CHANCES ARE (Last Chance Rescue)

by Reece, Christy

  “I’m going to do my best.”

  “What…” Clarissa cleared her throat and asked, “What does he do to his victims?”

  Facing reality was one thing, but Angela saw no point in describing the horrific things this monster had done to his other victims. Apparently Clarissa wasn’t one to watch television news or read newspapers. What the women went through before their deaths had been all too accurately reported. What purpose would it serve for her to know that he tortured his victims in a variety of ways before he slit their throats?

  “There’s no need for you to worry about that. We’re going to get out of here, I promise.”

  Silence descended. How long was he planning to keep them in this box? He couldn’t travel all the way back to London, could he? If he tried, she’d scream bloody murder until someone heard them.

  “How did he get you to Paris?”

  Clarissa gasped softly. “We’re in Paris?”

  “Yes. At least, we were.”

  “I don’t know. I’ve been so out of it.”

  The monster had kept this poor woman in a box for how long? “Has he let you out at all?”

  “I know I’ve been to the bathroom and I’ve had something to drink. Not sure how or when.”

  A sound outside the compartment made both women stiffen with dread. Though unbearably uncomfortable, within the confines of the compartment they had felt relatively safe. Footsteps and other noises were dreadful reminders that this man had something evil planned for them.

  As the top of the compartment rattled, indicating they were about to look upon the eyes of their abductor once more, Angela issued final instructions: “Stay out of the way and don’t draw attention to yourself. If you get the chance to run, don’t hesitate. Run like hell. Find a place to hide. Remember, help is on the way.”

  As the lid was lifted, Angela whispered one last instruction “Be brave” but wasn’t sure if that was for Clarissa or for herself.

  “Welcome to my world.” Derrick Delacourte smiled down at the two women who would soon fulfill his dreams. His Dark Angel lay on her stomach and he couldn’t see her face. The blonde woman looked up at him with equal parts awe and dread. Soon it would be total awe as she came to know him better.

  Grabbing his Dark Angel’s shoulders, he pulled her up and dragged her from the van. She was limp, still dazed from the drug. He tried to stand her on her feet but her limbs were understandably numb from her confinement. Unfortunately, until he could get her restrained, he had no choice but to continue the drugs. One arm wrapped securely around her, he reached for the hypodermic needle lying on the table beside him. Just a bit more until he had everything in place.

  Agony erupted in his head. Stunned, his arms loosened. What had happened? He couldn’t get a grip on where the hurt had come from. Confused, he touched his face, then looked down at his hand. Why was there blood on his fingers?

  Piercing pain shot through his leg. Horror filled him at the scissors sticking out of his thigh. Letting go a bellow filled with denial and betrayal, he jerked the scissors from his leg and lashed out with his fist, striking something hard.

  The haze of rage cleared. Blinking rapidly, he looked down at the lump on the floor. His Dark Angel. She had done this to him?

  Her legs were useless. Pins and needles shot through them with relentless stabs. The screaming curses above her indicated she had been able to do some damage to the bastard. Not enough though. The head-butt had disoriented him, giving her freedom. Unfortunately her legs hadn’t held firm. On the way to the floor, her blurry eyes had spotted the scissors less than a foot away. She had lurched forward, managing to grab the handle and thrust it toward the nearest body part she could find.

  Helplessly, she glared at her unmoving legs. Why wouldn’t they budge? She shouted out loud to herself: “Get up, get up, get up!” Nothing moved. The little energy she’d had was gone. Only pain remained.

  She tried to look up at him and could barely see...something was in her eyes. Touching her face, she realized she was bleeding. Then she remembered the pain in her head...he had hit her with something. When? That’s why she couldn’t think straight...why her limbs refused to work. She closed her eyes, uncertain if she would ever open them again. Clarissa would die because of her. Noah, Jake and the entire LCR organization would be disappointed in her forever.

