Snot ran from my nose, my heart galloped in my chest and every muscle seemed to cramp at one time. I heard a loud knocking sound and realized it was my head banging against the tile, my feet flopping into the edge of the tub, everything chattering inside my skin in the most uncomfortable manner possible.
The Realtor bitch approached, fuzzy through my tears, her blonde hair cascading down, and she had something in her hand.
I was helpless, unable to fight, unable to think, unable to do anything but watch through blurry eyes as a sharp pain jabbed into my bare thigh.
She stabbed me. The thought came and then, pleasantly enough, I had no thoughts at all.
* * *
DARIO
The back door, the one the Realtor had let him out through, was locked. He pulled at the handle, one that had a keypad on the dial, and cursed the security system that had brought him here to begin with. She should have taken him through one of the sliding doors, those giant masterpieces that had set someone back a fortune. He could have left it open and be jogging up the stairs to the second floor right now. But between the FBI’s number showing up on the screen, and the heat from outside, he’d stepped out and pulled the door firmly shut, wanting privacy for the call. Now, he was stuck out here like an idiot.
He cupped his hands and peered in, banging on the glass with his fist. Shielding the glare with his palm, he looked over the great room and kitchen. No sign of them. They were probably still down that stone hall, still in the master suite. He stepped back, to his place by the pool and squinted up at the windows to the master suite, hoping to see one of them cross. Nothing. Unease began to set in. Unlocking his phone, he called Bell’s, growling in frustration when the voicemail picked right up. Thumbing through his contacts, he tried the agent. Same result. Fuck.
They’d have to come out of there eventually. Pass through the living room. Look at the kitchen before crossing to the other side of the house. He returned to the door and leaned against the glass, taking another visual tour of the space. Any minute.
A minute passed. Then two. He pounded on the glass again. Yelled out loud like a lunatic. Finally, he gave up on the back doors and stepped off the back deck, trudging across the manicured grass and through a planter, moving purposely toward the side of the house. Screw it. He’d go around front.
He was stopped by the wall. Ten feet high and covered in ivy, designed to keep intruders out. Another security selling point, one the sales brochure had gushed over and he now vehemently hated. He was rolling up his sleeves, examining the brick obstacle with the practiced eye of an athlete, when he heard the engine.
He stilled, holding his breath and listened, trying to decipher the sounds. It wasn’t a lawnmower. Too powerful for that. There was the pop of a clutch and his irritation bloomed into worry. He knew that sound. Every boy in Mississippi knew the sound of a four-wheeler popped into gear. There was the clatter of a garage door opening, the roll of hinges and metal, and his worry manifested into fear.
There was no good reason for a four-wheeler to be started right now, not unless Mrs. Fucking Realtor planned on a desert tour, and she wouldn’t have done that without getting him. Something was wrong. He backed up and screamed Bell’s name. Ran forward, his dress shoes slipping on the damp grass and hurtled himself at the wall. He grappled with vines and slick soles and made it halfway up before falling. The engine revved, moving, and he screamed her name again, scrambling to his feet and back at the wall, his nails digging into stone, his muscles bunching, pulling, working him up the solid face. He got one hand to the top, finding the iron spikes that helped, giving him a handle. His forearms flexed and he hoisted himself to his waist, getting his first clear view of the front yard.
An open garage door.
The realtor’s minivan, still parked at an angle.
The Lambo, still in place.
The drone of the four-wheeler grew faint.
He pulled himself over, the spikes of the wall catching on and ripping his shirt. He fell down the face of the ivy, hitting the ground, his knee screaming in protest.
Everything was still. Everything looked normal.
Except, of course, everything wasn’t.
* * *
THE REALTOR
One of her first lessons was from Tanaka Kangara. They’d grown up together. Like sisters, only Tanaka was black, and she was white, and they were only two months apart in age. Both with moms who didn’t care enough, both with dads they didn’t know. Both liked Jerry Springer after school, hidden under the bench in Lorna Pulley’s sewing shop. Ms. Lorna worked her embroidery machine and ignored them, her ridiculously long legs stretched out, inches from their faces as she pressed down on the pedal, the needles whirring to action above them.
