Sting

by Sandra Brown

  “Hot damn!”

  “The chopper?” Hick was already tapping the number into his cell phone.

  While Hick made the arrangements, Joe was thinking about Josh Bennett, and as soon as Hick ended his call, he expressed his puzzlement out loud. “He was smart enough to escape, but dumb enough to come back here?”

  “This is where Ms. Bennett is, and she’s Josh’s security blanket. He also knows that this is the one place on the planet where Billy Panella ain’t.”

  “Yeah, but…”

  “What?” Hick asked as they walked in long strides through the parking garage toward Hick’s car.

  Joe pulled open the passenger door. “If last night taught us nothing else, it taught us how long Panella’s reach is. Kinnard is out there somewhere. Doesn’t Josh realize the threat he poses? The little turd needs to surrender.”

  “I doubt he will, Joe. He knows we’ll lock him away forever.”

  “Yeah. But we wouldn’t gut him.”

  “Mr. Panella? Is this a convenient time for us to speak?”

  “A convenient time would have been two hours ago when I called you.”

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t available. How can I serve you?”

  The banker was Asian, but he had cultivated his British accent so that it was as silky as Devonshire cream. It inspired confidence and trust. The amplified distortion of Panella’s voice didn’t shock him. This was the manner in which their business had been conducted for years, and he understood the necessity for Panella’s extreme caution. Nor was he put off by his customer’s rudeness, which he’d also come to expect. Men who used offshore banks to hide sizable amounts of money in numbered accounts rarely wasted valuable time on polite conversation.

  “I want to confirm the current balance in my account.”

  The banker excused himself and returned shortly to quote an amount. “To the penny,” Panella said.

  The banker smiled to himself. Amounts rounded off to the nearest dollar had never been satisfactory to this customer. Mr. Billy Panella tested the bank’s accuracy frequently.

  “I also wanted to alert you that I’ll soon be making a sizable withdrawal.”

  “I hope the bank isn’t losing your business.”

  “Not so long as you do what I tell you, when I tell you.”

  “You have my guarantee.”

  “I’ll be requesting a wire transfer, and it could be on short notice.”

  “I’m happy to facilitate. This institution specializes in time-sensitive matters.”

  “Which I’ve always appreciated.”

  “The transfer made earlier this week was to your satisfaction?”

  “You did what you were supposed to. Unfortunately others didn’t.”

  “I regret to hear that.”

  “That’s why this additional transfer is necessary, and there can’t be any hang-ups. Understand? I want the money to be ready when I need it.”

  “Of course. American dollars, Mr. Panella?”

  “Yes.”

  “Very good. And the amount?” The banker waited, poised, and when nothing was forthcoming, he prompted gently, “Mr. Panella?”

  “Two fuckin’ million.”

  Chapter 15

  At first Jordie was too drugged by sleep to bother to identify the racket that had awakened her. She lay with her eyes closed, her brain muzzy from dreamless sleep and sultry heat. Subconsciously she was reluctant to wake up, so she fought it. However, the sound was persistent, and it eventually shook her awake and into full awareness.

  A helicopter!

  She struggled to sit up, cursing the awkwardness caused by her hands being restrained. She wormed her way out the open backseat door and stood. When she put her weight on her right foot, it tingled painfully and was virtually useless. Shifting most of her weight to her left foot, she ran in a lurching gait toward the door.

  Shaw was silhouetted in the opening, looking up at the sky but from inside the building where he couldn’t be seen. He heard her coming and turned in time to halt her before she cleared the door.

  She screamed as loud as she could.

  “Save your breath, Jordie. You won’t be heard.”

  She knew it was futile, but she continued to scream anyway, mostly out of frustration as she kicked at his shins, at anything she could reach. When she aimed her knee at his crotch, he pulled back just in time, his body going concave. But she’d come perilously close, and he realized it.

