by Maggie Shayne, MaryJanice Davidson, Angela Knight, Jacey Ford
She kept her back to the sides of buildings, inching along each one, then darting across the alley to the next. When she reached the redbrick building at the end of the row, she skirted it, in search of a less obvious entry than the front door.
Broken fire escape in the back. Twenty feet gaped between it and the ground. No good there. But she found a basement window busted out and crawled in there, standing still and facing the darkness to give her eyes time to adjust.
And her mind time to try to puzzle this out.
She'd been in Africa. So had her father, and Marshall, and so had Peter. She'd been engaged to Peter, but screwing Marshall. She didn't think she'd slept with Peter, or if she had, it must not have been too impressive, because she didn't have any memories of being twisted up naked with him. The memories of her and Marshall though—well, hell, they got her hot even thinking about them. And this was no time to be distracted, so she'd better stop.
Sighing, her eyes seeing things better now, she moved through the basement, avoiding the shapes of boxes and giant metal contraptions that might be normal basement things. Big, square, boxy.
So apparently, someone was involved with criminals. Armed men with automatic weapons who kidnapped people from weddings equaled criminals, right? They couldn't have been cops or feds or anything, she thought, because if they were, they wouldn't have brought their victims here. They'd have taken them to some official place "for questioning" or whatever.
So that meant the men in the suits were bad guys.
Apparently Anita was involved, though not on the criminals' side. Anita must be a good guy.
So why had the criminals taken Peter and Marshall? Were Peter and Marshall good guys, or bad guys?
More importantly, what about me?
Her black boot kicked something that scurried, and she didn't even wince. It was odd to expect to react and then feel nothing. She just kept moving and found a set of stairs leading upward. She took them, and when she reached the door at the top, she pushed it open slowly, peering around into a dimly lit hall. Sun filtered by a dirt-streaked window at the far end gave enough light to make her blink. Seeing no one, she stepped into the hall and started along it, pausing near each and every door to listen.
And hearing only silence.
She came to another set of stairs and crept up to the first landing, around it and up farther, but when her head reached above the floor of level two, she ducked quickly, pausing on the steps.
Someone was standing in front of one of the doors up there.
She dipped a hand into one of the numerous pockets of her jacket and came out with a little mirror. Then she placed it on the floor above her, facing the man, adjusted it until she could see him, left it there, and settled in for the wait.
Patience, she told herself, was as important as stealth or skill or smarts. And it only came with experience.
Must be I've been at this awhile, then… whatever this is.
It took time. And during that time, she found herself marking exits. The stairs that continued up. The window, at the far end of this hall, just like the one below. Probably within jumping distance of the ground. And the stairs back down again. That was about it, not counting any escape route inside the apartment itself. Number 207, she noted. And the guy standing outside the door was armed, and smoking, and flipping through a flesh magazine so old the pages were swollen.
Good. Take a good look, she thought.
She decided to hell with patience and crept up the stairs, making not so much as a sound. When she got to the top, she moved into the hall, in the opposite direction from where he was standing, and ducked into a door well. She had to press herself flat to do it, but hell, it was shadowy. He wouldn't see her.
Then she dug a coin from her pocket and tossed it toward the stairs. It flew perfectly, heading down a long way before hitting and pinging and bouncing the rest of the way down.
The guy's head came up fast. He dropped his magazine, lifted his gun, and started down the hall toward her. She pressed flatter, almost melding into the wood at her back.
He didn't see her. He moved down the stairs, rapidly.
Kira pushed off from the wall and ran up the hall, her feet landing like cat's paws, until she reached room 207. There was no time to hesitate or think it over. In a moment, the guard dog would be back. She twisted to the side, drew her knee to her chin and kicked, then burst into the room, gun pointed.
Marshall wasn't there. Instead it was Peter, standing in the room surrounded by the other men. She lifted the weapon, had the drop on all of them. "Don't even move. Not one of you."
