Hunt Her Down

by Roxanne St Claire

  “Remember what a showplace it was?” Maggie said softly. “Viejo was maniacal about the landscaping and maintenance.”

  “Look at that rusty patio furniture. Same stuff. I guess they never moved anything out.” As they got closer, Dan used one hand to keep her behind him, the other poised for access to a weapon she knew was under his shirt.

  They passed the patio and walked down one side of the house, trying to peer in dirt-encrusted windows, until they reached the utility room. When Dan stopped and tried the lock, Maggie looked around, transported back to the nights when she’d used this exit to steal out and meet him.

  A yellow piece of paper in the bushes caught her attention. She plucked it out—a post office delivery notification. Someone tried to deliver a package to . . .

  “Michael Scott?”

  Dan turned from the door. “What?”

  “Look at this.” She held the paper to him. “And look at the date. One month ago, someone tried to deliver something to Michael Scott. A dead man who never officially lived at this abandoned house.”

  “An oversize package from New York,” he said, studying the paper hard before slipping it into his pocket. “We can track that. But now, I really want in.” Kneeling down, he pulled out a key ring, and used something to work the lock.

  “You carry a lock pick?” she asked.

  “Security works both ways.” In a few minutes the knob turned and he gave it a push, but it didn’t open. “It’s bolted from the inside.”

  “Not when I lived here,” Maggie said. “Do you have a tool to break the dead bolt?”

  “Yep. It’s called a Glock.” He tapped along the frame of the door a few times, then unholstered his gun and motioned for her to get back. The shot echoed over the water and made her ears ring as the door popped open.

  The dank smell of mold and humidity hit Maggie as they stepped in, along with a rush of memories.

  Once when she was folding clothes back here, he’d come to talk to her. To arrange a meeting. He’d pressed her up against the hot, rumbling dryer and they’d kissed, insanely close to getting caught, but unable to stop.

  Because she thought he cared.

  “Come on,” he said, reaching to pull her into the house, his expression determined.

  She followed him into the kitchen. The smell was putrid, the air was heavy, and everywhere she looked, she remembered the shadowy, unhappy life she’d lived here. Always bound by a false sense of security, the property of one man and the playmate of another. No, the informant of another.

  But he’d been so good to her.

  She stole another glance at him, bracing for the rush of revulsion for what he’d done to her, but getting a different rush altogether.

  Damn her body. Damn her hormones.

  Damn him.

  “It’s as if nothing has been touched since the day the FBI finished the investigation,” he said, oblivious to the storm of emotions whipping through her. “Even the dishes are still in the cabinet. The booze in the bar. The chairs around the table where he held every meeting.”

  The table where she’d sat next to Ramon and across from Dan while her teenage heart took flight. Get a grip, Maggie. She was no better now than then.

  “What are you looking for?” she demanded, her voice harsher than she’d intended.

  “Clues. Hints. A reason to explain why there are all those locks, but the place has been untouched. I want—” He froze for a minute, listening to a loud pop from outside.

  Her heart jumped at the sound of gunfire, but then she realized what it was. “A boat,” she said. “On the canal.”

  “I know.” He took a few steps toward the doors that lined the back. “That’s a go-fast, a Cigarette boat.”

  The low, staccato throb of a racing boat rumbling up the waterway got closer and louder. It almost masked the sound of a car pulling up to the front of the house.

  “Did you hear that?” she asked, just as the boat stopped with one loud thump of a mighty, unmuffled engine. Right in the back of the house. “Someone’s in the front, too.”

  Dan grabbed her arm and twirled her toward the utility room, pulling out his gun as he shoved her into hiding. The second she stepped into the room, the front door opened, followed by heavy, male footsteps on the terra-cotta tile, punctuated by the soft digital ring of a cell phone.

  “I’m in. I don’t know. It could be another fucking false alarm.”

  Had they set off a silent alarm?

  “Get up here, now. I’ll search the place. It’s probably another goddamn squirrel in the third floor.”

