by Elle James
Vance’s brows rose as he handed the weapon over. “A gun enthusiast?”
Rip smiled over Tracie’s head. “My wife is a woman of many talents. I assure you, she’s an expert shot. All those skeet-shooting lessons paid off. Right, sweetheart?” He kissed her temple. “This rifle is similar to the M4A1, is it not?”
Vance nodded, his brow furrowed. “Yes, sir.”
Rip looked down at Tracie, “While you get set up, I’d like to retrieve my hearing protection headset I left in the car.” He grimaced and pointed to his ears. “The doctor warned me that I could lose what’s left of my hearing if I don’t take care.”
“I’ll need to go with you.” Vance glanced from Rip to Tracie and back to Rip, his frown deepening. “Visitors aren’t allowed to be in the factory without an escort.”
“I’ll be all right. I know the way back. It’s not as though I’d be wandering through the manufacturing areas.”
Tracie lifted the weapon to her shoulder and stared down the site. “Do you have a clip and bullets, Mr. Tate?” she asked.
Vance hesitated for a moment. “I guess it will be okay if you go straight there and return directly. And yes, I can get those bullets for you.” The salesman turned to help Tracie.
Rip took the opportunity to slip out of the range building and back into the hallway. He opened several doors belonging to offices. One was empty with Vance’s name plate on the desk inside. Another had a woman seated at a desk piled high with paperwork. “May I help you?” she asked, barely looking up.
“Just looking for the restroom,” Rip said with his most charming smile.
The woman’s eyes and her harried expression softened. “Down the hall on the left.”
“Thank you.” Rip ducked out and moved to the next door. It was locked. Using a slim metal file, he slipped it into the keyhole and turned it, triggering the locking mechanism. When he twisted the door handle the door opened.
The room was too dark to see very far inside. Pulling a small flashlight from his pocket, he switched it on to reveal a much larger work area, with an overhead door at the far side. Crates lined up along the floors and were stacked against the walls. Inside the crates were more parts to be used in the assembly of the weapons. In the ceiling corners of the large room were cameras, the green blinking lights indicating they were active. Someone at the other end of the cable was monitoring this room.
Rip checked the hallway behind him—clear—and stepped inside, closing and locking the door behind him. Without the overhead lights shining down on him, the video cameras wouldn’t be able to make out his face.
Making a quick turn around the room, using a red filter on his flashlight and creating a barrier between the light and the security cameras with his body, he checked the contents of several boxes. Nowhere did he find anything resembling M4A1s.
When he’d run out of time, he stopped at the door and listened before opening it a crack and peering out into the hallway. The click, click, click of a lady’s high heels alerted him to someone coming down the hallway.
Closing the door, he twisted the lock just as the heels stopped clicking directly in front of the door.
Rip held his breath and inched to the side of the door, resting his hand lightly on the knob. If someone opened it, he’d be hidden temporarily behind the door. But not for long. If the woman turned on the lights, entered and shut the door behind her, he’d be exposed.
The cool metal knob beneath his fingers shifted slightly. The lock held and the knob stopped moving. The knob turned slightly again. A moment later the heels tapped against the tile floor of the hallway and the sound diminished, leaving silence in its wake.
Knowing Vance would come looking for him soon, Rip edged the door open. The hallway was clear. Leaving the room, he locked the door behind him and returned the way he’d come, pausing at the door to Vance’s office.
He opened it, peered inside and almost left before he spotted a door nearly hidden by a file cabinet. After glancing over his shoulder, he slipped into the office, noting a distinct lack of cameras here.
The possibility of finding a key was slim—if there were something worth hiding in the room beyond, the key would not be in the man’s desk, it would be on him. Rip stuck the metal file he’d used on the other door into the keyhole and jiggled the lock. It wasn’t budging.
He tried the file in the keyhole again and this time, the lock released.
Rip pushed through the door. As he suspected, the door led into a large storage room and workspace. He checked the upper corners of the room for cameras. Finding none, he flipped the light switch and illuminated the dark room. Near the end of the row, he located four large crates marked Spare Parts. The lids were nailed shut.
Quickly locating a crowbar from a long workbench on the wall, Rip levered the nails loose and pushed the lid aside. Brown paper covered the top. Below were brand-new M4A1 military-issue rifles complete with serial numbers and the manufacturers logo engraved on the manufacturing identification plate.
A bill of lading indicated this shipment had been meant to go to a US Army warehouse at Fort Lee, Virginia. Nothing on the outside of the box indicated the destination. In fact, there was no writing on the outside of the box. Whatever shipping documents had been originally attached to the box had been removed.
Rip snapped photos of the weapons with his cell phone.
His chest squeezed. He’d found the source of the modified M4A1 rifles and Vance Tate was knee deep in the operation.
The big question was who had diverted the shipment of military weapons to Blackburn Gun Manufacturing? Whoever it was had some connection to military procurement somewhere along the supply chain. Vance was his only link to the misappropriated weapons, and he was with Tracie. How desperate would he be if he knew his illegal arms trade had been discovered?
