Gage pushed through the door, his pissy attitude going with him. Outside, in the blackness of the alley, a clap of angry thunder greeted them, and Gage whipped his head up. He swayed on his feet and set his hand on the hood of the truck to steady himself. He stood for a minute, looking down at the ground, eyes closed, his chest rising and falling. She’d pushed him too far and now he looked…sick. Ready to pass out.
What she didn’t want was this argument setting him back on his recovery. The stress couldn’t be good for a brain injury.
She moved closer. “Are you okay?”
The first fat drop of rain plunked on her head, then another on her nose. Gage finally looked up.
At Britt. Oh, no.
“Britt,” he said, “give us a second. I need to talk to your sister alone. Then I’d appreciate it if you could give her a lift home.”
Britt set his big hand on Gage’s shoulder. Her brother, always the protector. “No problem. Are you all right? Do we need to get you to a doctor?”
“No. I’m good. Headache. I’ll go home and close my eyes and I’ll be all set.”
“Fine. Call me if you need something, though. Got it?”
Gage nodded and Britt left them in the alley to finish their battle. Micki let the restaurant door close before she spoke.
“Please let me explain.”
“Explain what? How you just spent the past four days confiding in me, asking for help, fucking me, and now you want me to sit around and watch this guy play you? These people are animals, Micki. I’d like to know where he was when I found a dead rat on my car this morning. That’s what that prick wants to send you back to.”
“What rat?”
“Exactly! I didn’t tell you about it. I was afraid this might happen. That you’d get spooked and rethink the whole goddamned thing. That you’d decide it would be easier to go back. You will never be free of this guy if you go back.”
“I’m not going back. I told you that.”
“Yeah, you did. But somehow, sitting at the table, watching you talk to him, after what you’ve been through, I’m not sure I believe that.”
“Well, you should. I’m happy here.”
“Then why didn’t you kick that asshole out?”
That stunned her for a second. Tomas was her friend, he’d been her default family for years. Down deep, she loved him. They shared some weird version of a bond and maybe, even after the past few days, she couldn’t quite break free of it. Loyalty, no matter how misplaced, was fluky that way.
She held up her hands, opened her mouth and—stopped. What could she say? For years, denial had been her constant companion. Denial meant surviving, and as much as she didn’t want to go there again, the day had been stressful, had tested her in ways she hadn’t known existed. And now Gage wanted to interrogate her and yell at her and make her feel…what? Confused? Angry? Guilty?
No thanks.
She’d take being a loner in denial over that any day.
“Never mind,” Gage said. “When you figure out what you want, let me know. I’m not doing this back-and-forth thing. I can’t. You know these people are evil. You know it. And I’m not having that.”
Of course he wasn’t. He was, after all, Captain America.
Steaming mad, Gage fired the truck engine just as Micki strode back into the B. Goddamn drama. He didn’t need it. Or want it.
Maybe this was his fucking lot in life. Wherever he went, drama, drama, drama. He locked his fingers around the steering wheel and squeezed. Then squeezed harder. These last days had sent his nice, controlled life into a whipping frenzy. And he didn’t like it.
Liar.
With Micki he’d hit the Lotto, the big jackpot, the mother of all wins because he’d gotten the killer combo of great sex and a needy girl. Yep, that was him. Mr. Fix-It. The guy who thrived on strapping on his cape. And she'd just fucking called him out on it. Micki Steele had head-shrinked him.
And nailed it.
He couldn't even argue. Hell, that strapping-on-his cape feeling had pretty much been his undoing because the more he felt it, the more he wanted it.
Son of a bitch.
Damned old habits were easy to fall back on.
Dumbass. He’d never learn.
He let out a grunt, smacked the windshield wipers on, and shifted the truck into gear. He was getting out of here just in time for a mother of a storm to blow in.
Rather than make a right at the end of the alley toward Main Street, he went left. This time of day, Main Street would be activity central and he wasn’t in the mood to run into anyone. Particularly one of the Steeles. He’d shortcut it home, sit on his couch, and close his eyes. Get this motherfucking headache tearing him up under control.