  She inched farther behind Dan, who looked over his shoulder and pointed to the door. “Go.”

  Together, they moved soundlessly past the washer and dryer to the door; then Maggie touched the knob. She twisted the handle, praying the door didn’t squeak.

  The footsteps grew louder, closer. Biting her lip, she pushed. It silently opened as the man’s footsteps crossed the kitchen.

  Dan nudged her forward, closing the door behind them without making a sound.

  “Go!” he urged quietly, shoving her toward the path, rounding a huge row of bushes that provided the same cover as when they’d slip away for a midnight tryst by the water.

  They couldn’t risk crossing the yard to reach the gate they’d used to get in; parts of the property were too open. She knew instantly where they were going.

  The tool shed.

  As they darted forward, she heard movement on the other side of the bush. Someone was coming up from the water, blocked from view. With his arm still around her, Dan kept her low as they ran, slowing occasionally to try to get a peek at whoever was out there, but more focused on hiding.

  They rounded a curve in the property, followed the thick treeline, and Dan dove them both over the first small hill, and rolled to the shallow valley. Stiff crabgrass poked at her face and arms, as his hard, solid body held her tight. The smell of earth and oak and brackish canal water punched her nose, her breath whooshing out as they landed.

  “Stay down!” he ordered, crawling up the side of the hill the minute they stopped moving.

  She caught her breath, steadied herself, and watched him get into position.

  They’d used that lookout before to check the lights in the house, to make sure they were completely alone. They’d made love under the stars on this very hill.

  He reached his hand out, indicating that she climb up next to him. She did, her jeans dragging over the grass, her fingers digging into the dirt.

  Through the greenery, they could see the dock, a starburst-painted racing boat bobbing on one line. In the other direction, the foliage blocked their view of the house.

  “Move it!” The man’s voice echoed from the house. “We might as well do it, now that we’re both here.”

  Closer. Coming right toward them.

  “The shed!” Dan said, rolling them both in the direction of the small metal shed twenty feet away.

  They ran, staying low, reaching it in seconds, but stopped at the sight of a massive sliver bolt and a fist-size padlock holding the small double doors together.

  “Behind.” Dan pushed her around to the back of the rectangular structure, then pressed her against the warm metal, covering her completely.

  “Why don’t you just confront them?” she whispered. “You’re armed.”

  “I don’t want them to know we’re here until I find out why they are. And I want you safe. Stay quiet and still.”

  The tiny building shook as someone worked the heavyduty lock, the bolt grinding noisily, then one of the two doors thudded open.

  Maggie listened for any clue to what they were doing, protected by the strength of Dan’s body. Inside the shed something scraped the flooring, the gritty, earsplitting sound of metal against metal.

  “Christ, that makes my teeth itch,” a man said.

  The response was a grunt of raw male exertion.

  “Son of a bitch, this fucker’s heavy.” Same guy.

&n
bsp; “Just get it in the boat. And quit complaining. The one coming tomorrow’s going to be twice as bad. This shit has to move, and fast.”

  Their voices shifted outside the shed now, moving away. Maggie stayed stone still, braced for the possibility that someone would suddenly pop around the corner and shoot them. Dan remained pressed against her, the front of her body warmed by the sun-drenched corrugated metal. He kept his right arm up, his weapon poised to fire.

  But the men’s voices were down at the dock, and there was a loud thump as something hit the wood. Then the thunder of the racing-boat motor starting up.

  Dan inched his head to the side of the shed, holding Maggie in place.

  “Only one’s on the boat,” he whispered. “The other one’ll probably go back to the house.”

  They waited, ready, breathing softly, the sun burning and the bitter boat exhaust mixing with the humidity. In the distance a door slammed, followed by the sound of a car motor starting up, then disappearing.

  “Think he’s gone?” Maggie asked.

  “Possibly. Probably.”

  “But he didn’t come back and lock the shed.”

