“At least you got to talk to your husband tonight,” Jonas said as he sat in the other chair.
Nic glanced at him and smiled. “York wants Griff to think you and I are lovers. And he wants me to believe that Griff is having an affair with his friend Yvette.”
“Your husband knows better, just as you do.”
Nic stared at Jonas. “You look pretty silly sitting there in nothing but a pair of cut-off jeans and a red bandanna around your neck. Aren’t you cold?”
“I’m chilly, but I’ll be okay.”
A cramping ache gripped Nic’s belly.
It’s nothing to worry about. I’m tired. I’m hungry. I just survived an hour of hand-to-hand combat. All I need is some rest. A good night’s sleep and I’ll be fine.
Jonas must have noticed her wince. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing really.” She tried to smile. “I hurt all over, but that’s to be expected, right? I did just get beaten up a few hours ago.”
“Yeah, you did. Look, we’re both battered and bruised, totally worn out, and we’re cold. The sensible thing is for you to go to bed, cover up, and try to rest, maybe even get some sleep if you can.”
“You want me to take the bed and leave you nothing but the floor. I know you’re trying to be a gentleman, but really, Jonas, there’s no way I’m going to bed unless you do, too.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“You know you can trust me not to ... well, you can trust me to continue being a gentleman, even if we sleep together.” He grunted. “That didn’t come out the way I meant it to.”
Nic stood up. “I trust you, Jonas. I trust you with my life.”
As she walked toward the bed, Jonas called out to her. “Nic, wait up.”
She glanced back over her shoulder and the expression on his face frightened her. “What’s wrong?”
He rushed to her, grasped the spread from around her shoulders, and groaned. “God, Nic, you’re bleeding. There’s blood on the spread and it’s all over the back of that damn dress.”
“No, no ... I can’t be bleeding. I can’t be ...” She dropped to her knees, wrapped her arms around her body, and cried, “Oh, please, God ... not my baby.”
Chapter 32
Thorndike Mitchum cursed when he stubbed his toe on an out-of-place chair as he made his way across the dark bedroom. Once in bed for the night, he seldom had to get up and go to the loo. Apparently tonight was an exception. Just as he hobbled toward his bed, his phone rang.
“Bloody hell,” he mumbled to himself.
Managing to make it back to the bed without further mishaps, he sat, turned on the lamp, glanced at the clock, and picked up his mobile phone from where he always placed it on the bedside table. He didn’t recognize the number, but being in his line of business, he had learned not to dismiss the possibility of a middle-of-the-night emergency. Of course, almost five in the morning, he realized, wasn’t quite the middle of the night.
“Mitchum here.”
“Griffin Powell gave me your number,” the voice said.
“Did he? In reference to what, may I ask? And couldn’t this conversation have waited until morning?”
“Griff instructed me to ring you first if any information I unearthed involved the necessity of a manhunt in Europe, specifically the UK. As for why I’m contacting you—it concerns Griff’s wife. And no, this conversation—”
“Would you please identify yourself.”
“Rafe Byrne.”
“Ah, yes, I suspected as much.”
“Unfortunately, we’ve already lost several hours. I was delayed. I couldn’t break free from my companions without arousing suspicion.”
“Get to the point, man. You said this involved Nicole Powell and a manhunt.”
“I saw Mrs. Powell last night,” Rafe said. “At a secret upscale fight club arena in Clerkenwell. Griff’s wife was one of the combatants in a rather spectacular show, with a kill-or-be-killed conclusion.”
“Am I to assume that Nicole Powell was not killed?”
“You assume correctly.”
“And I also assume that Nicole is no longer at this arena. Do you know where she is now?”
“Somewhere in London,” Rafe said.
“That’s not much help to us.”
“Somebody knows something. Send in the clowns to round up the usual suspects.”
“Quite humorous, Mr. Byrne.”
“Yeah, I’m a regular funny man.”
“So it would seem.”
