The Millionaires’ Club: Ryan, Alex & Darin

by Cindy Gerard / Cathleen Galitz / Kristi Gold

  “Carrie,” he said, relief filling his voice. “Thank God I finally found you.”

  Carrie drew her shoulders back, a defense against her pride, which had taken a hit from this man, too. “I don’t think we have anything to say to each other, Nathan.”

  Nathan looked from Carrie to Stephanie, who was regarding him with barely veiled disdain. He flashed a smile that oozed charm and begged for understanding. “Would you mind leaving us alone for a few minutes? I realize it’s a huge imposition, but I really need to discuss something with Carrie in private.”

  Stephanie looked toward Carrie for her reaction.

  “It’s okay, Steph,” she said, deciding it would be best to just clear the air, throw him out on his ear and get on with her life. “Nathan and I have some unfinished business. It won’t take but a few minutes.”

  “I’ll be right outside in the other room,” Steph said, looking uneasy and uncertain about the wisdom of leaving Carrie with Nathan.

  “Let’s make this easy, okay?” Carrie said to Nathan after Stephanie reluctantly left the room, shutting the door behind her. “You’re not what I thought you were. You’re not who I thought you were. And you are definitely not someone I care about having in my life. Beyond that, I really have nothing to say to you.”

  With that, she rose from behind Stephanie’s desk and headed for the door.

  “You’re not going anywhere, you simpering little bitch.”

  Carrie was so stunned—by his words, by the rancor licking through them—she froze, certain her mind was playing tricks on her. But then she saw his face. Hatred. Stark and vivid.

  Who was this person? And how could she ever have thought he could become someone special to her?

  Suddenly she was frightened. And the only place she wanted to be was gone. “Goodbye, Nathan.”

  “I said, you aren’t going anywhere,” Roman Birkenfeld snarled and grabbed the high-and-mighty Ms. Whelan’s arm when she tried to walk past him.

  Good, he thought, when her expression registered both pain and a shock so acute she couldn’t even speak. He saw the thread of fear in her eyes. And he liked it. He hadn’t planned on getting rough with her—at least not yet. He’d planned on making her see reason, win back her trust so he could use her to get to Natalie Perez and ultimately his money through Carrie’s brother in a little more civilized manner. But he was beyond civilized now and her holier-than-thou attitude was the last straw.

  “Take your hand off me.”

  “Let’s get something straight. You’re not giving the orders here. I am.” He dug into his jacket pocket, pulled out the gun Jason Carter had procured for him. The surge of power he felt when she drew in a gasping breath was almost as good as sex. “Don’t even think about screaming for help or running. You might get away but I promise you, your friend—Stephanie, is it?—she and anyone else within ten yards of you are as good as dead if you do. Are we clear?

  “Are we clear?” he repeated, jerking hard on her arm for good measure. He relished her wince of pain. The confusion clouding her face was almost comical.

  “Yes,” she whispered finally, and he could see she’d finally figured it out. He wasn’t playing around here. “I won’t scream. I… won’t run.”

  “Because you know who will get hurt if you do.”

  “Yes. I know. Nathan…I don’t understand. Why are you doing this?”

  “My name is not Nathan. It’s Roman Birkenfeld, and other than that, the only thing you need to know is that I’ve had it with this Podunk town, this situation and the fact that thanks to your future sister-in-law, everything in my life has turned to crap.”

  “Natalie? What does Nat…wait. B-Birkenfeld? But Roman Birkenfeld is the doctor who—”

  “I know who I am,” he growled, heard the barely controlled hysteria in his voice and forced himself to stop, compose himself. “You are all so gullible,” he added, feeling another small power surge over that fact. He’d fooled them. He’d fooled them all into believing he was Beldon. He’d even fooled Beldon into believing he could trust him. He was superior to every one of these country bumpkins. But he was also as dead as he’d left Beldon if he didn’t get his money.

  The phone call he’d received last night was very thorough, detailing exactly what was going to happen to him if he didn’t pay up within twenty-four hours. He had no idea how they’d found him, but the fact that they had was telling of the gravity of the threat.

