“Ghost car?” I whispered.
“I jus’ said. Showed up from nowhere, nuthin’ and nobody around. Bitchin’ spooky.”
By the time we got to the plane, my knees had stopped shaking and I could breathe freely—if you can call a racing heart and shallow, gasping breaths breathing.
Shaved Head tried to push me up the stairs, but I shook his hands off and dropped down on the steps leading up to the small, private jet.
No way was I getting on that plane.
I’d rather be shot than confined on a plane with Delano West. Furthermore, Paris was not high on my list of places to visit this evening. Not that anyone listened to my thoughts on the matter. Shaved Head tossed me over his shoulder, jogged up the steps, and dropped me on a carpeted floor. The lock clicked into place.
I laid there, gasping, tears rolling down my cheeks. Completely gave in to the physical and emotional pain wracking my body. Minutes crawled by while I wallowed in misery, my breathing grew louder and hitched as the sobbing clogged my nose. Finally, I rolled to my knees, unrolled a strip of toilet paper, and pressed it against my nose as best I could. The blowing process was messy, but I could breathe.
Common sense began to push through my meltdown, and I checked out my prison. Not a typical airline bathroom, roomy, plush carpeting, granite countertops. I needed something sharp to slice the duct tape off my wrists, and I needed my lock-picking tools—which were safely at home in my bedside table.
There was an under-the-sink cabinet and some drawers, my only options for finding a sharp edge. I scooted along the floor, caught the knob on the cabinet door between my knuckles, and pulled. Not an elegant move, but it kept my fingertips clear, and I managed to get the door open on the third try. Rolls of toilet paper, liquid soap in designer containers, a stack of hand towels, none of which would cut through duct tape. With enough time, I might be able to use the soap to work my hands free.
I pulled the right hand drawer open, a move that would have been almost impossible if my wrists were tied behind my back. Gratitude, tailored to the situation. Plastic comb, toothbrush, toothpaste, and deodorant. No help there. The left hand drawer yielded a safety razor, sharp, but difficult to maneuver. Weren’t rich guys supposed to use straight razors? Damn, it was my only option, so I’d have to pick it up. I braced myself, palmed it. Images of West spun through my head, gagging me. When the worst of it passed, I sat on the commode and worked away at the duct tape with the edge of the razor. Frustrating, and I was making very little progress. I needed help. Surely the patrol car had noticed my broken front door. And Mitch. He’d be at my house by now, calling in help from wherever.
And where were Pierce and Annie? West, the foul excuse for a human being, should have been neatly tucked away hours ago. I had to get off the plane now. Couldn’t count on them rescuing me before West was scheduled to takeoff. I scanned the bathroom, taking in any and all possibilities, but deftly avoiding looking in the mirror. The cuts, scrapes, and bruises on my face would not inspire confidence.
If I were locked in my bathroom at home, how would I…the wire gizmo that I kept on the top of the door frame. True I kept it on the outside in case someone got locked in the bathroom by accident, but maybe, just maybe…
West entertained women on this flying bedroom of an aircraft. Surely one of them left a bobby pin or hair clip. I went back to the drawers, held my breath, and pulled out the paper lining. The images weren’t so overwhelming this time. An older woman, probably the cleaning lady, had laid the paper. Yes! Three bobby pins. I could work with those.
A click sounded in the lock. Not a key. Breath whooshed from my lungs. Had to be Pierce. Or Annie. Any of West’s thugs would have used a key…unless they were after me. Personally. Pudgy had had that disgusting smirk going on when he ogled my breasts. A shudder hit my muscles, and I backed into the corner behind the door, holding the razor in my fist. With my hands bound, there wasn’t much I could do, but even one slice could give me an advantage.
Several clicks, a soft thunk, and then nothing.
Totally silent. What the hell was the clicking sound I heard? Had to be the lock.
Minutes passed. And then someone pounded on the door. “You okay in there?” A voice I didn’t recognize.
“Let me out. Please, get me out of here.” Desperate. I sounded raw and desperate. When I talked, it pulled on the raw skin around my lips, burned.
