Struggling to keep his emotions under control, he turned away and walked over to the window.
Several minutes later, he said, “Maleah, see to it that the Powell jet is ready to leave for Denver first thing in the morning.”
“Yes, sir.”
When he heard Maleah exit the den, he slowly turned to Barbara Jean. “If you love Sanders, and I know you do, then make tonight count. There is no guarantee that he or Yvette or Nic and I will come back alive.”
Chapter 38
Sir Harlan had kept the location of The Hunt top secret, so it wasn’t until their jet had landed at the Missoula International Airport, that Rafe realized he was in the United States. He had wanted to get word to Griff ASAP, but found it impossible to get away from his traveling companion. The old buzzard even went into the men’s room with him. While in a private stall, Rafe had managed to get out a quick text message. Two words: Missoula, Montana.
The driver who met Rafe and Sir Harlan had loaded their bags in a Land Rover and informed them their trip would take less than an hour. Sir Harlan chatted nonstop for the first thirty minutes, then dozed off, giving Rafe time to soak up their surroundings in peace and quiet. He’d never been to Montana. But from the view out of the SUV windows, he could tell why people raved about this state. The farther away from Missoula they were, the more scenic the landscape as they rolled along on US-93 South. Autumn in all her splendor. The boy he had once been would have loved capturing all the colorful beauty on canvas. Raphael had been an artist with the soul of a poet.
“We are going to a rather exclusive hunting preserve that our host, Malcolm York, owns,” Harlan Benecroft had told him before they left London. “Some people actually prefer hunting deer and elk and bears, but we will be hunting the most deadly creatures on Earth—humans.”
The Cessna Citation, a small eleven-seat jet, landed on a private airstrip in a valley cradled between snow-capped mountains, the foothills gleaming golden in the evening sunlight. When Griff stepped off the plane first, he breathed in the crisp, cool autumn air. A muscular, medium-height man, wearing sunglasses and a black Stetson waited at the bottom of the passenger steps.
“Hope you had a pleasant flight, Mr. Powell,” the man said with a slight British accent.
Griff descended the steps, Yvette directly behind him, and Sanders following her. As he glared at their greeter, he caught a glimpse in his peripheral vision of an armed guard standing beside a silver Land Rover.
The minute Griff’s feet hit solid ground, he turned to assist Yvette, who grasped his hand, more for moral support than for any other reason. Once Sanders joined them, their escort came forward, removed his sunglasses, held out his hand and smiled at Griff.
“Welcome to Montana. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Mr. Powell.”
Griff ignored the man’s outstretched hand.
He dropped his hand to his side and said, “The lodge is only a short drive from here. Mr. York is eager to see you again.” He glanced at Sanders and nodded. “Damar Sanders. I’ve heard almost as much about you as I have about Griffin Powell.” Then his gaze settled on Yvette. “May I say, Dr. Meng, that you are even more beautiful than Mr. York described you.”
“Where is York?” Griff asked.
“As I said, he is eagerly awaiting your arrival at the lodge. He has instructed me to handle you three with kid gloves. It seems you are extra special guests.”
“And just who are you?” Griff asked, but suspected he already knew.
“Oh, so sorry. I should have introduced myself. I’m Anthony Linden.”
Anthony Linden, the former SAS agent who had gone rogue and become a killer-for-hire. Employed by York and working under his direction, Linden had viciously murdered Powell agents and members of agents’ families earlier that year, all part of York’s plan for vengeance.
When Linden didn’t get the responses from them that apparently he had been expecting, he glowered at Griff and said, “Shall we go? I’m sure you’re eager to see your wife again after all these months. I’m afraid she is a little worse for wear, but she is still alive.”
At the mention of Nicole, Griff tensed, but quickly regained control, determined not to react to this vicious butcher’s taunting comments.
Nic stood under the warm shower, savoring the moment, enjoying the chance to cleanse herself. She had no idea how many days had passed since Jonas had been killed and she had tried to shoot York. Three? Five? More?
