Zane would know what to do. She dug into the pocket of her slacks and pulled out the slip of paper with Zane’s cell phone number. According to the clock on the stove, it was after seven p.m. The rescue team had been gone for hours. Surely they’d rescued the hostages by now? But what if they hadn’t? What if ringing phone gave them away and got someone killed.
Or… what if he didn’t answer at all?
He could be lying dead somewhere. All four of them. Dead.
A cold, heavy weight numbed her chest.
She shook it off. Took a deep breath, uncurled her fingers, and started dialing. He was a SEAL for God’s sake. He wouldn’t be stupid enough to leave his cell phone on in the middle of battle.
He picked up on the first ring. “Beth?”
Her name was an urgent roar blasting down the line. The sound so welcome, she went limp and closed her eyes.
“Yes,” she managed around the lump in her throat.
“Where are you?” Rather than easing, his tone climbed. He must have tried calling. “We’re at some friends of Marion’s—” She started to explain, when something about his ragged breathing gave her pause. Her senses sharpened.
“You’re okay?” His voice leveled out. “I thought….”
“I’m fine,” she said slowly, her hand tightening around the receiver. There was more than worry in his tone. There was something rough and hurting as well. “Is it over?”
A long, raw silence crawled over the line. Ice prickled her spine.
“Yeah.” He sounded exhausted. Tense. Not the slightest bit relieved.
The ice spread from her spine across her chest and filled her heart with its cold, hard weight. “Ginny? Kyle? Chastain’s—”
“They’re fine.”
From the tightness to the words, someone wasn’t fine. She glanced up, caught Marion’s worried gaze. “Where are you?”
“The emergency room. At Sacred Hearts.” Another long, raw silence seethed down the line.
“Zane,” she dropped her voice and turned her back to the fear flooding Marion’s face. “Are you okay? Was anyone hurt?”
“Cosky—” His voice thickened and simply stopped.
Oh, God. Beth squeezed her eyes shut. Poor Zane. It had been obvious how close the two were.
What was she going to tell Marion? She took a shallow breath, so hypersensitive to the woman behind her; she could hear the catch in Marion’s breathing, followed by the lack of breathing all together.
“Is he alive?” Beth whispered.
“For now.” The words were dull, as though Cosky’s death was a foregone conclusion. Already accepted and grieved over.
“We’re on our way.”
“I’ll come get you,” he said, that thick tightness still roughening the syllables. “Marion’s car is—”
“We’re borrowing the Bradleys’. We’ll be there as soon as we can.” She hung up before the argument could start.
Turning to face Marion was one of the hardest things she’d done in her life, but she didn’t have to say the words. From the fear and pain burning in her eyes, Cosky’s mother already knew.
“Marion, I am so sorry.”
The phone started ringing. Beth ignored it.
“But he’s alive?” Fear and hope battled openly on her ashen face.
“He’s alive. But, it sounds pretty bad. You need to—” To what? Prepare herself? Was that even possible? “We need to get to the hospital.”
“Of course.” Mrs. Simcosky suddenly swayed and bent at the waist, cradling her abdomen, as though someone had kicked her in the belly.
Beth snatched the keychain off the hook, hurried over to take hold of Marion’s elbow and gently pulled her upright. “Where’s the garage?”
Mrs. Simcosky waved a shaking hand toward a door to right.
“Marcus is a strong one,” Marion said as they hurried through a well stocked pantry, and into a spacious garage. “He’ll pull through this. You’ll see.”
The car waiting for them was a metallic blue, four-door luxury sedan. Beth led Marion to the passenger door and helped the woman inside, then hurried over to the driver’s side. The key with the Lexus insignia slipped into the ignition and the engine roared to life. She hit the garage door opener, shifted the Lexus into reverse, and waited for the door to finish climbing; to expose them to whoever might be cruising the streets, looking for them; to hard-faced men with murder in their eyes and MP5s in hand.
* * *
Mac braced himself, and waited for a landslide of pain followed by lights-out Mackenzie.
