by Amy Lane
He recognized this—it was the influx of a number of people moving quietly.
Mealtime.
He and Preston had been out shopping around eleven in the morning—they’d probably missed the midday meal while he’d been in the bottom of the boat.
So this was—wait, not a meal. Prayer time.
Oh shit. Absolute silence. He stopped moving long enough to hear all those bodies come to a quiet halt, and he could imagine them on their knees in some sort of study or atrium, heads bowed in meditation, everything held in total stillness—not out of devotion, but out of fear.
Tranquilizer Piss—or John Barron or whatever his name was—had liked to travel slowly up and down the rows of his acolytes with a little BDSM flogger in his hand. Small, meant for play, it could still deliver a hell of a sting if it was aimed at an unwary ear or cheek.
There was no fidgeting during meditation.
Well. This was going to be a very long meditation, he figured. Any sound he made in the bottom of the wine cellar would echo up the staircase. He was going to have to wait to make his escape.
Helplessly, to avoid the sheer suffocation of capture, he began to hum to himself.
He realized it was the first time he’d thought about music in months.
He’d written two songs in his head, complete with instrumentation, by the time he heard people stirring again. His ass was made of pins and needles, and his legs were absolutely numb by then. He wondered what sadist had carved that horrible wooden chair. He’d like to meet the guy.
In a dark alley.
But that was the least of his problems. He’d finally begun to think while he’d been composing, and he realized that Glen might not know he was in there, in which case he was going to have to get himself out and would probably get shot while he was at it.
On the other hand, Glen might know he was in there, in which case Glen was going to come rescue him and then they’d both get shot in the process.
He might not come for you, you know. It would serve you right.
Yeah—that voice. He knew that voice. That voice had driven him out of Glen Echo’s bed the first time and onto the back of a flea-bitten horse who’d probably died of a heart attack by now, because it certainly hadn’t been up to doing anything else.
That voice had driven him away from Glen Echo’s hospital bed the second time, when he’d been pretty sure he’d left most of his heart there, lying in pieces at Glen’s feet.
He will too come for me! But I sort of wish he wouldn’t!
Because Glen coming for him could only mean that, once again, Glen Echo was putting himself in danger for Cash Harper, who didn’t deserve it—not one more goddamned time.
Of all the punishments he’d earned in school, being sentenced to the corner had always been the worst. Boredom was poison and poison was boredom, and Cash, restless and moving from the cradle, could endure almost any torture other than being bored.
His body ached from restraints, and even after the drug cycled out of his bloodstream, he was left with a low-level dehydration headache that got more and more intense with each moment of silence.
In the end, all he could do was sit there and hum to himself, everything from the two songs he’d just written to the Backstreet Boys, with some Elliot Smith in between because he liked the melancholy old songs. He was right in the middle of “Between the Bars,” the song just loud enough to register in his ears and save him from the silence, when he heard footsteps on the stairs—deliberate ones, with the crisp tread of a really nicely soled shoe.
He kept humming. Tranquilizer Piss hated music—any other self-respecting cult leader would at least have his followers sing hymns.
When the man’s dress oxfords entered his vision, it occurred to Cash that he’d been lucky the cellar had gentle track lighting because sitting in the dark would have sucked—but the soft lighting didn’t make John Barron any easier to look at.
He liked nice suits—which should have pinged Cash’s radar from the very beginning because most of the douchiest guys in the clubs liked the nice suits, liked kids like Cash to call them Daddy. Not that this guy was gay, but he had that vibe. Flash his junk around and sex would swoon in a puddle at his feet.
Cash used to do that for a quick bang, and then Glen Echo had dismantled his world one kiss at a time.
No more swooning, no more fear. When he’d been part of Tranquilo Paz/John Barron’s household before, he’d been subservient in order to help Brielle. But this guy didn’t help anybody but himself.
“The prodigal returns,” John Barron said. In appearance, he could model for a calendar featuring clean-cut military guys, and he had a decent build under his suit too. Lantern jaw, sparkling blue eyes, plump mouth, and short-cut blond hair.
