Footsteps sounded overhead, and a few seconds later, a man lowered himself into the vault.
Walt Bingham’s white hair stood on end and his work clothes were disheveled. His empty gaze darted from Michael to Buddy, then rested on Diana. Buddy was right. The facility manager had snapped.
Next, Vic Hagen climbed down the ladder. Remembering the strength behind his fist, Diana shuddered.
While Walt’s panicked gaze darted in every direction, and Buddy and Michael stood like robots waiting for instructions, Vic remained outwardly calm. But his body language suggested he was a spring set to snap.
“All right,” he said, glaring in Walt’s direction. “We got new problems. Allen Murdock is dead. So now it’s not just dumping, we got two counts of murder, soon to be three.” He nodded to Diana. “Ya’ll might look upon a pretty face here. But she’s deadlier than the shit we’ve been burying. She’ll send us to the gallows, boys. Think about that when you start to feel sorry for her. It’s her or us.”
An icy sensation crept up her spine as she met Vic’s unfeeling gaze.
“For anyone stupid enough to say ‘I want out,’ Texas has the death penalty. So we move fast. We got deputies in the labs, and the feds will be here anytime. I know I said tomorrow night, Mike, but it’s got to be tonight. Forget the crew. The four of us will do it.”
“The drums are loaded,” Walt said. “But you’re forgetting something.”
“What’s that?”
“People will miss her. And what about her car?”
Treating her as if she were a worn-out piece of furniture soon to be discarded, no one looked in Diana’s direction. Until this moment, she’d been convinced that Buddy or Michael would help her.
“Right. Right. Give me a second.” Vic unhitched a cell phone from his belt loop and walked a few feet away. “Hell. No signal. I’ll have to make this call from upstairs.” He raked his hand through his collar-length hair and glared at Walt. “Nobody move, and try not to kill anybody.”
He returned a short time later. “Okay, that’s taken care of. Walt, give her the drug, then we separate. No further contact until we meet at the van at ten. We don’t need that sheriff or his deputies linking us together.”
Drug? Diana’s bonds were unbearably tight. With her hands tied behind her back, her ankles bound, and her mouth gagged, she had no way to defend herself.
Walt pulled out a lethal-looking syringe and loomed over her.
Frantic, she pitched forward and struggled. The gag muffled her screams.
“Even tied up, this woman’s a hellcat,” Walt said.
“Here, I’ll help you,” Michael told him. “C’mon lady, make it easy on yourself, huh?”
Angry tears flooded her eyes. She’d misjudged Carmen’s husband. Not only would Michael allow these bastards to kill her, he would help them do it. He held her shoulders as Walt prepared the shot.
“Now be a good little eavesdropper and go to sleep,” Walt taunted. “Tonight, it’ll be all over, and you’ll never feel a thing.”
Sweat dotted her forehead. Her heart exploded inside her chest. At the same time the needle pierced her skin, Michael grabbed her bound hands and slipped an open pocket knife into her fingers.
He released her, and without a look back, joined the others.
“Enough already,” Vic said. “Let’s get out of here.”
Through her tears, Diana watched her kidnappers climb from the underground tank. Then bound and gagged, she went to work, praying she’d have time to cut the bonds before the medication took effect.
Chapter Thirty-five
FOR THE THOUSANDTH time, Michael glanced at the clock. Three o’clock. There was no way he could concentrate on the gauges and instrumentation on the control panel.
Two operators beside him drank coffee and cracked dirty jokes, unaware that in an abandoned tank under the isolated Warehouse Five, a young woman lay, and later tonight, would likely die.
Sweat beaded Michael’s scalp. If she did, her blood was on his hands.
He leaned back his head. What saint did one summon for a problem of this magnitude? Who was the saint for lost causes? He couldn’t remember. Still, resorting to his once-practiced faith wouldn’t grant him a miracle.
He’d known going along with Vic’s plan was wrong. Still, the promise of giving Carmen the things she’d never had proved irresistible.
