by Lucy Quinn
Cookie had a pretty good idea who she was running from. The thing she didn’t know yet was why.
For just a second, the girl paused. Then she shook her head again. “You want to help?” she asked. “Fine. Stay out of my way.” Brooklyn jumped down the last few steps, car keys in hand and raced for her car.
Just then, a loud screech split the air. It was coming from behind them, and Cookie glanced back just in time to see a van come careening around the corner on two wheels, thudding back onto all fours as it cut across the lawn and pulled to a squealing stop alongside Brooklyn and her silver hatchback.
The white van’s side door rocketed open, and a pair of men jumped out. Tall, solidly built men, one more athletic and long-faced and the other resembling a young Boris Karloff.
“No!” Cookie shouted, going for her gun, but it was buried under her coat and sweater and she couldn’t grab it to wrestle it free. Hunter had his weapon in an underarm holster, but he was struggling to get past his winter gear as well. “Stop!” she shouted, but the two men paid no attention.
All Cookie could do as she continued to grapple for her weapon was watch as they grabbed Brooklyn, one on either side.
“Help!” the girl screamed, frantically trying to jerk herself free as the two men hauled her back by her arms, toward the waiting van. Brooklyn tried kicking out, but that only made her abductors’ job easier as the heavier one grabbed her leg and used it hoist her aloft. He leaped back into the van, dragging her with him, and then the second man barreled in as well, slamming the van door shut behind him.
“Dammit!” Hunter had given up on the gun and taken off for the van at a dead run. But he was still a good four feet away when it reversed back across the lawn then swung out onto the street again. “The car!” Hunter shouted at Cookie, spinning around, but she’d already reversed course. They reached the Mustang at almost exactly the same time, and seconds later they were in hot pursuit.
“Same guys,” Hunter managed as he accelerated into the turn onto Main Street. The van was a white streak up ahead, racing toward the docks.
“Yeah,” Cookie agreed. “And they have a boat. One big enough to take the van.”
“Got it.” Hunter scowled and pushed down harder, making the black sports car leap forward. The van didn’t have a big lead but it wasn’t a large town, and it was almost to the docks already.
“We can’t let them get away with her,” Cookie warned, though of course he already knew that. She was just talking it out to fill the tense silence. “These are probably the same guys who killed Petra. If they manage to get away with Brooklyn—” She stopped, though, not because she couldn’t bear to complete the thought, but because now that she was saying it, she could tell it sounded wrong.
Hunter was shaking his head, too, and as had often been the case he was able to state exactly what she herself was thinking. “If they killed Petra, why haven’t they just killed Brooklyn, too?” he asked. “She’s been around the island all week. Certainly if she was a target, they could’ve taken her out already. Hell, they could’ve shot her today and left her bleeding to death right in front of us.” His scowl deepened. “They could’ve killed us too, for that matter. But they didn’t even have guns out. Why not?”
“Because they want her alive,” Cookie finished for him. “They need her alive. For something. Something art related.” Cookie remembered the picture of Petra and Karl Voelker, aka the Husky, and how they’d been posing together. “Petra knew Voelker. Maybe he was using her and she caught onto them, and that’s why they killed her.” She considered other possibilities and came up with, “Or Petra was in on the art thefts. She was helping them somehow—her art experience, the gallery, they were all working together.”
“Then she double-crossed them,” Hunter supplied, as the town raced past. “Sounds plausible. And now they need Brooklyn for whatever role Petra played.” He slammed a hand down on the steering wheel. “Let’s hope we get a chance to prove it.”
Cookie glanced up, and gulped. The white van had reached the docks. And just like the last time, there was a barge-style boat already idling at the second pier, waiting for them. Any moment now the van would be pulling onto that boat, and the vessel would be out of reach, leaving her and Hunter on shore to watch them make yet another clean getaway.
Cookie frowned. Not if she had anything to say about it.
19
“Gun it,” Cookie ordered, gripping the handle just above her door with one hand and resting the other hand against dash. “Now!”
