Dead By Nightfall

by Beverly Barton

  If anyone could find the pseudo-York, it was Raphael Byrne.

  But first, they had to find Rafe.

  Lost in thought, at first Griffin didn’t hear Barbara Jean speaking to him. Only when she reached up from her wheelchair and touched his arm did he realize she was there.

  “I’m sorry. What did you say?” Griff asked.

  “You haven’t eaten a bite since breakfast yesterday morning and then only toast and coffee,” Barbara Jean informed him, a maternal censure in her mild voice. “You’ll be no good to yourself or anyone else if you pass out from hunger.”

  He knew she meant well, that Barbara Jean looked out for everyone there at Griffin’s Rest like a mother hen. If he didn’t eat something soon, she just might try force-feeding him.

  “I promise I’ll eat.”

  “Fine. I’ve brought in a tray of sandwiches and put on fresh pots of coffee.” She nodded to the two coffeemakers on a table in the back of the office suite, both now brewing a steady stream of hot, black coffee. “Take a break soon.” She glanced around the room and said, “All of you. No one touched the lunch that Mattie and I prepared.”

  “How about we stop and eat in shifts?” Griff suggested.

  “Fine. As long as y’all eat.” She looked pointedly at Sanders.

  He didn’t respond verbally, but did make eye contact when he nodded.

  Barbara Jean waited until Griff poured himself a cup of coffee and picked up a sandwich before she wheeled out of the office. After downing a sip of coffee and taking a bite out of a ham-and-cheese sandwich, Griff realized he actually was hungry. Derek, Maleah, and Sanders soon joined him at the refreshment table set up in the back of the office. The other three agents—Shaughnessy Hood, Brendan Richter, and Everett Dawson—continued working.

  Griffin wolfed down the rest of the sandwich and then poured a second cup of coffee. He caught Maleah Perdue staring at him. Sensing she wanted to say something to him, he looked directly at her.

  “Go ahead,” he told her. “Let me have it.”

  Maleah glared at him, her anger barely restrained. She clenched her teeth tightly. Griff figured she really was going to let him have it with both barrels. Hell, he wished she would. He deserved it.

  But before she managed to compose herself enough to say anything, Derek reached out and placed his hand in the center of her back. Griff noticed Maleah relaxing, the tension in her body easing and the strained muscles in her face softening.

  “Maleah knows that we all want the same thing,” Derek said. “Nothing else matters now except finding Nic and bringing her home.”

  “Derek’s right,” Maleah finally said, then slammed her coffee mug down on the table and walked away, straight to the door and out of the office.

  “She doesn’t hate me any more than I hate myself,” Griff told Derek.

  “She doesn’t really hate you. She hates what’s happened. She loves Nic. She’s worried sick and she’s holding on by a thin thread.” Derek looked directly at Griff. “The same way you are.”

  Lina had delivered the makeup bag and clothes an hour ago. The panties, bra, sundress, and sandals were all expensive designer items. When Nic had tried to question Lina, she had seemed confused. Apparently the young woman understood very little English. Or she had done an excellent job of pretending she didn’t. Either way, Nic had gotten no useful information from her.

  When Lina had offered to brush her hair and apply her makeup, Nic had declined.

  “You hurry. Not keep him waiting.”

  “Don’t keep who waiting?” Nic had asked.

  Lina had shaken her head, then said, “You be ready.” She grabbed Nic’s hand. “Yes, please.”

  Sensing the woman’s fear, Nic had asked, “And if I’m not ready when he comes to get me, what will happen to you?”

  Lina had shifted her gaze nervously right and left. “If I am bad”—she lowered her voice to a whisper—“I must be punished.”

  Every instinct Nic possessed urged her to rebel and demand that Lina join her, for the two of them to go up against Lina’s oppressor, to take on their mutual enemy. But common sense quickly reined in Nic’s immediate response. “You don’t need to worry,” Nic promised. “I’ll be ready.”