“No can do, little lady. The boss has plans for you.” His creepy chuckle shot a bolt of fear into my gut and then faded eerily, the air crawling with menace as he left me alone.
Okay, then. On my own. A myriad of conflicting thoughts knotted my belly. Bottom line: good that Pudgy wasn’t after me, bad that Pierce wasn’t rescuing me. I knelt in front of the door, straightened a bobby pin to use like the gizmo thingamajig. Problem was, my bathroom locks were the twisty type, not the key type. This door needed a key—from both sides.
Calming breath. Focus on Pierce, El. Focus on what he taught you. The first bobby pin snapped in half on when I tried to turn it in the lock, a piece lodging in the mechanism. Tears burned, blurred the lock until I couldn’t see a thing. I swiped at them with my forearm, then closed my eyes. When I was doing this with Pierce, my eyes were closed. The second bobby pin bent, almost snapped. One more time. Easy, El, just be gentle with it. The lock is made of spun glass, no room for fumble fingers.
I fiddled and wiggled, barely touching the bobby pin while I focused on the image Pierce left on the lock at my childhood home. And then, click. Halfway there. One more and it would be open. I sat back, giving my trembling arms a break. With my wrists duct taped together, it was impossible to get a good angle at the lock. One breath. Two. Back to work.
The second click came within seconds. I fumbled the doorknob, cracked the door open, and peered out. Didn’t see anyone. Stuck my head out, looked around. Empty bedroom with the door open. I could see into the living area, and it was clear. The need to run tugged at me, and it was all I could do to force my feet to move slowly, quietly. No telling what was beyond the living area of the plane.
My feet sunk into the plush carpet, and the smell of kerosene wafted toward me from the open door. Nothing ever smelled so good—the scent of freedom. Almost.
There were two closed doors beyond the central living area of the plane, and anything or anyone could be behind them. Also, they would probably check on me again. Probably soon. I needed to move, and soundlessly would be good. I inched across the room toward the door, heart banging against my breastbone.
Clear. No one on the steps, no one around at all. Freaky. Once I cleared the doorway, I’d need to move quickly, and getting down those steps without using the handrail was going to be tricky. I couldn’t wait. Had to move before someone with a gun showed up to stop me.
I went for it, stumbled down the stairs, stubbing my toe twice and scraping the bottom of my feet on the rough treads. No one stopped me. The kerosene-tainted air tasted like freedom on my tongue until I rounded the base of the stairs and smacked right into Shaved Head. Hard.
“How’d…shit woman, you got no sense.” He pushed me down on the bottom step with enough force to bruise my tailbone. “Stay, or I break your neck.”
I sucked in a few breaths, tried to get my mind to function. Body odor and garlic assaulted my nose. My stomach heaved, and I tipped my head to look up at Shaved Head. Nope. My neck wasn’t gonna move that way. The muscles were locked, probably from the hits I took when West and Shaved Head battered me. I motioned him down. “Need a minute, feeling sick,” I whispered as my eyes darted around the area searching for an escape route.
We were in an isolated section of the airport, the plane attached to the steps I was sitting on was parked just outside a small hangar. All of it probably belonged to West. This was not looking good.
I tried to bring my hands up to see how much movement I could get away with when I spotted Pierce blending into the shadows along the side of the hanger, barely visible.
Yes! So why wasn’t he shooting these scum bags? Surely it couldn’t be that difficult to aim and fire.
And where was Annie?
Since he was okay, she probably was too. This whole thing was beginning to piss me off. They’d let that son of a bitch get near me. Didn’t shoot him, and I really needed to get this duct tape off my wrists. It was beginning to itch.
Shaved Head started to reach for me again. It must have been one too many assaults on my person because my mind went south, a red haze clouded my vision, and I totally lost it. Yanked my arms down, focused on the edge of his chin, and straightened my arms with every ounce of strength I had left.
A satisfying crack sounded as the heels of my bound hands connected with his jaw. I curled my fingers in and dug my nails into his cheeks. Blood spurted from his mouth and he crumpled, landing partly on me and partly on the tarmac.