“Listen up, okay? When you talk to Griff, downplay the facts as much as possible. And even if you think there’s not a snowball’s chance in hell of your locating his wife, lie to him and tell him there is.”
“I do not need you to tell me how to do my job, Mr. Byrne. Or how to be a friend to Griffin Powell.”
Nic awakened slowly, groggily, her brain fuzzy and her head hurting like hell. Where was she? What had happened? Why did she feel as if she’d been hit by a Mack truck?
Something—or someone—stirred beside her. Strong arms held her, drew her into the warmth of a male body.
Griff. She was home, lying in bed with her husband, his strong arms embracing her. She sighed with pleasure.
“How are you feeling this morning?” the male voice asked.
Not Griff’s voice.
Nic turned and looked into Jonas MacColl’s brown eyes.
“Oh.” She uttered the one word.
When he lifted his hand to her face, she shivered. He hesitated before caressing her cheek. “Do you remember what happened?”
Nic nodded. “The Ring. We killed two people.” Lifting herself up into a sitting position, she brought the sheet and blankets up to cover her naked breasts. And then suddenly, the rest of the night came swooping down on her like a banshee, screeching a death warning. “My baby. I was bleeding. I don’t remember what happened. I must have passed out.” She grasped Jonas’s naked shoulders, uncaring that the covers slipped to her waist. “Did I lose my baby?”
“No, you didn’t. And I don’t think you’ve bled any more,” he told her. “You did pass out, but I don’t think it was from blood loss. You’d been through hell and then you thought you were losing your baby. I ... uh ... I cleaned you up as best I could, using the bedspread. And then I put you to bed. I found a couple of blankets in the dresser. And I’ve checked on you every couple of hours, just to make sure.”
Nic stared at Jonas, her guardian angel, and smiled.
“Before you freak out, I need to tell you that you’re completely naked. Your dress was soaked in blood and—”
Nic grabbed his face between her open palms and kissed him. A quick thank-you kiss right on the mouth.
“If you were saying thanks, then you’re welcome. But I didn’t save your baby. The Good Lord did that. All I did was do my best to look after you.”
“I should have told you that I was pregnant, but ... I know I can’t hide it from York for much longer.”
“How far along are you?” He glanced down toward her belly, completely covered by the sheet and blankets. “You’ve got quite a little baby bump there.”
And then apparently realizing how personal his comment had been, he cleared his throat and said, “I’m sorry, but I couldn’t help noticing when I took off your dress.”
“It’s all right,” she told him. “I’m sure you were a gentleman.”
“Well, my actions were gentlemanly, but I can’t swear to you that my thoughts were.”
Nic smiled. “I’m not sure exactly how far along I am. Almost five months, I think, maybe four and a half. I hadn’t gotten around to seeing a doctor before York sent Anthony Linden to kidnap me. I had just realized I was pregnant a few days before that. I’d missed a couple of periods, but ...” She shrugged. “Griff and I had been trying for nearly three years to have a baby.”
“He must be going out of his mind worrying about you and the baby.”
“Griff doesn’t know I’
m pregnant. I didn’t tell him.” But Maleah could have told him. No, Maleah would have kept her secret. She would have kept the truth from Griff.
“I guess it’s probably better that he doesn’t know.”
“Yes. This way, if anything goes wrong ...” She swallowed fresh tears. “I’m not going to lose this baby.” She laid her hand over her belly. “Griff will find me. He’ll never give up. I know my husband.”
“I believe you,” Jonas said.
“I know that if you were my wife, I’d move heaven and earth to find you.”
Before Nic could respond, Anthony Linden barged into the room without even a second’s warning. But that was Linden’s style—brash and bullying. The guard who followed Linden tossed a couple of thin cotton robes on the foot of the bed.
“Get up. You’ll be allowed to shower and dress this morning. There are clothes in the bathroom for each of you. You can shower together or separately.”
“Separately,” Jonas said.
Linden grinned. “Tired of her already?”
