Before the Storm

by Leslie Tentler

  A horrible déjà vu fell over her.

  “I know about Devin’s breath games. He accidentally killed one of our girls with that shit. You say you sold the diamonds and spent all the money? I don’t believe you! Either way, I’m going to get my money’s worth—from you, or whoever’s with that little girl.”

  Samantha’s pulse pounded in her skull, her lungs cramping and begging for air. She reached up, trying again to scratch at his face. But deprived of oxygen, her movements had grown uncoordinated and clumsy. A panicked sweat broke out on her body. As she began to lose consciousness, he eased up a bit, allowing her to cough and take in a few feeble breaths.

  “The diamonds or the money, Trina. Where’s the kid with that stuffed animal? Tell me, and I might let her live.”

  When she only dragged air into her lungs, he drew the cord taut. Drops of blood from where she’d wounded him with the pencil fell onto her face.

  He took her to the edge of asphyxiation before relenting again, allowing only a weak gasp for air before continuing her torture. Her brain grew fuzzy, and her heart skittered in shallow, erratic beats. Red licked his lips. Dazed, Samantha was aware of his arousal straining against his pants as he watched her face. Fingers fluttering weakly at the cord around her throat, she felt helpless tears slide from the corners of her eyes.

  In his own way, Red was raping her. His ultimate turn-on was violence, and Samantha had become his playmate. He eased and tightened the cord again and again, his smile cold.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  “How much more can you take, babe? Tell me the truth, and I’ll make it all stop. Just tell me where that family went.”

  He loosened the cord once again as her vision began to grow dark. Lightheaded, trembling from the slow, painful bouts of suffocation, Samantha felt her throat working, but no sound emerged except ragged little gasps for air. Her fingertips were sticky with blood—her blood, she realized vaguely—from where she’d clawed at the makeshift garrote. He was killing her slowly, relentlessly. This is how it would end. And all she could do was hope that God would keep Mark and his family safe. That she hadn’t doomed them, too.

  “Have it your way.” Red snapped the cord taut with a grunt. She convulsed, fresh pain searing her throat. But just as suddenly, it went slack, leaving her coughing. Red’s head whipped around at the crashing sound that had come from the front of the house. “What the fuck? Cyril!”

  The other man didn’t answer.

  Getting off the bed, Red hauled Samantha with him. When her legs failed to support her, he wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her against his chest, moving to the doorway and down the hall, leading with his gun. “Cyril!”

  Rain hammered the house as candles set up around the living room emitted weak, flickering light. Samantha expected to see the large bay window broken out, its shutters ripped away by the winds, or a tree poking through the roof. Instead, Cyril lay facedown on the floor, moaning. Samantha’s chest squeezed. The heavy bookcase had toppled over on him, pinning the lower half of his body. Books, framed photos and shards of glass were scattered everywhere.

  “I have what you want, Leary.”

  At the unexpected sound of Mark’s voice, Samantha’s damaged throat clogged with tears. Terror sluiced through her, a thousand times worse than before. No, God, please. Don’t let him be here.

  Red whirled, keeping her against his chest, his gun pointed.

  Her heart turned sideways as she saw Mark standing in the shadow of the grandfather clock, also holding a gun. Confusion welled inside her. Why hadn’t he gone to Augusta? He must’ve slipped inside and managed to push over the bookcase, taking Cyril by surprise, then confiscating his firearm. His concerned gaze met hers for a bare second before focusing on Red.

  “Do you want the diamonds or not?”

  He’ll die, too, and it will be my fault.

  Red hugged Samantha to his body, a human shield. “Where are they?”

  Keeping the weapon in his right hand carefully trained, Mark reached into his pocket and pulled out a small cloth bag. He tossed it onto the area rug halfway to where Red and Samantha stood. “Leave her here and go. You can take the diamonds. Your friend’s legs are probably broken, but you can still get him out of here before the road’s completely—”

  Samantha startled as Red fired into Cyril with a muted thwap. A wounded accomplice was nothing but dead weight to him. A spasm went through Cyril’s big body, and then he lay still. Blood bloomed on his back. Shocked, Samantha opened her mouth to cry out, but only a pitiful croak emerged.

