by Cindy Dees
“If it’s that recent, it should be reasonably easy to track down. It can’t have gone too far,” she replied reasonably.
“Where exactly has the money gone?” he repeated darkly. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to see that this man didn’t have a whole lot of patience, and what little he had was wearing out fast. She eyed his meaty fists warily. This was really going to hurt. How was it she could go so damned fast from feeling so strong and in control of her life to feeling so weak and completely not in control? Was the order she imposed on her world that thin a veneer?
Understanding exploded across her brain. She’d been deluding herself all along. Life had always been this scary and insecure, and she’d been lying to herself to think otherwise. She could no more force the world to conform to her needs any more than she could Trent. She felt adrift, at sea without a life jacket, totally at the mercy of the currents she floated upon. She had, without question, never been this terrified in her entire life.
Her voice shook as she stated with all the sincerity she could muster, “I have no idea where your funds have gone. You can ask me the question a hundred different ways, but my answer is always going to be the same...because it’s the truth. I didn’t take any money and I don’t know where it is.”
He leaned down close to her, his breath hot in her ear. Her skin crawled and she leaned away as far as her bound wrists would allow, but it wasn’t far enough.
He followed, murmuring, “You think you can steal from me and mine and we won’t make you pay? You think if we show weakness to our enemies they won’t turn on us like rabid dogs? You think I’m gonna let you walk out of here alive? That I won’t make you suffer until you scream and beg and sing like a canary?”
She shook her head, too terrified to make a sound. She’d seen the news. Heard the stories of the atrocities the drug cartels inflicted on their victims.
“Imagine the worst thing you’ve ever heard my kind doing to an enemy. Multiply it by a hundred. A thousand. Before I’m done with you, little girl, you’re going to be a front-page news headline that shocks the world. You have no idea how much suffering a human being is capable of. But I’m going to show you every last bit of pain your body can stand. And I’ll just be getting warmed up.”
Her knees were already shaking, but the rest of her joined in as adrenaline surged through her veins, screaming at her to run for her life.
“You’ll try to scream, but I’ll cut your tongue out. You’ll gabble like an idiot and choke on your own blood. And no one will hear you. I’ll skin you slowly, peeling the flesh back in strips to expose nerves you never knew you had. You think having your flesh burned to a blackened crisp and your muscles charred to the bone sounds bad? Oh, you’ll find out for yourself. And I’ll just be getting warmed up.”
She was going to be sick. Her body twitched in horrified anticipation of the things he was describing, and her nerves tingled from head to foot, demanding that she run away. Begging for it. Sobbing for it.
“Did you know that the only pain in the human body you’re not able to pass out to escape comes from the kidney? I’m going to stick needles in yours. The pain will be so exquisite you’ll beg me to kill you. And there will be no escape. It’ll go on and on and on until you literally go mad from the agony of it. And I’ll still just be getting warmed up.”
Oh, God. Kill her now.
“There are twenty-six bones in the human foot, twenty-eight if you count the sesamoids at the base of the big toe. I’m going to break them one by one with a hammer. You’ll be a cripple for the rest of your life. And if you still haven’t told me what I want to know, I’ll do the same to all twenty-seven bones in your hands. One by one. I’ll smash them into useless pulp. You’ll be unable to perform even the simplest tasks for yourself. And then I’ll start on your teeth. I’ll break them in your jaw, and then I’ll pull out the pieces one by one. And all the while, you won’t be able to scream. Won’t be able to escape it. And then we’ll move on to the real torture. Things so horrible that even contemplating them will make you scream.”
She realized that tears were running down her cheeks and that rattling sound was her teeth chattering in abject terror.
“Do you need a small demonstration, little girl?”
She shook her head violently in the negative, her throat muscles so convulsed with fear she couldn’t make a sound.
He leaned down to murmur in her ear, “If you scream, maybe I won’t kill you so soon. You hear me? Scream for me, little girl.” Without warning, he ripped the duct tape off her left wrist.
