Dangerous Connections (Blackthorne, Inc.)

by Odell, Terry

  “We’ve been drugged. At least I have, and I assume you have, too. They must have given you a bigger dose. Mine’s wearing off. Are you blindfolded?”

  “Ah, that would explain the inability to see.”

  “All I can figure is we’re on a plane. A guy poked his head in a minute ago, said we were about to land.”

  “An odorific one? I have a fuzzy memory of that much.”

  The plane tilted downward, and Elle tried to brace herself. “They aren’t much for FAA safety regs, apparently.”

  A thud and another expletive answered her. And then she was rolling, bumping, feeling like a ball in a pinball game. Then a jarring bump. The plane slowed, and she rolled in the other direction. At last, the motion stopped.

  “No points to the pilot for that landing,” Steve said. “You okay?”

  She took stock. Nothing seemed broken, although she bet she’d have some colorful bruises tomorrow. “Fine.”

  She waited, expecting Mr. B.O. to come for them. Didn’t happen. Voices shouted things in Spanish. Thunking and clunking sounds. The floor swayed under her. Then they were moving again. Slowly.

  “You think this is a refueling stop?” she asked.

  Damn, they could be going anywhere.

  Jinx felt as if all his neural pathways had been rerouted. Elle had said the drug would wear off, but how long would that take? The thought that came through in hi-def was an old Mexican waiter shaking his hand. After that, someone pulled the plug.

  He shouldn’t have been so generous with the tip.

  He tried to focus on what Elle had said. Refueling? Right, an airplane. They were locked up in a plane. Slowly, warmth crept into Jinx’s body, loosening stiff muscles. Memories returned. Fuzzy, but it was progress.

  “What time is it?” he asked.

  “How am I supposed to know?” Elle said. “Even if there was a clock in here, I’m blindfolded, too, remember?”

  Blindfolded. Right. That’s why it was so dark. Damn, his brain was mush. He forced his mind to the resort, to the hotel room. Fozzie was supposed to have the final phase of the plan ready to execute at sixteen hundred. No. The words replayed in his fuzzed-up brain. Not at. By sixteen hundred. If everything had hit the fan, instead of a cartel rep knocking on his door and politely asking Jinx if he’d be willing to help unravel a pesky communications situation, they’d gone the drug-him-and-grab-him route. Not unexpected, but it would have been nice to have been asked. After all, he’d have said yes. However, grabbing him was in character for these creeps.

  In character. Jinx’s heart pounded, which had his head throbbing in sympathy. Could he have said anything while he was out? Could the drug have been truth serum?

  Yet here he was. Alive. If he’d revealed his cover, he doubted he’d still be breathing. He wriggled his chest, trying to tell if his St. Christopher’s medal was still there. Yes. Thank goodness they’d left him that. It wasn’t anything flashy, nothing worth stealing. Especially in a Catholic country where crosses and medallions were commonplace, and probably respected.

  The plane swung around a corner, and Jinx rolled against a bulkhead. Seconds later, the plane lurched to a halt, and he found himself up close and personal with Elle. He might be more of an ass man, but he had nothing against having a woman’s breasts in his face.

  Damn, the drugs must still be screwing up his brain. This was no time to think about soft, warm breasts.

  Bullshit. He was a man. It was always time to think about soft, warm breasts.

  “Sorry,” Elle said. “Lost my balance.”

  “Don’t sweat it.” He tilted his head upward, finding her collarbone, her neck, her chin. “Can you move down a little?”

  “I hope whatever reason you have for asking has to do with escape.”

  Did he detect humor in her tone? He supposed, given the circumstances, a sense of humor beat all-out panic hands down. “Yeah. I thought I could try to get your blindfold off. You know, with my teeth.”

  “Good idea. But make it quick, before someone comes back.”

  She squirmed against him, snaking downward. He shouldn’t be responding to the contact, but damn, she felt—and smelled—good.

  Forcing his concentration to locating the edge of the cloth, he found it, grasped it in his teeth. “I’m going up,” he mumbled.

  She understood, and worked her head downward against the resistance he provided.

  “I think it’s working,” she said. “I can feel it moving.”