Instead, another burst of gunfire sounded from his right and a quarter-sized bloom of red erupted in the middle of Tattoo’s chest. The red stain spread to the size of a dinner plate. Slowly, Tattoo’s legs folded. He dropped to the carpet of pine needles with a dull thud.
Groaning, and without the benefit of either arm, Mac struggled into a sitting position. Tattoo’s eyes were wide and glossy, staring at him from across the forest floor.
He turned his head, stared at the red-headed woman standing frozen and silent to his right. The Glock she held was still trained on Tattoo’s body. Even as he watched, she gave herself a hard shake and stepped forward. After kicking the gun away, she bent and placed two fingers against the side of Tattoo’s thick neck.
When Amy Chastain straightened, her gaze was locked on her attacker’s blood-soaked crotch. A hand slowly crept up to her cheek, stroked the bruised flesh, and just for a moment her fingers shook. And then she stiffened. He could actually see the cloak of composure come down. When she turned to him, there was nothing but cool confidence on her face.
“You should’ve gone with the double tap,” she said.
Un-fucking-believable.
“My hand slipped,” he snapped.
She lifted an eyebrow. “That’s quite a slip.”
Had it escaped her attention that he’d been shot? Or that he’d broken his fucking shoulder?
“He was bound and gagged.” Which wasn’t quite true, but close enough. He glared down at his legs, wondering if he could trust them to him get upright. “It hardly seemed sporting.”
“And shooting his dick off was?”
“Maybe not sporting, but sure as hell fitting.”
His answer hung—throbbing—in the air between them. Her eyes touched his, and he could see the haunted pain there. The horror. And then she looked away, broke the connection.
With her habitual smooth coordination, she swooped to pick up Tattoo’s gun and the abandoned cell phone. When she turned back, her mask was firmly in place.
“Let me take a look at your shoulder. How bad is it?”
It hurt like a motherfucker. “It’s fine. Let’s get to the damn car.”
Ignoring him, she dropped to her knees and grasped the hem of his t-shirt.
“I’m fine,” he grated out, punctuating each word with a hiss as she maneuvered his right arm out of its hole and then over his head. When she eased the shirt down his left shoulder, the agony rolled through him in a dense, black wave. Nausea twisted his belly, and started up his throat. Christ, he was about to vomit.
How fucking humiliating.
“Goddamn it! I said, I’m fine.”
He would have pushed her hands away, but his left arm wouldn’t work and he didn’t want to stab her with the piece of kindling sticking out of his right hand.
“Yeah,” she agreed, after examining his shoulder. “The bullet passed through. It’s barely even bleeding. You dislocated your shoulder when you fell.”
Well, hell… she could have shown a little concern
“Can you walk to the car, or should I call for an ambulance?” She rocked back on her heels and rose to her feet.
With a scowl, he fought to get his legs beneath him. “I can walk to the damn car.”
She grabbed his elbow and helped him to his feet, which stung his pride enough. But then she didn’t let go, as though afraid he’d fall flat on his face without her support He jerked his arm f
ree. And stabbed himself in the thigh in the process.
Jesus. Fucking. Christ.
He bit back a howl of pain and fought to keep from blacking out.
“I should call for an ambulance.”
The hell she should.
“I said, I’m fine.”
“Sure.” She agreed, dryly. “That pasty-green cast to your face is your natural skin tone?”
And he was attracted to this? What the fuck was wrong with him? She was the most aggravating, mouthy….
“Just give me a fucking minute.”
After a couple of deep breaths, he felt comfortable chancing that first step. The second step was easier. Still, it was going to be a hell of a long hike to the car.
* * *
Russ’s Ford Expedition still sat where he’d parked it, stall F35 of SeaTac’s covered parking dome. As he unlocked the SUV and slid inside, he ignored the urge to drag the Smith & Wesson out from under the driver’s seat. He’d arm himself after he’d removed himself from the airport and the possibility of being picked up for another round of questioning.
