by Sylvie Kurtz
Vanderveer remained sitting still, pistol—Gray’s own Glock—pointed at Abbie’s head. A surge of terror blasted through him, drenching him in sweat, but Gray suppressed it. No matter what, Vanderveer was going to shoot them both. He had to stay open for an opportunity to give Abbie a chance to flee.
“Open all the car doors,” Vanderveer said.
He probably wanted to make sure no one was hiding in the back seat, that Gray was indeed alone. Armed, Vanderveer had the advantage and knew it. Gray did as he was asked.
“Walk toward me.”
Below him water hurtled over rocks and crashed over pilings. Defenseless, hands up at his sides, flash drive and handheld computer cupped in his palm, he took easy steps forward.
“Stop.”
Gray obeyed. The fight-or-flight response had kicked in big-time, washing adrenaline into his system, making his nerves jittery. He wished for shades to dim the sun’s glare and hide his eyes. But even without the prop he was good at making himself look relaxed.
“Now hand over the computer.”
Gray shook his head as if he was truly sorry he couldn’t cooperate. “Not until I see Abbie.”
“Look through the window.”
“Make her get out of the car. When she’s halfway to me, I’ll put down the flash drive and the BlackBerry and back away.”
Vanderveer opened his car door and, as Gray had done, used the door as a shield. Pointing the pistol at Abbie, he ordered her to get out. “Come to me.”
Abbie got out of the car. Her gaze jumped from Vanderveer to him and back. She was going to take a chance. She was going to bolt. Don’t do it, Abbie.
“I’ll shoot him,” Vanderveer said. “Do you understand?”
Abbie nodded and shuffled around the car, her ankles bound with duct tape. Ugly bruises purpled her legs beneath her shorts. Vanderveer was going to pay for each and every bruise he’d put on her.
“You’re looking for a fight that doesn’t have to happen,” Vanderveer said as he hooked an arm around Abbie’s chest and butted the pistol against her temple. “Whatever happens here is your fault. If she’s hurt, if she dies, it’s on your conscience.”
The only way to beat a bully, Gray learned long ago, was to pretend you were smaller and weaker—make them look big by letting them make you look small.
Don’t let them see your pain.
Helpless to help Abbie, Gray could only watch as Vanderveer shoved her forward and melded into one grotesque silhouette against the glaring sun.
“Put the computer down,” Vanderveer ordered.
“Let Abbie go.”
“I’m in control here, Reed. Put the damn computer down.”
Just as Gray was about to put down the stick and computer, Abbie jerked her bound hands out of the kangaroo pouch of the sweatshirt she wore. Her fist, curled around something he couldn’t quite make out, thrust upward.
A flash went off.
Then a gun.
Chapter Seventeen
Abbie was afraid. More afraid than she’d ever been. Everything around her took on a surreal quality—the stabbing sun, the roiling water, the pitted granite. But she couldn’t let Rafe win because if she did, then all of those who’d died protecting her had done so in vain. For a year she’d cowered in fear. She’d become someone else. She’d given up all she cared for—family, friends, career. For a year she’d beaten back her grief with only one goal in mind—make Rafe pay for murdering her father in cold blood. She wasn’t going to give up this close to the goal.
As Rafe prodded her toward Gray, a chill swan-dived down her spine. Gray had on his brave face, but his eyes gave away his worry. Rafe would see that. He would use it. He wouldn’t let them walk away. He was going to shoot them both. First Gray, then her. She didn’t want to lose him. Couldn’t lose him. Not to Rafe.
A serene calm came over her, filling her with strength. She reached into the pocket of her sweltering sweatshirt, flicked on the camera’s flash button and almost sagged with relief at the batteries’ hum beneath her fingers. Loosing a warrior’s cry, she thrust up her tied arms and pressed the test button for the flash.
Temporarily blinded, Rafe reflexively let her go. As she rammed forward, she shoved his weapon hand down. His gun went off. The striking bullet chewed off bits of granite and spit them out.
Instinct kicked in and she sprang away before he had a chance to recover. “Run, Gray!”