  Until a few minutes ago, he’d still been counting on Stokes and Carter to come through with the half mil Natalie had taken from him. But Tommy Stokes had just called. He and Carter had bungled the job of stealing his money back from the Cattleman’s Club—bungled it so badly that Carter was in jail, and Stokes, after telling him to stick his grunt job where the sun don’t shine, was headed for parts unknown.

  That made Carrie Whelan his last resort. Big brother would come running with his money now if he wanted to see his sister alive again. Of course, he’d have to kill her now regardless, but Whelan didn’t have to know that until it was too late.

  “Let’s go,” he said, tucking the gun back into his jacket pocket, then positioning his body beside and a little behind her so he could prod the snub-nose barrel into her ribs. “Just follow my lead. If anyone asks, we decided to go have a cup of coffee and talk things out, got it?”

  She nodded jerkily.

  “Your friend’s life depends on how convincing you are,” he reminded her for good measure and pushed her toward the door.

  He was insane. Carrie was certain of it as she sat on the floor in the corner of a room that was cold and damp and from the echoing hollowness of every sound, empty. She’d decided they were in a warehouse…or a garage. Maybe. She wasn’t sure. Couldn’t tell. Once Birkenfeld had gotten her into his car, he’d blindfolded her, then taped her hands together behind her back and driven.

  Her questions had gotten her nowhere. He’d just ranted on and on to himself about getting his money, damning Natalie and her interference, swearing how he was going to make her pay. How he was going to make everyone pay.

  Natalie’s name was the only connection Carrie had been able to make. Natalie’s and Roman Birkenfeld. And that was enough to tell the tale. She’d overheard Natalie and Travis talking. She knew that Birkenfeld was the doctor from Chicago who had tried to steal baby Autumn. What she didn’t understand was how she fit in. Of course, considering that she was scared out of her ever-loving mind, there was a pretty good possibility she might have missed something. Something vital. Something that might save her life…and she had no doubt about it, her life was definitely on the line here.

  She’d tried to concentrate on what he was saying…tried to connect with some semblance of time and distance, but the blindfold had skewed her perceptions. Adrenaline had ratcheted up her heartbeat. And fear had her mind reeling with possibilities too horrible to fathom.

  Still, she tried to focus. As best as she could figure, they’d traveled for around twenty minutes before he’d finally stopped and dragged her out of his car. The hollow ring of the doors he slammed behind them as he’d led her through what felt like a laby rinth of halls and stairways made her think of cavernous spaces.

  It had to be a warehouse, she finally decided. Abandoned, most likely, if the absence of heat was any clue. Yet…something…the smell…it was right there…but not quite. She knew that she knew what she was smelling…but like a bubble that burst just as you reached out and touched it, recognition kept eluding her.

  “Get up,” he ordered abruptly.

  She did as he asked, using the wall at her back for leverage and balance since she couldn’t see, couldn’t use her hands to assist her.

  “We’re going to have a little chat with your brother. All you have to tell him is that you’re all right and that he’s to do what I ask or I’m going to kill you. Got it?”

  Or I’m going to kill you. She got that part loud and clear.

  She nodded, his cold-blooded words echoing in her
mind as her heart jackhammered inside her chest.

  “What’s his cell phone number?”

  She thought, swallowed. “I…I don’t know. It’s programmed into my cell phone but I don’t remember the number.”

  She flinched when he swore.

  “It’s in my purse,” she added hastily. “My phone. It’s in my purse.”

  She heard things hit the floor as he rifled through what she assumed was her purse. “How do you access your phone book?” he asked finally, and again she assumed he’d found her phone.

  She had to think, really think about it, but finally remembered and told him. She heard the electronic beep of buttons being pushed, then waited, not knowing whether to breathe a sigh of relief or dread when it became apparent he made a connection with Trav.

  At this point there was only one thing she did know. He had no intentions of letting her live. Whether Travis came for her or not, there wasn’t a reason in the world compelling enough for Birkenfeld to keep her alive.