“Yes, ma’am.” Hunter grinned as he slammed the accelerator to the floor. The Mustang’s engine roared as it shot forward like a missile, flying down the remaining stretch of road between them and the docks. “It’s gonna be close!” he shouted, teeth bared in something between a grimace and a grin.
Cookie agreed. The van had crossed from the asphalt of the road to the wood of the docks and was trundling out toward the second pier. This time she could see the boat clearly and could tell that it was indeed similar to the island ferry, but smaller, with the same sort of flat deck behind a small pilot’s cabin. It was a small deck, only room for one vehicle, she guessed. And turning around would be a problem. One van would be fine. A van and Mustang? Not so much.
She already knew from watching the boat race away the last time that it moved a lot faster than Captain Bob’s ferry ever had. It might be possible to catch it with a speedboat, but they didn’t have one handy. For the first time, she regretted making Hunter return the cigarette boat he’d previously borrowed from Hayley Holloway.
In other words, if they didn’t manage to catch that boat before it left the dock, they were screwed.
The car shuddered as it made the transition from asphalt to wood, its tires spinning a little on the water-slicked planks, but Cookie was too focused on the scene in front of her to care. Up ahead, the van had skidded onto the barge, screeching to a halt with only a few feet to spare before it slammed into the railing on the far side. She saw someone jump out of the driver’s side, while the back door slid open and two more figures emerged, hauling a writhing, wriggling shape between them.
“Brooklyn,” Cookie breathed.
The fact that she was still alive further cemented the theory that these men were after something. They’d keep Brooklyn alive as long as they thought she might be useful, but the minute they decided she was more burden than promise they’d cut her loose, just like they had Petra. And if they decided to do it while on the water and tossed her overboard, the chances of finding her were slim to none.
Cookie just had to hope she and Hunter could get to her in time.
“We won’t fit!” Hunter shouted to her as the car slid on the planks, drifting dangerously close to the side of the pier. “Dammit!” Hunter stepped on the gas, and the wheels regained enough traction to charge forward once more.
“We’ll have to ditch the car and run for it,” Cookie said, making a snap decision. That barge was barely big enough for the van. If they tried to drive onto the boat, they’d ram straight into the other vehicle. If they didn’t kill themselves, they’d likely be pinned down by their airbags and would become sitting ducks. She hadn’t bothered to fasten her seatbelt during the pursuit, and was glad now—every second counted. Leaning forward, she unzipped her coat long enough to fish around behind her and draw her gun. “Get as close as you can.”
“You got it.” Hunter’s eyes narrowed, his hands tightening on the wheel as he gauged distances. Then just as they approached the boat, he spun the wheel and slammed on the brakes. The car’s tires screamed as they locked up, desperately trying to stop the racing vehicle. The Mustang suddenly pivoted, and then finally shuddered to a stop with Cookie’s door directly beside the barge’s access ramp.
But the ramp was already starting to slide away from the dock as the boat’s engines roared and the barge started moving out toward the open water.
“Oh, hell no!” Cookie yelled. She threw her door open and launched herself
out onto the dock, taking one long step, then another, before hurling herself forward in the biggest leap she could manage.
She slammed down onto the metal deck of the boat with a thunderous clang like someone striking an old bell. Well, they sure as hell know I’m here, she thought to herself, but she didn’t let that slow her down. Instead she tightened her grip on her gun and straightening up from her crouched landing, she sprinted for the cabin door.
The metal hatch slammed open when she was still a few feet away, and two men burst out onto the deck. They were the same two who had hauled Brooklyn into the van: Daniel Ochoa and Pavel Dreisser.
Dreisser was the first one through the door. Cookie didn’t hesitate as she targeted him, her weapon aimed at his chest. Behind her, she heard a loud thud, and the deck shook beneath her feet. She said a small thankful prayer to the heavens that Hunter was right behind her. He evened the odds.
The part of her brain that recorded essential details even in the midst of a frantic charge clicked on, and she noted neither of the two men appeared to have a gun. She briefly considered ordering the men to stand down, but they were coming at her fast and she was already too close to do that effectively. Instead her instincts took over, and she leaped at Dreisser, swung her gun, and aimed for his temple with the side of the barrel.