  Grabbing a handful of her top’s fabric, he thrust her away from him and held her at arm’s length, while using his other hand to pull the door shut. The clatter of the approaching helicopter became louder. The tin roof vibrated and rattled as it passed directly above them. Then the noise began to fade, as did Jordie’s short-lived hope of rescue.

  Eventually Shaw released his grip on her blouse, pushed open the door, and looked out. “They had better get where they’re going soon. Storm’s moving in.”

  She was surprised to discover that she’d slept away most of the afternoon. The sun was low in the west and blocked by a thick layer of clouds that had ushered in higher humidity. Now the shelter didn’t feel so much like a convection oven as a steam bath.

  They watched the retreating helicopter until it disappeared. He dusted his hands. “So much for that. Nothing to get you all excited.”

  His smugness outraged her and, giving no thought to the consequences, she launched herself at him. She resumed kicking, but rather than backing away from her, this time he drew her up against him and placed his feet between hers, making her efforts ineffectual.

  The lethargy that had claimed her earlier was replaced by manic determination. She channeled every bit of strength she possessed into inflicting pain, or, at the very least discomfort, anything to upset his damned complacency. She twisted and squirmed, blind with fury, demented by rage, heedless of everything.

  Until she realized that she was fighting only herself. He had stopped resisting.

  He still held her, his hands splayed and firm on her hips, but the way they were securing her against him wasn’t combative.

  She fell still and tilted her face up to look into his.

  “Now I’m excited.”

  There was an underlying, primitive thrum in his voice, and an insistent and unmistakable pressure against her open thighs where her body involuntarily responded with a purl of sensation.

  Mortified, she stumbled back, and, to her surprise, his hands fell away and he let her go. But that only underscored that it was always his choice, that despite her tantrum, he maintained control.

  She had no control, not even over her own body. Her breathing was hectic. She knew her face was flushed. His flint-colored eyes moved from her blushing cheeks to her breasts and in an attempt to explain their noticeable physical reaction, she said, “I’m angry. That’s all.”

  “Yeah? Remind me to keep you angry.”

  Smarting, she said, “Look, I’m sick of your manhandling and your lewd innuendos. This isn’t some kind of…”

  When she failed to come up with an appropriate word, he arched an eyebrow. “Some kind of…what?”

  “Don’t flatter yourself, Mr. Kinnard. And make no mistake. If I get a chance to kill you, I will.”

  He watched her for a moment. “Noted.”

  He made to go around her, but then stopped suddenly and cupped her chin in his palm, forcing her head back. He ran his thumb across her lower lip. “Make no mistake. If I decide to turn this into something of that kind, Jordie, I won’t use innuendos. I’ll tell you straight out that I’m gonna fuck you.”

  Josh stared into the flickering television, which was the only light he allowed himself this evening.

  Two images of him flashed onto the screen. Even he was shocked by the difference in his appearance from what it had been six months ago.

  Jordie had gotten all the advantageous genes, even the good looks. His had never been anything to brag about, but he really looked pathetic in the drawing they were showing on T
V. It was only a sketch done by a police artist, but…still.

  No wonder the security on him had become lax. Who would’ve predicted that a scrawny dork who looked like him could pull a big one like this over on some of Uncle Sam’s best?

  He had. He should be taking a bow, toasting himself for the outstanding achievement.

  Instead, as with the night before in the drab room of the motor court, after seeing the two faces of Joshua Bennett side by side on the evening news, his self-congratulatory state and self-confidence took a nosedive.

  He directed his thoughts away from the artist’s rendering and focused on what was being said about him. The anchorman rehashed the story Josh had seen in the convenience store during the noon hour about what had taken place last night in a bar outside his hometown of Tobias.

  That story was followed by a recap of the Panella-Bennett fraud case and the events of six months ago. But that was only to remind people of who he was and why his being at large was newsworthy.

