by Terry Odell
"Right."
"So, maybe he's leaving the clues off the trail so whoever he's with won't notice. That would be good, wouldn't it? Unless he—or the other guys—figure you'd know something was wrong if they made the clues too easy to find." She paced small circles on the path. Ryan stepped back, as if he grasped her need to move.
She spoke, more to herself than to Ryan. "I'm an ex-interior designer, an elementary art teacher—substitute art teacher—who wants to be a photographer. Oh, and a part-time cocktail waitress. You're the secret agent guy. I'm so out of my element here."
"You're doing fine, Frankie. It takes a while for the drug to wear off completely. I'm still functioning a few tacos short of a combination plate myself. Someone could have stepped into the bushes to answer a call of nature."
"How did you know where to look? If this is a trap, isn't Dalton taking a chance that you'll miss the clues if they're not on the main trail?"
"I'm working on that one."
His frown said he'd already come up with at least one theory. Did he think he was protecting her by not explaining? That she couldn't handle it? Not knowing was worse.
"Tell me," she demanded. She wrapped her arms around herself to ward of another chill.
"You're cold. Come here." Ryan's arms enveloped her, and she wondered how he could radiate so much heat. She didn't wonder long, simply leaned into his strength and absorbed what she could. He smelled rugged and male, sweat mixed with the outdoors, and a hint of evergreen.
"I'm fine," she said, feeling the lie before it left her lips. "And I'll get warm when we start moving again."
"We need to recharge. We won't be worth a damn if we're exhausted when we get there."
His hands moved upward, and he massaged her neck. She groaned as tension dissolved.
His fingers worked down to her shoulders, her back, and ended on her rump, drawing her against him, resting his head on hers. She felt his hardness, and her own body's response to his.
She angled her hips away. Her child's life was in danger, and she was thinking about how safe she felt in Ryan's arms. What kind of mother was she?
"We need to go." She avoided his eyes, but knew he could see the flush rising to her face.
"It's a normal reaction, honey. Danger's a rush. And last night wasn't that long ago."
Still, he increased the distance between them. Good. She didn't need a rush, and had no desire for danger.
"Thirty seconds. You're still cold." He rubbed her arms. "You smell good."
A hint of a smile crept to her mouth. "I was thinking the same thing about you."
He pulled back and looked her in the eyes. The swelling had gone down below his left eye, but the purple had intensified. His right eye twinkled. "You might need to see someone about your sense of smell. I've got to be ripe. I was sweating bullets while Mr. Muscle worked me over."
"It's worn off. You smell like a man in the woods." She folded her arms across her chest. "And you're avoiding my question."
"Which was?"
"How do you know where to look for these secret clues?"
"I'll show you. Let's go." He took her hand and led her along the trail. "See. This rock's been kicked aside. And there's an indentation that might be a footprint."
She looked where he pointed, but saw only more of what she'd been seeing since they started. Dirt, dead leaves, rocks, and bushes. But they were moving again, and had to be getting closer to Molly.
"And then there's Wolf," he went on. "When he goes off the trail, I check more carefully."
The trail was wide enough for walking abreast. He walked faster now, almost pulling her along. She adjusted her pace, wondering if she could keep up if he had two good knees. "You know where we're going?"
"Until the trail forks, they'd stick to it."
"They? So you know there's more than one of them? It's not only Dalton?"
His face got that confused-worried expression again. "I've seen bits of more than one shoe print where the dirt's not packed and the trail's not covered with dead leaves. Someone's sweeping behind them, but it's not eliminating everything."
"So whoever's doing it isn't very good."
"Or trying to make it look good and still leave a trail."
"Why would he do that?"
"That's what I don't know." He couldn't disguise the sadness in his one good whiskey-colored eye.
She stopped and entwined her fingers in his hair and lifted her face to his. "There's a logical explanation."
"Yeah. Like he's a traitor. That's the one I keep coming back to. He's shown up in places where some really nasty people have been a few times more than coincidence would dictate."
The hurt and bitterness in his tone cut through her.
"Well, don't let me interrupt you little lovebirds."
Frankie knew that voice. She'd heard it in the cabin. Then a clicking sound. Ryan clutched her to him.