Dreisser was no slouch, however. He blocked the blow with his forearm, and leered down at her, just as the other man flew by them. Flesh met flesh and Cookie knew he’d engaged Hunter.
“That the best you got, girlie?” Dreisser demanded, his voice raspy and his words heavily accented.
“Not even close,” she replied, and kicked him as hard as she could in the groin.
Most men would have toppled to the ground from that alone. Dreisser, however, let out a loud whimpering groan and doubled over, but he somehow managed to stay standing. Cookie moved in to finish him off, but he shuffled back just out of her reach and straightened up again, his leer now replaced with a fierce glower. “You will pay for that,” he warned, his voice strained from pain.
Cookie didn’t bother to reply. Instead she leaped forward and feinted a second kick. Not surprisingly, the big man flinched, hands automatically going down to stop her from inflicting a second blow—and that’s when Cookie slammed her pistol into the side of his head with a loud crack.
The force of the impact send a shudder down her arm, and Dreisser’s eyes crossed, but he still didn’t drop. Cookie couldn’t help but stare for a second. What the hell was this guy made of?
“Rarrrr!” he shouted, apparently driven past the ability to use real words. Then he lunged for her with big, thick-fingered hands outstretched to grab her by the neck and squeeze.
Cookie ducked under the deadly embrace, hammered her fist into his stomach, and then twisted forward and to the side, springing back to her feet just past him. This time she nailed him in the back of the neck with her pistol.
Finally, he dropped with a thud.
“Stay down,” she warned, standing over him and gasping for breath as she watched anxiously to make sure he obeyed. Except for a groan and a twitch, Dreisser stayed still.
Take that, you bastard, she thought. Cookie jerked her head up, remembering that there had been another conflict brewing, and scanned the barge for her partner. Or was that ex-partner? She wasn’t entirely sure anymore. Especially at a time like this.
Hunter had also met his match, it seemed as she watched him trade blows with Ochoa. The thief was bigger than Hunter, with a longer reach, and he moved well on his feet, ducking punches and blocking strikes in a way that showed he’d clearly had some training.
But so had Hunter. And he’d faced off against bigger and better than this lowlife. As Cookie kept one eye on her perp, she watched Hunter bob aside from a heavy punch, dodge inside where Ochoa couldn’t easily grab him, and then blast the thief with a series of hammer-like blows to the stomach, the force of them lifting the man’s feet off the ground. Ochoa reeled back, dazed by the assault, and Hunter landed a right hook to the jaw that snapped the other man’s head back. Grunts from the men sounded as a second blow followed, and a third, and then Ochoa toppled like a felled tree, hitting the deck with a loud crash only a few feet from his downed partner.
“Nice,” Cookie told Hunter. He glanced up at her and grinned despite clearly being winded himself.
When something glinted off to the side Cookie’s training took over. “Gun!” she shouted, diving toward Hunter at the same time. She slammed into him and both of them fell, the deck rushing toward them even as a shot rang out close by. Hunter hit the deck on his back, Cookie landing atop him, forcing the air from his lungs with an explosive whoosh. But since he took all the impact, Cookie was able to roll off of him and to her feet without pause. She had her gun up and aimed at the man targeting them from the cabin’s open door, registering the white-blonde hair and pale blue eyes even as she shouted, “Drop it, Voelker!”
For a second, he glared back at her, both of them staring down the sights of a gun and simultaneously looking down a barrel. His eyes narrowed.
“I will put you down,” she warned. “Drop it. Now.”
“Better do as she says.” Hunter’s voice floated up from somewhere in the vicinity of her ankles. “Because even if you take her down before she can get the shot off, I won’t miss.” And without even looking, Cookie knew that Hunter had his gun on the art thief as well.
Voelker’s eyes shifted for just a second. Cookie could almost see the calculations occurring behind those pale eyes. When it had just been him and her, he’d had a chance. But with two guns on him, there was no way he could win this, not unless he was Europe’s answer to Wyatt Earp.
