Beverly Barton Bundle

by Beverly Barton

  “The grand prize and the prey will be one and the same,” Malcolm said. “The winner may do with her as he wishes. He may kill her or keep her alive for his own pleasure until he tires of her.”

  Bouchard’s brow furrowed. “What could possibly make this woman so valuable? She is only a woman.”

  “But she is not just any woman. She is Griffin Powell’s wife.”

  Chapter 8

  Within an hour of Sanders’s initial report, Griff had assembled his team—the men who would go with him to Belize. In a closed meeting, which included Derek and Maleah, Griff laid out the plan and opened the floor for discussion. The Powell jet was at that very moment being prepared for their trip, two of the four pilots on the agency’s payroll en route to Griff’s private airstrip, which was closer to Griffin’s Rest than McGhee Tyson. In another hour, they would be headed south, but in the meantime, info was being gathered in Belize and an advance team of two men had been sent to Shelter Island. Their orders were to scope out the setup and report in, all the while remaining invisible to the island’s inhabitants. The Powell jet would land at Phillip S.W. Goldson International Airport in Belize City where a rental car would be waiting to whisk them off to Belize City Harbor. Arrangements had been made for two boats to be readied for their arrival.

  “We will be in constant contact with Derek and Maleah,” Griff said. “They will be in charge while we’re away. All info they receive from our Knoxville headquarters will be combined with the updates coming in directly to Griffin’s Rest. We will be exchanging info with them throughout this mission.”

  “By the time we land in Belize City, our independent operatives who have been sent to Shelter Island should have a preliminary report, including photos,” Sanders said. “They should be able to advise where the safest point of entry to the island will be and what precautionary measures we need to take.”

  “We will split into two units, each a three-man team,” Griff told them. “Luke and Shaughnessy, you’ll be with me. And Rett, you and Holt will be with Sanders.”

  Luke and Rett were former Special Forces. Shaughnessy and Holt were expert snipers. Griff was a graduate of the Malcolm York hunting school. Sanders, a former Gurkha, had taught Griff how to outsmart his opponent, how to fight and kill without reservation, how to survive despite the high odds against him being able to stay alive on Amara for more than a month or two at best.

  If Nic was on Shelter Island, Griff and his team would bring her home.

  “Gentlemen, we will leave Griffin’s Rest in”—Griff checked his wristwatch—“fifty-three minutes. The flight to Belize City will take approximately five-and-a-half hours, which will put us there by midafternoon and on Shelter Island by late afternoon. For now, take care of any business you need to attend to. Any other questions or concerns can be addressed during the flight.”

  One by one the agents exited the office suite, leaving Griff alone with Sanders, Derek, and Maleah.

  “Perhaps you and I should go over what the day-to-day duties of being in charge here entails,” Sanders said to Derek.

  “And I’d like to speak to you privately,” Griff told Maleah.

  While Derek went with Sanders over to his desk, Griff indicated for Maleah to join him at the conference table. He pulled out a chair for her.

  “I need for you to personally take care of several things for me,” Griff said.

  “All right. What do you want me to do?”

  “First, I’d like for you to send someone to meet Charles David’s flight and when he arrives here, I want you to personally bring him up-to-date on the situation. Answer his questions truthfully. And if those answers put me in a bad light, so be it.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I don’t have time to deal with Yvette and her desire to go to London as soon as possible. I want you to convince her not to go, to stay here at Griffin’s Rest where she will be safe. However, if it becomes necessary, post bodyguards with her twenty-four-seven. Do whatever you need to do, but don’t let her leave here.”

  “I don’t like the idea of playing Dr. Meng’s jailor, but I will.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Arrange for a medical team to be on standby in Belize and another in Miami. If Nic needs medical attention before we arrive back here, I don’t want any delays.”

  “I’ll see to it immediately.” Maleah pushed back her chair and stood.

  Griff reached out and grasped her wrist. “If I could go back and change things, I would.” When she tugged on her wrist, he released her.