But the day Walt Bingham had made a threat against her to keep Michael in line, he’d taken her out of the equation. He’d filed for divorce. Besides, if he got arrested for dumping, he didn’t want Carmen bearing the stigma of being married to a man who’d very likely go to prison.
But a murderer? That was a label even Michael couldn’t shoulder.
He’d defended his actions, reasoning he’d had nothing to do with Leo and Allen’s deaths. And he’d slipped the Reid woman the knife. Didn’t that absolve him in some way? Right. As if in her drugged stupor, she could fight off an animal like Walt Bingham.
“You okay, Mike?” Bob Nolte, one of the operators, peered over his shoulder.
“Fine,” Michael said by rote.
But he wasn’t fine. The lady trapped underground was a goner.
Unless . . .
Unless when the time came to transport her tonight, they couldn’t find her.
Along with fresh hope, Michael swallowed a golf ball-sized lump. It had taken Vic and Michael both to carry her down the ladder to the tank. No way could he get her out by himself. By now, she was probably passed out cold.
He could approach the deputies in the lab. They’d help him. But as soon as Michael snitched, Carmen was dead, and he was under arrest.
Buddy. How committed was he to getting his hands on the money? Michael had sensed a connection between the mailroom runner and the pretty reporter. And when Michael had fully explained to Diana what had gone wrong, Buddy hadn’t protested.
No further contact until we meet at the van at ten.
Michael rose from his chair. I hope you weren’t counting on getting rich, Buddy, because you’re about to be contacted.
“Guys, I’d better check on tank twenty-three. It’s reading high.”
Studying the instrument panel from over Michael’s shoulder, Bob said, “No, it’s not.”
Michael shot his subordinate a who’s-in-charge look. “It’s fluctuating.”
Bob got the message. He shrugged and went back to work.
“AFTERNOON, MAYOR,” Jordan’s receptionist greeted him.
“Hi, Carmen,” Brad said, striding past the counter. Often, he stopped to talk to the funny, pretty brunette who kept an ever-ready pencil behind her ear. But with Allen Murdock’s lynching still fresh in his mind, Brad wanted Diana offsite now.
Still, he’d have a heart made of brick to ignore the angst on Carmen’s face. He paused. “Crazy around here, isn’t it?”
“Deputies coming and going,” she said, shaking her head. “And the sheriff left and hasn’t been back.”
Brad thought of Leo in a shallow grave and Allen Murdock at the end of a rope, now just a couple of bodies at the morgue. “My guess is Sheriff Tafoya will be along any time now.”
“If you’re looking for Susan or Neil, they left a while back,” Carmen said.
“Did they say where they were going?”
“No, but they were both in a hurry.”
“They leave together?”
“I don’t know if they left together, but they left at the same time.” She shrugged.
For all of five seconds, Brad considered where they might be. In truth, he was relieved he wouldn’t have to face either one of them. Without their presence, he’d be able to get Diana off the grounds and forego any lengthy explanation.
A Hispanic man rounded the corner of the lobby, glanced toward
Carmen, took one look at Brad, frowned, and turned back the way he’d come.
“Someone you know?” Brad lifted a brow.
Carmen’s normally cheerful face fell. “My . . . husband. We’re separated. Sorry he gave you that look, Mr. Jordan. It wasn’t directed at you. It was directed at me.”
“I doubt that,” Brad said. The expression he’d seen fit more into the jealous rival category. “He works here?”
“He’s a shift supervisor for Operations.”
Great. If she’d said chemist, Brad would’ve suggested that Carmen’s husband find another line of work.
“I gotta run,” Brad said. “Cheer up. Things can’t get any worse.”
Brad had met Harold Mulberry at Jordan’s Christmas party last year. He hadn’t been impressed with the man then; Brad’s reaction to the company yes man this afternoon wasn’t much better.