Good-looking, but Cash had never been attracted to him, not once.
He preferred sleepy eyes, a little scruff, and a sardonic twist at the corners of a kissable mouth. It had taken long enough, but he’d finally developed a type.
“Well, in my defense, it wasn’t my idea,” Cash said.
The hand came out so casually, so quickly, Cash’s head had snapped sideways before he realized he’d been hit.
“You never did learn that when you were in our care,” Barron said, voice still pleasant. “The treatment doesn’t work if all we hear is excuses.”
“You’re an ex-mercenary who got busted selling Bibles,” Cash retorted. “Excuse th—”
And again with the hand to the jaw.
“Do you know why I didn’t have you killed?” Barron asked, wiping at the blood on the back of his knuckles with a white embroidered handkerchief.
“Because seeing my body might cause the natives to revolt?” Cash hazarded. He flinched—he could admit it—but Barron’s expected backhand didn’t crack over his swollen, bleeding mouth, nose, and cheek.
“Smart boy,” Barron murmured. “Don’t hire local talent—idiots, all of them.”
“Did you send your regular boys out to capture my friend?” Cash asked, thinking his boys weren’t going to be happy to come up against the Baja authorities and Glen’s buddies.
“She’s been captured and taken from the flock,” Barron said with a shrug. “She wasn’t going to last long anyway. I mean, most of them figure out there’s go-juice in the morning OJ, but she looked forward to it way too much, you know what I mean?”
“Feel good about that?” Cash asked, stomach churning. “Feel good about hooking her all over again? We came to you to get her cleaned out—”
“She could have stayed plenty fucking clean if you’d just left us alone!” Barron snarled, and it was the first actual emotion Cash had seen cross his plastic-handsome face.
“What’s your scam here?” Cash asked, breathing hard and playing for time. It occurred to him, hard, that once the beating began, Barron might succeed in pounding Cash stupid—or dead—before Glen got down there. “I mean, you destroyed some pretty pristine wilderness to make this ugly fucking house. What’s your scam?”
“I fucking hate Mexico,” Barron said, disgust lacing his voice, his posture. “It’s hot and nobody speaks English! We could be somewhere decent, like Chicago, if the fucking FBI didn’t have it in for us. We have plenty of money, no place to spend it. So we built our own.”
“But why the drugs? The coercion? I mean, starting a cult is some work, dude. You gotta keep everybody in line, feed them a line of bullshit—”
“These young kids?” Barron asked, wiping sweat from his temple with the kerchief he’d used on the blood. “Their parents’ll pay anything to get ’em clean. Except attention.”
“But why imprison them?” Cash didn’t care about his responses anymore—Barron’s answers were crazy sauce on a bucket of insanity-fried chicken. “Man, I’m just looking for one girl here!” Or he had been. It hadn’t escaped his attention that Glen and his buddies had plans to get everyone out who wanted out.
“Can’t have them telling tales,” Barron told him, and his mouth twist
ed—not with sarcasm, but pleasure. The first couple of blows had taken it out of him. Cash could see that now—he had some upper body strength, but he wasn’t used to hitting real live flesh. He’d cleaned himself up, wiped himself off, and if it wasn’t for the blood the kerchief had left on his temple, he’d look ready for church.
“Well, you know,” Cash said, whole body aching. “If you love something, set it free….”
This time he saw Barron cranking up, and the thought crossed his mind that this guy probably was going to kill him. One hard blow, Cash’s nose shoved into his brain tissue, bye-bye Cash….
And Barron’s body whirled around, his momentum checked so abruptly his legs twisted at his hips and he fell to the floor.
A silent combat boot caught him under the chin, and his head cracked backward. His body flew with it, and they both hit the ground with a thud at Cash’s feet.
Cash pulled in a shaky breath as Glen crouched at his side. “You came,” he said, hating the tears that stung his eyes and the way his nose was clogging. “You came.”
Glen sliced through the bonds at his ankles and paused, scraping Cash’s hair gently out of his eyes with the hand not holding the knife.
