by S. M. West
We both look up at the digital panel counting down the floors. Five to go.
“I’ve got nothing to do with this.” She balls her hands into fists, glowering.
“They’ll kill you. They don’t give a shit. To them, you’re with me.”
“I’m not with you.” She pokes at my chest, once, then twice. On the third attempt, I grab her wrist harshly.
“Stop.” She is testing my last nerve. “You’re coming with me unless you want your brains splattered all over the place.”
She flinches. I’m not above scaring her into submission. This is a damn nightmare, but a plan is already formulating. Maggie could be useful. Should I keep her? Is she worth the trouble? So far, she’s been a massive pain in my ass.
The doors glide open and we bolt toward the back door, out into the parking lot. We’re halfway to my car when she stops.
“Come on,” I urge.
She clutches the purse slung across her body. “I’m not going with you.”
We don’t have time for this, but no one is behind us. Weird. Where are they? There’s no way we lost them. As much as I don’t want to be chased, I don’t like that the guys aren’t out here yet.
“Maggie…”
Boom! An explosion of fire and metal blasts us into the air and my breath is ripped from my lungs. We land a few feet away, on our backs.
Stupefied, the clear blue sky—serene—is all I see. None of it makes sense, especially with an incessant ringing in my ears.
Before I can even try to sit up, another blast forces me down. The heat grows tenfold. Intense. Flames rise at least twelve feet into the air
The ringing is deafening, and my legs are numb. The acrid smell of burning metal and gas fills my lungs. It takes a second or two to get my bearings. Maggie is beside me motionless and eyes closed.
Before checking on her, I look to the fire. My car. Drago. That’s why the guys weren’t on us. They must have triggered the bomb remotely.
We’re close enough that the blast would slow us down or maim us, but not kill.
She stirs beside me, scrambling to sit, dazed. Eyes wild and movements unsteady.
“You okay?” I inch toward her. “Can you walk?”
There’s no sign of blood, but she’s shaken. Confusion swims in her eyes. We need to get the hell out of here.
With my palm outstretched, I’m forceful, “Give me the keys.”
Even knowing next to shit about her, my commanding tone does the trick; she hands over the keys, but not without her usual glare. This isn’t going to be easy, but nothing is with Maggie.
“Leave me alone.” Her voice is hoarse, rough and pain-filled, the way I feel.
Our eyes lock, and she scurries backward, crab-like, away from me. Her hands scrape over glass and debris, and she winces.
“Maggie.” My stony expression gets her attention. “Stop.”
I grab her hand and pull us to standing, catching sight of Drago’s men running toward us.
“Your car,” I say loud enough that I can hear myself.
“No way. Leave me alone. Go.”
“No time for this.” I point to the goons. “That was meant for us.” I now point to the flames. “For you.”’ Tears spill down her now dirt-stained cheeks.
I twist her wrist, just enough for her to understand we don’t have time for this, and she releases a small puppy-like whimper. With my hand on her throat, I’m firm, but gentle.
“Car. Now.”
She swallows thickly, her throat moving under my fingers, and points to a black 1969 Chevelle in mint condition, on the other side of the lot. Sweet.
5
Thursday 1:31 PM
Maggie
He is a dead man.
Nick Prophet. That’s what he calls himself, but his name is Nicolas Archer. Phoebe told me the little that she knew of him last night when I called her after leaving the loft. Why he calls himself Prophet is a mystery. He doesn’t strike me as all knowing. More like all asshole.
With his eyes on the road, the long, callused fingers of his right hand band my sore wrist. I wish he’d get his hands off me, but he doesn’t trust that I won’t try to jump out of the car.
My failed attempt to escape when we tore out of the parking lot didn’t exactly assure him that I’ll stay put. While it wasn’t wise trying to flee from a moving car, my choices were broken bones, death, or staying with this maniac. I preferred doors number one and two, but I’m stuck with door number three.