  “Look, I know it’s not all your fault,” she told him. “And I know you love Nic. But—”

  “But I drove her away from Griffin’s Rest by not being completely honest with her.”

  “Go to Shelter Island, find her, and bring her home safe and sound and you and I are good. Got it? But if anything happens to her, if ... if she doesn’t come out of this in one piece, then consider me your worst enemy.”

  Griff sat and watched her walk out of the office. He wanted to tell her that she was wrong. She could never be his worst enemy. After he’d killed Malcolm York sixteen years ago, Griff had become his own worst enemy.

  Nic had spent the entire morning in her gilded cage, alone except for when an old woman, probably at least seventy or older, had brought in a bowl of fresh fruit and a bottle of water. When Nic tried to talk to the woman, the woman had looked at Nic with sad eyes and shook her head. After hurriedly stripping the bed down to the mattress, the woman had gathered up the bed linens and left.

  For the past hour, Nic had heard a great deal of noise, some coming from inside the mansion, but most of it from outside. She had wondered if the hunters were leaving the island or if the man who oversaw the day-to-day running of the estate was bringing in a fresh batch of slaves. And that’s exactly what they were—slaves. The men confined in the pavilion on the hill and used as prey in the hunts and the women brought here to provide sex for the guests.

  And that’s what you are now, too.

  Unless Griff found her soon, or if by some miracle she managed to escape, her life would soon become a living nightmare. She couldn’t count on Lina or someone like Lina to save her a second time.

  Nic opened the windows that overlooked the patio below and heard the rumble of vehicles combined with the sound of men shouting orders. Something was happening. She just didn’t know what. The patio and pool were empty. Not a soul in sight.

  Suddenly, she heard the rat-a-tat-tat of repeated gunfire, as if someone was using a semiautomatic rifle off in the distance. Was the island being invaded? Had Griff found her and was coming to rescue her? Or had there been another hunt scheduled for today? Had one of the brave hunters just killed another defenseless man?

  At the thought of another captive being hunted down and killed, Nic remembered the man in the cage she had seen last night. The tall, somewhat muscular man with the hate-filled brown eyes who, despite his predicament, had exuded pure raw rage and a determination to live. Although there was no physical resemblance, there had been something about him that reminded her of Griff. Perhaps it was nothing more than Nic sensing that the man and Griff were kindred spirits, men who fought with every ounce of strength within them until the bitter end.

  Where are you, Griff?

  I need you.

  She laid her hand over her flat belly. We need you.

  I’m going to fight for my life and the life of our unborn child. I’m going to try to be as brave as that dark-eyed man in the cage up on the hill, as brave as you were on Amara.

  I know that you will find me, that you will never give up. Knowing you’re fighting for me at this very minute, doing everything possible to locate me, is what will keep me from giving up hope.

  Nic closed the windows, walked across the room, and slumped down on the chaise longue. After leaning back, she closed her eyes and said one more prayer. Please hear me, God. Please.

  When Griff’s image appeared in her min
d, she almost cried. Keeping her eyes shut, hoping to hang on to the image as long as possible, Nic concentrated very hard. If only she possessed mental telepathy, she would send Griff a message. She would tell him she loved him. And then she would do her best to tell him where she was. But as far as psychic gifts went, Nic had none. Zero. Zip. Nada. Did any of Yvette’s protégés possess such a gift? Nic had no idea. Maybe Meredith Sinclair did. Hadn’t Griff mentioned something about the girl being exceptionally gifted?

  How about sending me a message, Meredith? Let me know what’s going on back at Griffin’s Rest.

  Yeah, sure, what were the odds of that happening? But despite admitting the absurdity of Meredith being able to send her a telepathic message, Nic managed to smile. She smiled because thoughts of home comforted her.

  But was Griffin’s Rest really home? Had it ever been? Hadn’t she always felt like a visitor, someone passing through on her way somewhere else?

  Loud voices outside her bedroom jerked Nic back to the reality of the moment. The door flew open and Anthony Linden burst into her room. She rose to her feet and faced him.