  As long as she didn’t feel what else was moving. He sent a shut up message down south and continued. They worked in synchrony until Elle said, “That’s it,” and he had a limp piece of fabric in his teeth. He spit it out and ran his tongue around his mouth to get rid of the taste. He hoped whatever they’d used as a blindfold was relatively clean. Or at least not harboring any evil bugs.

  “Can you see?” he asked.

  She rolled off him. “Not much. Bumping into a light switch would be asking too much, and I don’t think there are any windows.”

  Oh, well. It wasn’t all for naught. He’d had a few moments of female contact. “Your eyes might adapt in a couple of minutes.”

  The effort of separating Elle from her blindfold had loosened Jinx’s. He moved his head up and down against the bulkhead behind him, and managed to work the strip of fabric off. He blinked several times. Elle was right. He still couldn’t see worth a damn. Maybe a shadow or two. Nothing to help plan an escape.

  Escape? Something buzzed around his brain. He wasn’t supposed to escape. If these creeps intended to capture him to help with their Fozzie-induced snafu, why was he still imprisoned? Maybe Elle was right and they weren’t at their final destination yet. Or maybe they’d come for Elle and he was a bonus. Maybe he’d been captured by the wrong bad guys.

  What he needed was to get rid of the restraints. He tried tugging his wrists, twisting, moving them up and down against each other. Nothing. Maybe there was something sharp enough to start a tear.

  “Can you sit up, get yourself against the wall?” he asked Elle. “We might find something we can work with if we scoot around.”

  “Worth a shot, but I don’t know how much we can find with our hands taped behind us. Not much range of motion.”

  “You have a better idea? Beats waiting around doing nothing.”

  “I was thinking we might be able to bite through the tape, but I can’t feel any give in mine. Nothing to gain any purchase. We can save that for plan B.”

  He sensed her moving, the warmth of her approach. “Keep coming. I’m at the bulkhead.”

  She reached his side, and he felt the impact when she made contact with the metal.

  “Okay,” she said. “Be more efficient if we go in opposite directions. I’ll go right. I assume we’ll meet up when we’ve gone all the way around.”

  Elle moved away. Jinx planted his feet, pressed his back against the bulkhead, and scooted a few inches to his left, seeking any irregularities that might cut into the tape. After about three scootches, he’d worked up a sweat.

  “Be nice if they’d left the air conditioner running,” he muttered.

  “Probably means we’re still in the tropics,” Elle said.

  “Well, that’s a good thing. I’m sorely underdressed for Antarctica.”

  “Glad you haven’t lost your sense of hum— ouch! Damn it.”

  “What’s wrong?” Was she hurt? He tried to pinpoint her location, but her words seemed to come at him from every direction.

  Chapter 8

  Elle muttered a curse as her head made contact with something protruding from the bulkhead.

  “Find anything?” Nix—or was it Steve?—asked.

  “The makings of a headache,” she said. “Bumped into a stickie-outie-thing.”

  “Ah, I love technical terminology.”

  She moved around, trying to get a picture of what she’d discovered. “I think it’s a partition, or a divider between panels. I don’t feel anything sharp, though.”


  “Keep trying,” he said. “Maybe there are bolts, or rivets. I have a feeling we’re in a cargo compartment, so no need for cosmetics.”

  She shifted a little more. “Can’t tell.” But the knock on her head seemed to have dislodged a few more memories, a few more coherent thoughts. “Do you think they’ve got us under surveillance? That’s why they didn’t come for us? They’re waiting to see what we do, or if we say anything they can use?”

  “Like what? If they see us, they’ll see we’re trying to get out. If they think we’re going to be successful, my money’s on someone waiting for us outside the door.”

  “Makes sense.” Elle cursed her befuddled brain. “And what could we say they’d find useful? Other than we’re pissed. We’re an engaged couple on a getaway.” She hoped he’d understand they needed to weigh their words, in case there was an audio bug planted somewhere.

  “Don’t forget the reason for the getaway,” he said. “I got let go, remember? We’re having a fling thanks to my severance package.”