  Jake? Wait. Wasn’t he coming? Yes, he was tracking her signal. He would be here soon. He wouldn’t let her down. She told herself to hang on. Jake would rescue her. She wasn’t alone.

  With that reassurance, Angela closed her eyes, sure that when she woke again, she and Clarissa would be rescued and all would be well.

  Consciousness returned and misery consumed her. She opened her bleary eyes. She was strapped to a table. Cold…she was so cold. Her teeth chattered as her body shuddered with chills. With every shudder, her head pounded. Dear heavens, her head was going to explode.

  Lights blazed everywhere. Squinting, barely able to handle the glare, she looked around. Some kind of basement? A dank and musty smell hung in the air and an insidious coldness pervaded the entire room, as if the iciness was an entity all its own. Other than three large traveling trunks stacked against a wall and a few displaced bricks, the room was empty.

  How long had she been unconscious? Where was the monster? Was Clarissa still alive?

  Her mouth dry, her lips felt parched and cracked as though she'd been in the sun for hours. She swallowed, hoping for moisture and found none. Opening her mouth, she said hoarsely, “Clarissa?”

  No answer.

  Was she already dead? Where were Jake and Noah? Why hadn't they found them yet? She had been sure when she woke all of this would be over. Why did her head hurt so much?

  “You’re awake.” The hard, cold voice sounded nothing like before. When he had taken her, his voice had been warm, eerily loving. Now, there was contempt and a seething fury.

  “Where am I?”

  “You have no right to ask questions. If you continue to talk, I’ll close your mouth with tape. Do you understand?”

  She nodded, wincing at the pain even that little amount of movement gave her.

  “I'm deeply disappointed in you. You behaved terribly and must be punished. You’ve caused me great heartache. I’ve taken your clothes from you. I normally allow covering but your punishment prevents that. Once I’m through with you, I have no doubt you’ll be much more amenable.”

  Her clothes? Pushing aside the nauseating ache in her head, she twisted her head and looked at her wrist. Her watch was gone. A growing horror spiraling through her, she glanced down at her chest. The silver medallion necklace should be lying between her breasts. It was gone, too.

  She forced calmness. The jewelry was still here, with her clothes. He had probably just bundled them together and put them away somewhere. LCR could still track her. However, she had to be sure. “My watch and necklace, where are they?”

  “Time is of no importance now that you’re with me and your necklace was ugly and common.”

  “Where is my jewelry?” she demanded.

  “I threw them out, along with your clothes. From now on, everything that touches your skin will come from me.”

  “When?”

  “When what?”

  The horror taking control within her once more, she spoke through clenched teeth, “When did you take my watch and necklace?”

  “When I first took you, of course. I threw them, along with your coat, into a small river as we left Paris.”

  Why hadn’t she noticed he’d taken them? That was why LCR hadn’t come busting in to save them. They had no way to track her. She was at the mercy of this maniac without any back-up. Dear God, what was she going to do?

  Pushing past the panic, she whispered, “Where's Clarissa?”

  “She’s in another room, sleeping. She’s much more comfortable than you are.”

  “Where are we?”

  “In my home.”

  “You live in France?” />
  “Of course not. I live in England.”

  “What does that mean? Where are we?”

  “Silence!” he bellowed. “You will not question me further.”

  Before she could come up with perhaps an appeasing statement, he slapped duct tape over her mouth. She paid little attention to the indignity, as she got her first real look at the monster. He was no longer disguised and she recognized him. It was the policeman from London–the one who had helped her up when the skateboarder had knocked her down. Clarissa had said that a policeman had come to her home, with the ruse of an emergency call. Was this how he got into the women’s homes? Disguising himself as a cop?

  Angela watched a transformation take place as tears filled his eyes and his mouth contorted with sorrow. “You were supposed to be the one...the special one. You were going to launch us into stardom. Yet you’ve behaved horribly. Worse than any of the others.” In an instant, the tears disappeared and an unholy evil gleamed in his brownish-green eyes turning them into a murky mud color. “However, if you survive the auditions, you might be able to come with me after all. The cleansing ritual has never failed me yet. We'll just have to wait and see.”