  “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  “Go where?” When he grabbed her arm and pulled her toward the door, she demanded, “Tell me where you’re taking me.”

  “Damn it, woman. Just do as you’re told. Come with me now!”

  Rafe sat alone, his laptop balanced on his thighs, in his apartment at Catherine Place, adjacent to the Rubens Hotel in London. Renting this type of luxury apartment instead of staying in a hotel room suited his needs. It afforded him more privacy and yet allowed him to take advantage of all the hotel amenities. He never remained in one place long enough to make buying a house or an apartment practical. Once or twice during the past sixteen years, he had considered purchasing a house in some out-of-the-way, back-of-the-beyond area, but what would have been the point? He could never put down roots, could never live a normal life. Living like a gypsy, always on the move, was part of the price he paid to achieve the goals he had set for himself when he had walked out of the hospital, here in London. On that day, he had left behind every semblance of the boy he had been before Malcolm York took him to Amara.

  Standing, he stretched his arms over his head and brought his hands together, linking them as he slid them downward to cradle his neck. He had spent most of the afternoon and early evening concocting plans and making arrangements for the upcoming weeks. Through various phone calls and a number of e-mail exchanges, he had acquired updated public knowledge and private information about Harlan Benecroft and Yves Bouchard. Gathering info on Benecroft had been relatively easy. Since Sir Harlan was no longer directly involved in the major illegal businesses and had never been a major player, he managed to present himself to the general public as nothing more than a wealthy, slightly eccentric old man. In certain circles, his deviant behavior was considered the norm and no one thought less of him because he indulged in his perverse appetites. Yves Bouchard was most definitely a horse of a different color. Bouchard had been and still was a major player in drug and human trafficking. He had been on Interpol’s Most Wanted list for a number of years, but had eluded capture by keeping a low profile. It would require the utmost cunning and finesse to trap a man who had outsmarted law enforcement around the world. And it would take patience. But now that Rafe had seen the man face-to-face again, had spoken to him, had been given a personal introduction, it was only a matter of time before Rafe would weave the web that would ensnare the famous and elusive Le Ravisseur.

  Discontinuing his neck massage, Rafe made his way across the room to the bar-table set up by the staircase, picked up a bottle of water, and removed the twist-off cap. Although a variety of liquors adorned the top of the ornamental serving tray, he chose simple H2O. He seldom drank, opting to do so only in very select circumstances. Whenever someone noticed his near-teetotalism, which surprisingly wasn’t all that often, he simply implied that he was an alcoholic. He wasn’t, of course, but it was a convenient lie that no one questioned. Rafe did not often drink or smoke or do drugs and not because he lived by some strict moral code. His body was a machine, part of his arsenal of weapons that assisted him in his life’s mission. In order to fine-tune his body, to keep it in prime condition, he generally abstained, just as he maintained a healthy diet, exercised his body and his mind on a regular basis, and got eight hours of sleep whenever possible.

  His all-night adventure with Cassie Wilder was far from the norm for him. The three-way he had shared with Cassie and the bosomy redhead had relieved a great deal of sexual tension, but more importantly, it had convinced Cassie, and any “friends” who might inquire, that he was a sexual venturer, a man interested in far more than the ordinary. He had hinted to Cassie that he would like to explore more places like Body Parts, other clubs for a very select clientele.

  Rafe sipped on the water as he climbed the stairs to the second-floor bedroom. He had learned from past experience that if he tried to rush things, impatience often resulted in failure. He would eventually get around to taking care of Sir Harlan, a mere piss-ant among giant cockroaches, but Bouchard was the last name on his list. Of course, there was no written list. The record of offenders was entirely mental, locked away securely inside Rafe’s head. The list was nothing more than memorized names and faces of the men who had frequented Amara on a regular basis, the men who had been Malcolm York’s intimate friends and colleagues. All six men had at one time or another participated in the hunt, Rafe often one of the captives used as prey. And two of the six had always requested Rafe be made available for their sexual pleasure. He had killed the four—Tanaka, Di Santis, Klausner, and Sternberg—in the order in which he had located them. But he had deliberately put Ciro Mayorga and Yves Bouchard at the end of his list, singling them out for special deaths.