Peter looked shocked, stunned as he searched her face. And then she said, "Come on, Peter, I'm taking you out of here."
His brows went up. "You're… rescuing me?"
"No time to explain, come on." She gripped his arm and tugged him with her as she backed toward the door. "Where are they holding Marshall?" she asked, glancing once, quickly behind her, and still not seeing the guard back in his place.
"Marshall… is one of them. He's in on this," Peter said.
She frowned at him, shaking her head slowly. "That… doesn't make sense." It made as much sense, she knew, as anything else did right now. But if Marshall were a bad guy, then didn't, that mean she was, too?
She pressed her fingertips to her forehead, images burning in her mind. Marshall, touching her, kissing her, undressing her…
"Are you all right, Kira?" Peter asked.
"Watch behind us," she snapped. "There's a guard."
"He's coming!" Peter shouted.
She spun around, but there was no one there. And now, Peter was pressing a cold gun barrel to the back of her neck. "My hero," he whispered. "It's kind of cute, actually, that you don't even know which side you're on. Tell me, Kira, just how far were you willing to go to get me? Hmm? All the way to the actual vows? To the wedding night? How many times would you have let me fuck you before you sprung your trap? Hmm?"
"I don't know what the hell you're talking about," she muttered, standing motionless and stiff.
He reached to her hand and took the .44, then slid its mate from the holster at her hip, and the bowie knife from its sheath on the other hip. "Don't you?"
He was running his hands down her body now, feeling for hidden weapons. He found none. Then he nodded, and two of his thugs came forward, one gripping each of her arms. "Bring her," Peter said.
They started forward, and Kira kicked one in the shins, and the next thing she knew they each grabbed a leg as well, and carried her that way, while she tried to wriggle free.
They carried her up a whole other flight of stairs, into a room on the third floor, where the first thing she saw was Marshall. His tux was gone, except for the pants. He was shirtless, his face bruised and bloody, his arms and legs bound to the straight-back chair in which he sat.
He lifted his head when they came in, and his eyes met hers. She felt the connection, felt the concern, but knew those eyes betrayed nothing to anyone else.
"Get the jacket off her," Peter commanded.
And the men did as he commanded, slinging her jacket to the floor.
"Shirt, too."
They peeled the tank over her head, but they had to let go of her arms to do so, and it gave her an opportunity. She elbowed one in the rib cage and punched the other in the jaw before they had her anchored again. She was wearing the white demi bra that had been on underneath her wedding gown. She hadn't had time to change, hadn't even thought about it.
"Here." Peter tossed them a rope. "Bind her hands at the wrists, then sling them over that beam right there. Keep her from breaking your jaw at least."
She twisted and resisted as they grabbed her wrists, but her attention was caught by Marshall, who shouted, "Jesus, leave her the hell alone. She doesn't know anything."
Peter smiled. "Maybe not. But you do."
She was still watching Marshall, though, saw him look down, and followed his gaze to her own hands. And then it was as if mist
s parted, letting knowledge seep through. She went still, let them bind her hands, but she pressed her palms together while keeping her wrists as far apart as she could. Even when they yanked the ropes, she resisted letting them push her wrists together.
Finally the rope's long end was tossed over a visible beam in the ceiling, where most of the plaster had long since crumbled. They pulled it until her arms were up high, and kept pulling until she was standing on tiptoe. And then they anchored it there.
"Boots," Peter said.
They bent, each toward one leg, and she drew her knees up and kicked them so hard they both went down. Shaking his head in anger, Peter lifted a blade and walked calmly over to Marshall. He put the blade to Marshall's throat. Kira could see the sweat on Marshall's skin, the corded muscles in his neck, the pulse pounding there.
"Now, Kira, you give my men any more trouble, and you can just hang there and watch your wedding planner bleed out on the floor. Understand?"
She nodded rapidly.
He looked at the men who were dragging themselves to their feet. "Boots."
