by Shirl Henke
She hit the thin carpet covering the concrete beneath it like a sack of potatoes dropped from the steeple of Old North Church. Her head throbbed wickedly from the glancing blow off the nightstand’s drawer handle. The room started to spin. If that wasn’t bad enough, her lower back felt like a chiropractor trained by Dr. Mengele had just given her an adjustment. She lay twisted in a heap, blood rushing to her head while her bound ankles were still strapped to the mattress above. Her right arm would be black and blue by morning.
So will Matthew Granger when I get my hands on him.
She gritted her teeth against the pain of her twisted spine and tried scooting her body across the carpet at a right angle from the bed, all the while working her legs to loosen the bindings holding her feet to the mattress. One thing about panty hose. Even pulled really tight, they always had a little more give in them. She thanked whatever small lucky star might now be smiling down that they weren’t control tops.
When she could feel the nylon finally began to slacken, Sam gave a really hard kick and the end fastened across the opposite edge of the mattress gave way. Exhaling through her nose heavily, she rolled her legs off the bed and lay flat on the floor. Blessed relief, even though her hands were still tied behind her back. A quick vision of Matt Granger lying with his hands cuffed behind him on that very mattress flashed into her mind.
She squashed it.
This was worth ten K. The hell with a sexy interlude with a hunk like Matt. After a brief break, she tried sitting up, hoping to be able to stand, then hop to the door and unlock it. But every time she got as far as her knees the queasy dizziness returned with a vengeance. After studying the distance from the bed to the door, she considered that hopping might not be such a hot idea. She could topple over and brain herself again. It might be a safer bet to roll to the door and then try standing up. Of course, part of the carpet she was forced to roll over was rather damp, thanks to the radiating moisture from the overflow. Goat cheese left in the sun for a week smelled better than the motel’s carpet.
Great.
Ignoring the odor, she slithered up the side of the cheap wooden door, getting a few splinters in her arms in the process. But she could not turn the knob with her hands tied behind her. After several attempts that nearly resulted in another fall, she gave it one last try—and overbalanced, landing like a felled redwood on very damp ground, her head mere inches from the nasty corner of the bureau housing the television.
Utterly enraged, she slammed her feet against the door in frustration. It was hollow and made a loud thump. If there was anybody around the joint they’d hear her—wouldn’t they? Cleaning staff? She looked around the moldy room and rejected that idea as laughable. With the stench of wet carpet still suffocating her, she abandoned that as a long shot. Still, there might be other customers checking in. Given the location and condition of the joint, ironically the very reasons she’d chosen it, she had little hope.
But Sam gave another resounding kick with her bound feet. Harder. Harder…
Think of the ten K. Think of the expense account. Think of what Patty Patowski will do to you if Granger gets away. Think of your goddam medical bills if you survive this place!
“Anyone in there?” a timorous voice asked from the other side of the badly battered door.
Sam’s muffled cry elicited the sweetest sound she’d heard since Uncle Dec used to dress up like Santa when she and her brothers were kids and ho ho ho his way down the hall on Christmas Eves—the click of a key in the door lock!
In the five minutes or so it took for the skinny, frightened maid to find scissors and cut her free, Sam calculated how far down the road Matt and his captors could have gotten. Luckily a kid playing outside had seen a man hustled into a large SUV that had shot out of the motel lot, turned right on the service road and headed up the westbound entrance ramp. They were most likely taking him back to San Diego. Whoever the hell “they” were.
Sam paid the bill, giving the sleazy manager carte blanche with her credit card to cover the water damage. Dangerous, she knew, but so was having her client in the hands of women who might be working for Renkov. Sam had never lost a snatch yet and she definitely didn’t intend for Matt Granger to be the first. Aunt Claudia had agreed to pay for her nephew to be delivered to her safe and sound. At least, Sam tried to convince herself that pride and money were the only reasons she was so desperate to retrieve him.