In middle school, they’d been allies, their arms linked in stubborn support as they’d negotiated through the crowded hallways of Vegas’s worst school system. In high school, they’d all but abandoned their mothers, staying out late, dating older men, and scheming over their futures, ones out of the projects and closer to the glam of the Vegas Strip.
Tanaka had tutored her through her struggles with algebra. She’d taught her how to create the perfect smoky eye. She’d taught her how to flirt, how to lie smoother than butter and how to distract a mark from deception. And Tanaka had taught her, when she was begging for her life, how not to die.
And Robert Hawk, in killing Tanaka, had shown her how to truly rip someone’s heart out. You could only hurt someone so much with pain. You could kill them slowly, kill every bit of humanity and happiness in their soul, when you took away the ones they love. When you killed the ones they loved. It was a lesson she had never forgotten, and one she would use on Bell and Dario.
The four-wheeler climbed up the berm easily, moving in between the thick trees, branching occasionally slapping against her chest. Before them, the sounds of the highway increased. She heard a shout, and didn’t look back, increasing her speed, the excitement burning through her chest.
Mounting the berm, the ATV wove through the tree line and reached the highway. She released the throttle and it rolled to a stop next to her SUV. Reaching into her pocket, she pressed the button on the fob and popped open the rear hatch. She crouched beside the back rack and carefully maneuvered Bell Hartley’s limp body over her shoulder. Using her legs, she straightened, carrying her, fireman-style, to the back of the SUV and unloading her into the back of it. Closing the trunk, she abandoned the ATV and stepped into the vehicle.
Thirty seconds later, they were on the road and heading to the warehouse.
* * *
DARIO
She was his world. If something happened, if she was harmed … his chest constricted at the possibilities. He jabbed at the screen of his phone, calling 9-1-1 and staring up at the berm, the tracks from the ATV fresh on the grass. Fuck these rich prick rentals with their house full of toys. And fuck him for driving the Lambo. That car would go ten feet across grass and get stuck. He listened to the phone ring and jerked at the minivan handle, the car locked, a useless option anyway.
The emergency operator answered, and he barked out the situation.
His mind warred between storming up the berm, chasing the ATV tracks, and breaking down the front door to see if Bell was inside. She might be there, hurt, scared, needing him.
The other possibility made his eyes close, his face muscles tensing as he fought for control. She could be in there, dead. Whoever this bitch was, whatever had just happened, he had to fix this. He had to fix everything and he couldn’t even fucking decide which path to take. The berm or the house. He looked back and forth and spat out directions to the operator, ordering a roadblock on the highway, something that would probably happen ten minutes too late. If she had a vehicle there, hidden in the trees, just off the interstate… she could be inside it by now. She could be driving away and laughing, with Bell’s blood on her hands.
The image had him striding to the front door, the handle locked, his foot lifting and st
omping at the jam. It took three kicks and the wood splintered. Another two and he was inside, his breath coming in spurts, his fear almost crushing in its intensity.
Dread hit when he heard the silence in the home. No screams of pain, no calls for help. If she was here... If she wasn’t here, he was wasting time and risking her life. He forced his feet to move, his voice to work, his call of her name wobbly and weak. He pushed through the arched doorway and ran down the hall and into the master bedroom.
He stopped short, the room pristine, his gaze scanning over everything in an instance. He moved to the bathroom, pushing open the door, almost paralyzed with the thought of what might lay behind it.
She was his everything. His heart. His soul. His future. His life.
He stepped inside and saw her sandal, lying on its side, alone on a stretch of empty white tile. No. No. No. Not again.
Chapter 55
BELL
My head was dying. I had a million needles jabbing into my temples, and my eyes wouldn’t open. I was trying, working every tiny muscle behind those lids, and nothing happened. I attempted to roll over, to bring my tongue back inside my mouth, but I couldn’t do that either.