Chapter 24
Ryan pulled Frankie behind him, shielding her from the man who had to be Mr. Muscle. Although shorter than Ryan by a good six inches, the guy must have outweighed him by at least thirty pounds. He was a goddamn refrigerator, solid muscle, his belly flat above the belt of his cargo pants.
He'd met dozens like this guy—big, brawny, and an I.Q. about the same as his age. Good at following orders, but not much at independent thought.
"Let the woman go," Ryan said. "I have what you want. She's not part of this."
"Where's Molly?" Frankie shouted. "Give me my daughter!"
"Stay behind me," Ryan whispered. "And be quiet. Don't make him mad."
"Make him mad?" She poked her head around Ryan. "If you've hurt her, so help me…"
Ryan grabbed her wrist. "Dammit woman, let me handle this."
"The little lady, she is too much for you to handle?" the man said. "I am sure I can take care of her for you." He leered, and Ryan clenched his fists.
"Leave her alone," Ryan said. "You've got her daughter. Of course she's upset."
"Yes. Her pretty daughter. Such big, blue eyes."
Frankie's fingernails dug into his biceps. At least she was quiet.
"I repeat," Ryan went on. "Give me the child, or there's no deal."
"First, you show me what you have."
The man stood, legs planted wide, one hand on his hip, the other holding a Remington rifle. Made sense. If they were supposed to have an accident, being shot with an assault weapon might bring too much law enforcement into the picture. The fact that he'd lowered the gun told Ryan enough. The man had his orders, and shooting them didn't seem to be on the list. Besides, this guy liked using his fists. Shooting wouldn't be nearly as much fun.
"I don't do business with subservient scum like you," Ryan said. The blank look right before the man's eyebrows furrowed told Ryan he didn't know what subservient meant. The scowl that followed said he understood scum just fine.
"In words of one syllable," Ryan continued. "I don't talk to you. I talk to your boss. Un. Der. Stand. That?"
Another scowl, and two steps in Ryan's direction said the man was taking the bait. Already choreographing his next five moves, Ryan locked eyes with his opponent. Two more steps. He flexed his shoulder. Shifted, loosening his knee. This was going to hurt.
Counting on the fact that the man's orders were not to kill the messenger, Ryan waggled his eyebrows in open invitation. "What's the matter? You afraid of me now that I'm not tied up and blindfolded?"
"I thought you said not to make him mad," Frankie whispered.
"Trust me. And get ready to run." Her hands squeezed his arms once more, then released, leaving him with an unexpected empty feeling.
With a smirk that revealed yellow-stained teeth, Mr. Muscle stepped closer, waving the Remington with his right hand. Ryan closed the distance between them. He grabbed the rifle by the barrel with his left hand and twisted it away.
Instead of letting go, Mr. Muscle swung his left fist towards Ryan's head. So far so good. As expected, the jerk was engrossed
in holding onto the rifle at the expense of his defense.
Ryan sidestepped left and felt air as the punch buzzed past his ear. He grabbed Mr. Muscle's shoulder. Forced his elbow into Mr. Muscle's throat. Hooked his leg behind a knee of the now off-balance man and yanked it toward himself.
Ryan smiled as the thug's ass hit the packed dirt, the man still refusing to relinquish his hold on the Remington. Ryan kicked him in the ribs and wrenched the rifle from his grasp.
"Drop it, Harper. Turn around. Slow and easy."
Ryan froze at the sound of Dalton's voice. The one he used with tangos. Cold and flat, it brooked no nonsense.
"Please, Ryan. Do what he asks." Frankie's voice quavered from behind him.
A tidal wave of fury welled inside him. A glance over his shoulder showed Dalton, one arm wrapped around Frankie, the other holding a pistol to her head. Ryan relaxed his grip on Mr. Muscle's Remington.
From the other direction, another man stepped out of the woods, a hunting rifle slung over his shoulder. He swaggered forward and snatched the Remington from Ryan's hand. He grinned, and a gold-rimmed tooth flashed in the light of the setting sun. He prodded Ryan in the chest with the Remington's barrel.