  Mark appeared stunned at Red’s atrocity, too, but kept calm. “You can have what you came for, Leary. The road’s still passable for now—get out while you can.”

  “That’s generous of you.” Samantha’s blood iced as Red placed the tip of the silencer under her jaw. It felt hot, the acrid smell of gunpowder strong. “But you’re going to put down that gun, asshole. Now. Unless you want to see me do to her what I just did to him.”

  “You kill her, and I’m going to kill you,” Mark warned.

  “You really want to test that theory?”

  Samantha’s voice emerged hoarsely. “Don’t do it, Mark, don’t put down the gun—”

  “Shut up!” Red pressed the tip harder into her flesh. She shook her head, her breath coming in cramped waves as Mark’s eyes slowly filled with fear.

  “Don’t,” she rasped again. “No matter what. He’ll kill you!”

  “She won’t be so pretty without her face. Shame.” Red kissed the top of her head, and her body shuddered as she felt his grip on the trigger shifting. “Bye, babe…”

  Mark’s voice split the air. “No!”

  Hesitantly, he lowered his weapon, his shoulders sagging in defeat. Anguish and apology were written on his features as he looked at Samantha. She’d known in her heart he wouldn’t be able to watch her die. Tears slipped down her face. He was as good as dead now, too.

  “Put the gun on the floor and kick it over. Now.”

  Mark did as he was told. Only then did Red lower the gun, although he still kept a tight hold on Samantha, his fingers biting into her wrist as he scooped up the other weapon and shoved it into the back of his pants, then moved to snatch up the bag. He jerked Samantha around, jabbing the gun in Mark’s direction although his eyes locked on hers. Blood trickled down his cheek from where she’d stabbed him with the pencil. “Who’s this cowboy? Is this his house?”

  “Don’t hurt her,” Mark entreated. “My name’s Mark St. Clair. Look, I have money. We can work something out.”

  Red chuckled darkly. “Another pretty boy, huh, Trina? The St. Clair. Looks like you traded up real good. Living in the lap of luxury while my brother’s rotted in the ground, thanks to you.”

  “I-I didn’t know where Devin hid the diamonds! Please! He doesn’t have anything to do with this—” Samantha gasped in pain as Red twisted her wrist hard to silence her. Mark took a step forward.

  “Don’t you fucking move!” Red pointed the gun at Mark’s face. Samantha knew in that instant he would die first. Red would want her to watch.

  With a hoarse cry, she tried to wrench herself free, lunging for the gun with her other hand. Samantha shoved wildly at Red’s arm to unsteady his aim, to give Mark a chance to take cover. She felt her wrist snap with another vicious twist, the pain nearly making her faint. With a growl, Red threw her off, knocking her into the coffee table. Samantha fell hard, shattering the glass top. When she looked up, both men were struggling for control of the gun. It fired somewhere into the house with another nerve-searing thwap and flash of light. Red swung out, striking Mark with his fist and sending him stumbling a step back. He never had a chance to recover. The gun caught him viciously on the temple next.

  He crumpled.

  A strangled cry escaped her. Bleeding from the broken glass, wrist throbbing, Samantha began crawling like a wounded dog to where Mark lay, but Red already stood over him. Mark appeared conscious but dazed.

&
nbsp; Red pointed the silencer’s long barrel at Mark’s heaving chest, and Samantha felt herself sinking. She would die with him. They would be together. “Hope a piece of ass was worth it, son. You don’t mess with anything that belongs to the Learys.”

  “You don’t have the diamonds,” Mark panted. “Look…”

  Red dug the small bag from his pocket, cursing as his fingers pried at the tight drawstring opening. At the same time, Samantha heard a rising buzz in her ears as she saw the shift of shadows on the other side of the room. From her spot on the floor, she tried not to give away with her eyes that they were no longer the only people in the room. Luther must have come through the service door that led in from the rear courtyard, his entrance masked by the storm’s rising force.

  Something glimmered dully in the darkness. He gripped a large kitchen knife.

  Red’s features contorted with rage. “Gravel?”