They got up and came to her, and she let them take off her black boots. They tipped them upside down in case anything was hidden inside, then tossed them into the corner with her coat.
Peter handed the knife to one man, who quickly took his former position at Marshall's throat. Then Peter himself came to her, put his hands on the front of the leather pants, undid the snap. Slowly, he lowered the zipper. His palms slid over her hips, pushing the pants down, and she knew he was doing it slowly on purpose.
"Go on, fight me," he told her. "I'd love to give my guy an excuse to slit loverboy's throat."
"Fuck you."
"Maybe."
He pushed the pants all the way off. And she was hanging there in her bra and panties. Every man in the room was eyeing her with a predatory hunger. And Marshall was no exception, although the anger in his eyes outshone everything else. Peter put his hands on her bra cups, squeezing, feeling for hidden weapons. When he found none, he smiled and pinched her nipples as hard as he could. Marshall lunged toward them, his chair coming up off the floor, but one of the other goons decked him, knocking him onto his side on the floor, chair and all.
She gritted her teeth, but didn't cry out.
Peter wasn't finished. He moved his hands to her panties and pushed one inside. She clamped her legs together, but he forced them apart, and shoved his fingers inside her. "You know damn well I don't have any weapons there," she growled.
"You can't blame me for being careful, Kira." He withdrew his hand again, walked over to Marshall, and wiped it on his chest. Then he righted the chair.
"So, Marshall, are you ready to tell me exactly what evidence your friends in the Drug Enforcement Administration have on me, or shall I just tell the boys to make use of Kira in whatever way they like until you're ready to talk?"
* * *
CH@%!*R 6
The words Drug Enforcement Administration were still ricocheting through Kira's brain when Peter turned his attention to her again. "Let's start with something simple, while your partner thinks about his options," he said.
She tried not to let her confusion show on her face, but her gaze shot to Marshall's all the same. Her partner?
Peter clasped her chin in his hand and turned her head until her eyes locked with his. "How did you find your way here?"
"I followed you."
He lowered his head, shaking it slowly, then he turned from her and nodded at one of his men. The thug drove a fist into Marshall's stomach so hard Kira grunted in pain along with him. He doubled over as much as the ropes holding him would allow, head down, mouth open. She thought he was going to vomit, but he didn't.
"You wanna take another shot at that one, or are you going to let us kill him?"
Lifting her chin, she met his eyes. "You're not gonna kill him until he tells you want you want to know."
"Wrong, honey. We can get the same information from you."
She smiled slowly. "You think so? Well, you'd better have someone fill me in first, because I don't know shit."
"Bull. You got your memory back, or you wouldn't be here."
"I came here planning to rescue you from the bad guys, Peter. I didn't realize you were the biggest piece of shit in the sewer."
He backhanded her. Her head snapped sideways with the impact, and the pain shrieked through her entire head. But instead of making her cry or cower, it seemed to energize her. She touched the corner of her lip with the tip of her tongue and tasted blood.
Peter saw something in her eyes and turned away. "She didn't follow us here. You two get outside, search the area. Someone led her here, and ten to one it was Duke. You find him out there, kill him."
They rushed to obey.
Peter turned to the third goon. "You come with me. We're clearly going to need something a little more potent than our fists to make these two talk. Besides, my knuckles are getting sore." He turned to Kira. "I'll be back, sweetie. Maybe with a set of cables and a car battery, hmm?"
"I can hardly wait. Promise I get to go first?"
He glared at her before slamming out of the room with his thug on his heels. Kira released her breath all at once, then turned to study Marshall. He looked like hell. "Are you all right?" she asked.
He lifted his head, met her eyes, nodded once. "Good call, pretending you still don't remember anything. It probably kept me alive."
She held his eyes for a moment. "Marshall, I wasn't pretending. I don't remember anything."