Fists clenched, Ryan planted his feet in the ground, braced for a blow. But the man simply laughed and threw the rifle past him. Ryan listened for the impact, trying to judge where it landed. No sound of it hitting the ground. Definitely the sound of someone catching it. Dalton? If so, then he'd had to let go of Frankie. Or was there yet another assailant to worry about? He forced several deep breaths.
"You are a stubborn man, Mr. Harper. But consider the lives of the woman and child before you try anything stupid."
The voice was clearly that of Mr. Muscle's partner. Ryan heard Frankie's breathing, shallow and rapid. He kept his gaze focused on Mr. Manners. Tall and lean, the man was counterpoint to his partner. A neatly trimmed beard disguised a pock-marked face. His dark hair was combed away from his forehead. Intelligent brown eyes held Ryan's gaze. This one thought before he acted.
Hints of peppermint and cigarettes floated on the man's breath. Ryan raised his hands in surrender. "No tricks. Now take me to the girl."
"I believe we have been through this. First, I need what you have."
"If you think I'm carrying it around, you're not as smart as I thought you were. We get the child, and then I'll take you to this key you want." He'd already made the mental switch to "the child." Not Molly. Keep it depersonalized. Keep the detachment. A hostage to rescue. Frankie's face swam before his eyes. Two hostages.
Mr. Muscle rose, wincing a little. Good. Hardly payback, but it was a start. Adrenaline kept Ryan's pain at bay. For the moment.
"You know my name," Ryan said to Mr. Manners. "I don't suppose you'd do me the courtesy of telling me yours."
The man guffawed. "I do so love a sense of humor. Why don't you call me…Mr. Smith? I believe that is a common enough American name."
"Right, Mr. Smith. Then your muscled colleague is undoubtedly Mr. Jones. He could use a few lessons in manners."
"Enough conversation, Mr. Harper. I will trust you for now. Please. That way." The man gestured toward the trees with his weapon.
"The woman comes, too."
"But of course. She will be behind us, with her own personal escort."
Ryan found the narrow trail from which Smith had appeared. Exaggerating his limp, he hobbled along, keeping his pace slow while he tried to ignore the gun aimed at his back.
Before long, the trail opened into a clearing joined by several other trails. Ryan stopped. The gun poked into his back. In another lifetime, Ryan would have seized the moment to make his move. Not today. Not with two lives at stake.
"Which way?" he said.
"To your left, if you will."
"With your permission, Mr. Smith, I'd like to adjust my boot. I think I twisted my ankle while I was…engaged…with Mr. Jones."
Muffled laughter from Mr. Muscle-Jones. Ryan shuffled to a log and used a tree trunk for support as he lowered himself to a sitting position. He pulled off one boot and made a show of rubbing his ankle, wishing he had his hiking shoes. Dalton held both the Remington and his own pistol, although both hung at his sides. Frankie, her lips compressed into a straight line, raised her eyebrows in Ryan's direction. He gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile. Apparently, there were only three men to deal with.
"Are you all right?" he asked, giving Frankie a fleeting glance. He didn't think he could handle her blue eyes right now.
"She is fine," said Smith. He stood a small distance away, relaxed, smiling, but his weapon remained trained on Ryan.
Stalling, Ryan focused on his boots again, watching feet move around the clearing. Jones' moved toward Smith's. A whisper, a grunt, and then Jones quick-stepped into the trees. Except for Frankie's presence, Ryan would have risked the odds.
He didn't look up. "If it's all the same to you, I'd like to hear it from her."
"What's the matter, pardner? Don't trust me?" The Texas drawl was back. Dalton's size twelves stepped closer, with Frankie's smaller sneakers alongside.
"About as far as I can throw you, pardner."
"Hey, sometimes a man's gotta do what works best for him. There's a tropical island with my name on it, and island beauties waiting. But I'll be too old to enjoy it if I stick with Blackthorne's payment schedule. Free-lance will have me sipping cold ones in no time."
Hearing the words from Dalton's lips almost had him on his feet and at the man's throat. Almost. Right now, this was about saving lives. He swallowed his rage. He'd deal with Dalton later.
"Are you all right?" he repeated to Frankie. "Nobody's hurt you?"
"I'm okay." Her voice was calm. He glanced up. She gave him a weak smile.
"Of course she is," Dalton said.