He backed sedately out of his slot and exited the dome. After picking up his parking ticket, he pulled into the tollbooth with the shortest line. While he waited for his turn at the window, he tried Jilly’s number again. The call rang and rang, and the answering machine picked up. He tried her cell phone next. This time the call went straight to voice mail.
She was probably out with the kids. Shopping. Maybe taking in a movie. There was no sense in worrying. But his stomach churned and sweat glued his shirt to his spine.
He punched in Tyler Carey’s number next. What the hell was happening out in Enumclaw? But Carey’s phone just rang and rang too, eventually going to voicemail.
Didn’t anybody answer their damn phones?
He paid his toll and headed out of the airport, merging onto the highway to Burien. It would be a while before his team arrived at the rendezvous point with his new hostage so he exited the highway, pulled into a diner, and ordered some grub. He tried Jilly’s number again. Still no answer. An hour later, just before leaving, he tried her again. With the same result.
A cold, hard knot constricted his chest. Damn it, where the fuck was she?
Several miles from Burien, he slowed and angled the SUV to the right, into an industrial section full of trucking companies, warehouses and automobile dealerships. A run-down storage facility came into view.
Stopping the SUV in front of a chain-link gate, he checked his cell’s caller ID. Yeah. Not one fucking call. Swearing, he dragged the Smith & Wesson from beneath the seat, checked the magazine, and shoved the gun beneath the waistband at the small of his back. Then he leaned out to punch his code into the security panel. The gate rattled to life, rolling off the driveway in jerky, uneven increments.
The storage facility made a perfect rendezvous point. The place was ringed with steel units, which shielded the interior from outside eyes. While the owner claimed the property was protected by state-of-the-art security, in truth, the only protection offered was the fence surrounding it. The video cameras so visible throughout the interior were nothing more than shells, meant to convince the patrons their valuables were being watched over. None of the cameras actually worked. Which suited Russ fine, as did the facility’s seclusion.
The space he’d rented was at the very back, which meant he had to pass all ten rows of units. By the time his SUV rounded the last corner and crunched its way down the gravel lane, he knew the place was empty.
As expected.
Also, as expected, a green four-door sedan blocked the driveway in front of him. Two of his crew members leaned against the trunk. Willie, the one on the left, tossed down the glowing butt of a cigarette. The back seat of the sedan was empty.
A spurt of frustrated fury heated his veins. Was it too much to ask that one thing go right today? Just one fucking thing?
He stomped on the Expedition’s brake and shoved the gearshift into park. Without Marion Simcosky, he had no way of forcing SEAL Team 7 to hand over Chastain’s family.
Without Chastain’s wife and kids, he had no leverage with which to force Mr. Fucking Agent-in-Charge to hand over the passengers on the bosses’ ‘must have’ list.
Which meant his neck was on the fucking chopping block.
The barrel of the Smith & Wesson dug into his spine as his feet hit the gravel.
Maybe it was time to distance himself from this mess. He had enough money squirreled away to last him, Jilly and the kids a good long time. They could hole up somewhere. Wait things out.
The unanswered calls to Jilly flitted through his mind, and his heart skipped a beat.
“Marion Simcosky better be in that trunk,” he said.
The two incompetent assholes glanced at each other, all superior and smug. Exactly the kind of attitude that got a person in trouble.
Willie straightened from his slouch. “We had some trouble—”
Enough with the excuses. Russ reached back, palmed the Smith & Wesson, and in one smooth move, he nailed the motherfucker right between the eyes.
As the body teetered and fell backwards onto the trunk, his second man jerked upright.“Are you a fucking moron?” Russ snapped as the asshole’s hand dived beneath his bomber jacket. “You’ll be dead before you can draw the damn thing.”
The guy froze, and withdrew his hand in slow motion.
“Good choice. Now let’s try this again. Where the fuck is Marion Simcosky?”
Flat, cautious eyes moved from Russ’s gun, up to his face. “We didn’t get a chance to grab her. She had a visitor.”
“You had MP5s. There were two of you. Unless her visitor was ST7, you aren’t doing yourself any favors.”
“The other woman was looking out the window when I came around the corner. She saw me. It gave them time to run.”