  “I know. Let’s check it out.” Dan led her around the front, where one of the doors gaped open. He stuck his head in and Maggie tried to see around him.

  “What’s in there?”

  “Absolutely nothing.” He ducked to get into the opening, and she followed.

  The place was so full of memories, she almost choked.

  In reality, it was just eight by five empty feet, with nothing but a crumpled piece of trash in the corner. Dan bent to get it, smoothing the paper and holding it toward the light to read it.

  “Enclosed items,” he softly read. “Five wrenches, sixteen hammers, fourteen boxes of shank nails . . .” He skimmed the rest of the list. “It’s some kind of packing list.”

  “Look,” Maggie whispered, indicating the recipient’s name at the top of the list.

  Michael Scott.

  “Something tells me …” Dan said softly as his gaze scanned the paper again. “Viejo’s business is definitely thriving again.”

  Behind the shed, trees rustled and snapped into place. Before she could breathe, Dan pulled her against the front wall, so that anyone glancing in wouldn’t see them inside.

  Five seconds passed, then ten. Then the door ground across its metal track, followed by the sound of that industrial-strength lock and bolt, locking them in a pitch-black, hundred-and-ten-degree dungeon.

  CHAPTER TEN

  ONLY ONE THING got Lola out of the office in the middle of a busy workday, and that was a soul-shattering, headclearing orgasm delivered by a man who lost every shred of control over her beauty. Her business gave her the power high she’d craved since childhood, but sex with the right man—a man who absolutely folded in half over her physical perfection—that was irresistible.

  And the man she’d met in SoBe last Friday night had provided exactly that. He’d begged for her, drooled over her looks, praised her symmetry—he’d even used that word when he sat up in her bed and watched her prance naked around the room.

  Like she was doing right now. At the height of a busy Thursday, with clients calling and accounts receivable growing, Lola had driven to her Brickell Avenue condo after he called and spoke so dirty and sweet on her phone.

  She stepped back from the mirror in her master bedroom, the backlighting from the balcony twenty-eight floors above downtown Miami and Biscayne Bay perfectly accenting her toned thighs, her flawless C-cups, her flat stomach, and, best of all, her exquisitely beautiful face.

  Her father had been so very wrong.

  “You’re pretty, Lourdes,” he would say, in English, so that no one would understand him and think he was saying sweet things to his little girl. “Pretty ugly.”

  Well, look at me now, Viejo. Pretty pretty.

  The insults were all the worse because they were secret, insidious, vicious, and swift. The same way he’d kill a man for looking the wrong way in a meeting, Viejo would shred her. All she could do was run and hide. In her closet in Coral Gables, and at the farm, she’d climb to the balcony through the attic and weep.

  But now? Now he understood what ugly was. All the things that mattered to him—his son, his reputation, his home, his life—had gotten very, very ugly.

  She smiled, running her hands down to the completely waxed flesh between her legs. She’d even managed to make sure his last good dream went up in smoke, too.

  The light tap on her door didn’t surprise her. The doorman was never where he was supposed to be in this building, and her man was anxious to get his hands on her.

  Anxious was good. Desperate was better. Out of control turned her absolutely crazy hot.

  This guy was all of those things, and none of that had affected his performance the other night. He hadn’t been hugely endowed, but what he lacked in size he made up for in frantic need to touch her. Not fantastic-looking, but meaty and strong. Anyway, she didn’t want someone who was better-looking than her. What would be the point of that?

  She grabbed a short silk wrap, tying it loosely enough to let her breasts show as she peered through the peephole.

  For a minute she couldn’t even remember his name. Did she even know his name? Who cared? It was better this way. Anonymous made it hotter.

  Opening the door slowly, she treated him to a smile. “Hi.”

  “Hi yourself.” He swept up and down her nearly naked body with a slow, wildly appreciative grin. “Fuckin’ A, you’re magnificent.”

  She opened the door wider, inviting him in.

