S Y N C O P A T I O N

PROLOGUE

Tristan’s eyes flew open. The room was dark. Fear gripped his stomach with an ironclad hold. A meaty hand covered his mouth while a strong force pinned his arms and legs to the mattress. His heart thudded against his chest.

“Tape,” a gruff voice said to a dark, pencil-thin silhouette at the foot of the double bed.

Tristan blinked struggling to force his eyes to adjust. Muffled cries of protest tried to escape his lips.

He caught sight of his alarm clock as it glowed like a neon greeting. Three in the morning. What was he thinking? Someone had broken into his condo and he wanted to know the time?

Today of all days.

Tristan recoiled at the rasp of tape tearing from the roll. The sound pierced the otherwise silent bedroom.

With experienced precision, the beefy hand slapped the tape down hard over Tristan’s cheeks and lips. In an instant, they tossed him over on to his stomach and methodically tied his hands behind his back with itchy rope. He tried to catalog everything. Memorize each noise, hoping to abate his terror.

Someone wrapped a salty-smelling blindfold securely around his head. They yanked him to his feet. As near as he could tell, there were three intruders. One like a bean pole, one like a grizzly bear, and one somewhere in between. Kind of like Laurel and Hardy with a sidekick. Could he hope this was all just a comedy of errors?

Probably not.

Unfortunately, he could not determine anything further about his kidnappers. Or his murderers? His body trembled.

A tight grip on his arms and a forceful shove at his back sent him forward. He shuffled along between two of the assailants. Tristan racked his brain trying to figure out what they could want. He was just a musician. And a violist at that. Did they think they’d captured someone famous?

Miami had its fill of rich residents, politicians too. Now, they were big fish. Why not go after them?

His blood turned to ice.

Not the Amati.

He’d heard about private collectors stealing whatever they wanted. Many a priceless Stradivarius had vanished into unknown hands. Defiance surged through him. He tried to stop, but resistance was futile. They gripped harder and pushed him again.

Moments later they exited his condo and headed for the stairs. Tristan struggled to keep up.

Seven steps. Turn. Seven steps. Turn.

They were descending to the lobby. A breeze gently kissed his face as they left the building.

Another sharp jab in the back sent him forward.

“Get in!” The voice sounded disguised, but the man’s impatience wasn’t.

Tristan heard the engine roar to life just as one of his captors jammed his head down and shoved him forward. He landed on a soft surface. It smelled of leather.

The get-away vehicle.

“You’re watching too many cop shows,” he silently chided himself. He tried to pray, but could only come up with two words: God, help.

It felt like the thin man was seated beside Tristan. He assumed the other two were in the front.

Tires squealed when the driver lead-footed it away from his condo, causing Tristan to fall to the side. Probably onto his captor’s lap. He tried to right himself.

“Stay down,” one of the men barked.

Tristan did as he said.

Sweat beaded on his brow as he sucked in smoke-filled air. Stuck in an awkward position, he remained still and said nothing. Not that he could, with the wad of tape across his face. Thankfully he didn’t play a wind instrument. He swallowed a laugh. Like it would matter now.

When it appeared that they would be on the road for some time, Tristan strained to relax his body, hoping it would protect his hands and increase the blood flow. Fear gripped his mind causing his thoughts to crash like atoms into one another.

Twenty-nine today and what did he have? No wife. No children. Why even Mozart had over six hundred compositions before his death at thirty-five. How many did he have to his credit? He was a virtual unknown. Sure, the quartet played some of his pieces, but the Philharmonic Symphony wasn’t breaking down his door for scores or clamoring after him to play. Why hadn’t he listened to his mother and become a doctor?

“He has good hands,” she always said. “Hands made for healing.”

But from the first time he touched the piano, it gave him joy. Music was like a gift, a new present each and every day. God’s blessing to him. No. He didn’t regret his decision to pursue this love. But did it exclude too many other things in his life? Had he let everything slip away? How could he have ignored Marissa’s or Tyrone’s happiness when they’d each found their soul-mates? What had this all consuming pursuit cost?

Something’s different.

The vehicle had stopped. Tristan cocked his head to listen. An ominous noise rumbled in the distance.

The car door opened and they dragged him out to his feet. Relief began to wash over him to some degree.

Then the sound grew louder. Building like a symphony crescendo. The earth bounced and rattled in response. Air ceased to flow through Tristan’s lungs. He knew what was coming. A train!

They guided him around the back of the car then hefted him into the trunk.

No! They couldn’t do this.

Tristan’s heart pounded like a jackhammer. His breath rasped through his nose. The lid slammed shut.

Outside, he heard them argue. “No scar! The boss said he had a long scar down his neck. I checked. Nothing.” Tristan pictured the skinny guy shaking as he talked.

Someone cursed.

“Kill him,” said a deep voice. Tristan figured this was from the hefty man who’d taped and tied him up.

“The boss only wanted the guy shook up.” It sounded like sidekick was now speaking. His words were rough, like sandpaper on wood. “Can’t get money from a corpse.”

“We can’t get nothing from this guy – he’s the wrong man. I said kill him.”

“I’m no killer,” sidekick argued. I break a few bones. Collect a few debts. But I ain’t rubbing anyone out. Get yerself a buttonman...” His words trailed off.

Tristan strained, but heard nothing more. Except the train. They had gone.

“Help me, Lord. I need to escape. Somehow! he screamed in his mind. His thoughts grasped at threads of hope. I’m going to die. I’m not ready. I have too many regrets. Like Cynthia. Oh, God, like Cynthia. I’ve never loved anyone the way I loved her. And I let her go. I can’t believe I just let her walk away. Leave Miami. Leave me. Leave what we had behind. Six years wasted…

A deep groan of regret burst in his chest.

Oh, God, if I had to do it over again, I’d have never let her go. Even if it meant following her to LA. I’m sorry. It’s too late.

Please, God, help me and I promise I’ll find her. I’ll do what I should have done six years ago. Please, God.

The train whistle pierced his silent world.

Tristan tensed.

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Thanks for reading this excerpt. I hope you'll pick up a copy of STRINGS OF THE HEART soon. Let me know what you think of it. I love hearing from readers.