  And so here she was, wearing a calf-length, bright yellow sundress with white leather sandals and pale yellow underwear, her hair neatly brushed, and her makeup applied sparingly. She was ready. But for whom? And for what?

  With each passing minute, Nic grew more nervous as one frightening scenario after another flashed through her mind. She didn’t know what, if anything, had happened to her while she’d been drugged, but she chose to believe she had been left alone to sleep. She had no idea what might happen to her today. The only thing she knew for sure was that Anthony Linden, the man suspected of being the assassin hired to kill Powell agents and members of their families, had kidnapped her. She had no doubt that if he was ordered to kill her, he would not hesitate.

  But Linden could have easily killed her at her Gatlinburg cabin yesterday. Whoever Linden worked for, the person issuing the orders, didn’t want her dead. At least not yet. She had been abducted because she was Griffin Powell’s wife and the mysterious “he” intended to use her to make Griff suffer. Would he torture her? Would he subject her to untold humiliation and physical torment? If “he” was the pseudo-York and anything like the real York had been, then he was capable of terrifying atrocities. Hadn’t he already hired Linden to murder six innocent people associated with the Powell Agency? Hadn’t he, by holding her seven-year-old niece hostage, forced a Powell agent to kill one of Yvette’s psychic protégés and ordered her to kill Maleah Perdue?

  A man such as that was capable of anything.

  Sitting quietly on the edge of the chaise longue, doing her best to steel her nerves and prepare herself for whatever might happen, Nic jumped as if she’d been shot when the bedroom door opened.

  Anthony Linden, freshly shaved, his bald head smooth and shiny, his white slacks and shirt slightly wrinkled, entered the room. “Good afternoon, Nicole. I trust you’ve been provided everything you need.”

  She rose to her feet and faced him. Surveying him from head to toe, she realized several things all at once. He was a sturdily built man in his early to midforties, muscular and fit. He wore no disguise, allowing her to see the real man. Since she would be able to identify him, it was highly unlikely he would allow her to live.

  “You’re really quite a beautiful woman,” Linden told her. “Dressed and undressed.”

  Nic’s stomach clenched. He had seen her naked. Had he done more than look at her?

  She hated the way he smiled at her, cocky and self-assured, with a hint of mockery. When she glared at him, her contempt no doubt visible in her expression, he laughed.

  “You are not my type, Mrs. Powell,” Linden assured her. “Some men may like the statuesque Amazon warrior type of woman. I prefer a smaller, less fierce female.”

  Nic glared at him.

  “Your virtue is intact. Lina undressed you. All I did was enjoy the scenery. Besides, you are off-limits, except by special permission from our host.”

  “And who is our host?”

  “You will find out in due time. He’s eager to meet Griffin Powell’s wife.”

  “Griffin Powell’s estranged wife.”

  “Your choice, I believe, not your husband’s. A decision you made after he received a letter informing him where he could find Yvette Meng’s long-lost daughter.”

  “You seem to know a great deal, Mr. Linden, for a mere employee.”

  “Please, I insist you call me Tony.” He held out his hand, which she ignored. “Our host would like for me to give you a tour of this house and the grounds and allow you to observe one of several pastimes available to his guests.”

  “Do I have a choice ... Tony?”

  “No, Nicole, you do not.”

  “Then by all means, give me a tour. The sooner that’s done, the sooner I’ll meet our host, r
ight?”

  After giving her another unnerving smile, he called out to the guard in the hallway. She walked up beside Linden, but refused to touch him. When the door opened, he escorted her out into the hall, down a long corridor, and straight to a double set of stairs leading down to the ground floor level of what appeared to be a rather large mansion.

  “There are nine bedrooms in this twelve-thousand-square-foot house, one of many around the world owned by my employer,” Linden told her as he led her through the marble-floored foyer, into a huge parlor, then a dining room that easily seated a dozen people, and out onto the patio and pool area that she could see from her upstairs bedroom.