“Did you doubt it?” he asked.
“No.” Cash pulled in a shuddery breath. “Not once.”
Glen rose and kissed his forehead. “Good boy.”
He got the zip ties behind Cash’s back, and Cash groaned as he shook the blood back into his numb hands. His shoulders hurt, and his hips too, and he wondered if he could even move.
“Stay right there,” Glen murmured, putting a hand on his shoulder before walking to the staircase.
John Barron groaned at Cash’s feet, and Cash managed to stand up. He wobbled a little, but he had enough balance to sink to a crouch and start searching Barron’s pockets.
Glen turned around. “Whatcha doin’, little schoolboy?”
Cash grinned fiercely through his split lip. “Keys. Cash. A full written confession. Whatever he’s got.” He pulled a couple of fobs out of Barron’s front pocket and slid them in his own.
Glen nodded as though impressed. His five-o’clock shadow was at seven o’clock, his black tank was sweat-stained, as were his camo pants, and he was covered in sandy soil. Not cool, not calm, and not collected, but damn, he was there.
A sudden movement under his hands caught Cash’s attention, and he jerked back from Barron in time to avoid a knife in his middle.
“Motherfucker!” He stood hurriedly, foot coming out in a hard kick to Barron’s hand. The knife went flying across the room, and then Cash kicked him in the ear, hard enough to knock him out. Again.
Glen picked up the knife—military issue, folding bowie knife—closed it, and handed it to Cash. “Souvenir?” he asked, perfectly calm. Seeing Cash assault the guy who held him captive apparently didn’t bother Glen Echo at all.
“Thanks,” Cash said, accepting the knife. He made sure he slid his fingers along Glen’s wrist as Glen pulled away. “I’ll treasure it always.”
Glen winked. “Just not in bed, I hope,” he said, and at the same moment, Cash yelled, “Look out!”
Barron’s guys were military trained, and the foot kicking out from the darkness of the stairs above meant business. Glen dodged most of the blow, wobbling a little as the toe of the boot grazed his temple. Then he grabbed the boot, leg and all, and yanked, hauling the guy into a tumble to the foot of the stairs.
“Secure him!” Glen snarled, and Cash sat on the guy as he landed, elbowing him in the back of the neck while he searched his pockets. Ah, zip ties, his old friend!
He worked as quickly as possible, binding the guy’s wrists and ankles with the ties while sounds of scuffling and body blows echoed from the stairwell. He’d just barely finished the ankles when another body came tumbling down.
Cash’s legs were on fire from the blood flow returning, but he was getting his balance back enough to dodge out of the way of this one, and then he jumped on top of the guy and started in with the zip ties again.
One more set of grunts and blows, and Glen crouched at the last guy’s feet, holding his hand out imperiously for the zip ties and looking a lot bloodier and worse for wear.
“These guys,” he panted, wiping sweat and blood out of his eyes and onto his shoulder, “these guys were pros. Where’s the local talent?”
“I don’t know,” Cash said. “But I bet they won’t be hard to scare off.”
“I wouldn’t take that bet,” Glen muttered. “Those guys know where the gun towers are, and they know they don’t want to get caught. And it’s still fucking daylight outside.” Well, it was closer to the equator than California, Cash thought grumpily. Odds were good it was daylight a lot later here than where Glen was from.
“What’s the plan?” Cash asked, and both of them double-checked the bonds of the unconscious guards before Glen started going through their pockets.
“Gag them,” Glen said. “Handkerchiefs, dirty socks, anything.”
“Gotcha.”
Socks—he started off by stripping Barron’s because they were probably in pretty good shape, and also Barron was the least conscious of all his buddies. Cash tried to feel bad about that—the final kick in the head was a little low, right? But then Cash would catch himself breathing through his chapped and split lips because his aching nose was too swollen and decided that no, he could cheerfully shove Barron’s sock in his mouth and not feel guilty even a little.
Glen used the time Cash spent tying dirty socks around bad guys’ heads to advance up the staircase, a compact pistol held expertly in his hand.