“Mr. Jordan,” Harold said, rushing forward to meet Brad as soon as he entered the mailroom. “I mean, Mayor. Welcome. What can we do for you?”
Brad took in five commercial copiers with only four operators. “The woman who started on Monday, where is she?”
“Candace? You know Candace?”
Irritated at the twig impersonating a human being, Brad wanted to shake him, but didn’t want to break the guy. “I do. Where is she?”
“She went to the nurse, and, after that, apparently she walked off the job. She’s cleared out her desk, and all of her personal things are gone.” Harold removed his glasses and polished them. “I’m sorry if she’s a friend of yours, but Ms. Armstrong has not been an effective employee.” Harold returned the glasses to his face. “In the four days she’s worked for me, she’s been late and disappeared at every turn. You have no idea what kind of week I’ve been through.”
And I don’t care. “What time did she leave?”
“I have no clue,” Harold said. “See what I mean? She didn’t even consult me. She talked to Betsy.”
Brad looked toward the operators. “Which one’s Betsy?”
“I’ll take you to her.”
“Just point her out. I wouldn’t want to keep you from your work.”
Brad approached the woman Harold had indicated. Preoccupied with running copies, she startled when Brad called her by name.
He introduced himself and extended his hand. “I’m looking for Candace Armstrong. Harold tells me she went home sick?”
Betsy wiped her hands on her jeans and shook Brad’s hand. “You mean Candy? Well, I guess she did. She looked bad, Mr. Jordan. Said her head was pounding and she gets these awful migraines. When I thought she might get sick, I suggested she go to the nurse.”
“Did you see her return from the nurse? Harold said Candy walked off the job. Did you see her leave?”
Betsy shook her head. “I didn’t. Sorry.”
“Can you show me where she stored her stuff?”
“Sure, over here.” Betsy led Brad to a built-in wall unit partitioned with slots. “Candy’s is this one here. See, everything’s gone. She must’ve gone home.”
“Thanks,” Brad said. “You’ve been a big help.”
“I have?” Betsy’s eyes widened.
“You have.” Diana didn’t suffer from migraines. What Diana suffered from was an inborn ability to get into trouble. Tamping down his anxiety, Brad left the mailroom.
On his way to the nurse’s station, his cell phone vibrated against his belt. Hoping Diana finally had the sense to check in, Brad snapped, “Jordan.”
“Brad, this is Dad. I’ve been trying to reach you. Where are you?”
“I’m at the plant. Sometimes my phone’s out of range. What’s wrong?”
“It’s your grandfather, son. He’s at Reeves Memorial. Neil, Nancy, and Susan are already with me. I think you’d better join us.”
Understanding this day was inevitable didn’t make the pain any less. “I’ll be there as quickly as I can.”
“Drive safe. Your grandfather’s stable for the time being. But the doctor says it could be any time.”
Brad disconnected the call. Dammit, Diana, where are you? The last time they’d spoken, she’d wanted to scope out Neil’s and Vic Hagen’s offices. Brad would try there next. He strode toward the elevator. Yet, as he pushed the button to the fourth floor, he caught Carmen peering out of the lobby’s front doors—and ignoring the company phones.
Disregarding the elevator, Brad crossed the lobby. “Carmen? Something wrong?”
She stood on tiptoe, straining her neck. “I’m not sure. I’m wondering what’s going on between my husband and Buddy.”
“Who’s Buddy?”
“He works in the mailroom. I didn’t even know they knew each other.” She looked back at Brad. “Sorry to be nosy, but why would Michael, who works in operations, need a private conversation with someone who works in the mailroom?”
Good question. “You better catch those phones, Carmen. I’ll see if I can find out.”
Brad stepped outside to see the men talking animatedly by the picnic tables on the west side of the building. He felt foolish for interrupting what probably was a side bet or a harmless conversation. But the fact he hadn’t heard from Diana was starting to alarm him, and if Buddy worked in the mailroom, maybe he could tell Brad when he’d seen her last.