Some might say this is the worst of all fears, to be held at gunpoint, assaulted, kidnapped, and almost blown to smithereens. But it isn’t. I’ve faced my worst nightmare and relive it every night when I close my eyes.
Any fear I have toward this guy doesn’t compare to not only witnessing but also surviving the murder of my parents. I can hardly believe I made it through years of trauma and therapy to end up here, abducted. The universe really does have a twisted sense of humor.
As I stare at his profile, I want to claw his eyes out. He runs his fingers through his wavy brown hair, and strands stick up in every direction, with longish wisps hanging low over one brow and the ends curling at the nape of his neck and around his ears.
He’s ordinary looking, or at least he is upon first glance. Attractive. Some women may even take a second look. I might—it pains me to admit—although it isn’t his looks that fascinate me. It’s the raw, visceral energy rolling off him. And his ink.
Last night, at the loft, I couldn’t tear my eyes from the dark patterns and drawings on his shoulders and arms. He should repulse me, but like wading into the depths of a tumultuous ocean, I’m drawn to him. Each wave bowls me over and it would be smart and safer to turn back, but I keep going.
His elusive appeal beckons like the sea. Both compelling and brutal. And most of all, I hate that even with all he’s done, I’m curious. Not enough to give up and go along for the ride, but enough to watch him out of the corner of my eye. And it isn’t because I need to keep my enemy in my sight but because I can’t help myself.
Another time and place, and I may have pursued him. But none of that matters. Nick’s allure isn’t enough to move past what he’s done. That’s for sure.
His strong, clean-shaven jaw is as impenetrable as granite. He’s tense, and I can’t say I blame him given our situation. Nobody wants death by barbecue. And that’s without the elevator shootout or his assault in the shower.
Gah, I was naked and at his mercy. Heat rises along my neck, and bile burns my throat at the horrific memory. But it could have been so much worse.
I shudder with thoughts of rape or murder—both things he could have done but didn’t. That says a lot. He is a bad guy, no doubt about it, but maybe he has limits.
Again, from just looking at him with his normal everything, most wouldn’t fathom what we’ve been through. That he’s a criminal. Dangerous.
My hands shake, and tears burn the back of my eyes. I don’t have any answers. Who’s chasing him? What’s he going to do with me? I could go headlong into denial, thinking I’ll get out of this alive, but odds are against it.
I hang my head, my hair falling like a curtain, blocking my distress from his prying eyes. Like a washing machine, my mind spins, unable to focus on one thing. Round and round. I’m all over the place.
“You okay?” His voice rumbles thick and low like deep thunder.
Our gazes connect briefly before his flit back to the road. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he’s concerned.
I’ve got a million questions and just as many demands, but not yet. My mind is too jumbled to press for answers; nothing would sink in.
Also, something tells me pushing him isn’t the way to gain favor. I’m going to wait him out and observe. Gather all the information I can to figure out an escape.
“Gee, I’m just great, thank you. I love being kidnapped.”
I regret my mocking the minute he closes himself off, grinding his teeth and tightening his grip on my wrist. Damn my qu
ick tongue.
How the hell did I get myself into this mess? Oh, right. Logan and Phoebe. I want to kill them for screwing up the whole loft thing.
If my dumb skanky neighbor, Karen, hadn’t forgotten about the faucet running, my place would never have flooded, and if I’d had home insurance, I’d have gone to a hotel instead of the loft. Then I’d never have met Nick the lunatic.
Logan calls him his best friend. Who the hell is Phoebe dating? I love her to death, but she sure knows how to pick them.
She’s been my best friend from the first day of kindergarten, when we both refused to sit beside Trevor “the nose picker” Robertson.
But that girl. She is a sucker for bad boys. I should know because I used to be her but soon realized the price was too high to pay.
Nick strikes me as more than a bad boy, more like lethal.
“Forget I asked.”