Jones clumped out of the woods, wiping his mouth, his face pale and sweat-sheened.
"Apparently a meal my colleague ingested did not agree with him, but we are able to continue now," Smith said. "Let us proceed." He moved toward Ryan. Ryan pulled on his boots and stood before the gun prodded him again.
As their procession began, Ryan caught a smirk on Dalton's face. The trail Smith indicated soon widened into a dirt road covered with tire tracks. Ryan glanced at the surrounding mountains, but saw no familiar landmarks. He surmised there was some kind of dwelling not far away, and that the child would be there. In what condition remained to be seen.
With the wider path, their little parade had become more of a cluster. Dalton stayed with Frankie, although he no longer restrained her. Once more, Mr. Jones bolted into the trees. Smith slowed the pace until he caught up. They rounded a turn in the road, and a small cabin appeared off to one side, about twenty yards distant.
Wolf loped toward them, barking. Smith raised his weapon.
"Wait!" Ryan said. "Wolf. Down. Stay. They're friends."
The dog whined, as if he knew it was a lie, but obeyed, dropping to the ground at the side of the road.
"Good boy. Stay."
"If the dog moves, shoot it, " Smith told Dalton.
"No problem," Dalton replied. "The beast and I don't see eye to eye."
Frankie moved toward the cabin, picking up the pace. Dalton let her go. Of course he would. She wasn't going to go anywhere except to find her daughter. Smith didn't protest.
From the outside, the cabin looked like a larger relative of the one he and Frankie had left. Frankie ran ahead and had one hand on the door handle before Ryan could stop her.
*****
"Molly! Are you in there? I'm here." Powerful hands pulled Frankie away from the door.
"I don't think so," said the man Ryan called Mr. Smith. He gripped her arm. When she struggled to free herself, Smith released her with a shove that sent her stumbling to the ground.
Fear of what she'd find when she opened the door collided with her need to see Molly. Molly had to be alive. Ryan had said they wouldn't hurt her. She clung to that thought, and tri
ed not to dwell on the reason.
The other man, Mr. Jones, hovered over her, a hand extended. She refused to take it. He grabbed her arm and yanked her to her feet. He lowered his head to hers, muttering in a language she didn't understand.
She recoiled. "You ever heard of mouthwash?" she said under her breath. "Or deodorant?"
Mr. Smith barked a command, and the man released her, but he winked and made kissing sounds. She stood her ground, fueled by anger now, not fear.
Ignoring Jones, she snapped at Smith. "Give me my daughter."
"She is unharmed, I assure you. Cooperate and she will stay that way."
Jones retreated to lean against a tree near the front of the cabin. He held his weapon casually in the crook of his arm, his lips curled upward in a confident smirk.
Mr. Smith reached out and ran a forefinger down her cheek. She shuddered.
"Perhaps you also know what we seek," he said. "You might save everyone a lot of trouble if you will tell us, since your gentleman friend seems reluctant to do so."
Tell them, and they'd give her Molly. A scrap of paper for her daughter. An even exchange?
Frankie's heart slammed against her ribcage. Ryan's warning replayed in her mind. These men were liars, not to be trusted. She tried to swallow, but her mouth felt like sandpaper. Her gaze returned to Jones. Forcing her eyes away, she met Mr. Smith's reptilian smile. She raised her chin. "Maybe—" It came out a croak. Hands on her hips, she found some spit and licked her lips. "Maybe I do. Show me my daughter."
"She doesn't know anything." Ryan burst forward, Dalton beside him. "Let her go. I've got what you want." Dalton's gun was pointed at Ryan. Ryan's eyes met hers. Was he going to tell them? If he did, would it save Molly?
She looked from one man to the next. Cold, menacing faces. Unreadable faces.
"Oh, this is beginning to sound very much like your American television shows," said Mr. Smith. "Each protecting the other. How touching." Grasping her forearm, he looked at Ryan. "I hope she was worth it."
In a terrifying moment of clarity, she understood. It didn't matter what she or Ryan said or didn't say. These men were not going to let them live. She scanned the clearing for Wolf. He hadn't moved from his position. Would he obey her if she commanded him to attack? If he did, one of the men would surely shoot him. This was not saving Molly.