She fished her spare key from its magnetic hiding place beneath the front bumper on the van and was hurtling down the highway in less than a quarter hour. When she spotted the dark green sport utility, they were cruising along as if they didn’t have a care in the world. She would have roared on past except she was sure the driver was wearing a ski mask. Who the hell were these wackos? Not only were they armed, with Matt as hostage, but they had two innocent kids in the vehicle with them.
A game of bumper cars was for sure not an option. Following until they made a pit stop was. She dropped back, allowing several cars between her and her quarry so they would not spot her van. Being the oldest in a family with six brothers, a situation she likened to being raised by wolves, Sam knew two kids that age would have to pee sooner than later. When they did, she’d make her move…whatever it would be.
Chapter 6
Matt sunk back against the seat, trying to catch his breath and get a look at the vaguely familiar auburn-haired woman as she said to the driver, “For heaven’s sake, Jenny, take off that mask before we get pulled over by the highway patrol.”
Her companion did so, revealing a short cap of sand-colored curls. Releasing one chubby hand from the steering wheel, she waved at Matt sheepishly, saying, “Hi, Mr. Granger. Remember me?”
He did. Jenny Baxter, Tess Renkov’s sister. She was the lead he was supposed to meet when Sam had snatched him. He’d seen her at a commune rap session several days before arranging to meet her privately. And her taller companion must be her sister, Alexi Renkov’s widow, Tess. The news photos didn’t do her justice. Old Renkov’s dead son had had great taste in women.
“I apologize for the rough exit from the motel, but we wanted to make it look as if we were actually kidnapping you,” Tess said, reaching over to remove the tape from his mouth and pull out the sock.
“Yes, we wanted to make it look like we were bounty jumpers,” Jenny interjected.
Tess rolled her eyes. “The term is ‘bounty hunters,’ honey.”
Through a cottony mouth, Matt croaked, “Bounty hunters?”
“You know, like in those books about the woman who’s always getting her prisoners stolen away from her,” Jenny explained.
“She means a bail bondswoman, like Stephanie Plum,” Tess said.
“Whatever,” Jenny replied with a shrug. “We wanted her to think we were taking you to the guy who paid her to kidnap you. You know, so we can collect the reward? That way, when she gets loose, she’ll chase us east, not follow us back to San Diego.”
Matt didn’t know Stephanie Plum from a Sunsweet Prune but he was pretty sure a dame as smart as Sam Ballanger wouldn’t chase them to Boston—even if they had known about Claudia, which they obviously didn’t. He was still choking from the aftereffects of the gag, trying to clear his throat when Tess reached over and offered him a sip from a warm can of Coke. Ambrosia.
“We saw that woman abduct you from the front of the building complex just as we were picking up Jenny’s girls from their school,” Tess explained. “I called a friend at Samaritan Haven to watch my son and we took off after you.”
“Ski masks and guns?” Matt questioned dubiously. Sam Ballanger accused him of being crazy? These dames were nuttier than Boston brown bread.
“Oh, we stopped and bought the masks last night after following you to the first motel,” Jenny said. “Then we had to figure out a plan. Lucky for us, we already had the guns.”
“Why not? What conscientious mom would be caught without her machine pistol?”
“We have to carry them in case…” Te
ss stopped, casting a quick glance at the girls, who had ceased squirming and were listening avidly now. “I’ll explain when it’s safe to pull over, but it might be best if we put a few miles between us and that woman back at the motel, just in case she doesn’t fall for our ruse.”
“Not a bad idea,” Matt replied with grim amusement, thinking of Sam gagged and tied to that motel bed. “Soon as the maid hits the motel room early tomorrow morning, she’ll be after us.”
“Only if she’s hitchhiking,” Jenny said with a laugh, dangling the keys to Sam’s van from her finger before tossing them back onto the seat.
“Not bad,” Matt conceded. That would surely have to slow her down.
“Mom, I have to go,” Tiffany whispered loudly, holding her hand so as to shield her message from their male passenger. Mellie quickly chimed in.
“There’s a rest area a couple of miles ahead,” Jenny said, looking at her sister.