  After sixteen years of being the hunter instead of the quarry, he had become a stranger to himself, the ghost of a human being, a creature capable of inflicting the kind of cruelty that he and the others on Amara had suffered.

  He set the bottle of water on the bedside table, opened the door that led outside, and crossed over to the small terrace. The heart of Westminster surrounded him—the lights and sounds and smells—although here on the quiet residential street the sensory distractions were diluted.

  The hunt had begun now, starting with the private dinner at the Savoy the moment he saw Bouchard, and would proceed slowly and carefully to its inevitable end. As much as he wished it otherwise, Rafe knew that he would take great pleasure in torturing and eventually killing Le Ravisseur.

  The Belize City Harbor shimmered like a multicolored jewel in the late-afternoon sunlight. Rows of buildings painted in a variety of colors ranging from pink and turquoise to a soothing yellow lined the boardwalk. Numerous sailboats, naked masts stretching skyward, floated languidly on the surface of the calm blue water. Not even a hint of a breeze stirred. No wind at all. Overhead the azure sky canopied the harbor and spread out over the Caribbean Sea.

  Griff noticed a fishing boat returning to the harbor, dories stacked up on deck. On several of the recently docked boats, the fishermen were busily stripping their sloops of outboard motors and sails.

  “This is the place,” Sanders said. “We are to ask for Martinez and Pitts.”

  At this time of day, there were only a handful of patrons in the restaurant, and none of them, all seated in the bar, paid much attention to the six foreign visitors who entered, two at a time. Sanders approached the bartender, spoke to him briefly, and motioned to the others.

  In the back room of the harbor restaurant, Griff and his agents met with the reconnaissance team who had explored Shelter Island. The two men had returned several hours ago with a full report and photos. Several beer kegs, two large beverage coolers, and a couple of floor-to-ceiling wine racks took up more than a third of the small storeroom. A stocky, dark-haired man in black jeans and black T-shirt came out of the shadows and introduced himself as Juan Martinez.

&nbs
p; Griff extended his hand. “Griffin Powell.”

  Martinez shook Griff’s hand. “Three-fourths of the island is wooded, sparsely in places. There are several small buildings and an open-air pavilion on a knoll overlooking the main house. That U-shaped main house is approximately nine thousand square feet and has two levels and an enclosed courtyard. There was no way we could get inside the house. It’s heavily guarded.”

  “If she’s on the island, she’d be inside the house,” Griff said.

  “How many guards are there?” Luke Sentell asked. “What’s the head count? How many residents? How many soldiers, how many servants, and how many guests?”

  “We counted a dozen guards.” The second recon guy came forward, a digital camera in his hand. “They were all male and looked to be in their twenties. My guess is that none of them are well trained, but they were carrying around plenty of firepower—M16s.”

  Plenty of firepower was right. The M16 had a magazine capacity of thirty rounds, with a twelve to fifteen rounds per minute sustained rate of fire and a point target of nearly 2000 feet. The gas-operated, air-cooled, shoulder-fired, lightweight assault rifle had been used by the U.S. military for more than thirty years. York’s guards on Amara had been equipped with M16s.

  “You must be Pitts.” Luke’s gaze locked with the darkly tanned blonde, his hair buzzed short and his muscles bulging, his impressive biceps revealed by the short sleeves of his gray T-shirt.

  The guy nodded. “On our way there, we met up with a couple of cruisers we believe may have just left the island. Since we were aboard what appeared to be a fishing boat, I figure they barely noticed us.”

  “The thing is,” Martinez said, “there seemed to be a lot of activity on the island. It was as if they were cleaning up, storing things, burning some stuff. We saw a couple of big fires.”

  “Any idea what was happening?” Luke asked.

  Pitts shrugged. “No way to tell in the time we had to scout out the area, snap some photos”—he held out the camera to Griff—“and get off the island without being detected.”