Page 9 of Wanted 3

Footsteps stomped down the hallway. My father’s. I’d recognize his gait anywhere. After all, I’d spent my childhood straining to hear his every move so I could escape before he arrived.

The doorknob rattled and he entered the room in a clatter of grating and clanking chains.

“You’ll speak, and speak quick,” My father was saying.

Something squeaked.

Startled, I inched out from behind the ironing board, just enough to squint through the crack between the derailed closet doors.

Shit. My dad had the bog troll. And he was dragging the small, wizened creature, chained at the neck like he was a dog.

My father jerked him to the bed, and then bellowed, “Hop on. Make it snappy.”

The scrawny-necked creature hissed but obliged by climbing up the dinged metal footboard and then perching on the edge of the mattress like a monkey—a tufted white-haired, extra-large handed one.

“In this house, my word is low,” my father barked as he opened a desk drawer, fished around a few seconds, and then pulled out a pair of handcuffs. After clamping the troll’s hands together, he wrapped the chain around the bedpost. Obviously, that bog troll wasn’t going anywhere.

“There.” My father dusted his hands together in a job well done.

He grabbed a Bud Light, popped the tab, and chugged the beer down all in one go. I could hear him swallow all the way from the closet. When he’d finished, he tossed the can in the general direction of the trashcan, belched, and then folded his arms to squint down at the bog troll.

“Name?”

“Sam,” the troll whined.

“How many aliases have you got?” my dad demanded, slamming his fist down on his desk. “That’s the fifth name you’ve given me.”

“Kind sir, I’ll go by any name you wish,” the pathetic creature whimpered.

My heart tugged. I had to rescue the little guy. But how?

My father muttered something under his breath and then, a bit unsteadily, turned back to his desk and began searching through the piles of paper. Maybe after a few more beers, he’d pass out and I could rescue the troll and take him back to Vlad. Surely, Vlad would know how to help him get back home?

The troll quivered on the bed, his large eyes focused on my father as he bumbled around, still muttering and clearly looking for something.

But then, as he bent down to search under the desk, the troll on the bed changed. The trembling vanished. The large eyes narrowed into murderous slits. The mouth opened and grew wide, revealing several large rows of teeth.

I blinked in shock.

As the troll leaned toward Dad, straining against the chains, my father suddenly straightened.

“Here it is,” he said, turning to brandish a flat black Glock 20.

At the sight of the gun, the troll melted back, adopting a subdued demeanor.

I stared. So, the troll wasn’t as helpless as he seemed.

“You’ll show respect for the law,” My father growled, grabbing another beer while waving the gun in his other hand. With an expertise born of years of one-handed practice, he popped the tab of his beer with his finger while still holding the can. He slurped a swig and pointed the gun in the troll’s face. “You’ll tell me what I want to know. Don said you knew all about the goings on in the Count’s house. Now, spill it, Sam, Fred, Jack or whatever the hell your name really is.”

The troll? So, the troll was how Don had gotten all his inside information?

“Let me go, and I’ll grant your wish,” the troll wheedled, his eyes as round as an owl’s. There wasn’t a hint of those many rows of teeth, now. “Let me go, and I’ll hand over not only your son, but your daughter, too. She’ll be yours to control. Forever.” His mouth widened into a malicious grin.

The littleshit. Any sympathy I had for him died that instant.

“If you’re lying, you’ll pay with your miserable life,” my dad grunted. He guzzled his beer and then crumpled the can.

“The Count is rich, and your daughter has the codes,” the troll cackled. “When you control her, she’ll get it all for you. She’ll be yours to command. For everything.”

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