Tess nodded. “I suppose it’s okay. Please don’t worry about the guns, Mr. Granger. They’re perfectly harmless, not even loaded. Mr. Zandski from the commune gave them to us. Everyone calls him Uncle Hugo. He’s the one watching my son Steve. We trust him completely.”
“No gun is ever ‘perfectly harmless,’” Matt cautioned, uneasily eyeing the Chinese machine pistol lying on the seat between Jenny and Tess.
Jenny turned the car into the deserted rest area and pulled up in the scant shade offered by a pair of olive trees. Turning off the ignition, she said, “Don’t worry, it’s a World War II antique. See?”
With that she picked it up and thrust the weapon at Matt, barrel first. The muzzle was only inches from his face, and he was only a sphincter spasm away from messing up the car seat. “Jeez! Lady, lady, don’t ever point a gun at somebody like that!”
In a tone of voice Jenny reserved for her daughters, she assured him. “These guns are relics, Mr. Granger. They really are safe. Look.” Smiling, she pointed the pistol at the roof and squeezed the trigger. A sickening click resounded and Matt flinched in spite of the fact the weapon was aimed at the roof of the vehicle. “See?” But before Jenny could release the pressure of her finger, the weapon seemed to come to life in her hand, jerking violently as it spewed a hail of bullets, tearing ragged holes through the roof and leaving everyone’s ears ringing from the deafening noise.
She dropped the pistol to the floor with a cry of terror, frantically looking back to see that her children were uninjured. “Oh, shit, shit—what have I done?” she wailed as Tess tried to console her. The two girls looked stunned for an instant as their ears rang from the ungodly racket, then broke into giggles as if a brush with death was as much fun as a trip to Disneyland.
Matt was absolutely certain these dames and the kids were more than a fry or two short of those Happy Meals Tess promised. How the hell did he get himself into these messes? Maybe Aunt Claudia had the right idea. He ought to return to Boston and be a stockbroker. No retrieval specialists or gun-toting soccer moms did business with Lodge, Asher, Witherspoon & Fiske.
From her vantage point on the opposite side of the rest stop where she’d concealed her van behind a thicket of bottlebrush, Sam watched the roof of the SUV suddenly erupt as gunfire tore through it. Damn! She jumped out of the van, gun in hand, only to stop short after a couple of paces. The automatic pistol had fired through the roof, not a window or door. If they wanted to kill Matt, this was certainly not the way to do it. Something about the whole deal stank as bad as the soggy carpet back at “Motel Hell.”
She studied the lay of the land around the rest stop. A typical small brick building with accommodations for men and women, divided by a vending machine, map and concessions room. One of the women and the two little girls were approaching the building. A smattering of stubby trees and brushy shrubs provided cover. It would do. She darted from tree to bush, trying to get close enough to decide on her next move.
When Jenny took her pair of dragons-in-training to the rest shelter to use the ladies’ room and buy soft drinks from the vending machines, Tess nervously unlocked Matt’s cuffs. He rubbed his hands as Tess apologized.
“Mr. Granger, you must be ready to kill us all. I’m sorry about what my nieces did, and for having you gagged and handcuffed.”
“Don’t worry about it. I was sort of getting used to bondage games,” he said with a grin, as visions of Sam naked and straddling his body on that bed flashed through his mind. Concentrate, Granger, he reminded himself.
“But what about Jenny’s awful accident?” She looked up at the bright dots of sunlight streaming in through the roof and shuddered. “Uncle Hugo assured us that the guns were unloaded. We were too afraid of them to try opening them up to check.”
“I will admit to not being crazy about the fireworks.” Now it was his turn to glance at the ruined roof. “But it’s over and no harm done that a good body shop can’t fix, though you probably ought to have it done before the next rainy season. For now, how about we take both weapons and lock them in the glove compartment until we get back to San Diego?”
Tess nodded and did as he asked. Then he suggested, “I could use a little walk, kinda stretch my legs. Okay by you?”