Just as if it were July at the quarry and Gray sat on the beach, eyeing her behind his mirrored sunglasses, pretending he wasn’t, she took a breath, raised her arms and jumped.
GRAY CHARGED TOWARD VANDERVEER. He’d thought he’d known fear, but when Abbie arched over the side of the bridge, he realized he hadn’t. Never like this. Never with every fiber of his body. Never as if his soul were being ripped right out of his body.
She was a strong swimmer. A survivor. This was just another dive.
Vanderveer raised his weapon.
Striking fast and hard, Gray head-butted Vanderveer in the gut. Both tumbled to the ground.
Weapon in hand, Vanderveer rounded a punch toward Gray’s face. Gray clenched his jaw and pushed himself forward, trying to avoid the blow. It landed hard just below his ear, making his head ring and snaking pain throughout his jaw. Gray answered with an uppercut that broke Vanderveer’s nose. Blood flowed.
An evasive maneuver on Vanderveer’s part found them both on their feet. Before Vanderveer could raise his weapon, Gray locked Vanderveer’s wrist in his left hand, grabbed the barrel with his right hand and twisted, breaking Vanderveer’s trigger finger. Vanderveer screamed his outrage. One last shove downward and Vanderveer released the weapon.
Breathing hard, Gray pointed his own Glock at Vanderveer’s chest. “It’s over.”
As Vanderveer swiped at the blood still running from his nose, a flat smile stretched his lips. He lurched forward. Gray squeezed the trigger. Vanderveer flung himself over the bridge railing and fell into the fast-moving water twenty feet below. His body disappeared under the white froth.
Gray swore. Vanderveer had gone after Abbie again. Gray hated bridges. Hated the way the rushing water made him feel as if someone had a hand to his back and wanted to push him over. Fighting vertigo, he scanned the banks of the river. Where was she?
Nothing. No Abbie on the shore. No Vanderveer. Did he have her?
Gray hiked his legs over the granite railing and jumped feetfirst, aiming for the channel in the middle of the river. After he hit the water, he spread his arms and legs to slow down his descent. He kicked for the surface. Fighting the force of the current dragging at his body, he sputtered and started looking for Abbie. The roar of the water as it broke against the rocky shore and the bridge pilings filled his ears. His arms and legs were fast tiring as he treaded water.
Then something flashed in his peripheral vision. Too-blond hair bobbing against the dark gray of wet granite. Alive? “Abbie!”
Abbie, still clinging to the bridge piling, turned her head. And when she saw him, the bright beam of those golden eyes and that golden smile tugged at his heart like a lifeline.
He’d almost lost her. He’d almost let Vanderveer take her away from him. He wasn’t going to let anything else keep her from him.
THE CURRENT SMASHED GRAY right into her, knocking her grip from the piling. His arms wrapped around her so tightly, she had trouble breathing. She stretched her duct-taped wrist up and over his head and hung on for dear life, relief shaking through her that he was still in one piece. What had happened to Vanderveer? Had Gray thrown him off the bridge?
“Since when do you know how to dive?” she asked, desperately trying to keep tears back.
A grin sloped across his tanned face. “From watching a beautiful swan dive off a ledge at the quarry. I had to find you, Abbie.”
Her throat too thick with tears to speak, she nodded. Together they swam for the rocks where Mercer now waited. He gave them a helping hand out and they sprawled on the grassy knoll above t
he rocky shore. “You two okay?”
Gray nodded. “Still standing. Vanderveer?”
“He washed up downriver, but he’s not moving.”
Gray ripped the duct tape from her wrists and ankles and patted her body down as if he expected to find every bone in her body broken. “She needs medical care.”
“On its way,” Mercer said, rising from his crouch. An odd smile quirked his lips. “I’ll fish Vanderveer out.”
“I’m perfectly fine,” Abbie said, pushing Gray’s hands away, then holding on to them, reluctant to let go of him for even an instant.
But he didn’t let go. He took her deeper into the haven of his arms, all soaking wet and wonderfully alive. The wide open silver of his eyes connected straight to her soul, reflecting the truth of his heart. He loved her. She tried to speak, but the words choked in her throat.