My arms shook with pain from the effort, and I had to clench my fingers to control the tremors. Didn’t matter. It had been a good hit. Solid. I swiped at the blood that had sprayed on my face, a moment of euuww knotting my stomach. But only for a moment. I kept my eye on him as I attempted to push his inert form off me. Blood was seeping from his mouth. Must have bitten his tongue, or maybe I loosened some teeth.
Satisfaction poured through me like a life-giving elixir. Damn, but it was good to be the one in control. I had to guess that Shaved Head’s chin had been in the right spot for me to land a perfect uppercut. Accidental, but I was taking credit. Damn, but I was taking credit.
Not that the moment lasted.
West had left the hangar and was lurching toward me, weapon drawn. I shoved harder at Shaved Head, trying to untangle myself from his inert lump of a body, my eyes trained on West and the gun. He seemed serious about using the weapon, and since it was pointed in my direction, it captured my full attention.
His gaze moved up, behind me and to the right. He froze, blanched. I twisted, craning my neck in time to see the flash of a gunshot. It took a minute to register that Annie held the weapon, and then the sharp double echo of the shot shattered the quiet. Time delay. All within less than a second.
I turned back, a wave of dizzy hitting me. Probably shouldn’t have twisted around. West had landed on the ground next to me, a bullet hole placed neatly in the center of his forehead. Dead. Human. No catlike features. My gaze flew to his hands. From my position, I could only glimpse part of one hand, but what I could see appeared normal. Short fingernails.
Blood pooled on the tarmac under his head. I fought my hands free from under Shaved Head, ran my fingers along my neck. It was shallow and small, but definitely a puncture wound. Now that West was dead, I’d never know for sure. But he wasn’t…human. I knew he wasn’t, even if there would never be any proof. I knew.
The combined scent of gun powder and blood sent my belly into spasm and I gagged.
“You all right?” Annie asked as she bent down, rolled Shaved Head off me, and cuffed him.
I stayed on the ground, limp as a dishrag. “Yeah, good.” I swallowed down the nausea. “I’m good.” She slid a knife from somewhere and cut my wrists free. I twisted to look up at her, and then blessedly lost consciousness.
The reprieve must have only lasted a few seconds because when I opened my eyes nothing had changed except that Annie’s face was creased in a frown.
“How?” I croaked.
She grinned. “We have our ways. You’ll be okay. I promise.” She shook her head, reached out and touched my shoulder. “It took a lot of years off my life to see Pestorelli pull you out of that car.”
“It wasn’t so good getting in the car, either.”
She squinted at me, bent to help me sit up. “We’ll talk about how that happened after I help Pierce with clean up.”
Adam’s Crown Vic slid to a halt in front of us. Mitch flew out of the passenger side, dropped to the ground next to me, and wrapped his arms around me. “Sunshine.” His breath was warm against my ear. Comforting. I came that close to never seeing him, touching him, ever again. I couldn’t stop the tears and snuggled into his chest, held on tight.
He crooned nonsensical things, planted gentle kisses against my neck, and stroked the tension from my back and shoulders. I breathed in the scent of him, let it wash through me replacing the smell of gunpowder and the stench of demons. And wondered that he didn’t notice the puncture wound. My imagination. Surely it wasn’t my imagination. “My neck?”
“There’s some dried blood, but no open cuts. You’ll be all right, Sunshine. We’ll get through this.” His words were stretched thin, the worry evident. No way could share my theory about West being a shape-shifter.
“Donny?” I finally asked.
“Shoulder wound. Nothing serious. He’ll be sent back to New York with enough charges to keep his Mama and their lawyers busy for a while.”
Adam strolled over from where he’d been standing next to West, tossed Mitch his car keys. “For when you’re ready to go. I’ll grab a ride with a uniform.” He dropped his arm across Annie’s shoulders. “Clean shot, Sis.”
Annie nodded, her face a closed mask.
“Did you Mirandize Pestorelli?”
“Not yet. El was more important.”
Pierce jogged toward us. “Hanson needs to be Mirandized too. I caught him in the shoulder when he tried to run.”
He grinned at me, held up his hand for a high five. “Nice job with the uppercut.”
