Beverly Barton 3 Book Bundle

by Beverly Barton

  “I will tell you only once. You must remember them.”

  She remembered them. Following each and every one of his rules meant a better chance of survival. He wanted a good hunt, expecting his prey to be cunning, and agile, able to run for her life. Now Nic understood why he chose only women who were physically fit. A slow or weak prey provided no challenge. He needed the woman to be capable of staying alive for at least three weeks, with very little food, very little water, and existing under horrid conditions. Only the strongest could endure the hell he put them through.

  The first day she’d stayed out an hour, then he’d taken her back to the house, down into the basement, and chained her to the wall. That night he had brought her upstairs and allowed her to choose her reward for having pleased him during their mock hunt that morning. She had chosen the two slices of bread and cup of water instead of a shower. Yesterday, he had removed the shackles from her ankles and set her free.

  “I’ll give you a fifteen-minute head start,” he’d told her.

  Bastard!

  She had run as far and as fast as she could, not caring in which direction she went or how much time had elapsed. Finally she had stopped, listened, and waited. But only for a few minutes. Long enough to check out her surroundings and ascertain whether or not he had been following directly behind her. He hadn’t been.

  By the time he’d caught her, she had been tired and thirsty, and even dirtier than before the chase had begun.

  He had come barreling through a clearing on a large, roaring dirt bike. She had done her best to elude him, but he had parked the bike, gotten off, removed the rifle he had slung over his shoulder, and fired at her feet. She’d skidded to a halt.

  “The hunt is over for today,” he’d called to her. “You did very well, Nicole. You managed not to get caught.”

  Breathless, she had turned and glared at him.

  He had laughed in her face.

  “You’re wondering why I said that, aren’t you? Look at your handcuffs closely. There is a tracking device in them. You can’t escape me entirely.”

  The son of a bitch hunted her without the assistance of the tracking device for a set amount of time, then when he grew weary of the hunt, he simply activated the device and came after her. But he hadn’t taken her back to the house. Instead, he had shackled her feet and chained her to a tree, then left her. Before dark he had come back for her and taken her into the basement again, after giving her bread and water.

  When he had released her this morning, he’d told her, “You’ll be free all morning. I won’t begin hunting you for an hour.”

  She could tell by the sun overhead that right now it wasn’t quite noon. He would find her soon. She had taken full advantage of the hours outside, free to breathe the fresh air, to feel the sun on her face, and to survey her surroundings. She had come to the conclusion that she was somewhere in the southernmost regions of a Southern state. South Mississippi, Georgia, Alabama, or Louisiana. The massive live oak trees she encountered dripped with Spanish moss.

  The earth was dark and rich. If she became hungry enough, she would dig for fat worms in that nourishing black soil.

  And she had encountered a large swampy area where stagnant green water stood. Today, she hadn’t drunk any of the filthy water, only washed her feet, legs, and arms in it. But if she became thirsty enough and couldn’t find fresh water, she would drink it.

  She had also tried to memorize everything she could about the house. A decaying antebellum mansion with massive columns supporting an upstairs balcony that wrapped around three sides of the old structure.

  So far, she had pleased him with each hunt, so she had not incurred his wrath or discovered just how he would punish her if she displeased him. But she knew that it was only a matter of time before he lashed out at her. Instinct told her that he was lulling her into a false sense of calm before all hell broke loose.

  The one thing Nic was determined not to do was lose track of time—of the days she was in captivity. Three days down. Nineteen to go.

  The chances that the bureau or Griff would find her were practically zero. Her only hope was finding a way to escape.

  SAC Doug Trotter had taken over as leader of the task force. He kept in touch with Griff on a daily basis, not to share the bureau’s information but to ask Griff if Powell’s had come up with any leads. Nic had been missing five days. Five long, agonizing days. Griff slept little, simply taking short naps when he became so exhausted he couldn’t stay awake. But even asleep, he could not escape the tormenting images of Nic being hunted, tortured, and finally killed by the Hunter.

