Daddy PI: Book 1 of the Daddy PI Casefiles by Frost, J (reading eggs books TXT) 📗

white box. I pick up a box of Milk Thistle tablets before my brain registers what my fingers have found.

I drop the Milk Thistle and pick up the unmarked box. It’s the size of a Band-Aid box, wrapped in a layer of clear plastic, which I cut open carefully. Inside, there’s a row of five blister packs. I tip them out into my palm and stare at the neatly packaged pink pills.

Sealed in plastic and foil. Encased in layers of cardboard. Buried among so many other smells. Small wonder the dogs didn’t catch them.

I close the box and tuck it into my jacket pocket, then take each box and bottle out of the larger cardboard box and set it on the floor. No more plain, white boxes. I replace everything and open the fourth box. The same methodical search produces one more plain, white box. I slip it into my pocket without opening it. I’ve been here too long. Without even checking my phone, I know it’s well past sixteen thirty. The hairs on the back of my neck are prickling, but I take the few moments to return everything to its place and re-cinch the storage strap.

Patting my pockets to make sure I’ve got the two boxes of brick, I back away from the spa supplies and quickly make my way down the long aisle. My phone buzzes in my pocket and I take it out. Missed call from Miranda. Fuck. I’ll deal with her later. First, I need to get out of here and call Ed Isaak. With any luck, he’ll still be at the office. We need to figure out a plan for getting Merullo off the boat tomorrow. We don’t dock at Mazatlán for another two days, but there is a helipad on the ship, so I’m assuming they could airlift him off. I know Ed won’t want to involve the Mexican authorities, but there’s no way he can leave Merullo running around the boat. If this were a Navy vessel, we could stick him in the brig, but, despite a surplus of dungeons, I’m guessing this ship doesn’t have a holding cell.

A flicker in my peripheral vision as I round the end of the aisle pulls me out of my thoughts. I have a split-second to react, snapping my head away and raising my arm, before a lightning bolt crashes through my head, driving me to my knees.

The pain’s so sharp it drives the breath out of my chest, all thoughts out of my head. I slap at the floor in an attempt to support myself but collapse onto my side. The movement makes thunder roll through my ears and more lightning strike behind my eyes.

“You fuck.”

The words draw my eyes up. Merullo’s standing at the end of the aisle, in the shadow of the shelving, holding a fire extinguisher with the nozzle near his shoulder and the butt-end pointed at me.

I see blood on the end of the extinguisher. My blood, which runs, stinging, into my right eye.

I squint through it as Merullo lifts the fire extinguisher again. I meet his eyes and see what he sees. It’s so clear.

Me, lying on the floor, with my head bashed in.

I swallow hard as bile spurts into my throat. Fear. I know this feeling. I felt it a hundred, hundred times bouncing through the churned, blue waters of the Gulf of Aden.

This time the fear isn’t for me or my men. I don’t care about my own life in this moment.

I care about the little girl waiting in her cabin. Waiting for her daddy to return. My little girl. I’d do anything not to leave her. Even beg for my life, although I don’t think it would bend the bastard.

Maybe the truth will.

“It’s too late,” I rasp through bile and fear. “They know it’s you. I found the brick.” I reach shakily into my pocket and pull out one of the white boxes. “Put the extinguisher down, mate. You hit me again, and it’s murder. You’ll never run far enough. Be smart. Pink Pearl doesn’t want bad publicity. They’ll cut a deal. Just put it down.”

Merullo’s eyes flick from my face to the white box in my hand. “You fuck,” he repeats.

I tuck the box back into my pocket and hold my hand out placatingly. “Put the extinguisher down. Let’s call Ed Isaak. We can work this out.”

Merullo’s nostrils flare. He takes a slightly different grip on the extinguisher before he snaps it at my face. I throw my arm up to deflect the blow, but still feel the lightning strike again inside my head before everything goes dark.

16

Daddy’s late.

I’ve been waiting on the floor of my room, naked except for the cute, striped thigh-highs he likes so much, since five twenty-eight. I’ve been waiting to hear the click that means he’s unlocked his side of the connecting door. Waiting while my nose twitches from the dust in the carpet. Waiting until my knees and hips ache.

I’ve been waiting too long.

Logan’s always on time. He wouldn’t be late for this, would he? He told me he’d be back at five thirty for the last edging scene. Despite how well our last scene went, I’m a little anxious about this one—it feels so important that it goes right—and the waiting is making my anxiety mount. He wouldn’t keep me waiting just to make me anxious, would he?

I turn my head to look at the clock on my bedside table, but I can’t see it from where I am at the bottom of the bed. Damn.

I put my head back down between my arms and tell myself to be patient. Daddy’s coming. If he was going to be really late, he’d text me. Although I can’t see my phone, which is beside the stupid clock, I’d hear the text notification. Which I haven’t. I need to be patient. My submission is what’s important, not my little discomforts. Daddy wants me to be ready