Could someone else have hurt him? Or maybe the authorities had brought him in for questioning about the explosion and the shootings at the hospital ….
Maybe if she bided her time …
But Margaret pressed the gun to Josie’s temple as if ready to squeeze the trigger. The burly guard flinched as if he could feel Josie’s pain. “Now you are going to tell me where you’ve left your brat so we can make sure I don’t get another nasty surprise.”
“He doesn’t need your money,” Josie pointed out. “He’s a Jessup. My father has more money than CJ will ever be able to spend.”
“CJ?”
Josie bit her tongue, appalled that she’d given away her son’s name. Not that his first name alone would lead the woman to him.
“So where is CJ?”
“Someplace where you can’t get to him,” Josie assured herself more than the boy’s step-grandmother. He was safe now, and Brendan would make certain he stayed that way. No matter what happened to her.
“You’ll tell me,” Margaret said as she slid her finger onto the trigger.
Uncaring that the barrel was pressed to her temple, Josie shook her head. “You might as well shoot me now, because I will never let you get to my son.”
The trigger cocked, and Josie closed her eyes, waiting for it. Would it hurt? Or would it be over so quickly she wouldn’t even realize it?
The gun barrel jerked back so abruptly that Josie’s head jerked forward, too. “Help me persuade her,” Margaret ordered her guard.
And Josie’s head snapped again as the man slapped her. Her cheek stung and her eyes watered as pain overwhelmed her.
“Where is he?” Margaret asked.
Josie shook her head.
And the man slapped her again.
A cry slipped from her mouth as her lip cracked from the blow. Blood trickled from the stinging wound. “I’m never going to tell you where my son is,” she vowed. “I don’t care how many times you hit me.”
“I care.”
Josie looked up to see Brendan saunter into the living room as nonchalantly as if he were just joining them for drinks. But instead of bringing a bottle of wine, he’d brought a gun—which he pointed directly at Margaret. Probably because she had whirled toward him with her weapon.
But her guard had pulled his gun, and he pressed the barrel to Josie’s head. Brendan may have intended to rescue her, but Josie had a horrible feeling that they were about to make their son an orphan.
She should have thought it out before she’d chased after Brendan. She had been concerned about CJ losing his father, but now he might lose both his parents.
“I THOUGHT YOU were dead,” Margaret said, slinging her words at him like an accusation.
“You keep making that mistake,” Brendan said. “Guess that’s just been wishful thinking on your part.”
“I thought the explosion killed you.”
“You were behind that?”
“I wanted you dead,” she admitted, without actually claiming responsibility.
But she’d already confessed to enough to go away for a long time. Martinez had been right about Josie making her talk. Now that Josie had gotten what they’d wanted, he needed to get her to safety.
“I’ve wanted you dead for a long time,” Margaret continued. “This time I’ll personally make sure you’re gone. You’ve disrupted my plans for the last time.” She cocked her gun at him now. “Then we’ll retrieve your son.”
She gestured at Josie as if they were co-conspirators. Had she not heard anything Josie had said to her? Josie would die before she would give up her son’s location. That was what a mother should be like. CJ was one lucky boy. And Brendan would make sure they were reunited soon.
But Margaret was not done. She was confessing to crimes she had yet to commit. Crimes that Brendan would make damn certain she never got the chance to commit. “And when I get rid of that kid, I’ll be making damn sure there will be no more O’Hannigans.”
“You’re the one who’ll be going away forever,” Brendan warned her as he cocked his gun. But if he shot her, would the guy holding Josie surrender or kill her?
“Don’t kill her,” Josie implored Brendan. Maybe she had been right to be concerned that he would take matters into his own hands. But why had he taken so long to show up here? Where had he been?
Brendan narrowed his eyes as if he were still thinking about pulling the trigger, about taking a life. He could even excuse it as he had the others—that he’d done it to save another.
“Josie, I have to,” he said, as if he’d been given no choice.
She had been thrilled to see him, thrilled that he might protect her from this madwoman. But she didn’t want him becoming her—becoming a killer.
“You told me you wanted justice,” she reminded him. “Not vengeance.”
“He’s a killer,” Margaret said, spit flying from her mouth with disgust. “All O’Hannigans are killers. That’s why it’s best to get rid of the boy, too. Or he’ll grow up just like Brendan has.”
“Brendan isn’t a killer,” Josie told her—and him. “He came back for justice. He figured out you killed his father.”
“How?” the woman arrogantly scoffed. “No one else has figured it out in four years.”
“She did,” Brendan said. “And she has evidence.”
“What evidence?” Josie asked. He had to be bluffing or at least exaggerating the evidentiary value of what he’d found. She’d gone through those folders so many times but hadn’t figured out what he’d discerned so quickly.
Margaret snorted. “Evidence. It doesn’t matter. It’s never going to get to court. I will never be arrested.”
That was Josie’s concern, too. And then Brendan’s name would never be cleared.
“I already brought the evidence to the district attorney,” Brendan said, answering one of Josie’s questions.
Now she knew where he’d been. He had gone through the right channels for justice.
“The arrest warrant should have been issued by now,” Brendan continued. But he was looking at her henchman instead of Margaret, as if warning him. Or trying to use his bluff to scare him off. “Do you want to go to jail with her?”
“I had nothing to do with her killing your dad,” the man said. “I didn’t even work for her then.”
“But you’re working for her now,” Brendan said. “You’ve assaulted a woman and threatened the life of a child. I think those charges will put you away for a while, too, especially if you’re already on parole for other crimes.”
The man’s face flushed with color. He shook his head, but not in denial of his criminal record. Instead he pulled the gun away from Josie and murmured, “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t let him get to you,” Margaret said. “He’s bluffing. He’s just bluffing.”
The man shook his head again, obviously unwilling to risk it. It wasn’t as if they were playing poker for money. They were playing for prison.
“Where are you going?” Margaret screamed