“Go to hell.” Jonas threw back the covers, got out of bed, and looked Linden square in the eyes.
Linden snapped his fingers and the guard accompanying him pointed his rifle at Jonas.
“You have thirty minutes to shower and get dressed. We’re leaving here this morning,” Linden said. “It will soon be time for Nicole to prepare herself to participate in another of Mr. York’s entertainment events.”
Amara’s eastern beach was off-limits to the tourists because of the dangerously rocky shoreline, with fifty-foot drops off from the cliffs above the ocean. On the drive to the far side of the island, Griff thought about his telephone conversation with Thorndike Mitchum.
“You were correct in assuming the clue your wife gave you indicated she was in London. Rafe Byrne saw Nicole last night in Clerkenwell. That’s in central London, south of Finsbury.”
“Yes, I know. I took Nic to a club in Clerkenwell a couple of years ago. A place called Fabric, I believe.”
Griff knew that Mitchum had downplayed the situation, no doubt wanting to spare him the gory details of Nic’s to-the-death fight in The Ring. Either the pseudo-York had expanded the entertainment selections for his wealthy clientele or there had been aspects of the real York’s business enterprises that Griff hadn’t been exposed to while held captive on Amara.
“I sent in an elite team to the location where Byrne saw your wife. During the day, the upper levels house several businesses, apparently all of them legitimate. The lower subterranean level once housed a rather large meat cellar and that property is a rental, presently leased to Kroy Enterprises. The place was, as we expected, empty except for a clean-up crew.”
“I assume they were questioned.”
“On the scene,” Mitchum had told him. “We checked them out, naturally. They’re employed by the Scrub and Clean service that specializes in that sort of thing. Most of them knew absolutely nothing about what goes on in the cellar. A couple of the guys said they had heard it was some sort of fight club.”
“No leads on Nic’s whereabouts?”
“Sorry, no. But I’ve put every available agent on a citywide manhunt for Mrs. Powell.”
“Thanks. I know you’ll do all you can, but let’s face facts. London is a mighty big city and the odds of locating one woman are slim to none.”
Griff veered the hotel van he was driving off the main road and onto a bumpy, narrow dirt lane that wound downward to the beach area. Ignoring the posted warning signs—DO NOT ENTER—Griff angled off to the left, bypassing the blockade cones. He parked the van at the end of the pathway.
“We’ll wait here,” Griff said. “I see no point in getting out until we hear from York.”
“I don’t see anyone else here,” Barbara Jean said from her position in the backseat.
“Let’s hope no adventurous tourist accidentally shows up.” Griff hit the Down button to lower the van’s windows and allow the ocean breeze to cool the interior while they waited. “I don’t want York thinking we’ve disobeyed orders.”
“How would he know?” Barbara Jean asked.
“We assume York has a few spies here on Amara,” Sanders replied. “That’s why we couldn’t risk posting our agents anywhere near this place.”
Griff turned around and glanced at Barbara Jean. “Thank you for doing this. I know it can’t be easy for you.”
“What do you think York has in mind for us?” she asked.
“I have no idea,” Griff said. “But you can be sure that it won’t be pleasant.”
“We’re all risking our lives.” Sanders looked over his shoulder, his gaze settling on Barbara Jean, his face expressionless. “This York is as bloodthirsty and insane as his predecessor.”
She leaned forward, reached over the seat, and held her hand out to Sanders. Without hesitation, he grasped her hand.
“I am sorry that you are involved in this,” Sanders told her. “York included you because he knows you are important to me and that he can use you to hurt me.”
“I know.” She squeezed his hand.
Griff’s phone rang.
The sound of the surf only yards away and his own rapid heartbeat inside his head faded into the background as he answered the call.
“Griffin Powell.”
“On time and following instructions,” York said. “That’s good.”
“What next?” Griff asked.
“Eager, aren’t you?” York laughed.
“Anxious to get this—whatever it is—over with as soon as possible.”