After another second, Voelker nodded, a short, sharp jerk of the head. Then he released one hand from the gun and spread his arms, holding the gun up and away and dangling loosely from its trigger guard.
“Set it on the ground,” Cookie instructed, not releasing her own firing stance for a second. “Slowly.”
The art thief did as he was told, crouching and placing the gun before him. Then he straightened back up and, anticipating the next order, kicked the gun toward her. It skittered across the deck and came to rest only a few inches shy of Cookie’s boot.
“Good,” Cookie told him. She stepped forward, her gun still trained on Voelker, and she heard Hunter scramble to his feet behind her. “On your knees, hands on your head. You know the drill.”
He did and complied without a word, though his glare spoke volumes.
“Uh, Cookie?” Hunter said as he swept up the gun.
“Yeah?” she answered, eyes still locked on Voelker.
“We only know about three of ’em, right?”
“Right,” Cookie agreed. She shifted a little so she could see Ochoa and Dreisser out of the corner of her eye. Both men were still down, not moving, and she allowed herself to relax just a little.
But Hunter didn’t sound all that relieved as he continued, “So if there’s only the three of them, and they’re all out here—who’s driving the boat?”
Cookie looked up, startled. Narrowing her eyes at Voelker, she asked, “Who’s the captain of this vessel.”
He just gave her a cold, hard stare.
“Answer or I’ll shoot you in the leg.” She wouldn’t, but he didn’t need to know that.
“She will,” Hunter confirmed, going along with her lie. “It’s a favorite tactic of hers. More than one guy has lost his kneecap after refusing to cooperate.”
Cookie pointed the gun at his knee, driving home the message.
Voelker’s face went white as fear flashed in his eyes. Then with his jaw clenched, he said, “I am.”
“If you’re lying, she’ll—” Hunter started.
But Voelker cut him off. “I’m not lying. See for yourself.”
Cookie didn’t need to see anything. In her gut she knew Voelker was telling the truth, which meant the boat was currently racing through the water without a pilot. Water that she knew had
quite a few nasty little rock spurs and small islands. Water that was freezing cold. Water that would kill them all if they capsized.
And just when she’d started to think they had the situation under control.
20
“Crap!” Cookie didn’t dare take her eyes off Voelker to turn and look at Hunter, but she pitched her voice in his direction and said, “You’ll have to get in there and steer us back on course. Watch for the buoys.”
“Me?” he yelped. “Why me?” It was rare to hear Hunter, who was usually the picture of rocky self-control, this close to coming apart. Then again, they hadn’t ever been in a situation quite like this one before, and Cookie knew they were both still jittery with adrenaline from the recent battle, so his emotions were bound to be a bit out of whack.
Right now, though, she needed him focused. “Because you’ve piloted a boat before,” she reminded him sharply. “I haven’t. So either I go up there and fumble around and maybe steer us right into a rock, or you go and keep us from hitting one.”
“Right. On it.” She heard him take a deep breath, release it slowly, then do that again. “Okay.” He suddenly appeared in her peripheral vision, heading for the cabin. “I got it.” He sounded a lot calmer now, which was a relief. She wasn’t sure she was ready to deal with an overly emotional Hunter. Especially when she was already busy babysitting three kidnapping, murderous art thieves .
“Hey, Hunter?” she called out after him. He stopped halfway through the door and glanced back at her. “Toss him a zip tie,” she said, waggling the gun at Voelker, who was still on his knees and hadn’t moved.
Hunter grinned and pulled one out of his pocket, dropping it on the deck right in front of the art thief. Then he took out two more, held them out so Cookie couldn’t miss seeing them, and set them down just beside the cabin door. A second later, he was gone from view.
Cookie didn’t waste any time. “Take the zip tie and wrap it around your wrists,” she instructed Voelker, who was once again giving her his undivided attention. “Slide the end through the tab, then raise your wrists to your face and use your teeth to pull it tight.” She mimed the motion, but brought her head down to her wrists instead so that she could keep the gun trained on him.