The guy in black saw Brad first. He stopped talking and elbowed Michael that they had company.
“How you boys doing? Is there a problem here?”
“Just shooting the breeze,” Carmen’s husband replied.
“No.” Buddy leapt from the picnic table, all while shaking off the other man’s grasp. “We’re not just shooting the breeze. Is your name Brad Jordan?”
“That’s right.”
“Buddy,” Michael warned, “knock it off.”
“No, Mike, you knock it off. There’s no way the two of us can do this alone. She told me to contact him. She asked for this guy by name.”
“Who? Candace Armstrong?” Brad asked.
Buddy shook his head. “Her name’s not Candace. Her real name’s Diana Reid.”
Chapter Thirty-six
“THIS WAY,” BUDDY murmured.
Following Buddy and Michael through an isolated sector of the plant, Brad’s gut twisted from anger and apprehension. Fear speared him on, however, and he made a mental note to thank Carmen profusely for keeping tabs on her husband.
Brad shuddered at the likelihood of Diana’s survival if he hadn’t stumbled upon Michael and Buddy deep in cahoots discussing how—and if—they should save Diana. He found it unbelievable that a woman’s life was up for debate.
Without their help, though, in a plant the size of Jordan, a search would have taken days. The authorities would have needed schematics to locate all the underground tanks, and, by then, it would have been too late.
Oil and gas fumes filled his head as Brad ducked through the door of the structure his informants called Warehouse Five. Actually, the depot was a place Brad and Neil used to play in as kids.
No longer used as one of the company’s prominent facilities, the warehouse had been converted into storage for high-mileage economy vans and pickups set for auction.
Yet, even in its dilapidated state, Brad remembered it well. His father had brought them here often, much to the staff’s chagrin. The tank below had been off-limits, but the boys had been boys—and handfuls.
But times were different then. His brother and he went places in T-shirts and jeans that today would have required protective gear. People were less mindful of the harmful effects of chemicals; procedures were more like guidelines, and Brad and Neil were Jordans.
Still, playing in a warehouse was one thing; sneaking into an underground vault housing a tank full of pesticides was another. Their father had tanned their backsides more than
once for sneaking around a supervisor’s directives.
“Which van holds the drums?” Brad asked, having grilled these two on the reasons they’d taken Diana.
“The gray van by the crane,” Michael said.
They approached, and Michael tried the vehicle’s back door. It’s locked,” he said. “Walt has the key.”
The warehouse’s dim light and the van’s tinted glass prevented passersby from seeing inside.
“What keeps the driver from breathing the fumes?” Brad asked.
“Walt rigged a panel between the front seat and back and the drums are covered by a polyethylene tarp,” Michael added.
From this point, Brad knew Diana’s location well. He took the lead to pass through a musty doorway that descended several feet into an area that separated the warehouse from the vault. He hadn’t eaten in hours, but that didn’t stop him from wanting to retch from the dread consuming him.
The trio reached the hatch to the tank.
“Want me to go first?” Michael asked.
“No,” Brad said.
He climbed down the rungs, taking in the rust-colored stain on the cement below the ladder before he saw her.
Diana lay trussed, gagged, and in an unmoving heap. Rage and fear ignited within Brad as he rushed to her.
Dressed in a cotton shirt and jeans, she lay with the knife Michael provided inches behind her still-tied hands. Bloody gashes had cut into her wrists, her dark hair was tangled and matted, and an angry bruise covered the left side of her face.
Brad kicked the wig out of the way, knelt by her side, and placed two fingers to her carotid artery. He found her pulse strong and unwavering. Thank God.
He looked up, grateful Michael and Buddy were beyond his reach. Brad tasted bile.
“Is she . . .” Buddy spoke first.
Nodding, Brad’s throat tightened. “Lucky for you.”
“Untie her feet,” he ordered, as he eased the gag from her mouth and freed her wrists from the binds. “Diana? Diana? It’s Brad. Baby, open your eyes. Please, look at me.”
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