Afterward, she had thought for sure that York would issue an immediate order to execute her.
“I should kill you for what you tried to do, but considering this new and most interesting discovery”—he had glanced at her belly—“I believe I’ll keep you alive until I reunite you with Griffin, as originally planned.”
Keeping her alive was all he had done. She had been put in a shed somewhere away from the hunting lodge, a log structure without running water or electricity and no furniture, not even a cot on the floor. And no heat. The guard who had escorted her to her rustic prison had provided her with a two liter bottle of water, a loaf of bread, and a wool blanket. She hadn’t seen the light of day, except through cracks in the walls since he had locked her away. She had been forced to relieve herself in the shed, creating a foul odor. The mice and insects with whom she shared the tiny six-by-six-square-foot hovel hadn’t seemed to mind. During the day she’d been cold and had kept the blanket wrapped around her shoulders. At night, when she suspected the temperature dropped to well below freezing, she had nearly frozen to death as she had huddled in a corner and prayed for the warming relief of morning.
Since the bottle of water was nearly empty and there were three stale slices of bread left in the wrapper, she had begun wondering if York would actually let her starve to death or if her meager supplies would be replenished. Then less than an hour ago, when one of the guards had opened the door, she had assumed he would toss her more bread and water and leave her to rot. But he had ordered her to step outside. He hadn’t needed to ask her twice. Although extremely weak, she managed to stagger to the door, but the moment the sunlight hit her, she squinted from the overwhelming glare. She hadn’t seen sunlight in days, so it took her eyes several minutes to even begin adjusting.
No one had told her why she was being given a reprieve and she didn’t ask. She didn’t care. For now, she was back in her room inside the lodge.
After lathering and rinsing her hair, Nic opened the shower door and grabbed one of the fluffy white towels, wrapped it around her head, and reached for another. After drying off, she slipped into the baggy maternity jeans and bulky long-sleeved sweater that had been hung on the back of the bathroom door. No underwear. No socks or shoes. And no cosmetics—not even a deodorant stick.
But she did find toothpaste and a toothbrush. Strange how people took little things for granted, something as simple as being able to brush their teeth.
Nic walked into the bedroom, sat on the rug in front of the rock fireplace, and towel-dried her hair. After having endured the freezing cold in the shed, the heat from the burning logs felt wonderfully warm and cozy. During those first twenty-four hours in primitive solitary confinement, she’d been emotionally numb after what had happened during The Execution event in the old ghost town. She still couldn’t believe that Jonas was dead, that he had sacrificed himself to save her. And her baby. He had known he was destined to die that day and had possibly accepted his fate, but dear God, dear God ... She had cried all night that first night. Cried for Jonas and for herself. Cried because she had been cold and hungry and frightened. And alone, so alone.
With each passing day, as desperation and hopelessness settled heavily on her heart, Nic had struggled not to give in to the depression threatening to claim her.
If Griff didn’t find her soon, it would be too late. Although she knew her baby was still alive, she feared for that little life growing inside her. York wouldn’t keep her alive indefinitely, and if she lived to give birth, what would happen to her chi
ld?
Surrounded by nature at its finest, the world alive in the most fundamental way, with mountains and valleys as clean and pristine as they had been a hundred years ago, Griff studied the scenery for a reason far more important than mere appreciation. Soon, tomorrow or the next day, he would have to survive out there in the wild, in the open grasslands, the woods, along the creeks and rivers and perhaps even in the mountains. He noticed that Sanders was soaking it all in just as he was, familiarizing himself with the terrain. They were veterans of warfare on Amara. It would be up to them to outsmart the hunters and keep Nic and Yvette alive until nightfall.
What makes you think nightfall will end the hunt? This is not Amara, and despite what that fool believes, he is not Malcolm York.
In the end, their ultimate survival would depend on one thing—the prey killing the hunters.