“Quite right. We’ll begin. In a few minutes you’ll see a boat coming near the shoreline. When the boat approaches, you are to take Ms. Hughes out onto the beach and leave her there alone.”
“That’s not going to happen.”
“Then I’ll kill Nicole today.”
“You won’t do that.”
“Are you willing to take that chance? I prefer not to kill your wife, at least not until the two of you are reunited, but I assure you that if my instructions are not followed, I will kill her.”
“I can’t ask her to—”
“Yes, you can and you will.”
“If she agrees, then what?” Griff asked.
“Then you return to the van and wait with Sanders for further instructions.”
Griff pocketed his phone and turned to Barbara Jean.
She spoke before he did. “What does he want me to do?”
“If you refuse, I’ll understand,” Griff told her.
“What is it? Just tell me.”
“We’re to wait until we see a boat approaching the shoreline and then I am to carry you onto the beach and leave you there alone.”
“No!” Sanders shouted the single word.
“Yes,” Barbara Jean said in a soft yet adamant tone. “We are going to do exactly as he has requested. I trust that if it is impossible, you and Griff will save me from whatever York has planned.”
“There has to be another way.” Sanders clung to her hand.
She pulled her hand out of his grasp and looked at Griff. “Listen. I think I hear the boat now.”
Griff saw the bowrider approaching the shoreline. Then it stopped a good twenty feet out and sat there like a blue-striped white rocket ready for takeoff. One driver and one passenger, both male, dived overboard, leaving the anchored Stingray floating in the ocean.
“We need to go now,” Griff said as he opened his door and got out of the van.
He opened the side door, leaned inside, and gently lifted Barbara Jean up and into his arms. She draped her arm around his neck, offered Sanders a farewell smile, and closed her eyes.
Griff carried her onto the beach, his big feet burrowing into the loose sand. When he stepped onto the hard-packed sand nearer the ragged shore, walking became easier. The two boatmen had swum ashore and stood in front of Griff, their arms at their sides. Both were equipped with railguns and titanium scuba dive knives in lanyards strapped to their legs.
“She can’t walk.”
“Sit her down on the beach,” the other man said. “Then return to your vehicle and wait.”
Griff hesitated.
“Do it,” Barbara Jean said.
He eased her carefully down and onto the beach. “I’m so very sorry.”
“It’s my choice.”
Griff glared at York’s flunkies. The evening sunlight bounced off their deadly, thick-barreled spearguns, manufactured for hunting deep-sea big game.
Anger and desperation coiled inside Griff like a cobra preparing to strike. After sixteen years of freedom and possessing great power and wealth, he had almost forgotten what it felt like to be forced into submission. At the moment, there was little he could do except follow York’s orders. But the day would come—and soon—when he would get his chance to strike back. He had killed Malcolm York once; he could do it again.
When he reached the van, Sanders was waiting outside behind the vehicle.
“You just left her with them?”
Griff nodded. “York will call again. Someone”—Griff scanned the cliffs above them—“is keeping an eye on us and reporting to York. He can see us, but we can’t see him.”
“So what now?”
“We wait.”
“Goddamn it, Griffin, look at her sitting out there on the beach!”
“She’s all right, at least for now.”
“Listen.” Sanders pointed out to sea. “It’s another boat.”
Griff followed Sanders around to the side of the van and they watched as this boat came as close to the rocky shoreline as possible. A man sat behind the wheel, and the two passengers, a man and a woman, sat in jump seats in the rear. With the boat idling, the male passenger helped the female to her feet, and then the two of them dove into the water and swam toward the beach. One of the two men on shore walked over and stood behind Barbara Jean while the other man met the newcomers. The man grasped the woman’s arm and dragged her out of the water and up on her feet. After he handed her over to the waiting guard, he returned to the ocean and swam back out to the boat. The guard marched the soaking wet woman across the beach toward Barbara Jean and forced her to sit down in the sand. The two women, now seated about fifteen feet apart, stared at each other.
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