  Auditions? Cleansing ritual? That didn't sound like it involved soap and water. The thought of this evil creature touching her in any way sent shivers throughout her body and roiled her stomach. No way in hell would she allow him to do anything to her. He thought a bump on his nose and a scissor stab hurt? He would soon learn that he had abducted the wrong woman. When she was through with him, he wouldn't be able to steal a candy bar much less another human being.

  Where this surge of courage came from she didn’t know. How could she feel confident when she was tied so tightly and help wasn’t coming? The answer came like a whisper. All of her LCR life, she had envisioned a time when it would just be her and evil and she would prevail. The breakdown in London with Jake had been an anomaly. She was Angela Delvecchio, LCR operative and one very kick-ass woman. This bastard would rue the day he selected the Dark Angel as his prey.

  She heard a scratching sound and then the air was filled with the scent of lit matches.

  He stood at the end of the table, holding a candle in his hand. “This is your first audition. Let’s see how you fare.”

  Hot flames licked at her foot. Arching her entire body, she struggled against her bonds, the flesh at her wrist tearing as she tried to escape the searing pain. Then more heat, more flames… Agony shot through her. Every confident thought disintegrated. Closing her eyes, Angela screamed behind the tape: Jake, where are you?

  Chapter Eighteen

  Jake had lost his mind long ago. The second Angela’s GPS signal disappeared, he’d been in a free fall. Where the hell was she? And most important, was she still alive?

  Since then, he’d been existing on adrenaline and not much more. The longer it took to find her, the more hopeless he felt.

  Everyone in Europe was on the lookout. Border patrols for England, Germany, Italy and Spain swore no one matching the description of the van or its driver had come into their country. But who the hell knew if that was correct? The little information Jake had been able to provide was piss-poor and almost useless—a white van and a Caucasian male of indeterminate age who could disguise himself. Not exactly solid clues to identify and find a killer.

  He and McCall were holed up in a hotel in Reims, France—the city they’d been headed when the GPS signal stopped. A sorry-assed location if the bastard had changed directions or managed to cross into another country. But it was all they could do until something came up.

  And when they did find her, he was never letting her go. How damn arrogant and stupid he’d been. As if denying his feelings could make them any less real. He wanted to be with Angela, in every way possible. Period.

  The hotel door swung open. Jake whirled around to face McCall. The man looked as haggard and worn as Jake felt.

  “From the look on your face, the news isn’t good,” Jake said.

  McCall had met with the special branch of detectives assigned to this case. His sigh of disgust was loud enough to be heard in the next room. “They have jack-shit, just like we do.”

  Jake returned his gaze to the computer screen. He felt as if he’d looked at the registration of every white van ever purchased or rented in Europe. Deidre had done the bulk of the research but all names that needed further investigation she’d forwarded to Jake.

  Angela had described the vehicle as an older Volkswagen van, possibly five years old. Had the killer purchased the van when he arrived in Paris? Had he ferried over in it from England? Had he stolen the damn thing? Jake clicked profile after profile. Five LCR operatives were dedicated to checking any leads but so far there’d been too damn few.

  Useless. This was all so fucking useless. There wasn’t a person with that vehicle description that remotely matched the—

  Another profile popped up on the screen. A middle-aged actor named Derrick Delacourte had rented a Volkswagen van in Paris five days ago. Delacourte had enjoyed a brief spurt of minor stardom years ago but hadn’t had steady theater work since his wife, Rose, also an actor, died.

  Delacourte had inherited wealth and had no job.

  Cautious hope blossomed. If Delacourte had enough money not to have to work, that would give him the freedom to stalk his victims and the ability to spend a protracted amount of time with them. And an actor could disguise himself to look like anyone or no one. The man’s wife’s name had been Rose…

  Why the hell had they never considered an actor before?