The driver turned the Land Rover onto the circular drive in front of the two-story lodge and parked in front of the massive front porch. A balcony ran along the length of the huge log house, as long and wide as the house itself. Two rock-and-wood wings on either side of the central structure jutted out about twelve feet, giving the building a shallow U-shape.
Linden and the driver quickly exited the Land Rover. They hurried to open the back doors of the SUV, and wasted no time ushering Griff, Sanders, and Yvette out of the vehicle. While the driver slid behind the wheel and drove away, Linden marched the three of them to the foot of the steps leading up onto the porch.
“Wait here,” Linden told them.
Before Linden’s feet hit the porch floor, the double front doors opened and four men emerged, one at a time. Griff instantly recognized Harlan Benecroft. Older, fatter, but otherwise unchanged. And directly behind him, Yves Bouchard, came to a halt at his friend’s side. Still devilishly handsome, if somewhat eroded by age, Bouchard, too, had changed very little in sixteen years. Although Griff had expected the third man to be part of this select group, seeing Rafe Byrne being so chummy with the enemy bothered Griff.
The fourth man exited the lodge. He was the spitting image of the real Malcolm York. Except, there were subtle differences. He was shorter, but only by a couple of inches. And his shoulders were not as broad. The silver color of his hair was a shade lighter and not natural.
York snapped his fingers and a woman stepped out from behind him and stood at his side.
Nic!
Griff wanted to run to her, grab her, hold her.
He didn’t move; he just looked at her.
“Welcome to Big Valley Hunting Lodge,” Malcolm York said. “We are delighted that you could join us. Everything has been prepared for your visit. Your rooms are ready and I’ve scheduled the first hunt for tomorrow morning.”
Griff barely heard what York said. He couldn’t take his eyes off Nic. Without makeup, her full, pregnancy-round face pale, her long dark hair uncombed, and the ill-fitting sweater she wore barely covering the swell of her belly, she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
“Griffin, you’ll share a room with your wife, of course. Sanders, you and Yvette have your own rooms,” York said. He pulled Nic from where she waited at his side and pushed her a couple of feet in front of him. “Nicole, my dear, why don’t you go say hello to your husband.”
Nic stumbled in her eagerness as she came flying down the steps. Griff rushed toward her and caught her as she fell. She grabbed hold of him, wrapping her arms around his neck and holding on to him for dear life as he lifted her up and into his arms.
And then he kissed her.
Chapter 39
“I hate to break up this little lovefest,” York said, laughter in his voice, a voice all too similar to the real Malcolm York’s slightly accented, baritone voice.
“You two will have all night together. But for now, I’d like for all of you to join us in the lounge so we can go over my plans for tomorrow’s hunt.”
Reluctantly, Griff lifted his mouth from Nic’s. He looked into her teary eyes. “I love you,” he whispered. “You and our baby.”
With teardrops trickling from the corners of her eyes, Nic told him in a barely audible voice, “We love you, too.”
When York instructed Linden to show his guests into the lodge, Griff set Nic on her feet, but kept his arm securely around her waist. Sanders entered first, followed by Yvette. As she passed by Rafe, she brushed his arm in what appeared to be nothing more than a slight misstep on her part.
“I’m so sorry.” She mumbled the apology to Rafe as she followed Sanders into the building.
The lounge covered an area in the center of the lodge approximately thirty-by-thirty square feet, a huge room filled with leather sofas and chairs, Native American artwork and colorful blankets, one hanging on the wall above the eight-foot-wide fireplace. The floor-to-ceiling windows covering an entire wall revealed a breathtaking panoramic view of the nearby mountains.
York pranced into the room like a glorified show horse. “Sit, please, everyone.”
The three hunters and the four human prey took seats around the room while York remained standing, taking center stage in his grandiose one-man act. Griff kept his arm around Nic. She held his hand in a death grip.
“This prehunt meeting won’t take long,” York said. “You will be able to go upstairs to your assigned rooms very soon. Dinner will be provided, of course, in your rooms. And your clothes for tomorrow’s hunt are now being delivered. The weather is a bit nippy, the predicted high for tomorrow is fifty-five, but it won’t be much above freezing at dawn when you’ll be heading out, so I’m allowing you long sleeves.” He grinned wickedly, enjoying every moment of his speech.