She took a deep breath. “After that horrific shooting, I’d like nothing better than to air out the SUV. It stinks like firecracker smoke.”
They both climbed out. After Tess opened the vehicle’s rear hatch, they strolled in the opposite direction from the restrooms and Jenny’s dragons. “You were going to explain about the guns?” he prompted.
“I didn’t want to in front of the children. Tiff and Mellie have been through enough trauma with that bastard of a father they have. Uncle Hugo has really helped them adjust after Jenny got them back. He’s a disabled World War II veteran and the dearest old guy. When Jenny confided our circumstances to him, well, he offered her two trophies of his and insisted we each carry one, just to scare off her ex-husband.
“My sister is terrified Len Baxter will abduct his daughters again—he did it once already and it took the authorities nearly a year to get them back. That’s why Jenny went into hiding with the girls.”
“And your story?”
Tess sighed, shifting on her seat and combing her fingers through that great mop of hair. “It’s long and ugly, I’m afraid.”
“Try me. I tracked your sister in the hope that she’d know where you were hiding. Figured there was a chance you knew some dirt on your father-in-law. I’m investigating Mikhail Renkov’s connections to the Russian Mafia.”
Tess paled. “I don’t want to become another statistic just so you can have your story, Mr. Granger. I have a son to think of. Jenny said you wanted to help us so we couldn’t let that woman kidnap you. I thought she worked for Mikhail.”
“I did, too, at first, but that’s another story. Just consider this—if I could find you so easily, don’t you think Renkov can, too? He has considerably better resources at his command than I did, believe me. Your only hope is to give me everything you got and let me nail the bastard.”
“You haven’t urged me to go to the police,” she said with a cynical twist of a smile.
“Other than the fact that they might not be able to provide sufficient protection, is there any reason you have an aversion to talking to them? There have been hints from that direction indicating they think you offed your husband.”
“I had motive,” she conceded. “If you know anything about Alexi, you know he was a player and I don’t just mean on the golf course.”
There was a tight defiance in her voice. Alexi had hurt her and probably their son, too. Matt could figure that much by her tone and body language. “I heard he was quite the lady’s man, yeah,” he coached, waiting for her to tell the story in her own words.
“It didn’t stop after we were married.” She looked away, studying the horizon for a moment. “He’d make promises…but always break them. Steve worshipped his father. How many sons can say their dads play in the Masters? I stuck around for his sake, but now h
e’s old enough to read the stories splashed across the tabloids—about his father’s coke parties with bimbos and booze. My God, they rack those rags right at the checkout counters in the supermarkets. Mikhail’s tried to keep it quiet, but even he can’t control the paparazzi.”
“I bet he didn’t like the attention drawn to the family.”
Tess nodded. “Several weeks before Alexi died, I over-heard him and his father having a terrible argument in Mikhail’s office. I’d come over to pick up Steve and was surprised to see my husband’s car outside.”
“So you eavesdropped. Good for you. What were they fighting about?”
“Mikhail didn’t care about Alexi’s unfaithfulness to me, just the attention in the international press it was garnering,” she said with disgust. “That was bad for business.”
“Which seems to indicate that Alexi was more than just a golfer. He was part of his father’s international criminal network.”
“I think he was. My husband always liked living on the edge. He thrived on danger. Ever since he was in school he did rock climbing, white-water rafting—any kind of extreme sport, you name it. Mikhail said he’d disinherit Alexi if he didn’t act ‘with more discretion.’ Alexi usually deferred to his father. They were really a traditional Russian patriarchy, but apparently when he’d been summoned to his father’s place, Alexi had been drinking—another thing they fought about—Alexi’s penchant for DUIs.”
“Dutch courage?”
She nodded. “Alexi told Mikhail that he had hidden evidence worth a fortune to someone named Pribluda. He said Mikhail could take the family money and jam it.” She swallowed. “Only that wasn’t exactly the way he said it. I was shocked that he’d speak that way to his father, but as I said, he’d been drinking.”
“You know who Valentin Pribluda is?”