  “I’m supposed to be at work,” she said, holding a cheek out for him to brush with his lips. “But you lured me away.”

  He grinned, looked around the condo, and let out a low whistle. “This place is even nicer in the daytime,” he said. “I still can’t believe you’re that much of an earner in your twenties.” He ducked down as if he was looking around. “We alone? No sugar daddy waiting in the wings to watch, right?”

  “Nope. But I have a business to run, so …” She opened the robe. “Let’s get busy.”

  His nostrils quivered as he tried to steady his breath. “Hang on, honey. Let me savor the moment.” He moved deeper into the condo, his gaze torn between her decor and her body. “Really nice place. I didn’t get to look around the other night.”

  “You can look at me.” This wasn’t a real estate meeting, for Christ’s sake. “Follow me.” She curled her finger playfully and headed to her bedroom.

  “Don’t I even get a drink first?”

  For the first time since she’d met him, her internal alarms went off. The night he’d hit on her in SoBe, he’d been a total animal, completely into her. The call to her office with his sexy come-on was a pure booty call, too.

  Now he wanted to turn this into a date? A chat over cocktails?

  “If you want a drink, there’s a restaurant downstairs,” she said, her voice cool. “Otherwise, the bedroom’s this way.”

  “I just want to . . . relax.”

  “I don’t want you relaxed.” She let the robe fall to the floor, and stepped back so he could see the whole package. “I want you worked up.”

  “Oh.” He stared, perfectly slackjawed. “Like a fucking piece of art.”

  That was better. She turned slowly, pivoting so he could drool over her ass, her perfect back.

  He jumped her so hard, she sucked in a breath as his body thwacked into hers from behind.

  “Hey.” She tried to duck out of his grip, but he brought his hand up and squeezed her tit, then slid it to her throat, tightening his hold.

  “Cool it,” she insisted, trying to wiggle out, trying to turn to him. “I don’t like it rough.”

  “We’re not going to do it rough.” He let her twist around face-to-face, pulling her tighter as he kissed her. His lips were limp. His tongue was lackluster.

  Nothing was like what she remembered from last time. She opened her mouth to try to get the feeli
ng back, just as he yanked her around so he had her from behind again, wrenching her arms behind her back and locking his forearm over her throat.

  “Stop it!” she choked, trying to kick him. She got in one swipe when she saw the knife. He pointed it right at her temple and her whole body turned to water, her bowels threatening to release, her stomach clenched against a gag of fear.

  “What the hell do you want?” she said. “I’m offering it to you. You don’t have to get violent with me.”

  “I’m not going to get violent,” he said, his voice lower and more menacing from behind. “We’re going to make a deal . . . Lourdes.”

  Son of a bitch, how could she be so stupid? “Who are you?”

  “I’m your fortune hunter.”

  Fuck!

  “You don’t have to give it to me, Lourdes. I don’t expect you have it anymore. But you sure as shit better know what it said. And tell me the truth, because I know just enough to know if you’re lying. And every time you tell me a lie, I make a cut.” The tip of the blade grazed her cheek. “I won’t kill you—but I’ll make damn sure no plastic surgeon can ever make you magnificent again.”

  She stayed very, very still, her eye muscles straining to see the knife without moving her head.

  “Why do you want it? It’s useless alone.”

  The blade pressed cold and sharp on her cheek. “No questions. Just answers. Words. Numbers. Answers.”

  The pressure increased, along with the first pinch of pain as something warm dribbled down her cheek. Blood.

  “You’re the one who wanted to play chess with the big boys, Lourdes.”

  Another sting as the blade trailed over her cheek.

  “And I can make a chessboard out of your pretty, pretty face. Big, fat, red scars that will never go away. Then I’ll start on your sexy body. I’ll put so many fucking flaws on your skin, no one will be able to look at you.”

  She tried to swallow. Tried to think.

  “Then you’ll be pretty.” More blood dribbled down to her mouth, warm and salty as it mixed with a tear. “Pretty ugly.”