“I say, dear boy, I’m unaccustomed to rising that early,” Harlan Benecroft said. “You should know that I’m not a morning person. Can’t we postpone this hunt until a decent hour, say nine or ten?”
“Griffin, Nicole, Sanders, and Yvette will be awakened at dawn and given an hour’s head start. See how generous I can be?” He glanced from one of them to another. “We have eight hundred acres here, but of course, you will not be given free rein of the entire ranch. There are guards posted at strategic points to make sure you stay within the proper boundaries.”
“Sir Harlan, Mr. Bouchard, Mr. Kasan, and I will return to the lodge at noon for lunch and then resume the hunt at two. At nightfall, the hunt will end. If the hunt is successful ... well ...” He laughed. “Those of you who are still alive tomorrow night ... well, actually, I don’t expect any of you to survive.”
“If Yvette manages to survive, I should very much like to renew our acquaintance, at least for one night,” Bouchard said. “I have some unfinished business with the lady.”
“If she survives, she’s yours,” York said. “For one night. But after that, my beautiful wife will be mine to do with as I please. And unless I change my mind, it will please me to strangle the life out of her.”
“That would be such a waste. I have no doubt that, even as old as she is, Dr. Meng would fetch a high price in certain markets,” Harlan Benecroft said. “If she isn’t killed tomorrow, you really should—”
“Damn it, old man, you have no right to tell me what I should or should not do.” York glared at Harlan.
“You always were a hothead. Never would listen to anyone else,” Harlan said. “You should have been spanked more as a child.”
“And you’re the reason children commit patricide!”
Harlan’s face turned red as he huffed loudly. “Damn it, boy, did you forget to whom you’re speaking?”
York seethed silently for several minutes, the entire room waiting for him to explode. But instead, he said in a strangely calm voice, “Linden, arrange for our special guests to be shown to their rooms.” He glanced from Bouchard to Rafe. “Gentlemen, I do apologize. Would you mind giving Sir Harlan and me a few minutes alone to finish our conversation in private?”
Griff had no idea what the problem was between Benecroft and York and didn’t care whether they worked it out or not. Actually,
he would like nothing better than for the two of them to kill each other.
Sanders and Yvette were led away by guards, but Linden escorted Nic and Griff up the stairs and down the hall to a second-story bedroom.
“Enjoy your night together,” Linden told them. “It will be your last.”
Ignoring what Linden believed to be a prophetic comment, Griff slammed the door in the man’s face, and then pulled his wife into his arms.
Holding her at arm’s length, his hands gripping her trembling shoulders, Griff inspected Nic from her disheveled hair to her bare feet. All the while, she could barely take her eyes off his face, his expression so filled with love and concern.
“I’m all right,” she told him.
“No, you’re not, but you will be as soon as I get you out of here and back home where you belong.” Circling his arms around her, he hugged her to him.
She laid her head on his shoulder. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about the baby. I was going to, but ... I should have told you the minute I knew I was pregnant. And I never should have left Griffin’s Rest. This whole thing is my fault. Oh, Griff, I’m so sorry about—”
“Shut up, damn it.” He grasped her face, cradling her cheeks with his palms as he tilted her head and kissed her again.
She gave herself over completely to the savagely passionate kiss. Then moments later, when Griff slowly lifted his mouth and pressed his cheek against hers, he said, “I drove you away with all my secrets and lies. If this is anybody’s fault, it’s mine, not yours.”
“We can share the blame. But there’s something else, something wonderful, that we can share.” She took his hand in hers and pressed it against her belly. “Let me introduce you to our baby.”
Griff’s hand quivered as he lifted Nic’s sweater and touched her swollen stomach. “When I think about what you’ve been through ... what you must have endured ...”
Dead By Nightfall Page 37