His gut clenching, Rip set the box lids in place, left the room and turned out the light. The sooner he got back to Tracie the better.
Once he made it to Vance’s office, his cell phone vibrated in his back pocket. He whipped out the phone and read the text message from Hector on the screen, his heartbeat skidding to a stop.
Delgado escaped. My sources say he boarded a plane for the US.
Even if Delgado hadn’t boarded a plane for the States, he would still notify his supplier that he’d been captured and the weapons’ supply chain had been compromised. Any minute now, Vance Tate would get the word.
Rip and Tracie had to get out. Now.
Chapter Sixteen
Tracie knew she had to keep Vance Tate distracted long enough for Rip to search the immediate premises for any sign of illegal arms trade.
“I suppose you’re an expert shot, are you not, Mr. Tate?”
“I am. I have the weapons and the range to practice as much as I want. I wouldn’t be a good salesman if didn’t familiarize myself with the weapons I’m selling in order to provide the best information to my customers.”
“You’re a very good salesman, Mr. Tate.” Tracie lined up her sites and pulled the trigger, hitting the target dead center of the silhouette’s heart.
“Nice shot, Mrs. Gideon.” Vance stood beside her, one earpiece of his headset pulled off his ear. “Do you mind if I call you Phyllis?”
She shrugged and lined up her sights again. “I don’t mind. But my husband is a very jealous man.” If she were in a relationship with Rip, would he be jealous of other men if they found her attractive? Pulling the trigger, she hit the target just barely off the original bullet hole.
“How many semiautomatic rifles are you interested in ordering for you security guards?” Vance asked.
Without hesitating, she answered, “At least fifty.”
A beep sounded from Vance’s breast pocket and he dug out a cell phone, as he stated, “That’s a lot of guns for a villa.”
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“I intend to hire fifty guards. I want each of my guards to have his own weapon in case of an emergency or uprising.”
Vance’s lips twisted. “I thought Costa Rica was pretty stable at this time.”
Tracie raised her brows and gave Vance what she hoped was a questioning, yet sexy look, not that she was used to playing the sex-kitten wife of a billionaire. “You of all people know that no Central American country is completely stable. Where there are desperately poor people, there are thieves and opportunists.”
Vance held the cell phone without looking down at the screen, a slight frown making lines across his forehead. “If you’re not comfortable with the location, why buy a villa there?”
Tracie finished off the rounds in the clip, nailing the target with one after the other. When the clip was empty, she released it and handed it to Vance, her hand lingering in his. “Where else can I go where I can make the rules?” She faced him, a smile curling her lips. “If I feel like it, I can sunbathe in the nude and make love to my husband in broad daylight without being thrown in jail for indecent exposure.”
Vance’s eyes flared and his attention drifted to the V-neckline of her little black dress. He swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing as he handed her another clip. “I suppose of all the countries in Central America, Cost Rica is the least dangerous. And if you have the money to hire your own army, you can live anywhere you want.”
“Precisely.” Tracie shoved the clip into the rifle, lifted the rifle to her shoulder again and aimed. “I like things a certain way, and I get what I want.” She fired the weapon and turned to glance at Vance.
His gaze had shifted to the cell phone in his hand.
From the corner of her eye, Tracie saw the man stiffen, his jaw tightening, his fingers curling around the device. “Mrs. Gideon, did you say you and your husband were only in town for a couple of days?”
Her pulse kicking up a notch, Tracie feigned a calm she didn’t feel as she answered. “That’s right. We have dinner with friends in DC later tonight.”
“Where did you fly in from?”
Still holding the rifle, she faced Vance, unwaveringly. “Dallas, why?”
Vance held a nine-millimeter Glock in his hand, pointed at her gut. “I don’t think so.” In his other hand, he held up his cell phone and showed her a picture of her and Rip, standing outside Delgado’s house on le Plantación de Ángel.
Her heart plummeted to the pit of her belly.
“How interesting that you have a picture of my husband and me on our vacation to Honduras.” Tracie leaned toward Vance and frowned. “I’m appalled at the arrogance of the paparazzi.” She waved her hand at the weapon in his hand. “Am I firing that one next?” she asked, reaching out to take the handgun from him.
Vance jerked his hand back. “Hell no. What you’re going to do is tell me why you were in Honduras in the first place.”
“My dear, Mr. Tate. We take vacations in a variety of locations. Honduras just happens to be one of them.”
Vance shook his head. “Save your lies for some dumb schmuck who’ll believe them. I suspect you and Mr. Gideon, if those are even your real names, are casing my factory.”
“Should we be? Only men with something to hide would be concerned about being played for a fool.”
“Doesn’t matter. My boss knows what went down in Honduras and he’s mad as hell. Guess you and I will be paying him a visit.” Vance snatched at her arm.
Tracie slammed the rifle she’d been carrying into Vance’s chest, knocking his handgun from his grip. She dodged him and made a run for the door, her slim-fitting skirt hampering her stride.
He caught her before she reached it, wrapped his arms around her middle, clamping her arms to her sides. Vance held on as she kicked, bucked and fought to throw him off.