  Oddly, it wasn’t herself she was worried about as much as she was worried about Travis and Ry. They’d feel responsible. If something happened to her, they would feel responsible for the rest of their lives.

  And she’d never once told Ry—knot-headed Victorian-minded throwback that he was—that she loved him. That realization finally galvanized her resolve. She decided she wasn’t going to just cower like a frightened animal and let Birkenfeld kill her.

  Animal. That was it! That was the odor milling under the scent of antiseptic and dust that she hadn’t been able to place. My God. She knew where she was.

  Trav was in his car, heading for a meeting at the club when his cell rang. He checked the digital readout, saw it was Carrie’s number. “Hey, bear, what’s up?” he said cheerily when he answered.

  “I’ve got something you want, Whelan.”

  Travis almost rear-ended the car in front of him. “Who is this?” he demanded, an uneasy punch of foreboding lurching through his blood stream.

  “Roman Birkenfeld.”

  Unease gave way to panic. “Birkenfeld? What the hell are you—”

  “Shut up,” the man on the other end of the line demanded, giving Trav no choice but to obey. “Just listen. It’s like I said. I’ve got something you want, and you’ve got something I want. I’ve got your sister.”

  “You son of a—”

  “Yeah, yeah, you’re one tough Texan, but I’m in control here. You want her back, you’ll do exactly as I say. No questions. Do you understand?”

  “I want to talk to her,” Trav demanded, breaking out in a cold sweat.

  He heard a muffled cry—of pain, of surprise—and it damn near ripped his heart out. And then he heard her voice. And the tremor in it undid him.

  “Trav.”

  “Carrie. Oh, God, bear. What’s he done to you?”

  “N-nothing. Yet. I’m…I’m okay. I’m…I’m tough. Come from good…stock.”

  His heart clenched at her bravado. “Where are you, sweetie?”

  “I…Nathan…I mean, Roman…he blindfolded me. Trav…I love you. Always…remember Fort Worth—”

  Birkenfeld yanked the phone from her from her hand. “This is all very touching,” he broke in, cutting her off, “but now we’ve got business, Whelan. And so you know…she’s dead or as good as if you don’t follow my instructions to the letter.”

  “You put so much as a bruise on her—”

  “You are not in a position to be issuing ultimatums!” Birkenfeld yelled, sounding on the edge and on the brink of toppling over. “One more word and you will never see her alive again.”

  Trav bit his tongue and swore that he’d rip the bastard limb from limb when he found him. If he found him. Until he did, he had little choice but to play Birkenfeld’s game.

  “Better,” Birkenfeld said. “Now, this is what’s going to happen.”

  Nine

  Ry had felt helpless before. When you were flat on your back on a rodeo arena floor, waiting out your fate as a thousand pounds of pissed-off bronc bucked and rolled above you and one hoof strike could end your career—or worse, your life—you were on intimate terms with helpless. On one or two dicey TCC missions, when he’d been caught in a wait-and-see situation while his brain screamed for decisive action, he’d understood the power of that seemingly benign word.

  But he’d never breathed helplessness, tasted it, lived it like he had in the moments since Travis had called together him and the two other TCC members involved in Natalie’s case and broken the worst possible news.

  Roman Birkenfeld, the man they’d all thought was Nathan Beldon, the man who had tried to kill Natalie and steal her baby, was holding Carrie hostage.

  Carrie. The little girl he’d watched grow into a beautiful woman. The woman he’d wanted and tried to keep away from. The woman he’d finally made incredible love with. The woman he just might damn well be in love with.

  “Go over it again,” he demanded of Trav as he, Alex Kent and Darin ibn Shakir gathered, grim-faced around a conference table in a private meeting room in the back of the club. “There’s got to be something…something we’re missing, damn it, that will lead us to her.”