He stared at her as if her words were not quite translating in his brain. "But your hair—your clothes—"
"I found a photo, and a few of my things in a trunk in the attic. I thought if I put them on, did my hair the old way, maybe it would shake something loose. Help me remember."
"That doesn't make any sense. You charged those guys. You fought and you shot as if you knew how."
"Yeah. It surprised me as much as anyone, I guarantee you that. It wasn't like I thought about it first, I just did it. It was like… instinct."
"And the weapons? Were they in the same trunk?"
"Yeah." She looked around the room at her discarded clothing, and smiled slowly. "Yeah. And some of them are still in here with us."
He sent her a questioning look, and she nodded toward her boots, still lying in the corner where Peter had tossed them. Then he smiled, too. "The blade's still in the boot?"
She blinked, shocked that he could know that, but then shook it off and nodded.
She stretched out one leg as far as she could, but her toes came short of the boot.
"I can get over there, chair and all," Marshall said.
"Yeah, and make so much noise they'll hear you and come running. Just give me a second." She looked up, then carefully clasped the rope in her hands, pushed off with her toes, and began to swing. It was a pathetically small arc, at first, but she swung farther with each repetition until finally, she managed to grab the boot between her feet. She swung back toward Marshall and tossed the boot to him.
It landed right at his feet with a small thud.
She let her swinging subside and balanced on her toes once more.
Marshall stood the boot upright with his own feet, then began to move his chair. He had to go slowly, a little at a time to avoid making a lot of noise. But bit by bit, he managed to turn his chair around.
"Your left hand is four inches above the boot," Kira told him.
"Okay." He pushed with his feet, tipping the chair back onto two legs.
"Almost," she said. "Another inch."
He tipped further, hell, he was going to go over.
But he didn't. His fingertips found the edge of the boot, running along the inside. He finally located the hidden pocket and pulled out the blade. He found the button. The blade popped open, as he lowered his chair to the floor again.
"Now," she told him, "don't try to free your wrist. You'll never be able to do it." She eyed the knots, the ropes. "Looks
like he looped your wrist, then wrapped the rope around the back of the chair, ran it to the other side, around the back, around the other wrist. If you can cut that rope…"
He twisted his wrist in an impossible angle, found the rope with the blade and began to saw. Kira held her breath. Finally, the rope gave way. He dropped the blade, then fumbled with the rope, tugging until his hands were free.
"Hurry, Marshall, they'll be back."
He nodded, grabbed up the blade, making quick work of his remaining bonds. Then he moved to her, reaching up above her. He had to stand very close to reach the rope that was looped over the beam. Very close. His body was touching hers, as he slid the blade over the rope, sawing. She felt the give when the rope was severed and finally lowered her feet to the floor. God it was a relief not to be on tiptoe.
She brought her hands down, rubbed her wrists, then looked up to see Marshall staring at her, and was reminded that she was damn near naked. He, she thought, hadn't forgotten it for a minute. "You're not a wedding consultant, are you?" she asked.
That drew his eyes up to hers. "No."
"Peter said DEA?"
"Yeah."
"He called me your partner. Just what kind of partners are we, Marshall?"
His eyes grew darker, she thought, before he averted them. "We'll have time for this later." Turning, he snatched the leather pants from the corner, the tank top, the jacket. "Get dressed," he said, handing them to her. "And make it quick."
She nodded. Her questions needed answers, but not at the risk of their lives. She pulled on the pants and tank, stuffed her feet into the boots and kept the knife in her hand. The jacket, she tucked under an arm, because it was faster than putting it on. Marshall took a step toward the door.
She touched his shoulder, stopping him. "There was a guard outside the other room when when I came in. I imagine he's outside this one by now. Let's try the window."
He nodded, and they crossed the room, stepping lightly, to stare out the dirt-streaked window. The broken fire escape was far to the left. Too far to jump for it. Before Marshall could say anything, Kira had spun around to the chair and was unwinding the ropes from it. She tossed him one end. "Quick, tie this to something solid."