Damned Micki. He didn’t know what the hell to do with her. And now he was in it. Knee-deep. Not only his relationship with her, but with her family. All of it wrapped around a job he’d taken so he didn’t have to return to Iowa and face his own family. He ran one hand down his face. Idiot. His entire life revolved around the Steeles.
“You did it this time, buddy,” he muttered.
At the corner of Belvue and Vine, the quiet streets were devoid of traffic and the only noise came from steady rain against the windshield and the smack of the wipers. Tucked way back here, the number of houses dwindled to single digits, leaving only the few residents traveling these roads. Still, given his distraction, the rain and crippling headache, he checked the intersection twice and lifted his foot off the brake.
The engine quit.
Oh, come on. Total suckfest of a day.
Gas. Couldn't be. He’d filled up in Asheville. He scanned the dashboard. Nope. All good. Lack of fuel wasn’t the problem. “What the hell, man?”
He shifted to park and tried the ignition. Nothing. Dead battery? God only knew when Reid or Jonah had swapped it out of the old beast.
He glanced up at an inky-black sky and a crack of thunder loud enough to shake the truck let fly. Engine had to quit now? Shit. He dug his cell phone from his pocket, scrolled his contacts for Reid’s number. Just as he was about to poke the screen, the doors on both sides of the truck flew open, the burst of activity startling him, sending adrenaline pouring from his brain. He swung his head left, found a wet Phil Flynn—in duplicate—reaching in. Gage’s mind was screwing with him again. He blinked, tried to clear his vision. No good. And Flynn had his hands on him.
Not happening.
He whipped his elbow up, aiming for the spot between the two noses. One of them didn’t exist, but maybe he’d get lucky and hit the one that did.
The blow skidded off Flynn’s damp forehead, knocking him back half a step.
“Phil!” Tomas said.
The truck rocked and Gage shifted right. Tomas already on the seat—dammit—doing a fast spin on his ass and bringing his legs up, about to blast Gage. Whap! Flynn clocked him. A solid hammerfist to the side of the head that made his vision swim again. Not the head. His body tipped forward and he grabbed the steering wheel, hanging on. Don’t pass out. Later, there’d be time for that. Now he needed to fight at least one of these assholes off so he could get out of the truck and have room to maneuver. On his feet, he’d take them both. No problem.
Of the two of them, Tomas was the bigger threat. Younger. In shape. Faster reflexes. But Flynn was closer.
Thunder roared again and Gage cocked his arm. Something slammed into his back, a kick from Tomas, sending a shot of pain clear up his neck, snapping his head forward. Momentum propelled him into the open doorway, his torso hanging over, the now pounding rain pelting him. Flynn grabbed him by the shirt, dragging him to the pavement.
On your feet, soldier.
Head still reeling from the blow, Gage hopped up, spotted three of Flynn and busted off the start of a Hail Mary. For this, he'd need all the help he could get.
He planted his feet, focused on the middle Flynn’s arm moving. Something in his hand. Gun. Gage stepped in to grab the barrel and twist the weapon away.
/>
Zzzzppp. Searing shocks ripped into his thigh, the pain so intense his body stiffened—legs, arms, back—everything a solid wall. Stun gun.
The zaps continued and Gage let out a howl that shredded his windpipe. His brain stayed active, but his motor skills were gone and he fell forward, stumbling as he went over. He twisted sideways, taking the brunt of the landing on his hip rather than doing a face-plant.
The volts stopped. It’s over. That fast. Still, the pain, that absolute fucking agony, pounded him. He let out another roar. “Fuck!”
Goddammit, that hurt. Finally, his body relaxed and he curled his knees in. No time. Move. He rolled, ready to push himself up, felt a counterweight and looked down. Tomas held his legs.
And then the stick came. A quick pinch on his upper arm. Needle. He jerked his arm, but even as he did it, his head looped and everything went foggy. The men’s voices melded together, garbling into a whum, whum, whum.
Whatever drug Flynn had given him did the trick. His vision blurred, the edges increasingly fuzzy. He blinked, blinked again and then everything went dark.
