Secret Life Of Amy Bensen: Forsaken Part 1

Secret Life of Amy Bensen.

Forsaken.

Lisa Renee Jones.

Six years ago . . .

HOT. STICKY. p.i.s.sED OFF. That's how I feel as I skid my motorcycle to a halt on a country road just outside of New Braunfels, Texas, a limo idling to my right, the sun starting to set on my left. Removing my helmet and brus.h.i.+ng away wisps of the long blond hair that clings to my face, I dismount. After setting my helmet on the seat, my hands settle on the waistline of my faded Levi's and T-s.h.i.+rt as I watch the limo doors open. Two beefy dudes in suits exit the front doors. One of them opens the back door of the vehicle, and my jaw clenches as Rollin Scott, the thirty-two-year-old son of oil mogul Sheridan Scott, steps out of the car. He straightens his posture, his suit expensive, his black hair neatly styled, as always-unless my mother's fingers had been running through it. The idea that she slept with the b.a.s.t.a.r.d, trying to get him to forgive a debt owed by my father is still hard to fathom. She had no idea what we were into-what that debt truly entailed, how big it was, or what I agreed to do to make it go away.

The d.i.c.khead gives me an arrogant smirk, and I console myself by visualizing a short, pleasant fantasy in which I slam his f.u.c.king head against the window of the limo. Over and over. And over. Near euphoria washes over me as I promise myself I'm going to kill him before this all ends.

"I hope that smile means you have good news for me," he comments as he and his Doublemint duo of security guards stop in front of me, crowding me. He has no idea how brave he is to step into my personal s.p.a.ce. He's close enough for me to wrap my fingers around his throat and smell the same sickening scent of his expensive cologne I've had the displeasure of smelling on my mother on more than one occasion.

"Was I smiling?" I ask. "I guess I'm just glad to see you. Where's your father?"

"I told him that you and I needed to have a chat. Have you found the cylinder?"

"Not yet," I lie, having done more than found what he wanted. I now know what it is, and why Sheridan can never have it.

"Really? Because I heard from a reliable source that you do indeed have it. In fact, I understand that you've had it for weeks, while we've been patiently waiting for months for you to locate it and turn it over."

My blood runs cold at his announcement, which, if true, can mean only one thing. Someone inside the elite group of treasure hunters I work with has betrayed me, but I don't miss a beat. "A source is not reliable just because you pay them-not unless they have proof. And since I don't have it, looks like you got taken for a payday."

"You told us yourself you had a solid lead. Some man who was supposed to have what we're after."

"He was a solid lead, until someone killed him. He died over some f.u.c.king cylinder the size of a pencil eraser. I won't. I'm out."

I expect cursing. I expect anger. I don't get it, and it feels off. Really d.a.m.n off. He stares at me, seconds ticking by. "If you're playing games with us for more money-"

"This isn't a negotiation. I'm out."

He glares at me, time stretching painfully. "I have to call the consortium members for more money."

"Call Donald f.u.c.king Duck and quack for all I care. I told you, it's not about money."

"And yet your father owes us money."

"Not anymore." I walk to the back of the bike, untie a duffel bag filled with half of my savings, and toss it onto the ground, wis.h.i.+ng I'd just paid these b.a.s.t.a.r.ds off in the first place.

Rollin motions and his guard grabs the bag, handing it to him. "Ten million?"

"That's right. Treasure hunting has been good to me. So, like I said, I'm out. My family is out. And stay the f.u.c.k away from my mother or I'll kill you."

Contempt slides over his face. "We've told you, we don't want your money. You aren't walking away that easily. The word on the street is that you have the cylinder. Let me be very clear, every member of our eleven-person consortium would kill for what you have, as would many others. In other words, it's in your best interest, and your family's, for it to be known that we have it."

My blood turns to ice, but I stick to the only plan I have that might work. Denial. "f.u.c.k you. I don't have it. All the threats in the world aren't going to change that."