He glares, his dark eyes expressive and loaded with emotions. Uncertainty. Concern. Regret. And something I can’t quite put my finger on.
Shakespeare said the eyes are the window to your soul and I’m hoping that’s true. I wonder if Nick has any idea his eyes aren’t cruel and shuttered like he might want me to believe, but rather open and attentive.
Done with giving him any of my understanding—he doesn’t deserve it—I turn my back on him and take in the bland landscape of asphalt and dying fields out the window.
Did I cause this? Am I a magnet for trouble? I’ve struggled to rid myself of danger, so much so I’ve built a barricade around myself, and now, to make matters worse, it may be the death of me.
No one will notice I’m missing. Apart from Phoebe, I don’t have friends, and the guys at the garage won’t think twice about my absence. That’s my doing too.
Inheriting the Phoenix was bittersweet. My dream had been to run it with Gramps, but he died before I graduated with my business degree.
Being a woman in a man’s world, barely twenty-three, had been tough. I kept all staff and management in place when I took over. I thought it was a good idea, but most of them treated me as either a child or merely a woman.
Only a handful respected me, and the rest filled our days with sexual innuendos and harassment. I had to fire the biggest mouths and it hadn’t been easy, but I wasn’t going to be undermined at every turn. The funny thing was they forgot I signed their paychecks.
In the process of asserting myself as the boss, I alienated many and have never found the right balance of friend and boss, except with Annette, my only female mechanic and one of my best. She’s on vacation, and the only one who might wonder where I am.
Besides, Nick took my purse and phone, so I can’t even try to contact someone. If he’s smart, he’ll text someone at the garage with some bullshit story about my absence. My anger flares as more hope dies.
I’m not a violent person despite being familiar with it. But I’m going to make him pay for this. Who kidnaps an innocent woman and drags her into his own nightmare?
I’m not sure how he’ll pay, but even death is on the table. If only in my mind. A small smile stretches across my lips.
6
Thursday 3:42 PM
Nick
“I need to pee.” Maggie tugs the wrist I’m holding, and the rest of me jerks in her direction, causing our car to swerve into the next lane.
The driver we cut off blasts his horn, and she squeezes her eyes shut like that will prevent a collision.
“Fuck.” I grip the wheel and grit my teeth so hard my jaw pops. “Do that again and you’ll regret it.”
“I need to go.” Her contempt is palpable, almost suffocating, but she put herself in the middle of this, and now she’s stuck with me.
We are halfway there, and thank fuck, she’s been quiet for most of it. When we left the parking lot with Drago’s men on our tail, the crazy woman opened the car door, prepared to jump. I had to haul her back in while driving—what a fucking treat that was.
“I need to go to the washroom.” She fidgets. “Drop me at a rest stop and keep going. I swear I won’t say anything or report my car stolen. Just let me go.”
We’re not stopping this minute, but I’m not explaining myself to her. I don’t need any grief from her.
“Who are you?” she says, breaking the prickly silence once she’s figured out I’m not stopping.
“Nick.” She knows my name from the loft.
“Nick who?”
“That’s all you need to know.”
“Fine. I’ll keep calling you asshole. It works fine for me.”
“Call me anything you want, honey.” I wink.
“God, you’re a jerk.”
“Nick Prophet.”
I’m not falling for her clueless act, but I’m curious as to where she’s taking this.
She quirks an eyebrow and twists her plump lips. “Prophet,” she says like she’s trying it on for size. “It sounds familiar.”
I shrug as if I don’t care, the exact opposite of the niggling in my gut. She knows who I am.
“Why won’t you let me go?” Her eyes bore into me. “You kidnapped me.”
“You’d be dead right now if I’d left you back there.”
“Those idiots were shooting at you. Not me.” She stabs the air as if it’s me. “I wouldn’t be a target if not for you.”
“That’s your version. I see it another way.”
“I need the bathroom.”
“Soon.” I have to go, too, but there’s no way I’m taking her to a public place.