The news gave Russ pause. His finger loosened on the trigger. “What did she look like?”
“How ‘bout you point that thing somewhere else and we’ll talk about her?”
That was the whole problem with alpha personalities; they were constantly trying to take charge. Russ dropped the barrel of the gun and pulled the trigger. The round plowed into the bastard’s right shoulder. He dropped the barrel again, this time shattering his right hand and waited for the screaming to stop.
“How about we talk about her now?” he asked affably as the shrieks diminished to throaty moans. “What did this other woman look like?”
Blood welled between the fingers the driver had clamped over his shattered right hand. He ungritted his jaw long enough to force the description out. “Blond. Slender. Late twenties.”
Ah, Miss Beth Brown.
Of course they’d drop her at Marion Simcosky’s house. Winters would want her someplace safe while they fucked up Russ’s operation. As the widow of a cop and the mother of a SEAL, Mrs. Simcosky probably had weapons stashed all over the place. “Thank you.” Russ smiled. “You’ve been most helpful.”
He shifted the muzzle toward the bastard’s sternum, and squeezed the trigger. The guy dropped like a saturated log, dead before he hit the gravel.
Russ backtracked to the SUV and pulled a pair of leather driving gloves from the glove compartment. He popped the trunk on the sedan and carefully heaved the bodies inside, making sure he didn’t smear himself with blood in the process. After parking the sedan in the rental space, he kicked a mound of gravel over the pools of blood.
No sense in advertising what had happened here. The bodies would alert people soon enough. It might take a couple of days, but someone would eventually question the smell. Decomposing flesh left a pungent calling card. But he’d be long gone by then. He’d leased the unit under Russ Branson and as of this moment, Branson no longer existed.
He’d never abandoned a mission before, but this disaster had all the earmarks of a massive clusterfuck. His hostages had to be free. If Tyler had saved the day, he would have heard from him by now.
Which meant he�
�d lost all but one of the cogs he’d set in place. And the one FBI agent still in place was a psychotic powder keg on the verge of blowing. Besides, without Chastain, the man was of no use to him. He wasn’t high enough up the food chain to step into Chastain’s position and transfer those fucking passengers over. It was time to cut and run. He’d have to start over, but he’d done it before. He could do it again.
He’d have to be very careful, though. The bastards he worked for had long memories and held nasty grudges.
He climbed in the SUV, picked up the phone and highlighted Jilly’s number again. His sister was not going to be happy with him. In fact, he suspected the adjectives most likely to describe her reaction to his news would be “seriously pissed.”
This time the call was picked up immediately. He breathed a sigh of relief.
“Hello, Russell Remburg.”
The relief was short-lived. The voice was not his sister’s. Every muscle in Russ’s body spasmed. His stomach plummeted and tightened in dread.
“Manheim.” He said tightly. “Where’s Jilly?”
“Your twin is fine.” A cold pause chilled the line. “For now. You seemed quite concerned over her. Six calls in just over an hour?” A tsk-tsk echoed. “It’s best you concentrate on the matter we hired you for. We’ll keep an eye on your sister.”
Russ unlocked his jaw. “I want to talk to her.”
“That wouldn’t be advisable. We wouldn’t want to upset you.”
What the fuck was that supposed to mean?
Russ took a shallow, raw breath. “I’m warning you, Manheim, if you hurt her, if you hurt any of them—”
“You, of all people, should know how useless such threats are. Let’s dispense with them, shall we? We want what you promised. Once we have it, you’ll get your sister and her family back—minus one of the children.”
The line went dead.
Jesus. Jesus.
Russ’s hand went numb. He dropped the phone.
Minus one of the children? Had those fucking bastards killed one of the kids? Which child? Which one had they taken from him? Little Lizzy with her mischievous, toothy grin? Wes, more solemn, but the spitting image of what he’d looked like as a child? Brianna and her bossy mothering? Collin with—Russ forced the march of faces and names aside. He couldn’t afford the distraction. And he sure as fuck couldn’t afford this panic.
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