Tracie had to warn Rip that they’d been discovered. If she didn’t, he could be walking right into a trap. Gathering all her strength, she planted her feet on the ground, hunched over and nearly tossed Vance over her back.
He lost his balance for a moment, then dug his heels into the ground and lifted her off her feet, carrying her toward a door on the far side of the range, opposite the one Rip had disappeared through what seemed like such a long time before.
The door he carried her through led to another short hallway with an exit. As they neared, he fought to free one of his hands.
Now would be the time to make her break for it.
Tracie braced her feet against the door and shoved backward, knocking Vance onto his backside.
He hit with such force, his arms loosened momentarily. Just long enough for Tracie to roll to the side and spring to her feet.
Two steps brought her to the door. She twisted the knob, threw it open and ran outside and straight into the arms of one of Vance’s oversize henchmen.
He crushed her to his chest and squeezed until she thought every one of her bones would snap beneath the pressure. She couldn’t breathe and she couldn’t move.
A cloth was shoved over her nose.
Desperate to breathe, Tracie inhaled, a biting scent stinging her nostrils. Her world went black.
* * *
RIP BURST THROUGH the doorway leading to the indoor range. The absolute silence struck him first. No voices, no pop or bang of rounds being fired.
His heart plummeted as he ran to the spot where he’d left Tracie. On the floor lay the rifle she’d held when he’d excused himself to go to the restroom.
He hadn’t passed anyone in the hallway, nor had he heard a scuffle. Vance and Tracie had to have taken an alternate exit from the range. After a quick scan of the range facility, he spotted a doorway on the opposite end of the firing stations. Rip grabbed the rifle Tracie had been firing from the floor and ran for the door and flung it open. A short, empty hallway led to yet another doorway. By the time he reached it, he already knew what he’d find.
He opened it and stared out onto an empty parking lot. Tracie was gone. Rip knew in his gut, Vance had taken her. How had he walked away without planting a tracking device on her?
Her cell phone. If she’d managed to keep it, they had a way of tracking her.
Rip pulled his mobile phone from his pocket and dialed Hank’s number.
He answered on the first ring. “Rip, what did you find out at the Blackburn factory?”
“I found the room where they grind the serial numbers and logos off the M4A1s. But that’s not why I’m calling.”
“What’s wrong?” Hank asked.
“Vance Tate has Tracie.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know. I need you to locate her cell phone. If she still has it on her, we have a chance of finding her.”
Hank’s voice faded out as he gave orders to someone in the same room with him. Then he was back on the line. “I have men on the ground in DC. They’ve been on alert since you and Tracie landed.”
“They won’t do me any good if we don’t find Tracie.”
“Brandon is bringing up the tracking device on her cell phone. It’s moving.”
Rip let go of the breath he’d been holding. “Which way?” Rather than waste his time searching the factory, he ran back to the room with the guns, took one of the originals and one of the modified weapons, stuffed them into a gym bag he found in Vance’s office and ran back to the entrance where he’d met Vance.
A security guard stepped in front of him. “I’m sorry, but I have to search all bags leaving the premises.”
“Like hell you do.” Rip jerked the bag up, clipping the guard in the chin. The man staggered backward and fell to the floor. The woman behind the reception counter screamed and ducked below her desk, probably dialing 911 as Rip raced for the door.
He didn’t give a damn. Vance had Tracie. If he was scared enough, he might try to kill he
r.
The limousine that had dropped them off pulled up to the curb. The passenger window already down, the driver yelled, “Get in!”
Rip dove into the passenger seat and slammed the door.
The driver hit the accelerator so hard, the rear of the long limousine skidded on the pavement, burning rubber.
Rip was thrown against the door he’d just closed. When the vehicle straightened, Rip did, too, and buckled his seat belt.
“Here, hold this.” The driver shoved his cell phone into Rip’s hands. “Tell me which way to turn while I drive.”
“Rip?” Hank’s voice shouted into the headset.
“Yeah, Hank. It’s me. Which way?”
Hank guided them through the streets and onto an expressway.
“It appears as though they’re exiting into a rest area. If you hurry, you might catch up with them.”
Rip peered through the windshield, willing the limo to go faster. The flash of a blue information sign caught his attention and his heart beat faster. The sign indicated a rest area in one mile. “Take the exit for the rest area.”
Leaning forward, Rip couldn’t get closer to the windshield without bumping his forehead. “Are they moving?”
“No,” Hank said.
Hope swelled in Rip’s chest as they barreled down the exit ramp into the rest area.
“We’re here,” Rip said, staring into every car parked along the curbs. One held a heavyset man, his equally heavyset wife and children. A man in jeans and a T-shirt climbed into a pickup and backed out of a space.
The limo driver pulled along the curb taking up several spaces while Rip hopped out and ran along the line of cars, clutching the phone to his ear. He didn’t find Tate or Tracie. “Are you sure they’re still here?”
“Yes, the tracker says the phone is there.”
His hope fading, Rip came to a stop in front of the brick bathroom buildings. “Hank, call Tracie.”