I’m paralyzed. The thought was blindingly apparent, and panic flared. Only, I couldn’t move. I couldn’t scream, I couldn’t do anything to react, and that was even more maddening.
But I could feel. I could feel how dry my throat was, my tongue heavy. I could feel a glob of saliva, saliva I desperately needed, running along my open lips and dripping to the floor. I could feel the painful bite of the metal cuffs, cuffs that were stretching my arms out, my shoulders aching from the strain. I checked in with my lower half and found my legs splayed out, my butt on the floor.
I don’t think paralyzed people can feel pain. It’s both a blessing and a curse. Maybe I wasn’t paralyzed. But, then again, paralysis would cause me to be immune to whatever hell was before me. Instead, I might feel it all. And I had an inkling this blonde bitch had all sorts of crazy shit planned for me.
Speaking of which … I focused on the sounds in the room. Someone was in here with me. I could hear footsteps. Confident ones. Moving right to left. Something crackled, plastic wrapping removed off an unknown item. Dario. Was he here also? Had she had more people in the house, waiting? Did they take him?
An item was moved, the long squeak of friction sounding against the floor. I struggled to open my eyes. One of them moved a smidgen, enough to give me a hazy look at white concrete. I couldn’t see her, but my senses seemed to be returning. I strained again to open my eyes and was rewarded with a wedge of light, a cloudy figure nearby. The Realtor. She was bent over something, her long blonde hair draped close to the floor.
She came closer and stopped before me. I tried to lift my head but it didn’t move. From this angle, I could see one ripped knee on a pair of faded jeans. I thought back, of her welcoming us into the house, the conservative skirt and blazer. She’d changed. I wondered when she did that. I wondered how long I’d been drooling all over the place and hanging here like a broken marionette puppet.
Her foot lifted and I saw the black combat boot it wore. My eye opened a little bit more and I managed a blink. She pushed her boot into my chest and the treads of the shoe bit painfully into my breasts. I wheezed out a pained cry.
Ah. So, I could talk. My tongue twitched, and I managed to pull it into my mouth, swallowing a painful gulp that did nothing to ease my thirst. Why was I so thirsty? How long had it been? An hour? A day? I had no concept of time.
“Water.” My voice didn’t sound like me. It sounded old and feeble. My tongue felt sandpapery and this must be how a cat feels, all of the time.
She laughed and I tried to figure out what she was laughing about. Had I said something? I couldn’t remember.
She pulled back her boot from my chest and my eyelids finally worked, dragging apart.
* * *
DARIO
Uniforms swarmed the mini-mansion, LVPD in white letters that seemed to scream at him from every vest. Dario stood in the grand living room and made the call, his fifth in the last hour. Finally, this time, the man picked up.
“I can’t keep holding your hand with updates. We’re working on this. You have to be patient. This guy—”
“She took Bell. Kidnapped her.”
There was a beat of silence, then the federal agent spoke. “Bell Hartley? Who took her?”
“A blonde. Tall. We had an appointment to look at a house. She tied up the realtor and posed as her. I stepped out of the house to talk to you, and that’s when she took her.”
“Is there blood?”
Dario knew what the man was really asking. After all, Gwen’s killer hadn’t been concerned with kidnapping. Death had been the focus there. So why, this time, was it different? The woman would have had plenty of time to shoot Bell and take off. But she didn’t. She took Bell with her. Why?
He shook his head. “There wasn’t any blood. A shoe—Bell’s sandal—was left behind. And her purse was tossed in the tub with the Realtor. Nothing else. There’s a highway that runs adjacent to this house. It looks like she took her there and had a car waiting.”
“This doesn’t make sense. Do you think she was hired? That she’s the one who hit Gwen?” Agent King asked.