"Five hundred million."

And there it is: the offer that confirms that a dying man with a knife in his chest had been telling the truth when he begged for my help. That tiny cylinder somehow generates enough clean energy to power the world and destroy the oil industry, and Sheridan Scott with it.

"I guess that number rendered you speechless?" he presses.

"I don't know what language you need me to speak. I don't have it." I repeat it in Spanish, French, and German. "No lo tengo. Je ne l'ai pas. Ich habe es nicht. Should I continue?"

Apparently not entertained by my smarta.s.s reply, Rollin ignores it altogether and demands, "Forty-eight hours. Right here in this spot. Have it here, or pay the price." He turns and walks toward the limo, getting in without another word or even a look.

I stand there staring at him, feeling like Satan just crawled out of the ground and f.u.c.ked me over. If that old man was telling the truth, handing over that cylinder is like handing Sheridan a key to ruling the world. He could singlehandedly destroy industries, and create a new one to make the world dependent upon him. Or he could destroy a clean energy source that might save the world one day.

A b.a.s.t.a.r.d like him cannot have that kind of power. But with all the money trails connected to oil and coal, many of them running through our own government, can anyone? I put on my helmet and climb onto the bike. I knew a day might come when I'd have to decide to put protecting the cylinder above money, and I'd come up with a plan. There has to be someone in my circle of resources who can create a fake prototype to hand over to Rollin and at least buy some time. And then I'll take care of whoever betrayed me inside The Underground, and they will pay for their sins. I never thought I was a man who'd look to spill blood, but the day I met Sheridan, everything changed. I changed, and there's no turning back.

FOUR HOURS LATER, I'm on the other side of Austin, Texas, back at my family home in Jasmine Heights for the night. Sitting at the small, square kitchen table, I sip the cup of coffee I settled for after my mother protested the beer I'd favored. Seems twenty-four is still a baby to her. I scrub my day-old stubble, trying to remember back to five years ago, to a time before The Underground, when I was that person she wants me to be now. Lara appears in the doorway looking younger than her eighteen years, her long blond hair touching her shoulders, her blue eyes as wide and innocent as ever. I give the familiar brown T-s.h.i.+rt she's paired with sweatpants a once-over and laugh as she approaches. "Aww, little sis, you still wearing my old s.h.i.+rt?"

"It was lucky when we were in Egypt," she says, slipping into the seat across from me. "I wore it when we hit that tomb, remember?"

"How could I forget? You screamed like you were being attacked."

"It was exciting," she says through a laugh as she reaches for my coffee, takes a sip, and crinkles her cute little nose. "Don't you have hair on your chest yet? That's strong enough to burn a hole in my belly."

"Then don't drink it. We don't want you getting hair on your chest."

She laughs, but quickly turns somber. "I'm glad you came home for my graduation."

"You know I wouldn't miss it."

"Dad's going to Mexico right after it's over."

"I know," I confirm, having secretly arranged the offer for my father to take over a dig site that will keep him away from here or Egypt, and away from Sheridan in the process.

"Are you leaving again, too?"

"Actually, I talked to Dad about all of us going together."

Her big blue eyes go wide. "What? Are you serious? You mean me, you, Mom and Dad?"

"That's right."

"What happened to you pus.h.i.+ng me to stay in school?"

"Once you start school, you're committed for four years, and Dad's not getting any younger."

"Chad! You didn't tell him he was getting old, did you?"

"He knows he's old, sis. Believe me. He knows."

"So this is real? He agreed?"

"He's leaning toward yes."

She squees and stands up and rushes me, giving me a hug that I return a bit too tightly, but regrets and fears are eating me alive. I need my family close and safe. "Chad," she whispers, leaning back to look at me. "That man who visits Mom. He was here last week right before Daddy got back from his last trip."

"Don't talk about this," I warn her, wanting to beat his a.s.s all the more for letting my sister see him with my mother. "I told you that."