  From the way he’d elevated his tone, she knew he’d understood her message. Either he’d gotten the undercover thing down, or he really was Stephen Brand, recently fired from Treadwell Communications. Which, for now, was how she'd play it.

  Elle pushed against the floor again, raising herself as high as she could, seeking anything rough or sharp enough to cut the tape. Great quad workout, but not one she wanted to add to her exercise routine.

  Finding nothing, she lowered herself so she could move on. This would be so much easier if her ankles weren’t taped.

  Perspiration trickled between her shoulder blades, down her arms, her legs. Would that loosen the tape? She tugged and wriggled against the bindings, but if there was any give at all, it wasn’t enough to help. She thought of the Leatherman tool she normally carried. Which, due to TSA regulations, was at her apartment in Riverside. She’d jumped through the required hoops to bring her service weapon with her, but it was at the resort in Cabo.

  Omigod. Her purse. Had these thugs brought it along? Trish’s meds were in it. Or were they? She remembered taking them out to show Nix—Steve. Had she put them back?

  But if they searched her purse, they’d have found her police ID. Or would they? What had she done with it after she’d given it to Steve? Until she’d had to leave her hotel room, she’d kept it locked in the room safe, along with her gun, away from prying eyes.

  She couldn’t ask Steve, in case there were bugs in the plane. While part of her noted the shuffling and quiet grunts indicating Steve was still working his way around the compartment, she strained to replay those last minutes before they were captured.

  Handing over her badge case. Steve had tossed it onto the coffee table. She could see it resting beside the welcome basket. She had no memory of returning it to her purse. She tried to visualize it, then saw Steve put the hotel information binder onto the coffee table. On top of her badge case.

  Her abductors certainly weren’t thorough. If they’d done a decent search, they’d have known she was a cop, would probably have killed her immediately and disposed of her body in the middle of the ocean. Or staged a believable accident. They had to know cops backed up their own, no matter what.

  After being stonewalled trying to go through official channels from the States, she’d gone to the resort as a “civilian,” with a fake ID, never used her cop credentials. Her people knew where she was and why she was there. If she wasn’t at work on schedule, they’d take action. She had to believe that.

  But how would they find her? She’d have to get to a phone, a computer, anything to send a message. First, they had to escape.

  She got her legs under her again and continued exploring her half of their prison.

  “When we get out of here, you owe me a lobster dinner,” she said.

  “Don’t talk about food. I’m starving. You’d think they could have abducted us after we’d eaten. And I’ll bet the resort is going to add the food to my bill.”

  That was a thought. “What do you think is going to happen with your room? Do you think resort management is in on this scheme? Or is it lower level—you know, employees who pick and choose certain types of guests for a fee?”

  “Could be,” he said. “And they probably make a few pesos selling our belongings on top of it.”

  She envisioned Trish’s meds being sold on a pharmaceutical black market. Which reminded her that without the meds, the need to find Trish had just kicked into the red zone.

  “You hear that?” Steve said. “I think we’re about to meet our captors.”

  Elle stopped. Listened. Voices in Spanish, getting louder. “Remember, we’re engaged. We ought to be closer together when they get here.”

  “Works for me. Would you prefer I call you darling, honey, or snookums?”

  “Whatever. Honey-bunny.”

  “Point taken. Elle it is.”

  She sensed his approach, moved faster to meet him, lost her balance and ended up colliding with him. Not quite as intimately as the first time, but close enough. “Sorry.”

  Instead of moving away, he inched closer. “Hey, no apologies. We’re supposed to be engaged. You want to do the helpless female thing? You know, sniffle and cry? I’ll be the big, brave, manly-man.”

  “Not going to happen.” But she rested her head against his chest. His polo was damp with sweat, and despite his flippant attitude, she felt his heart pounding.

  “It’s okay to be scared,” she whispered. “Under the circumstances, that’s the normal reaction.”

  “Hey, I’ve got St. Christopher backing me up. Everything’s going to work out.”

  Elle didn’t put a lot of faith in dead religious figures, but if Steve believed he was protected, who was she to argue? They’d survived the landing, hadn’t they? “It had better.”

  Footfalls sounded on metal. The door opened. Two shadows appeared in the doorway.