  Yesterday, he’d been on the verge of making a colossal mistake—he had decided to offer a million-dollar reward for information leading them to Nic. Doug Trotter had advised him not to do it, but it had been Sanders who had finally made him see reason. Every nutcase in the country would crawl out of the woodwork with information for that amount of money.

  If not for Sanders and Yvette he would have lost his mind by now. Yvette took long walks with him, speaking to him only when he chose conversation over silence. Sanders worried him continuously with mundane matters that under ordinary circumstances he would have dealt with on his own, not even thinking about asking for Griff’s input. And they had played chess every evening.

  Even Barbara Jean had been drafted into the grand scheme to keep Griff so busy that he wouldn’t have time to slowly but surely go out of his mind.

  Then, this morning Lindsay and Judd had arrived, with little Emily in tow. He’d told them that there had been no need for them to disrupt their lives and come rushing to Griffin’s Rest. They had ignored him and set up a makeshift nursery in one of the larger guestrooms upstairs.

  “We’ll go fishing tomorrow,” Judd had said.

  “And tonight, you’re going to give Emily her bath,” Lindsay had told him.

  That’s where he was headed right now. Upstairs to help Lindsay with Emily’s bath.

  When they entered the bathroom connected to the guestroom, Griff went down on his knees and carefully placed Emily in the tub where Lindsay had drawn several inches of lukewarm water.

  “I’ve laid out all her special things,” Lindsay said. “Body wash, shampoo, favorite bath toy”—she pointed to a big-eyed, green plastic frog—“and I’ll lay her hooded bath towel on the bathmat beside you. When you finish, you’ll find a clean diaper and her pajamas on the bed.”

  Bracing Emily’s back with the palm of his hand, he looked up at Lindsay. “You aren’t going to leave me alone with her, are you?”

  “I’ll be in the bedroom, if you need me.” With that said, she left him to proceed without her assistance.

  “Well, it looks like it’s just you and me, kid.”

  By the way she splashed and gurgled and cooed, he could tell Emily enjoyed bath time. He’d probably have to change into a dry shirt once he finished this job. All the while he concentrated on gently washing her mop of blond curls and her fat little arms and legs, Griff couldn’t help thinking about what it would be like to have a child of his own. He had convinced himself that he was better off without a wife and children, that no woman could ever love him just for himself, especially if she ever learned anything about his past.

  He lifted Emily out of the bathwater, wrapped her in the hooded towel, and breathed in the wondrously sweet scent of clean baby.

  Why had he forgotten all about birth control when he’d made love to Nic that first time? It wasn’t as if he’d never become carried away with passion before. But the hunger he’d felt for Nic had been different, intense in every way. And she had been just as wild for him.

  But because he had not used a condom for the first time since he’d become a responsible adult capable of rational decisions, Nic might be pregnant. And now she was out there somewhere, in the hands of a brutal psychopath, fighting for her life.

  “Griff?” Lindsay called his name. “Are you all right?”

  He held Emily’s little cheek against h
is as he turned to face her mother. Only then, when he looked at Lindsay through his blurred vision, did he realize he had tears in his eyes.

  He swallowed, then cleared his throat. “Nic might be pregnant.”

  “Oh? How do you—?”

  “If she’s pregnant, it’s mine.”

  “Oh, Griff, no.”

  Lindsay rushed to him and wrapped her arms around him and Emily, who whined and wriggled until Lindsay loosened her hold.

  Nic huddled in a fetal position, her legs drawn up and her arms lying crisscrossed over her chest. There was no room to maneuver and no way to escape from the tiny cage.

  Today, he had finally caught her.

  It had been her own fault. She had found a streambed and hadn’t been able to resist the urge to bathe. She had dawdled a little too long when she should have been running, staying one step ahead of him.

  Tonight, there had been no bread and water. No reward for pleasing him.

  “You disappointed me,” he’d told her. “I caught you far too quickly for the hunt to be a satisfying experience. I’m afraid I’ll have to punish you.”