Cash finished with the last gag and then searched all the guys for weapons. Glen hadn’t needed to tell him that; he was pretty sure if he’d had so much as a penknife before, he would have buried it in John Barron’s throat before the second blow landed.
Glen came tiptoeing back down the stairs and looked at the pile of guns, knives, and Tasers with admiration.
“Nice,” he said on a low whistle, and Cash had to ask.
“Me searching them or them carrying?”
“You searching, of course,” Glen said. “They’re low-life scamming thugs—I expect them to be ready to kill infants and torture puppies. But you’ve got quite an instinct here. I approve.”
“How’s Preston?” Cash asked, standing across from him in the stairwell and peering upward. The trapdoor was still open, and they stood in the shadows between light pools.
Glen sobered. “Damien says he’s fine. A little shook. Apparently Brielle was compliant enough to go with him—but he was pretty upset that they got you.”
“Fuckin’ girl,” Cash said darkly. “I got both the guards down, but I think Brielle’s companion conked me on the head and set one of them free. Someone stuck me with an armload of tranquilizer.” He shuddered. “Feels like Quaaludes. God, I hate Quaaludes—only took ’em a couple of times before I peaced out of that shit.”
Glen rolled his eyes. “Your misspent youth does come in handy,” he said dryly. “Now concentrate. Spence is up top, getting the willing up the mountain and off the island. I was supposed to come down and get you and join them.”
“But what?” That didn’t sound like the plan Glen was working off of now.
“But I think someone spotted them. That’s the only reason these bozos had to come trooping down here. They were upstairs, making sure everybody wandered the lawn in ‘meditation time,’ when I saw Barron sneak away.”
“Where were you?” Cash asked curiously.
Glen raised his eyebrows wickedly. “This place has like six pantries—most of them big enough to fit you, me, and Preston’s dogs. Found one, hid in the bottom, kept my ears open. That easy. Hush!”
Both of them quieted, and Cash heard worried chatter in Spanish above them.
“Where did the honchos go?”
“Got me—but yeah. There are definitely fewer kids out in front.”
“The fuck do they think they’re going?”<
br />
“Do we stop them? Do we round them up?”
More of this, but Glen and Cash met eyes—eventually those guys were going to get a move on, and then Spencer’s arm of the operation would be under siege.
“Gun towers?” Cash said.
Glen nodded, head cocked. “Yeah?”
“Were they, I dunno… manned when you snuck in here?”
Glen’s slow, evil smile spread from ear to ear. “No—no they were not. Hey, did you find a remote in anybody’s pocket? Like maybe a garage door remote?”
Cash frowned and pulled a fob from his back pocket, where he’d put it next to the knife Glen had given him. “What do you think—”
“Oh, come on. What could it possibly be for?”
Cash looked at the little white object with the big red button. Exactly like a garage door opener. “Doctor Evil’s ocean wall of death?” he hazarded.
Glen looked back at the guys they’d subdued. “I saw two more boats in the cove where they hauled you out. Wanna hear my plan?”
But Cash didn’t need to hear it, because great minds really did think alike.
Such Great Heights
THIS was dumb. This was so dumb. How much dumber could this be?
Yeah, it was the dumbest idea in the history of dumb ideas, but that didn’t mean Glen wasn’t climbing an empty gun tower while Cash got into position below him.
What in the furry hell was a gun tower even doing here? There were no fences and no barbed wire and apparently not enough mercs to man the damned thing, but here it stood, a monument to stupid egotism like the rest of the island.
Glen got to the platform at the top and took a look around. Okay, so there was a pissing can—nice to know—and a little shelf full of hand-sanitizer, lotion, tissues, and water bottles.
And porn. Big old-fashioned glossy magazines of bouncy breasts. Apparently whoever was here at night had caught on a long time ago that there was really not much to do here.
He approached the gun carefully, activating the electronic sights and moving the thing around on its swivel to get an idea of what its range was. Curious, he looked toward the peninsula, which was a faded gray line on the horizon, and gasped.