  “You may use the pool whenever you like or you can sunbathe in one of the lounge chairs.” Linden raked his gaze over her breasts. “I have no doubt that your lovely olive skin tans beautifully.”

  He was flirting with her, playing host as if she were a willing guest, and prolonging the inevitable for a reason. She suspected that he was deliberately trying to lull her into a false sense of security. If so, there could be only one reason—he wanted whatever happened next to surprise her, perhaps shock her or even scare the hell out of her.

  Meredith Sinclair, Yvette’s most gifted protégée, and Luke Sentell, the Powell Agency’s from Black Ops agent, arrived at Griffin’s Rest shortly before six that evening. The moment she arrived, Griff sent Meredith upstairs to Yvette, explaining to her what was needed. He had then taken Luke into his den and shut the door.

  “Sanders contacted us while we were en route from Paducah,” Luke said. “I assume you have no word about Mrs. Powell yet?”

  “No, nothing,” Griff said.

  “Tell me what I can do.”

  “Your expertise will no doubt be needed more later on, but for now, you can contact anyone and everyone you know who might be able to help us. Even the smallest bit of information could help locate Nic.”

  “I understand. I’ll start immediately. I can make several phone calls, but I can gain more info out in the field. I should leave tonight, if at all possible.”

  “Let Sanders know what you need and he’ll see that you get it. You’ll report in to me or if I’m unavailable to Sanders or Derek Lawrence.”

  “I’ll need a line of credit and—”

  “Tell Sanders how much and he’ll transfer the funds in the morning,” Griff said. “Spend whatever is necessary. There is no amount too high to pay for the right information.”

  “And no action off-limits.”

  “Absolutely. Do whatever needs to be done.” Griff had just given a trained killer, albeit trained by the U.S. government, carte blanche to kill. “While you’re gathering info, see what you can do to help Sanders locate a man who was on Amara with us. His name was Raphael Byrne then. He has probably been using various aliases the past sixteen years. Sanders can give you all the information we have on him.”

  “Do I need to know why we’re looking for Mr. Byrne?”

  “Because he could be our best chance, maybe our only chance, of finding the man who calls himself Malcolm York. We all agree that odds are the fake York orchestrated Nic’s abduction.”

  When Linden opened the double doors in the foyer, the doors that led outside to the front of the mansion, Nic held her breath. Was there any way she could escape? The armed guards outside the doorway gave her the answer—no way in hell. While she halted on the expansive veranda, Linden walked ahead of her, down the three steps to the yard, and then turned and held out his hand.

  “Come along, Nicole. There is a great deal to see before nightfall.”

  And just what happened at nightfall?

  She remembered Griff telling her that Malcolm York’s hunts always stopped at the end of the day and if a kill had not been made earlier, one of the wounded human prey was singled out to be killed at nightfall.

  When she hesitated, Linden frowned. “I would prefer not having to force you. If that becomes necessary, it won’t be pleasant for either of us.”

  Reminding herself that far more than her own life was on the line, Nic went down the steps and directly over to Linden’s side. He smiled.

  “Good girl. I have to admit that your compliance has surprised me. I had expected you to put up even more of a fight than you have.”

  “Don’t mistake cooperation for weakness,” she told him.

  He lifted his brow and stared at her. “Duly warned. Now come along. I’ll show you where the prized stock is kept before we join the others in today’s hunt.”

  Nic forced herself to keep moving, to stay at Linden’s side without betraying any sign of emotion. He had to know that she possessed some knowledge of Griff’s experiences on Amara and therefore had some idea what to expect. But like a little boy eager to show off his new bicycle, Linden hurried her along, away from the house and down a long, winding, brick walkway. All the while he softly hummed a rather pleasant tune. A building that vaguely resembled an open-air pavilion stood at the top of a nearby hill. Mentally and emotionally preparing herself for whatever she might see, Nic didn’t slow her pace as she followed Linden up the steps set into the hillside that took them all the way to the large, thatch-roofed structure. She wanted to stop, to turn around, and run away as fast as she could. But she didn’t run.