  Presently, he was described as the “development” in “this ongoing and bizarre case,” which had ultimately resulted in the murder of suspected killer-for-hire Mickey Bolden, and the “likely but as yet unconfirmed kidnapping” of local businesswoman Jordan Bennett.

  When the news went to a commercial, Josh muted the audio and stared vacantly at the screen while assessing how Jordie’s kidnapping might impact his carefully laid plans, because he certainly hadn’t counted on that happening.

  What was particularly galling? The FBI, in their determination to recapture him, had exploited it. Joe Wiley, with Hickam standing square-jawed in the background, had read a statement from behind a miked podium in the lobby of the FBI field office. The agent hadn’t come right out and pointed a finger at him, but his implication had been that Josh must shoulder blame for his sister’s misfortune. That was playing dirty pool.

  “It’s obvious that Mr. Bennett didn’t think through the potential consequences of his flight.” With all the gaiety of a foghorn, Wiley went on to say how snitches who reneged oftentimes didn’t live very long. “I don’t believe Mr. Bennett realizes the peril he’s placed his sister in. Nor does he recognize the jeopardy to himself. I urge him to surrender. He’s safe only while in our custody.”

  He was warning of reprisal from Panella, of course. “Subtle as a sledgehammer,” Josh said to the silent TV, scoffing the FBI agent’s transparent scare tactics. Josh had already outfoxed that fox, hadn’t he? “So up yours, Agent Wiley.”

  But his bravado was halfhearted at best. He couldn’t wholly dismiss Wiley’s warning. The bald truth? He had created a hazardous situation for himself. In fact, thinking about it made him a little queasy.

  His gaze was drawn to the cell phone lying on the table. He was tempted to pick it up and call Jordie’s number just to see what he’d get, if anything. But, as before, he nixed the idea. In the unlikely event that this guy Kinnard—who the hell was he, anyway?—had left her phone behind when he took her, the risk of calling it was great. He envisioned Wiley and Hickam and God knew who else huddled around it just waiting for it to ring so they could trace the call straight to his current location.

  Geographically he was a little too close for comfort to chance that.

  Otherwise, he felt reasonably secure about his hiding place, which had been waiting for him against the day when he would make good his escape plan. He’d prepared well. Before being hauled away to Tennessee, he paid the utility bills for a year in advance. He’d made certain the pantry and freezer were stocked. The food was six months old, but he’d never paid much attention to expiration dates and had probably eaten older.

  Sooner or later, one of the people with whom he’d crossed paths since Tuesday would connect the hitchhiking burnout to Josh Bennett, accused felon, turned informant, turned fugitive.

  If the cashier or the blowhard in the convenience store IDed him, the authorities would know he was back in the state. But from that Hicksville store, he’d covered his tracks well.

  Beneath the huge oak tree in the woods, he’d made slight alterations in his appearance. From there, it was a three-mile walk to a public storage facility where he’d left a car six months ago. He’d waited until no one was around, then had opened his storage unit and reconnected the car’s battery cables, and with minor encouragement, the engine had kicked on.

  Sure, there were security cameras all over the place, but he’d taken measures to prevent them from being a problem. If by some miracle, he was identified entering the place on foot and leaving in a vehicle, he had switched license plates twice on the way here, so he was confident they would never find him.

  There wasn’t a person alive who would think to look for him here, not even Jordie. The nearest occupied property was over two miles away. As long as he kept to the ground floor, and used only a minimum of light each night, he should be okay here indefinitely.

  Jordie’s kidnapping was an unexpected snag, but he couldn’t let it unravel him. He wouldn’t let it unravel him. He only had to hang in there until he could implement the last step of his plan. Then he would be clear and worry free forever.

  However, the context of Joe Wiley’s sound bite was spoiling his optimism. What did the FBI know that he didn’t?

  Something about Panella that would trigger another avenue of investigation?

  Something about Jordie’s abduction that they weren’t sharing with the media?

  The TV had a DVR. He had recorded the newscast. He watched it again now.