  Jake’s eyes quickly skimmed the rest of the profile. His gaze stopped abruptly and ice ran through his veins. The last play Delacourte had starred in was at a small dinner club in Durham, England. His role—Jack the Ripper.

  Surging to his feet, Jake growled, “Got him.”

  McCall was beside him in a second and quickly scanned the screen. “Damn, that fits.” Punching a number on his cellphone, he held it to his ear and said, “Deidre, find out as much as you can about an actor named Derrick Delacourte. Houses, properties…anything.”

  Not ready to assume anything, Jake forced himself to sit down again and continue his search. If Delacourte wasn’t their guy, then the bastard had to be here somewhere.

  Time slogged in slow motion. Jake continued to click on profile after profile, nothing else seemed to fit. Where the hell was Deidre? Why hadn’t she called? Even as a small voice told him that it took time to do research, another voice snarled that Angela didn’t have time. They needed information. Now.

  A cellphone blared.

  McCall answered, “What’d you find out?”

  Jake watched his face. Dammit, never had he resented not being able to read the man’s expression more than he did as this moment. Why didn’t—

  “Deidre,” McCall said, “I’m putting you on speaker phone. Repeat what you just told me.”

  In a no-nonsense tone, completely different from her usual cheerful voice, Deidre said, “Delacourte owns a house outside London. As soon as I found the address, I called our Scotland Yard contact. Just received a call back. The police stormed the house and found what they’re calling a torture chamber in the basement.”

  “Anything else?”

  “They also found clothing and identification for two of the victims.”

  “No sign of Delacourte?”

  “No. They said the mail and newspapers are all stacked up.”

  “What about other properties? Does he own any other houses?” Jake asked.

  “Not that we can find. This was his family’s home that he inherited.”

  “What about relatives?” McCall said. “There’s got to be somebody who knows the guy.”

  “No relatives either. Even the neighbors don’t know anything about him. Said he keeps to himself.”

  Jake turned away. Dammit, they’d identified the bastard only to have no idea where he was or what he had done with Angela.

  “What about Clarissa Eaton?”
McCall asked.

  “So far, her body hasn’t been found.”

  “Okay. Good work, Deidre. If you find anything else, let us—”

  “Wait,” Jake twisted back around. “Deidre, can you get a list of all the roles Delacourte’s played?”

  “Yes, I should be able to do that.”

  Jake looked at McCall. “The way he displays his victims…. What if he’s playing a role and looking for a leading lady?”

  “Could be. The roses…his wife’s name was Rose. Maybe he’s subliminally trying to bring back his dead wife.”

  Jake had a stomach churning thought. “And what’s going to happen when he realizes Angela isn’t his wife?”

  McCall didn’t speak but Jake saw the answer in his eyes. He was going to do to Angela the same thing he had done to the other women he had abducted.

  “Okay, got them,” a female voice interrupted their dark discussion.

  While they’d been talking, Deidre had been working.

  “Looks like he’s played a lot of different roles. Almost a hundred. He—”

  “What was his most successful role?” Jake said. “The one that gave him the most acclaim?”

  “Looks like he got the best reviews from a play called The Last Man.”

  “And his character’s name?”

  “Richard Middlebrook.” A pause. “Hold on a minute. Let me check…” Several more seconds of silence followed.

  Jake couldn’t breathe, could barely keep himself from dashing out the door. To where, he didn’t know. Hell, hell, hell, come on, come on—

  Deidre’s excited voice broke into his cursing prayer. “A man named Richard Middlebrook rented a house in Reims a few days ago.”

  As Deidre rattled off the address, Jake pulled his Glock from his side holster and double-checked the magazine. They would go in with a battering ram if they could but if the rescue required subtlety, he’d be prepared.

  McCall pocketed his cellphone, a triumphant gleam in his eyes. “That’s a seven-minute drive from here.”