  Darin exchanged a look with Alex that relayed what all four men were thinking. Birkenfeld had lost it. He’d kidnapped Carrie and then contacted Travis, demanding Travis deliver the half million in cash the men had recovered the night Natalie and baby Autumn had literally fallen into their arms at the Royal Diner. He wanted the money in exchange for Carrie’s life. Trav was waiting for a call back from Birkenfeld that would tell him when and where to leave the money.

  “The bastard has a real penchant for trading in human lives,” Darin said aloud.

  Alex worked a hand over his jaw, his brows drawn tight. “Someone who steals and sells babies is about as warped as it gets.”

  “He has no intention of letting Carrie go,” Darin pointed out grimly as he looked from Travis to Ryan. “You understand that, don’t you?”

  All too well, Ry thought as he rose from the table to pace the room, out of his mind with rage and concern and drowning in that damnable sense of helplessness. “Tell me again exactly what she said,” he demanded of Trav.

  Trav drew a deep breath, closed his eyes and concentrated. “She said he’d blindfolded her. That she didn’t know where she was. She said…she said, Trav…I love you.” He had to stop, as emotion lodged in his throat, choking him. “And then she said something…something about…remember Fort Worth.”

  “Fort Worth?” Ry planted his hands on the table in front of Trav, leaned in close. “She was trying to tell you something. Does it mean anything to you?”

  Trav shook his head, baffled. “Vacations. We sometimes took family vacations in Fort Worth. But that’s too obvious. Besides, he couldn’t have taken her that far…not this soon. When I talked to Stephanie, she said they left the library together a little over an hour ago.”

  Ry pushed away from the table, paced the room.

  “So what did you do on your vacations?” Alex asked, prodding further for some clue that would help locate Carrie before it was too late.

  “Mostly, we went to the stock shows. Wait,” Trav said, stopping abruptly. “I remember something else now…when I asked her if she was okay, she said she was tough…something about coming from good stock.”

  “Fort Worth—stock show. Good stock. Stock.” Ry mulled the information around in his head. Then he swore and headed for the door. “She handed it to us on a platter. He’s got her at the abandoned stockyards on the edge of town.”

  Alex caught up with Ry, grabbed his arm, then released it immediately when he saw the deadly intent in his friend’s eyes. “Look, man. You can’t head out there half-cocked. You don’t even know for certain if that’s where he’s holding her.”

  “I don’t know she’s not there, either.” He looked over his shoulder at Trav. “When Birkenfeld calls again to set up the exchange, stall him so he’ll stay put. And if you come up with a di
fferent location, call my cell. Leave Vincente out of it for now. I don’t want the Royal PD barreling in there with sirens screaming and spooking Birkenfeld into doing something really stupid.”

  “Ry—” Darin tried one last time but Ryan was already out the door.

  The three men exchanged concerned looks, but none of them tried to stop him. If he was right, he might be Carrie’s best shot at getting out of this in one piece. If he was wrong—then they were back at square one and Carrie’s life might not be worth the phony birth certificates Birkenfeld issued for the babies he’d stolen.

  “I’ll get ahold of David and Clint and have them standing by,” Alex said, pulling out his cell.

  Darin rested a hand on Trav’s shoulder. “Now we wait.”

  “Yeah,” Trav echoed, staring bleakly at his cell phone, willing it to ring. “Now we wait.”

  Carrie sat huddled on the floor. She was cold. Her butt hurt. So did her knees from when Nathan…rather, Roman Birkenfeld had pushed her down on the rough concrete. Minutes, hours…or it could have been days that had passed since he’d placed the first call to her brother demanding money and then the second call to set up an exchange location.

  The part of her that had remained focused knew it had been less than an hour since he’d brought her here. Less than fifteen minutes since he’d hung up from talking to Trav a second time and arranging to make the exchange. The part of her that had always been pragmatic also knew it might be her last hour. Birkenfeld was crazy.

  Between calls he’d ranted and raved even more about how Natalie was going to pay for ruining his nice, orderly little business. And how Travis would never see his child again when he was through. He’d even brought Ry into his lunatic ramblings, vowing to kill him for humiliating him.

  She had no illusion that she was also on his short list of murder candidates.