A repetitive tapping sound and splintering pain behind his eyes drew Gage to consciousness.
Pain.
In his shoulders. Not the jabbing kind. This was different. Dull.
Shoulders? Huh.
Slowly, consciousness crept in and he battled the heaviness of his eyelids. Jesus, his head hurt. For a few seconds, the banging against his eyeballs paralyzed him, brought him back to that first day after his injury. The hospital.
Was he in the hospital again? That would well and truly suck.
The tapping continued above him, pelting his eardrums. Rain hitting the roof.
Where the hell was he?
He needed to open his eyes. Get his bearings. Figure out what happened. His eyelids might as well have been sandbags. Too damned heavy to lift. He’d wait another minute. Let his mind adjust. Then he'd make a plan.
Observe, analyze, act. The mantra from his Special Forces days came back, bringing his thoughts to order.
His stupor slowly subsided and a series of images cycled in his mind. The truck. Doors opening. Flynn and…Tomas.
Needle. They’d drugged him. Which explained the mush in his head. But he didn’t remember a beating and right now he had pain everywhere. Head, shoulders, ankles. Suck it up, buttercup. Flat on his back, eyes still closed, he moved his feet and…whoa. Something held them. What. The fuck?
Panic, sharp and cutting, sliced through the brain fog and his pulse went frickin' haywire.
Take a breath.
He took three even exhalations to force his heart rate down. Focus. Finally, he popped his eyes open. Dark room. He let his eyes adjust to the blackness and swiveled his head around taking stock. Hard floor under him. That explained the ache in his back and shoulders. He’d always hated sleeping on a hard surface.
He lifted his head, the heaviness almost too much until he let it drop back. Staring straight up, he lifted his right hand and…wait…his left went with it. Shit.
The sons of bitches tied his hands.
And his ankles.
Trussed up like an animal. Terrific.
He wiggled his hands and moved his feet, checking the tightness of the rope. Snug, but not enough to restrict blood flow.
Here we are, kids.
How long had he been out? A lack of windows in the room made it impossible to know the time, so he could have been unconscious for hours. Or minutes. Fighting to control his nerves, he inhaled, sucking in the dank smell of the room.
Observe, analyze, act.
The rope. What kind? Scratchy. Not too thick. Hemp. Maybe half-inch. If he had to choose rope to be bound with, hemp wasn’t a horrible option. With enough time, he could chew it enough to shred it.
A door came open and threw a shock of light that blinded him. He closed his eyes, turned his head sideways and slowly opened them again.
“Seems our guest is awake.”
Ignoring Flynn, Gage checked his bindings, his mind already ticking ahead to an escape plan. Wrists tied with a shorter piece and then a longer rope looped in the center. What the hell?
The lengthier rope had been slung over a crossbeam above his head, the end now hanging loose.
Not good.
Gage levered up to a sitting position and faced Flynn in his fancy suit and shoes. “When I get free, you’re dead.”
“Who says you’re getting free?”
I say.
Gage kept his mouth shut. Most negotiations failed due to diarrhea of the mouth. Even with Gage’s legs tied, all he needed was for Flynn to get a little closer and he’d wallop him. A good kick to the knee and he’d go down. Or…
“I need to piss.”
“Do it in your pants. You think I’m stupid? I’m not untying your feet.”
We’ll see about that.
Plan B. Feigning an itch, Gage rubbed his chin against the inside of his arm while he used the newly acquired light to scan a room no bigger than a small bedroom. With the exception of a metal-framed chair, a stepladder and an old workbench with a vise on it, the room was empty.
A vise.
Great.
But there was a second door. Along the back wall. Exterior door? Hopefully, he’d find out.
Flynn grabbed the chair and, keeping his distance, set it just out of reach of Gage’s legs.
He sat, crossed one leg over the other, and brushed lint off his pants. “This should have been so easy,” he said. “She’s been with me a long time. I trusted her.”
“No you didn’t. If you had, you wouldn’t have isolated her.”
Flynn let out a dramatic sigh. “You could never understand.” He waved it off. “None of it matters. The time for working it out is gone. The deal, as they say, is off the table.”