And she did scream. At the tops of her lungs. Every hair on her forearm had been pulled out by the roots, and tiny droplets of blood sprinkled across her flesh where the tape had forcibly torn off the outer layers of her skin. Her wrist went from ghost white to brilliant scarlet as she stared at it. Her arm felt as if she’d laid it on a stove burner and left it there long after her body shouted at her to yank it away. Tears ran down her cheeks as the stinging intensified and insulted nerves roared their displeasure.
She became aware of a whimpering noise and realized with a start that it was coming from her. Herrera reached for her other wrist. Sounds began to pour out of her mouth in a steady, pleading stream. “Nononononoooo...”
* * *
Trent jolted into motion as Chloe screamed. Someone might as well have stabbed him, so sharp and visceral was his reaction to the thought that someone was hurting her. A powerful need to kill flowed through him, giving his limbs lightness and speed, his mind a hyperawareness, that even he’d never experienced before.
At least he knew she was in the building and approximately where she was. Given that there was no one out here acting as a lookout, he had to assume that all four of the guys who’d been chasing them in the Moscone Center were in that room with her. He couldn’t take them all at once. He needed to draw one or two of them out and pick them off. He looked around and spotted a wood-backed chair behind a receptionist’s station. Perfect.
Ducking down behind the station, he intentionally banged the hard, wooden slats into the desk. He didn’t have long to wait. A door opened, and the sound of Chloe moaning floated out to him. Trent’s gut tightened. Hang on just a few more minutes, baby.
After a cautious check of the darkened hallway, two men surged out like fire ants protecting their mound. He ducked to avoid being spotted. The good news was neither man had pulled a gun. Yet. He waited until they’d split up and were moving away from him before he pounced. The first man was a piece of cake. He never saw Trent coming. A fast chop to the back of the guy’s head and the big man went down like a tree.
Small problem: trees don’t fall silently. The second man whirled, and all chance of surprising him was blown. Trent took a wary step backward. Glanced over his shoulder as if contemplating fleeing. It was too easy. The thug bought Trent’s head fake and attacked on the assumption that Trent was scared stiff and planning to run rather than stand and fight.
Time seemed to slow. Trent watched the thug’s mouth open on a silent yell, his legs pump in exaggerated slow motion, his hands come up like glacial claws creeping forward toward his prey.
Trent ducked under the slowly arcing fist with casual ease, his own hands coming up to pummel the guy’s vulnerable face. The problem with thick, muscular targets was that body blows had little immediate effect on them. For a fast takedown, he went for the bridge of the nose. The temples. Eyes.
In a flurry that even his gaze struggled to follow, he slammed his fists into the attacker’s face over and over. Streams of blood flew through the air like tiny red rainbows, and the thug’s torso arced away from the assault. The guy fell heavily to his knees, then toppled over, face first.
The office door opened and three more men poured out into the hall. Not good. Trent might be fast, but his build ran to the lean side and he was of average strength. Three huge guys landing on him would effectively immobilize him no matter how fast he was when loose.
He turned to run, h
opefully to lead the men away from Chloe and give her time to escape. The men scrambled to give chase, and as they careened around the corner, the one in the lead stumbled. He threw his arms wide, knocking his buddies off balance, as well. Flailing like a human windmill, the first guy staggered into the second, knocking him into the third.
Looking over his shoulder, Trent watched in shock and relief as all three men went down in a pile. He spun on a dime, raced back toward the swearing and shouting pile of men and hurdled them all. He skidded into the room Chloe was in, and she looked up in panic.
Her tear-stained face was terrified and he bit out,
“Let’s go.”
“I can’t,” she wailed, clawing at her ankles.
He saw the problem immediately. Her left ankle was taped to the leg of a chair. It appeared she’d already torn loose the tape securing her right ankle. He snatched up a letter opener off the desk and stabbed at the half-torn tape. She grabbed the loose end, gritted her teeth, and gave it a yank. A sharp gasp and she was free.