“I’m never letting you go again, Abbie. I can’t give you the world. All I have is me. But nobody will ever love you as much as I do.”
And that was more than she’d ever hoped for. “Yes.”
He looked confused. “Yes, what?”
“Wherever you go I’ll follow. I won’t make the same mistake twice.” She could never live in the mansion again, not after her father had been killed there. She didn’t know what she would do about the mill, about Echo Falls, about anything, but she was sure of one thing. She could do anything, anywhere, as long as she had Gray in her life. “All I want is you, Gray. I have forever and I will forever. And that’s more than enough.”
THE TRIAL WAS POSTPONED UNTIL Rafe’s condition improved. What did they expect? That his spine would miraculously heal? That he’d rise from this prison hospital bed and walk into the courtroom? His blasted spine was crushed. He’d never walk again. He’d never stand again.
“Nurse!” His voice barely projected past his own face. He’d been calling for five minutes and nobody answered. It wasn’t as if he could scratch his own itches anymore—as if he could feed himself or dress himself or even breathe for himself. A machine at his back took that function over for him, making speech a halting indignity. He had to get out of here. Soon.
“Nurse!” The force of trying to speak turned his throat raw.
The door to his left swooshed open. A big, broad, bald man entered, wearing white scrubs. “You rang.”
“I’ve been ringing…for the past ten…minutes. I need to make…a call.” The effort sapped his energy more quickly than he’d expected.
“Sorry. You get one call a day and you used it up with your lawyer.”
“I need…to talk to him…again.”
“Sorry.” The man went about his business as if Rafe was a piece of meat on a slab.
“I demand—”
The nurse glared at him, his dark eyes cold and empty. “You’re not in a position to make no demands.”
“I can…pay you—”
A rocky laugh echoed in the room. “With what?”
“I have…money.”
The nurse sneered. “Not from what I hear.”
“Just let me…call. You’ll see.”
“Sorry, man. Gotta go with the sure thing.”
The nurse put down his chart, then reached behind Rafe’s neck. Rafe floundered, choking, looking desperately for breath. He couldn’t fight. He couldn’t do anything except lie there helplessly. The nurse bent down toward him and whispered, “Mr. al-Khafar sends his regards.”
Chapter Eighteen
“Hey, Hollywood, I heard you took up diving.” Kingsley grinned at Gray from the computer console where he was setting up today’s daily briefing in the basement bunker of the Aerie.
“It’s a real rush.” As he walked by, Gray jabbed Kingsley in the ribs with an elbow. “Thanks for everything.”
Dimples practically cutting his face in two, Kingsley dropped the octopus of wires he was holding and copped his best GQ imitation of Gray. “No sweat.”
“What happened to your suit?” Skyralov, who was filling a mug with hot water for his usual dose of green tea, looked him up and down. “And your shades?”
Gray glanced down at his jeans and light blue polo shirt. “I’m going for the Saturday-afternoon-college-football-watching look.” Grinning, he pumped a fist in the air. “Go Aggies.”
Skyralov’s laughter filled the room. “Even in jeans you still look too much like a magazine cover.”
“He sweats.” The disembodied voice came from the wall where Mercer stood with an unusual sparkle to his green eyes.
“Like a horse,” Gray agreed, no longer caring if his admission marred the image he’d carefully constructed for the rest of the team.
Skyralov smirked. “Who’d have guessed?”
“I always knew he had it in him,” Kingsley said, plugging in the final wire.
Gray dropped into a leather chair around the cherrywood conference table. Farthest from the door—his usual post. He reached for one of Liv’s famous orange-date muffins.
Harper looked up from the notes he was busily scribbling onto a lined pad of paper. “Watch out. He just got his butt chewed by three different agencies trying to cover your behind.”
The “he” in question strode in and took his place at the head of the table. The room became so silent that the burp of the coffee machine in the corner sounded like an insult.
“Okay, bring me up to date,” Falconer said, opening the top file in the pile before him.
Grasping his red suspenders, Kingsley gave the daily security briefing.