  And then again, and once more, becoming a little more paranoid and panicked each time Joe Wiley said, “the potential consequences of his flight…”

  Chapter 16

  After what Shaw had said, Jordie had difficulty looking him in the eye. In her peripheral vision, she saw him pull the familiar knife from his pocket. Then he stood there, waiting.

  She wished she could muster the obstinance to make him wait, to make him order her, but she was too anxious to have her hands freed, so like an obedient and well-trained pet, she turned around. With an efficient snap, he cut through the cuff.

  When she came back around, he was rummaging inside the trunk of the car. He returned to her carrying several things, including one of the unused camouflage-print bandanas.

  “How many are you down to?”

  “I have a few more.”

  She wondered which would run out first, the bandanas or her time.

  He passed her the bandana and a small bar of soap, the kind furnished in an inexpensive hotel, no larger than a wafer and still wrapped in glossy white paper. He then handed her a bottle of water. “Be frugal with it.”

  When she realized that he was suggesting she wash, the idea of it was so appealing, she wanted to weep with gratitude. On the other hand, the extended kindness made her wary, and her expression must have conveyed that.

  He motioned behind him. “As long as you behave yourself, you can have that half of the building, and I promise to keep my distance and my back turned.”

  “Why should I trust you?”

  “You shouldn’t.”

  She looked past him into the gathering gloom at the back of the building. Although the early dusk would partially conceal her, the deeply shadowed space wasn’t inviting. Being clean, however, was.

  She stepped around him and walked into an area of the cavernous building where the darkness was deepest. At eye level on the rough wall, a two-by-four ran horizontally to form a narrow ledge. She unwrapped the soap bar and placed it there along with the bottle of water.

  She glanced over her shoulder. Shaw was folding up the tarp, which she took as a good sign. He wouldn’t be doing that if he planned on needing it soon. Nor would he be enabling her to wash. In any case, he wasn’t looking her way.

  Holding the corner of the bandana between her teeth, she pulled her top over her head, and, before she could talk herself out of it, peeled off her jeans. She had difficulty getting them past her sandals, but she wasn’t going to put her bare feet on the fl
oor if she could avoid it.

  Really there was no difference between being in a bra and panties and wearing a bikini. But feeling exposed and vulnerable, she hastily poured a palmful of water and worked up a lather with the soap between her hands.

  When she’d washed every place she could reach, she soaked the bandana and used it to wipe away the soap. With the last of the water she wet the cloth again, then went over herself a second time.

  “Time’s up.”

  She froze and gave him another glance. His back was to her. He was pulling on his shirt. She called to him that she was almost finished.

  “I’m counting down from sixty,” he said.

  “That’s not enough time for me to air-dry. The humidity—”

  “Fifty-seven.”

  She cursed under her breath and hurriedly pulled on her jeans. Her skin and underwear were damp. Even so, she felt considerably better. Trying not to dwell on the dried bloodstains on her top, she pulled it on and pushed her arms through the armholes. She scooped her hair from the neckline and gathered it into a ponytail, tying it with the wet bandana.

  “Thirty-four.”

  She reached for the bar of soap and, in her haste, dropped it to the floor. “Damn!”

  “Twenty-two. Twenty-one.”

  She crouched and groped along the floor looking for the soap.

  But she discovered something else. Something completely unexpected.

  Immediately, she recognized it for what it was, but if she hadn’t been this close to it, it would have gone unnoticed, because it was stuck between the bottom of one of the vertical slats and another two-by-four that ran along the floor like a baseboard.

  She took hold, but it was tightly wedged in the crack between the two pieces of lumber, which, despite their age, were unforgiving. She applied herself to pulling it free, but if she managed to, where could she hide it until she had an opportunity to use it? The timing had to be perfect. She would have to be close to him, and lightning quick, because she wouldn’t get a second chance, so the jab would have to count and be—