"But Dad knows. Or I think he knows. I heard them fighting."

"Leave it alone. Understand?"

"How? How can I?"

"Because I d.a.m.n well said you can."

She reddens with anger, but my cell phone rings on the table before she can reply. I glance down to find a call I've been waiting on is coming in. "I need to take this," I say. "And you need to stay out of things I tell you to stay out of."

"You're such an a.s.s sometimes."

"An a.s.s who loves you. Go to bed."

"I love you, too, a.s.shole," she says, rus.h.i.+ng out of the kitchen.

Scrubbing my jaw, I answer the call. "Jared, man, I need you to put your hacking skills to use."

"I told you. I did one job for The Underground, and now I'm my own man."

"Right. You 'went legit.' We both know that's a farce."

"I work for myself. The end. You have hackers working for The Underground."

"No one is as good as you. I need you, not them."

"Look, Chad, don't get me wrong. That one job I did made me enough money to pay for my sister's chemo. Without it I might have lost her, and I will never forget what you did for me. But the bottom line here is that working alone is safer. No one can run their mouth and screw you."

"I couldn't agree more."

He snorts. "You started a chapter for those people."

"And I'm walking away. I'm in something deep, man. Really deep. I've started taking steps to protect my family, but I'm not sure it's enough."

There's a beat of silence. "Give me the details."

"Sheridan Scott has a consortium of eleven powerful people he does business with. I've been gathering dirt on them all."

"Sheridan Scott as in the oil man? That Sheridan Scott?"

"That's him."

He whistles. "Just what the h.e.l.l are you into?"

"I can't tell you without putting you in danger."

"But you want me to help you."

"That's right."

"Blind faith. What the h.e.l.l, I'm in. How fast do you need me?"

"Yesterday."

"Tell me what to do."

"Not on the phone."

"You know where to find me. Don't go getting yourself killed before you get to me."

"I'm not planning on it."

We end the call and I push myself to my feet, walking to the back of the house, not bothering with the light as I step onto the porch and lean against the wall, using darkness as a cloak. Think, Chad. Think your way out of this. You found the cylinder when no one else could. You can find a way out of this. I push myself off the wall to pace for a minute and a flicker of something to my left catches my eye-a flashlight, maybe? Every nerve in my body screams in warning, but I tell myself I'm being ridiculous. Sheridan wants the cylinder. He won't kill me. My next thought is hurl-worthy, the obvious danger I should have considered: He could try to make me talk through my family.

The idea has me inching down the steps and squatting, pulling the leg of my jeans up and removing the Glock holstered at my ankle that my father had insisted Lara and I learn to shoot back in Egypt. Intending to seek the shelter of the wall, I inch a step forward, but freeze when I hear a sort of crackle and snap. A second later the house explodes, and I am thrown into the air. Time seems to stand still-no sound, no reality-until I hit the ground with a hard thump that rattles me to the bone, pain radiating through my body.

For a moment I'm dazed, unsure of what has happened, but then I lift my head to take in the sight of the house, burning at every corner. Emotions erupt inside me. "No! No!" Terror, pain, and grief overtake me and I am on my feet running, numb to my own injuries but bleeding fear. This isn't happening. It can't happen. I will not lose my family. I will not. I can't. I won't! I charge up the stairs and enter the burning house.

ONE.

Present day . . .

DRIP. DRIP. DRIP.

"f.u.c.k! f.u.c.k. f.u.c.k. f.u.c.k."

I lift my aching head that feels like it weighs a hundred pounds on my stiff neck and stare at the concrete walls of what has become my cage. Where is that f.u.c.king noise coming from?

Drip. Drip.

Feeling like I'm losing my mind, I tug at my hands, which are tied behind my back, the rope biting into my flesh. The chair at my back biting into my shoulders. "Fuuuuuuuck!"

My head drops between my shoulders and I stare at the ground.