“She’s not going back.”
“We’ll see.” He worked his hand over his pant leg again. “I know her. She’s easy. Always has been. Which is why, whatever she’s done, whatever she’s told that lawyer of hers, she’ll recant.”
“It won’t work, Flynn. Jonah Steele is a big boy now. He’s got money to burn. Money that’ll buy him a lawyer and freedom. You’re done.”
“Oh, this isn’t about Jonah. I knew my time was limited there. But you’ll tell her to recant.”
Gage snorted. “Not likely.”
Phil stood and calmly set the chair back in the corner. “Then I’ll kill her. And her family. And I’ll let you watch. How does that sound?”
“Peachy.”
He stuck his head out the open door. “Tomas, let’s get this production started.”
Tomas entered and met Gage’s eye as he walked to the length of rope hanging from the crossbeam.
Refusing to give these pricks any body language, Gage sat still, his gaze shifting to Flynn who reached behind his back and pulled a weapon. Logic dictated that if they were going to shoot him, they’d have done it already. Whatever this production was, Flynn needed Gage awake for it. Otherwise, they’d have gotten rid of him lickety-split.
“Stay still,” Flynn said, the weapon trained on Gage.
Tomas stepped closer and Gage swiveled on his ass, trying to get his feet around and—whap—got cracked on the back of the head hard enough that his vision flashed white. Still hungover from the drug, he swayed sideways and Tomas made use of the time and…hoisted.
Gage’s arms flew up, the rope bringing his wrists over his head. Shit. Not only was he trussed up, he’d soon be hanging.
No way.
Leverage. If he could get some leverage, he’d yank the rope down from the crossbeam. And buy time.
He wrapped his fingers around the rope, made a move to tug and came face-to-face with the business end of a .45.
“One more time,” Flynn said, “stay still.”
Another yank from Tomas brought Gage’s arms up again.
Gage waited. Options: get shot or get hung.
They both sucked.
And gett
ing shot would seriously hinder an escape. He glanced around the room again, spotted the workbench and the vise and a plan started to form. Better to have no holes in him while he attempted to get his ass out of this mess.
Tomas yanked again, this time harder. Joint shredding pain ripped at Gage’s shoulders. Son of a bitch. He hung there, arms overhead, gritting his teeth while Flynn set up the ladder and Tomas tied off the end of the rope around Gage’s wrist.
A wave of panic sent Gage’s mind spinning. Focus. But, damn, everything hurt.
“Okay,” Flynn said to Tomas. “Get your phone out. Time to have some fun.”
The e-mail from Tomas popped up just after 9:00. Micki dropped her head into her hands. The day, it seemed, and the drama that went with it, didn’t want to end.
After the grilling from Britt about what was going on with Gage, and her refusal to talk, Micki grabbed some cold chicken from the fridge, a giant glass of Mom’s lemonade, and retreated to her room. Where she’d sat mourning her ruined dinner date while messing with her software program and battling the urge to call Gage. Who was mad at her.
Well, she was mad at him, too. Sort of.
But not really.
Now that she’d calmed down, not to mention replaying the incident with Tomas in her mind a few thousand times, she could see where Gage might have misinterpreted her intentions.
Distance always gave clarity. No matter how many times she told Tomas her life in Vegas was over, from Gage’s viewpoint, her inability to send her old friend packing reinforced the idea that she could be talked into going back.
Which she couldn’t—wouldn’t—do. Steele Ridge was where she wanted to be.
Now to convince Gage of that. Which meant opening Tomas’s e-mail and telling him to never contact her again. Period. No exceptions.
She’d miss the fun parts of her relationship with Tomas, but the remaining ninety percent? That grew from Phil's threats and scheming. Never a healthy concept.
Unwilling to sacrifice her computer to a potential virus, she picked up her phone—the one she’d only had a couple of days—and tapped on the e-mail, her thoughts already forming the good-bye message. She needed to end this. To move on. Give living her own life a chance. A life that hopefully included Gage, the guy who’d managed to somehow understand her.
Breaking Free (Steele Ridge Book 5) Page 24