  Her punishment was being shoved into a metal cage large enough for a good-size dog and left in the middle of the woods to spend the night.

  She couldn’t sleep. Her stomach rumbled with hunger. Her body ached from being forced to remain in one position for so many hours. She was cold. So cold. And nature’s nocturnal sounds encouraged her imagination. Every bird coo, every owl hoot, every animal cry, and even the nighttime wind through the trees, announced danger. There were snakes in the woods, right? And a plethora of creepy, crawling insects. And wild animals on the prowl.

  But the rational part of her mind told her that the real danger didn’t lie out here in the woods tonight. The real danger was the animal who would take her out of this cage in the morning and set her free in the woods once again.

  Chapter 18

  Ten days. Ten excruciating, torturous, endless days. In the long-ago past, Griffin had spent far more than a week and a half in the bowels of hell and had survived. But this was a new kind of hell, one where it was not his life hanging precariously in the balance, but the life of a woman who mattered to him, a woman he cared for deeply. If not for the support of his friends—Sanders, Yvette, Barbara Jean, Lindsay, and Judd—he wasn’t sure how he could have made it this far. They stayed with him, kept him busy, and when any tidbit of information came in via either Powell’s or the FBI, they encouraged him to believe in what he was beginning to think was the impossible: that somehow, someway, they would find Nic before it was too late.

  When he had changed his mind and gone against their advice not to offer a reward for information, they hadn’t argued with him. Sanders had arranged for extra personnel to be hired on a part-time basis at the Powell Agency headquarters to handle all the calls that started coming in immediately. The rational part of his mind told him that offering a million dollar reward was crazy, but time was running out. Desperate times called for desperate measures.

  Powell’s had followed up on every lead, no matter how flimsy the evidence or how wild a goose chase they were led on. Powell agents spread out around the South, grasping at straws, determined to leave no stone unturned in their search.

  Doug Trotter had phoned yesterday, the first time in several days. The bureau was no closer to finding Nic than Powell’s was, and Griff had heard the frustration and concern in Trotter’s voice.

  Lindsay and Judd had driven to the Knoxville airport over an hour ago to pick up Nic’s brother and bring him to Griffin’s Rest. Griff had invited her mother, too, but Nic’s stepfather had told him that their doctor was keeping her sedated and preferred for her not to travel. Griff hadn’t liked the colonel’s tone and instinctively knew that if he ever met Nic’s stepdad, he wouldn’t like him. But the moment Charles David had answered Griff’s call, he had sensed the depth of his love and concern for her, and he suspected that Nic’s brother had picked up on similar emotions in his voice.

  Leaving little Emily in Barbara Jean and Yvette’s motherly care, Griff put on his lightweight jacket and started to leave the house. Before he made it out the front door, Sanders offered to go with him on his afternoon walk.

  “I need to be alone for a while,” Griff said. “Just for today.”

  “Are you sure that’s wise?”

  “The day he kidnapped Nic and called to give me the first clue, he said he would give me a second clue on day ten.” Griff’s gaze connected with Sanders’s. “It’s nearly three o’clock on day ten and he hasn’t called.”

  “And taking a walk alone will make him call?”

  “No, but it will keep me from putting my fist through the wall while I wait.”

  Sanders nodded. “If you’re not back when Mr. Bellamy arrives, do you want me to call you?”

  “Yes, please do that.”

  Griff walked outside into the crisp autumn day. The sunshine warmed the earth, but the cool breeze kept the temperatures in the high sixties. Thanksgiving was just around the corner, a time for celebrating with family and friends the bounty of blessings in one’s life. He, far more than many, had reasons to give thanks because he had been blessed with so much. But he would give up everything he possessed if it would save Nic.

  Nicki.

  He smiled as he remembered the way she had reacted the first time he called her that. She had known he had done it simply to piss her off.

  But the night they had spent making love, he had called her Nicki.