He pulled her out of the chair and half out of the room in one mighty heave. She stumbled and righted herself as they raced out into the hall. Shouting and swearing erupted behind them as her kidnappers struggled to untangle themselves and gain their feet.
“Run for your life,” Trent grunted.
Chloe took off in an impressive sprint, and he kept pace beside her using his excess capacity for speed to yank chairs into the aisle behind them and even to pull over a tall filing cabinet to block their pursuers’ path. As it crashed to the floor, a cloud of flying paper filled the air behind them.
“Call the elevator,” he ordered as he paused just shy of the elevator bank to pull out more furniture and create a pile of obstacles for the thugs to navigate. Pounding footsteps announced that they had untangled themselves and were giving chase.
An elevator dinged behind him as three big, angry shadows burst into view. “It’s here. Hurry, Trent,” Chloe called urgently.
He dived around the corner and into the elevator with her. She was already mashing the Close Door button frantically. Would those doors never move?
The footsteps grew louder. Finally, ever so slowly, the elevator doors began to slide shut. A shout went up in Spanish. Trent swore in a steady stream under his breath. They weren’t going to make it out of here before the bad guys caught up with them. He braced himself to jump. If it came to it, he would throw himself out there and buy Chloe the few extra seconds she needed to escape. Whatever had been planned for her would end up being perpetrated upon him, but so be it. She had to get out of here alive.
The guy who’d stumbled before slid around the corner, and promptly slipped on a manila file folder. Yet again, his feet went out from under him and he neatly leg-tackled the thug who was just barreling around the corner behind him. Both men went down.
The doors were halfway closed now. Through the gap, Trent recognized with shock the face of the clumsy man. Miguel Herrera. The Chief of Security for Paradeo. He was personally involved with this kidnapping? What was so important about Chloe that a man in his position would risk himself directly? Why not pass the dirty work to low-level henchmen who would take the fall for it if they got caught?
The doors shut with a quiet whoosh, and the car started downward. Trent’s taut body relaxed a tiny bit. Chloe took a sobbing breath and turned into him, burying her face against his chest. He wrapped his arms around her, panting. “Catch your breath, baby. We’re not home free, yet.”
She lifted her head to stare at him in dismay.
“We’ll get a little head start because of the elevator, but you can be sure your kidnappers are running down the stairs this very moment. And they may have someone in the lobby waiting for us.”
“What are we going to do?” she gasped.
“When the doors open, we’re going to run out like a pair of charging bulls. Plow right through anyone who stands in your way. When we hit the street, turn right. There’s a big hotel about a block down and it’ll have a taxi stand with plenty of cabs.”
“Where do we meet if we get split up?” she asked fearfully.
“Go to the nearest police station and call Jeff Winston. But we’re not going to get split up this time.”
“Promise?” she asked as the elevator lurched gently to a stop.
“Promise.” And then the doors slid open and it was time to run again.
No one was waiting for them in the lobby and they burst out onto the street together. Chloe veered right and ran beside him with the choppy strides of panic. She collapsed into a cab with him, hyperventilating. He gave an address to the driver and turned to her in concern.
“Did they hurt you? Are you all right?”
She nodded, unable to speak. Whether she was nodding to having been hurt or to being all right, he couldn’t tell. He turned his attention to her more immediate crisis. “Hold your breath and try to count to three before you exhale. You need to build up more carbon dioxide in your blood to settle down your breathing.”
It took her several tries to follow his instructions, but gradually, her breathing deepened from shallow pants to something vaguely resembling normal.
The cab approached the block where she lived and Chloe was recovered enough to ask in alarm, “What are you doing? We can’t go back to my place. Herrera knows where I live!”
“We’re not going to your place. We’re going to mine.”
She stared at him, uncomprehending.