“Thanks, better job with picking the bathroom lock.” I beamed at him, then frowned. “Why’d it take you so long to shoot him?” My gaze darted between them. “Both of you? West was just standing around and nobody shot him. I don’t get it.” I pulled away from Mitch and threw up my hands.
“We didn’t want to start shooting when there were three of them holding guns on you. And then you cracked Pestorelli’s jaw and it gave us the opening we needed.” Pierce shot me a grin. “And we wanted to gather as much intel as we could, trace and shut down as many arms of his operation as possible.”
I ran my hands through my hair, pushing it off my face. Exhaustion was quickly replacing the adrenalin rush, and I leaned into Mitch. “Home,” I pleaded faintly.
He started to answer but was interrupted by the approach of several emergency vehicles, lights flashing, sirens wailing. Chief Hayes got out of one, headed toward the four of us, shaking his head. “I’ll need statements. Annie and Pierce, now. Hunt and Gray, tomorrow morning will do.” He was all business except for the twinkle in his eyes. He laid his hand on my shoulder. “I hear an atta girl is in order.”
I glanced longingly at Adam’s car. “Not so much. Annie and Pierce, they did the hard part. Any reason we can’t go home now?”
“My office. Tomorrow. Eight sharp.” He looked me over. “You might want to detour by Urgent Care, get checked out.”
I shook my head, just to prove I didn’t need anyone poking and prodding at it. There was no way I was going to do anything but take some aspirin, crawl into a shower and then bed. I hoped Annie realized it would be her shower and bed since I probably didn’t have a front door or a back window, to say nothing of the missing back deck.
I looked around to remind her, but she was busy with Pierce on the far side of the hangar. Oh, well, she’d figure it out when she got home.
I shut out everything but the warmth from Mitch’s hand as he helped me into the car.
Thirty
I moved with care the next morning, stretching each muscle, taking time to rejoice in being alive. The tangled sheets told the story of a restless night with too much going through my mind. The good news: no nightmares, and the warmth of Mitch’s body still clung to the sheets.
Yesterday changed me. How could it not? Knowing I was that close to dying and then having Monster Man shot to death. Practically at my feet. It messed with my mind—and just about every other part of me. Death is messy in oh so many ways.
No one noticed the puncture wound on my neck. It wasn’t visible, only a slight raised area under th
e skin. I could find it with the tip of my finger because I knew it was there. Hardly important, considering the rest of yesterday. But I would always wonder.
Crazy world. But at least I wasn’t sitting at home anymore, wasn’t watching the world from my window, touching only when I could control the situation.
And I finally understood the vision. At first, I’d thought the melting ice cube was a symbol for the diamonds, but no, it was all about change. Liquid to solid to gas. The deal was that I had to be flexible, to accept the vapor that’s my gift. The part of me no one else can see. The solid of my body and the liquid of my mind were easy, but my gift, not so much. No one could see that part and it’s what made me an outsider, a recluse. I’d jumped in with both feet; I wasn’t sinking. At least I didn’t think I was. Hard to tell since I hadn’t gotten out of bed yet.
“Sunshine?” Mitch took a minute to check me out, then sat on the bed and gathered me in his arms. He had on gray sweats—a threadbare pair without much else. I knew because I slid my hand under his waistband and found warm skin. My lips curved against his shoulder. “I’m guessing you’re here to tell me it’s past time for me to get up. I smell coffee and breakfast. And you. It’s possible the scent of you is becoming as important as coffee.”
“You think?” He grinned, picked me up and carried me to the bathroom. I was standing under the shower before I had a chance to react. I pulled off my wet boxers and tank, wrung them out, and dropped them on the floor outside the shower. I read his grin as a dare since he stayed within reach. Heat spread through me, settled between my legs. I curled my fingers into his waistband and a second later, his sweat pants were pooled around his ankles and the playful grin had turned into blatant lust. Oh yeah. A girl could get used to this whole relationship thing.
He tugged off his sweatshirt and dug a condom out of his duffle. I reached for the soap and then for his wrist, pulled him into the shower and trailed wet, soapy hands down his chest. And then playful changed to intense.
a Touch of Ice Page 27