Mercer followed with an update on the Vanderveer case. “We recovered all the evidence left behind by Vanderveer and Pamela Hatcher. She’s off to jail to await trial. Al-Khafar’s still on the loose, but Hatcher kept meticulous notes and there’s a record of all the information Vanderveer sold al-Khafar. Damage control is possible.”
“Vanderveer’s death saved the taxpayers the cost of a trial,” Gray said, wondering who’d gotten to Vander-veer in prison.
Mercer nodded. “With this being the second death in that facility in less than six months, prison authorities have no choice but to launch a full investigation.”
Nodding, Falconer turned to his cousin. “Harper.”
Harper scowled at his notes. “The inside man at WITSEC turned out to be Phil Auclair’s wife, Claudia. Her dissatisfaction with the state of her marriage showed up on Vanderveer’s radar. She wanted her husband to retire, and he wasn’t ready. She and Vanderveer struck a deal. She’d tell him what her husband was working on, and he’d ensure an early retirement, not to mention facilitate that early retirement with a financial bonus. When she didn’t want to play anymore, he threatened her husband’s life. Wasn’t until Vanderveer’s death was announced that she relented and filled in all the details. She was a tough interview.”
“You got her to talk.” Falconer went over the rest of his agenda, then glanced around the table. “Anything else?”
“Laynie McDaniels died last night,” Skyralov said, his expression somber. “She’s the latest victim of the marriage con I’m hunting. She never came out of her coma. Her funeral’s on Thursday. Simply stranding his wives with debts up the wazoo doesn’t seem to satisfy our serial marrier anymore. If this guy figures it’s easier to kill them than to just leave them, his next victim could be in grave danger.”
Falconer’s frown deepened. “Any leads?”
“I followed his tracks from Louisiana to Alabama. Just got a hit in Florida. I’m heading down there as soon as I get out of here. He seems to be following the coastline. Has a thing for boats.”
“Keep me posted.” Falconer closed his folder. “That’s all, gentlemen. Check your PDAs for updates. Reed, stay behind.”
Harper squeezed Gray’s shoulder as he left. Everyone knew a reaming was next on the agenda, so they all filed out without a glance.
Falconer contemplated him with his hard eyes and sharp face.
The weight of silence pressed at Gray. “You would’ve done anything for Liv.”
Falconer n
odded, leaning back in his chair.
“I did the same for Abbie.”
“You didn’t have to go it alone.”
Gray popped a careless shrug. “I thought there was a mole inside.”
“And you don’t think I could’ve handled that?”
Gray met Falconer’s gaze straight on. “He’s your cousin.”
“He’s not here because he’s family. He’s here because he’s good at what he does and got a raw deal from the agency that was supposed to be watching his back.” Falconer rose and gathered his files. “Just like the rest of us.”
“I know that now.”
“Good.” Falconer’s mouth skewed sideways. He handed the files to Gray. “Welcome home.”
ECHO FALLS WOULD NEVER LOOK the same to Gray. Not after seeing it through Abbie’s eyes. The little town sparkled under the summer sun. The people he passed as he wound his way through the lower village took on individual faces with stories of their own.
At Peanut Row he slowed. The engine of his rescued Corvette idling, he stared at the home where he’d grown up. He’d had some good times here. Why had he blocked them out of his memory? He massaged the stiffness cranking the tendons tight in the back of his neck. Now that he was here, he wasn’t quite sure what to do.
He twisted off the ignition and strode across the street to the red door. Kingsley had brought Brynna—at her insistence—home today. Gray wanted to make sure she was all right. Taking in a breath, he knocked.
A volley of small yips answered him. “Quiet, Queenie!”
“Bryn, it’s Gray. Can I come in?”
The silence on the other side of the door became black-hole deep. “Please, Bryn. I’m not walking away this time. There’s been enough silence between us.”
Footsteps padded against the linoleum of the hallway. The lock turned. Then the door creaked open and Bryn appeared, holding her little Yorkie in her arms—a shield between them. Her face bore a series of black-and-blue bruises. A small patch was shaved from her head and now sported a bandage where she’d had stitches. “I’m so sorry, Bryn. I never meant for you to get hurt.”