  Do what you have to do. Stay strong. Show no weakness.

  As they approached the huge dirt-floored hut, she noticed several armed guards patrolling the area. Linden guided her from one large wooden cage to the next, each of the first four empty.

  “These four are taking part in today’s hunt,” Linden said. “It’s a small party today. Only six hunters.”

  She stopped and stared at the empty cages. Her own husband had once lived inside a cage as these men did.

  “Come along. I’ll show you the two lucky bastards who weren’t chosen for today’s adventure.”

  The two remaining cages were occupied by young men, both bearded and dirty, their hair touching their shoulders, their pants and shirts in rags. She forced herself to look at them, to really see them, and reminded herself that this was what it must have been like for Griff on Amara. One man lay on the dirt floor, his scrawny body curled into a fetal ball, his eyes closed, and a soft moan coming from deep in his chest. The other man wore a set of leg irons and wrist manacles, the two connected to restrict his movements. When Nic stopped in front of his cage, he stared straight at her.

  “Come to feed the animals?” he asked.

  His question startled her. She jerked back and away from the cage.

  He was tall and still somewhat muscular, despite being much too thin. His cheeks were sunken and she could count his ribs. But there was fire in his brown eyes, a blaze born of anger and hatred and a will to live. She recognized that look only too well.

  “I’m not here by choice either,” she told him.

  “Then God help you.”

  By the end of the day, approximately twenty-eight hours after Nicole Baxter Powell had disappeared, the Powell Agency’s all-out manhunt for her was fully operational. Every resource known to man had been employed. Every contact Griff, Sanders, Luke Sentell, Brendan Richter, and Derek Lawrence knew, on even the most superficial level, had been utilized. The resources of the FBI, the CIA, Scotland Yard, MI6, and Interpol had been unofficially placed at Griffin Powell’s disposal. There wasn’t a law enforcement or government agent in the Free World who wasn’t interested in apprehending Anthony Linden and anyone associated with him.

  Maleah had set aside her anger, realizing that venting her feelings toward Griff would be counterproductive to the goal they shared. Besides that, she didn’t doubt for a minute that there was nothing she could say that Griff hadn’t already said to himself. He knew the part his duplicity had played in Nic’s present fate. He blamed himself, as well he should, for what had happened to her.

  Derek came up beside her and whispered in her ear, “You’re staring daggers at Griff again.”

  She glanced at Derek, her brand-new fiancé, with whom sh
e wanted to spend the rest of her life. Under normal circumstances, they would be discussing wedding and honeymoon plans.

  “I’ll try not to throw any more daggers his way,” Maleah said.

  Derek draped his arm around her shoulders. “It’s not all his fault, you know. He begged Nic not to leave Griffin’s Rest. You have to lay part of the blame at her feet. If she had stayed here—”

  Maleah whipped around, her quick move knocking Derek’s arm off her shoulders, and glared at him, barely able to believe what he had just said.

  “You men are all alike. You stick together, defend one another, even when you know something is your fault.” The more she said, the louder her voice became so that by the time she said, “If Griff hadn’t lied to Nic over and over again about his relationship with Dr. Fragile Flower Meng, she wouldn’t have felt that she had no choice but to leave here.”

  Suddenly, you could have heard a pin drop in the office suite, and Maleah realized that everyone had heard her infuriated outburst. When she glanced around the room and made eye contact with the other agents, they looked away. Sanders turned his back to her as he concentrated completely on the computer screen in front of him. Only Griffin Powell didn’t flinch or back down as he met her gaze in a straightforward manner.

  “Griffin lied by omission,” Yvette Meng said from where she stood in the open doorway, Meredith Sinclair directly behind her. “He deeply regrets that he was not completely honest with Nicole before they married. He should have explained more fully the complexity of our past relationship.” She emphasized the word past.