  “I have them, just like I said. The diamonds are here on the property. But you kill either of us, and you’ll never—”

  Mark flinched, trying to protect himself with his forearm as the bag flew at his face. Red’s boot struck him hard in the ribs, then struck him again in a second brutal attack. She wanted to scream at Luther to help him, but Samantha clapped a hand over her mouth, her eyes tearing as he gasped and writhed on the floor. All the while, Luther crept steadily closer. Red pointed the gun at Mark again.

  “Two seconds,” he warned, breathing hard. “You’re going to tell me where those fucking diamonds are, or I’m going to start with your kneecaps and work my way up to—”

  Red whirled, apparently becoming aware of Luther’s presence. But before he could fire, Luther threw the knife hard. It sailed through the air, its blade plunging into the center of Red’s chest.

  Shock passed over Red’s face. A second later, his fingers released the gun. He dropped to his knees and then to the floor face-first, the fall shoving the blade more deeply into him with a wet, sickening sound. Samantha’s stomach lurched. Luther gripped the wall for support. Sinking down beside Red’s body, he landed with a heavy, sodden thud.

  The house shuddered in a frenzied gust. Around them the winds roared.

  Gina had made landfall.

  “Mark,” she whispered, panicked when he didn’t respond. He lay in a protective position on his side, breathing shallowly but unmoving. He’d passed out. A trickle of blood leaked from his hairline. Gently, she shook his shoulder and brushed his rain-damp hair from his forehead, uncaring of the pain that shot through her wrist, her throat. “Please, Mark. Please wake up!”

  He groaned as his eyes slowly fluttered open a few seconds later. Relief flooded through her. “Mark…”

  With some effort, he rolled onto his back, grimacing as he held his ribs.

  “Don’t try to get up, all right?”

  “I’m okay,” he said, although he sounded weak. He squinted at Red’s sprawled form on the floor a few feet away and then at Luther, who gave him a halfhearted smile before leaning his head back against the wall and tiredly closing his eyes. Despite the makeshift bandage, blood trickled down Luther’s arm.

  “Thank you,” Mark uttered to him.

  “Couldn’t find any police,” Luther said. “Town’s only got a half-dozen of ’em anyway.”

  The hurricane shutters rattled like a death knell.

  Despite her objections, Mark eased himself up with a painful grunt to sit against the wall, too. His features reflected his own upset as he studied Samantha’s face so close to his in the shadows. She shook visibly as his fingers gently touched the swelling on her cheekbone. Looking at her throat, the bloody scratches and deep bruising she knew were there, he cursed softly.

  “I’m so sorry, Mark,” she murmured, burying her head against his shoulder.

  He hushed her, his own voice low and filled with self-recrimination. “I’m the one who’s sorry. No one’s ever going to hurt you again.” He swallowed heavily. “Including me.”

  Samantha pressed into him as much as his injuries would allow, trying to find his warmth as her tears mingled with the wet shirt molded to his solid body. His heart beat under her palm, and she said a prayer of gratitude for it even as, overhead, hard rock-like sounds replaced the driving rain. It had begun to hail, unusual in a hurricane.

  “Why are you here, Mark?” She raised her head and said hoarsely, “You’re supposed to be in Augusta.”

  She saw his eyes go to Luther again.

  “I called you and never heard back. I couldn’t leave without making sure you’d made it out of town. That you were safe.” Mark frowned, his fingers covering hers that lay on his chest. “Something kept telling me to check on you. Thank God I did. I found Luther in the storeroom.”

  When Samantha had taken Mrs. Holtz to the urgent care center, the sign in the exam room had instructed that all cell phones be turned off. She’d forgotten to turn hers back on.

  “Road’s underwater by now for sure,” Luther said. “It was startin’ to flood when I came through. We won’t make it if we try to get back out tonight.”

  “Then we’ll have to ride it out here,” Mark said with determination. Samantha felt his flinch as something large hit the roof. A tree limb? He tightened his hold on her, trying to keep her safe. “But we need to get into the center of the house where there aren’t any windows and it’s more structurally sound. We’ll go to the attic if the waters rise this far.”