  “My beautiful Nicki. My beautiful, sexy Nicki.”

  She had laughed, tossed her head back, and crawled on top of him, straddling him as she brought her body over his and her mouth down to whisper on his lips, “So, you think I’m sexy, huh?”

  Oh, God, please … If you’re out there, if you exist, if you actually give a damn about us mere mortals, then do this one thing for me. Protect her.

  Griff took the gravel road that led through the woods and wound around past the old boathouse and then circled back to the mansion. He loved these private acres near the lake, enjoyed the solitude and appreciated the beauty. Most of the autumn colors had faded and the trees were partially bare, the landscape painted in shades of gray and brown, with scattered evergreens brightening the drabness.

  Damn it, Nic, why didn’t you just stay in bed with me that morning? If only you hadn’t gone for a morning walk. If only I had been awake and gone with you. If only …

  Wherever you are, whatever he’s putting you through, stay strong, honey. Stay strong. Don’t let him defeat you. You have to know that I’m doing everything I can to find you.

  Griff was approaching the boathouse when his cell phone rang. His heart stopped for a millisecond, then he reached into his pocket and removed the phone. Unknown name. And a number he did not recognize.

  “Griffin Powell here.”

  “Did you think I wasn’t going to call?”

  He wanted to ask, “How is Nic? Is she all right? Please, don’t hurt her. I’ll give you anything—everything—if you’ll just let her go.” Instead, he said nothing.

  The son of a bitch laughed.

  “If you ask me nicely, I’ll let you speak to Nicole.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  Was he kidding? Did he actually intend to let him speak to Nic? If the bastard wanted to hear him beg, he’d beg. Hell, he’d grovel. “Would you please let me speak to Nic … to Nicole?”

  “Certainly. See how easy that was? All it required was for you to do as I told you to do.”

  “May I speak to her now?”

  “I’ll hold the phone for her,” the caller said. “She’s going to give you your next clue. It’s a good one, so listen up.”

  “Griff?” Her voice was weak. He heard the fear, but also the determination.

  “Nic, Nicki, honey. Where—?”

  “Spanish moss,” she said. “Antebellum house and—”

  “You bitch!” the Hunter screamed
.

  Griff heard a loud slap, then another, and knew Nic had not followed orders, had not given him the clue she’d been instructed to give. The last sound he heard was Nic’s gasping grunts.

  “Nic!” Griff called. But the line was dead.

  Griff tightened his hands into fists, marched several feet off the road and over to the old boathouse. He pulled back his right hand and rammed his fist into the gray weathered-wood door. Pain shot through his hand and up his arm. But the pain from his bloody knuckles momentarily eased the agonizing pain inside him, pain that was ripping him apart.

  Nic licked the blood from her lip and spit on the ground, careful to avoid hitting her captor. She wanted to spit in his eye, but didn’t. She knew he would punish her—no food, no water, and another night in the cage. The two hard slaps across her face had hurt, but anything she had to endure would be worth the chance she’d taken when she gave Griff a real clue. What she had told him hadn’t been specific, but at least it narrowed down her possible location. If she knew where she was, even what state she was in, she would have called that out to Griff, but she didn’t know. The words “Spanish moss” and “antebellum house” wouldn’t lead him directly to her, but if they were searching—Powell’s and the bureau—and she knew they were, then her words would give them an idea of where to search.

  He dragged her across the open field, probably where either cotton or sugarcane had once been grown, all the way to a huge oak tree off to the side, near a rutted dirt path. Two tattered old ropes hung from a massive limb on the tree, no doubt the remnants from where a child’s wooden swing had once hung. He shoved her up against the tree.

  She gasped for breath.

  “Don’t move!” He patted the rifle slung over his shoulder.

  She stood there, silent and still, waiting for whatever came next.

  He removed a knife from his pocket, reached up as high as he could and cut one of the ropes. He knotted the end of the rope twice, then grabbed Nic by the shoulder, whirled her around, and pressed her chest against the tree trunk.