Dario pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to remember something, anything, about the woman who had let them into the house. But any woman had paled next to Bell, and his eyes had swept over her without looking, her greeting barely acknowledged, her chatter about the house, the bedrooms, the lot—all ignored.
She had been blonde. Fairly tall. A thin muscular build. That was all he could remember about her. A sketch artist would be arriving any minute to work with him on a drawing, and he was coming up blank with regards to her face. Had he shook her hand? Looked her in the eye? Introduced himself?
“Dario? You there?”
He tried to refocus on the conversation. Do you think she was hired? That she’s the one who hit Gwen? He shook his head. “I don’t know. Who the fuck would want to hurt her now that Hawk was dead? I don’t know—” He shook his head. “I don’t know what is happening.”
It didn’t make sense. Hawk’s goons were all hired muscle. There was no devotion among his crew, no personal interests in his successes, other than the promise of a paycheck. With his death, the money stopped. Any jobs in progress would have died with the vanishing of their reward.
The knowledge of that had caused Dario to become lax. He’d thought that when he was with her, she was protected. He’d lined up bodyguards to cover her the rest of the time. Instead, he should have gone into full security mode. A team following them. A trackable device on her person. Their destinations secured in advance. A level of protection that rivaled the Secret Service.
The agent’s voice dropped into an apologetic tone. “We’re tied up with this warehouse search. I don’t have assets to reassign to look for your girlfriend.”
Dario fought the urge to reach out and punch the nearest wall. “These are connected. For all we know, she’s taking Bell to the warehouse now. This is your hottest lead, and it’s fresh.”
So fresh he could still smell Bell’s perfume. So fresh that the sound of the ATV seemed to hum in his ear. Why had he taken the call? Why had he shut the door? Why had he left her alone and thought she’d be safe?
Because it was a woman. A sexist move that had cost him everything. He saw a woman and dismissed her as a threat. He dismissed her, and the moment his back had turned, she had struck.
“Chances are, she’s not taking Bell to the warehouse. Chances are that she’s taking her somewhere remote. Come on, Dario. You know this.”
The softening of his voice did nothing to cushion the vision he created. Somewhere remote where she would be hurt. Somewhere she’d scream, and no one would hear. Someone that she’d be scared and he wouldn’t be there to save, comfort, and protect her.
The thought was a knife to Dario’s gut.
&nbs
p; * * *
BELL
I was close to vomiting. I willed my stomach to calm, the pitch and coil of it to lessen, and watched the darkness, catching the moment the shadows shifted and the woman re-entered the cell. Still no sign of Dario, no mention of him. I wanted to know, but I was afraid to ask.
“Who are you?” I rasped out the question, my throat still dry, my repeated requests for water ignored. I had wanted a friendly tone, but it came out wrong. Hard. Accusatory. Then again, any chance of a friendship between us had dried up around the time she Tased me.
She ignored my question, moving to the far end of the cell, and I noticed the other door. Through the open entrance and across the hall. Another cell. Like this one. I struggled to bring my feet underneath me, fighting against the cuffs until I managed to get my soles flat, my body rising… I got a glimpse of another dark head, a girl, and then my ankles caved, my legs too rubbery. I fell forward, the cuffs yanking me back right before my head hit the concrete floor.
“Careful.” The woman carried a metal folding chair, and set it up in front of me.
“Who’s that?” I lifted my chin and tried my best to use it to point to the opposite cell, my sluggish mind putting together some of the pieces. Remembering what Dario had told me. This had been the first stop on Robert Hawk’s prisoner’s journey. A warehouse with captured women. But Hawk was dead.
“Ignore her.” She sat in the chair and flipped on a penlight, bringing it up to my face. The light was blinding, and I winced, closing my eyes to it.
“It hurts, doesn’t it? The light?” She brought it closer to me. “I was right here once. Just like you. Only, unlike you, I didn’t deserve it.”
I wet my lips. Tried to swallow. Listened to her and hoped that a lecture was all that she had planned.
ALL IN: A Romantic Suspense Page 35