“We just passed a sign; there’s a rest stop in five kilometers.”
“Not happening. You’ll cause a scene.”
She doesn’t deny it. “Could you please let go of me?” She tugs on my hold. “My wrist hurts.”
“No. Not until I restrain you.”
“Where are we going?” Why won’t she shut up? “Ottawa? Cornwall? Montreal?”
“You’ll know when we get there.” I exit the highway. “Enough with the questions.”
We park on the side of a deserted road, and as anticipated, she pops the lock and is several feet from the car before I get to her. A definite drawback of older cars, no automatic locks.
I drag her to the tall browning grass skirting the shoulder. There isn’t much in terms of cover, but we’re alone.
“I’m not doing this.” As if she has a choice.
“Suit yourself.” With one hand, I undo my buckle, belt, and zipper; the other holds her wrist. She looks away while I relieve myself. “We’re not stopping again for some time. It’s now or you can piss yourself. It’s your car.”
I cringe at the idea, and so does she. Her Chevy Chevelle SS is pristine both inside and out. The black paint gleams like midnight, the interior smells brand new, and she runs like a racehorse. It would be a crime to ruin any of that with urine.
“If you don’t take me to a washroom, I’ll scream.” She juts out her chin and straightens her spine, looking every bit the polished lady she appears to be.
“Go ahead.”
There isn’t a house or building in sight, and we haven’t seen one car. The only sign of civilization is the faint din of the highway a few miles away.
She hesitates, swallowing thickly and scrunching her face before raising her dress a few inches to pull down her panties and widen her stance. I watch, not to be a perv or embarrass her but to make sure she gets that I call the shots. Discomfort and humiliation swamp her turbulent gaze.
“What’s in the trunk?”
“The usual. Spare tire, an emergency kit.”
I snort; an emergency kit isn’t typical. People rarely prepare for the worst situation. This I know first-hand because I fix other people’s shit, all of which could have been prevented with a little planning.
I hit pay dirt. Her emergency kit holds a lengthy piece of rope and Maggie pales, realizing my intentions.
“Dammit, stop fighting.” I grind my teeth.
“I promise to cooperate.” Her cry surprises me. I’
m so used to the strong, stoic woman. “I’ll be quiet and do whatever you say.”
Her repentant eyes plead. She’s too busy begging to realize what I’m doing. My hands slide under her arms and lift her gently toward the trunk.
“Sweetheart, you had your chance.” My voice is gentler than it should be.
It’s true, she had many chances to make this easy on both of us. This is temporary. We need food and I can’t trust her to behave in public.
Once airborne, she goes to war. Her body’s a weapon, and I’m the enemy.
“Cut the crap.”
Before I know what’s happening, her leg delivers a breath-stealing blow to my torso as well as a wicked thwack to my face.
“Fuck.” My knees buckle, and it’s another kind of battle to steady my feet.
I beat back the dancing stars clouding my vision and tie her ankles. Any remorse I had evaporates. Her stunt only proved my point. She can’t be trusted.
Screams and kicks reverberate from the back of the car, and I quickly flip the trunk lid to stuff material in her mouth. Her nostrils flare at the gag. She brought this on herself.
Rubbing my throbbing jaw, I wonder for a split second if she’s as wild in bed but quickly kill any thoughts of Maggie and sex with the slam of the trunk.
I drive to a nearby diner and park in the back of the almost full lot. There isn’t a peep from Maggie, and I’m glad she’s out of sight. There’s no way she’d have kept quiet with this many people around.
Daylight is fading fast in the late November sky, and by the time I return with burgers, light snowflakes are falling peacefully to the ground. The car is quiet.
Back on the dirt road, I cautiously open the trunk, expecting a flying foot or headbutt. Instead, my gut spasms as if I’ve had the wind knocked out of me. Maggie lays stock-still. Doll-like with her glassy eyes fixed and flat.