  Jinx’s heart pounded, but not as much from fear as from a combination of exertion and contact with Elle. He squinted at the two backlit silhouettes in the doorway. Tall, broad, and male. One shone a powerful flashlight in his eyes. Jinx ducked his head, avoiding the beam.

  He channeled the Stephen Brand he’d refined at poolside. He could do this. He had to do this.

  “Well, it’s about time,” Jinx said. “Not very hospitable, leaving us here in this sweat box. I hope you brought a couple of Margaritas. Frozen.”

  “You will come with us,” one of the men said. “The patrón is waiting.”

  Gravelly Hispanic accent, Jinx noted. Not the same voice as Body Odor Man. Jinx was no linguistics expert, but until he found out otherwise, he was going to assume they were still in Mexico, prisoners of the cartel. “The patrón will have to wait. We can’t go anywhere. Not until you get rid of this tape. We managed the blindfolds, but you win on the rest.”

  Elle pressed closer against him. “Let me try,” she whispered. “This isn’t the same guy as before. We don’t know if these two were in Cabo.”

  Jinx nudged her enough to let her know he’d heard.

  Elle cleared her throat. “Sweetheart, I’m sure these men will let us explain.” Her tone shifted, polite and submissive, directed at their captors. “Please tell your patrón there’s been a big mistake. Whoever brought us here—we were on vacation at the Slice of Heaven Resort in Cabo San Lucas—must have gone to the wrong room.”

  Flashlight Man lowered the beam. Both approached, one to Jinx’s right, the other to Elle’s left. The second man had a gun. “You will behave.”

  Gun Man said something in Spanish. Flashlight Man answered. Jinx didn’t understand the words, but the tone said Flashlight Man wasn’t happy about whatever Gun Man suggested.

  Flashlight Man took a knife from his pocket. He flipped it open, holding it where Jinx could see it. Jinx felt a modicum of relief. If the man meant to do serious damage, he wouldn’t be using a Swiss Army knife.

  “You will be owing me good behavior,” Flashl
ight Man said. “I have saved your chica from pleasuring my friend before we give her to Patrón. Patrón does not like used goods. My amigo here will have to wait his turn. You will not do any of the funny stuff, yes?”

  “Yes. No. Whatever. I’ll be good.” The thought of Patrón, or anyone else, having his way with Elle twisted Jinx’s gut. Could he be jealous? No way. He’d feel the same about any woman being threatened. Jealousy couldn’t possibly explain the sensation building in his belly.

  And another feeling—dread—joined the party. Neither of these two thugs had said anything about him. It was all about Elle, being brought here, apparently to serve in one of the brothels Zeke had mentioned. Once again he wondered whether he’d gone through all this trouble, only to end up in the wrong place. But they’d come to his room, not hers. He had to be the main target. Elle would have been the bonus, not him. She’d be chattel, wouldn’t have to possess any special skills.

  Flashlight Man bent down and slit the tape binding Jinx’s ankles. Jinx rubbed his feet against each other, trying to restore lost circulation. “Don’t suppose you brought my shoes.”

  Flashlight Man snorted then said, “You will tell your woman to behave also.”

  His woman? Jinx didn’t think that would go over well with Elle, pretend fiancé or not. From what he’d gathered, she was nobody’s woman but her own. But no point in ruffling anyone’s feathers. He turned his head toward Elle. “You heard the man. You’ll behave, right?”

  “Of course, Sugarpie. I’m sure this will be over soon, and we’ll all be home.”

  Flashlight Man crossed to Elle’s feet and released them. True to her word, she didn’t try kicking her captor. Of course even a Swiss Army knife could cut—and then there was Gun Man.

  “What about our hands?” Jinx asked.

  “Do not push,” Gun Man said.

  “Then let’s get this show on the road.” Jinx rose and stomped his feet. “Take us to your leader.”

  Elle rolled to her side, got her feet under her, and stood. Was she trying not to laugh? Jinx thought he was doing a brilliant job with this undercover stuff, especially since he hadn't peed his pants. Flashlight Man took the lead. Gun Man urged them to follow from behind.