  “Can you stand, Mr. St. Clair?” Luther asked.

  Mark wiped at the blood trickling down his temple. “I think so. You?”

  “Yeah. Sure could go for some of the hard stuff to take the edge off, though.”

  “There’s a liquor cabinet in my study. Help yourself.” Squeezing his eyes briefly closed, he appeared pale in the candlelight. “Bring a couple of bottles back. We could all use a drink.”

  Unsteadily, Mark eased himself up, using the wall with Samantha helping as best she could, her left wrist stiff and throbbing. His wince as he straightened, his hand pressed to his side, cut through her. They all needed medical attention, but he could be bleeding internally.

  She owed both these men her life. Samantha stood beside Mark, a coldness filling her as they looked around the carnage. She had been prepared to die tonight. Instead, Cyril lay dead under the overturned bookcase, Red nearby. His gun was still on the floor by his splayed hand.

  “He’s dead,” Mark assured her. Still, Samantha bent and timidly took the gun, as well as the one tucked inside the back of his pants.

  Fresh tears slipped down her cheeks.

  “Hey.” Mark gently caught her face in his hands as she returned to him. “We’re going to get through this. The storm, too.”

  She was only able to nod mutely in response.

  “And then we’re going to get back to our lives. Together.”

  “I didn’t kill Devin,” she said through her tears. “Red said—”

  “A man named Sergei Boklov did. The Memphis Police know that. That’s one of the reasons I’ve been trying to reach you.”

  She shook her head, still confused and needing him to believe her. “I didn’t steal any diamonds, Mark. I wouldn’t—”

  He hushed her again as the winds screamed. A sob escaped her that was a mixture of anguish and relief as he pressed his lips to her forehead. She trembled harder, hearing his soft curse as the roof moaned. An odd, greenish light was visible around the shutters’ edges that raised the hair on her nape.

  “We need to go,” Mark said.

  Her stomach rancid with fear but her heart grabbing on to hope, Samantha tried not to think about the high winds and rising waters. Instead, she concentrated on the man who cared enough for her to go on a fool’s mission to try to save her.

  Taking up candles, they followed Luther’s path down the hallway, seeking some shelter within the house that might protect them from the storm raging outside.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Samantha awoke with her head on Mark’s chest. Her back was
cramped, and she shifted slightly in the tub in the hall bathroom where they’d taken refuge last night. Then she lifted her head completely.

  There was no noise, she realized. No pummeling rain or howling winds. The bathroom door remained closed, but a shallow light was visible beneath it. Morning. Had the worst of the storm passed? The roof hadn’t caved in on them, nor had the waters gotten high enough to flood the house.

  Mark.

  The candles had melted down to nubs, but in their flickering light, she could see the sable brush of his lashes, his closed eyes. She recalled him holding her through the night, promising her over and over that she was safe as she dealt with the aftershock of Red’s violence. Her heart twisted at the ugly bruise marring his temple. Gently, she shook his shoulder, suddenly fearing he hadn’t just fallen asleep from exhaustion as she had, but had slipped into unconsciousness. Her worry eased as he roused, appearing disconcerted to be lying in a bathtub with Samantha curled against him.

  He rubbed a hand over his face. “God. I must’ve drifted off.”

  “We both did.” Voice hoarse, she swallowed painfully.

  “I don’t hear anything outside.”

  Samantha smoothed his rumpled hair back from his forehead. “How do you feel?”

  “It hurts a little to breathe,” he admitted, grimacing as he pushed himself up straighter. He frowned, his eyes worried as his fingers traced over her injuries. She was certain they both looked as though they had been through hell and back, but somehow they’d survived.

  After all these years, Red was no longer a threat. But dread knotted inside her as she thought of the two dead bodies lying in another room of the house. What they would tell the authorities, she wasn’t sure.

  Samantha climbed carefully from the tub, her abused body protesting. It took a little longer for Mark to get himself out, and she helped as best she could with her swollen wrist. She’d lifted his shirt last night and examined the mottled bruising on his upper abdomen in the candlelight. He very possibly had a broken rib. As she opened the bathroom door, gray morning light illuminated the paleness of his features.