Trent explained, “When I first got to San Francisco, I rented a room in a bed-and-breakfast across the street from your apartment so I could watch you, remember? I’ve still got that room. And frankly, I doubt Herrera and his pals will look for us so close to your place. We need somewhere to crash until we can form a plan and get some backup into town.”
She nodded wearily. He knew the feeling. The crash after a big adrenaline surge was a killer. And the idea of Chloe being hurt or killed by her kidnappers had definitely been a major adrenaline event for him. He was going to need to sleep fairly soon. But there was no way he could go down for the count until Chloe was safe.
He instructed the cabbie to let them out around the block from Chloe’s apartment. No sense making her visible to Herrera’s men if they were staking out her place. He ushered her out of the cab, tucking her protectively under his arm as he led her into the B&B. They went directly up to his room, and as he hung out the Do Not Disturb sign and double locked the door, she moved over to the window.
“Wow. You do have a great view of my place from here,” she commented dryly.
He moved over beside her and gazed down into her living room. “Yup. I saw every move you made.”
“That is so creepy.”
He put his hands on her shoulders and tugged her back to lean against him. “I assure you, it was only for your safety. I would never have invaded your privacy like that unless it was a matter of life and death.”
She sighed, a gentle nudge of her ribs against his chest. “I guess we’ve established that Herrera and his goons are out to do me serious harm?”
“I’d say so. How are your wrists and ankles? Your skin looks pretty mad.”
She looked down at the red stripes across her fair skin. They looked like scraped knees and burned like them, too. “I need to wash them and get some antibiotic cream on them.”
But neither moved to treat her wounds. Instead, they stood still, leaning against one another, silently savoring the fact that they were alive. There would be time enough in a minute or two to get back to business. Right now, they needed to acknowledge that they’d survived a near miss with death.
“Thank you for coming after me,” she murmured.
His hands tightened on her shoulders. Like it or not, this was no longer entirely business for him. Somewhere along the way his feelings for her had become personal. “I couldn’t live with myself if anything happened to you, Chloe. I...care...about you.” A lot.
More than he’d realized until he’d watched
her running from her pursuers in the Moscone Center and he’d been helpless to protect her. More than he’d realized until he’d heard her scream and it had felt like his own heart getting ripped out. More than he’d realized until he’d been prepared to leap through the gap of those closing elevator doors and sacrifice himself to save her.
She shuddered in his arms, clearly in need of some serious reassurance. He drew her gently to the bed and sat down, leaning back against the headboard. She curled against him like a frightened baby animal seeking comfort. His heart literally ached for her.
“Tell me everything that happened,” he said quietly.
She described the chase through the Moscone Center, her terror when Herrera’s men grabbed her, the shock of realizing they were taking her to Paradeo’s offices. He was not surprised by the sequence of events. But then she told him how Herrera demanded to know where Paradeo’s money was.
“He thought you were embezzling from Paradeo?” Trent exclaimed.
“Weird, huh? Here I am trying to find how their money’s being laundered and what’s wrong with their books, and so are they.”
“There’s a thief inside the company,” he breathed. Shock vibrated through him.
“But who would dare steal money from a dangerous drug cartel?” Chloe asked.
“Someone who doesn’t know who they are, I suppose.”
“Or someone who doesn’t care,” she added.
He froze beneath her. “Are you telling me you think some rival of the cartel behind Paradeo is making a move on it?” Good God. If there was about to be a drug turf war, he had to get Chloe out of town and far, far away from the violence about to erupt.
“I don’t know if another cartel’s moving in or not. But I know where to find the answer.”
“Barry’s files.”
“Exactly. I need to finish my analysis. And fast. At least I know now why I kept finding anomalies I couldn’t explain. I was looking at two financial crimes and not one. If we can find this thief before Herrera does, maybe the FBI can turn him or her into an informant. The thief could testify against Paradeo in return for some sort of plea deal or immunity from prosecution.”