorrow's calculus assignment. He'd tackle the five problems in the morning; tonight, he was too engrossed in Thus Spake Zarathustra. Or he had been until he'd gotten her call.
"Dean Phelps is going to have your head on a pike."
"I'm pretty sure that would violate at least a dozen school rules." Dallas turned in a circle as he spoke, scowling at the room in general as he searched for a clean shirt. He was fifteen years old and knew how to do his own laundry, but that didn't mean he bothered very often.
He found a faded black T-shirt under the small, book-covered desk. He yanked it up, sniffed it, then pulled it over his head. He took another sniff, then hoisted it up so that he could reach his underarms with the deodorant. No time now for a shower, and he regretted not bothering earlier.
"Fine," Quince said. "Whatever. But if you get caught..."
Dallas pressed his hand to his heart as his suitemate trailed off. "Oh, Quince, I didn't know you cared."
Quince narrowed his eyes, then slowly turned his hand until his middle finger was displayed. Dallas barked out a laugh. "Quit worrying. We're just going to hang out for a few hours. I'll be careful. You'll cover for me. And no one will know I'm gone."
They better not, because although Dallas wouldn't admit it out loud, Quince was right. He was taking a hell of a risk. His dad had pulled serious strings and forked over serious dough to get him into St. Anthony's, one of the most prestigious boarding schools in Europe, if not the world. At the time, Dallas had been royally pissed--and he sure as hell hadn't wanted to be shipped off from the States to the UK--but now, after a year, he had to admit he liked it here.
Or, he had to admit it to himself--he wasn't about to tell Eli and Lisa the truth. Not yet. Maybe not ever. He loved his parents. He did. But there was always that thing between them. That distance. Maybe because he knew too much about who he was and where he came from. Maybe kids weren't meant to know the truth about themselves. Maybe they just couldn't handle it.
He thought of Nietzsche's favorite motto: Become what you are. And he thought of his own corollary: Figure out what the fuck you are before you start to become it. Not to mention who you are.
Well, he was trying, wasn't he?
He'd been working hard, playing by the rules. More or less, anyway. Doing all the shit he was supposed to. He couldn't take back the months of drugs and stealing cars and sneaking out at night and generally acting like a fucking asshole, but he could stay here, do the work, and become the man he wanted to be. The man he knew he could be.
Any other night, he would have stayed in and studied.
Or, more accurately, he would have stayed in, amused himself with books or videogames, then spent ten or fifteen minutes before class finishing his homework or studying for a test.
Not tonight.
Tonight, she was here.