Of course, the doors were locked. Thank God the doors were locked. They would be impossible to open from the outside.
“Oh, God! Oh, God!” Panicking, Emma leaned away from the door as she fought to free herself from her seat belt. “Riley, help!”
“Em!” Pulse thundering, Riley released her own seat belt and lunged across Emma to beat at the arm—it was a man’s arm, black windbreaker, black glove—while Emma, still scrabbling at her seat belt, let loose another sirenlike blast almost in Riley’s ear.
A carjacking? A random crime? Or someone else after the missing money? The terrifying possibilities sent an icy chill shooting down Riley’s spine.
“Help!” Riley screamed, shoving the gloved hand away from the door handle. In the process, her foot slipped off the brake. She only realized what had happened as the car rolled forward to hit the back of the van with a jarring thud that catapulted her sideways, sending her shoulder smacking into the dashboard and stopping the car dead.
The Mazda’s headlights reflecting off the van’s white double doors drew her attention and caused the interior of the car to be lighter than it had been a moment before.
The van—now the driver will get out, see what’s happening, help us.
That was the desperate hope revolving through her head as the gloved hand once again grabbed for the door handle. Throwing herself back into the battle, Riley could feel Emma’s body twisting with panic against her as Emma fought to get out of her seat belt and away from the door. Blows weren’t working; Riley viciously pinched the man’s forearm. He yelped, and the arm whipped out of sight.
Adrenaline pouring through her veins, Riley shouted at the shadowy figure looming outside the window: “Get out of here! We don’t have anything you want! Go on, go away!”
The arm shot back inside the window in a lightning punch that struck Riley in the forehead just above her right eye.
“Riley!” Emma tried and failed to catch her as Riley was knocked back into her own seat. Emma’s head swiveled toward the window. “Leave us alone!”
Forehead tingling, momentarily a little disoriented by the punch, Riley was aware of Emma screaming like a banshee and flailing away at the dark figure of the man outside the window, who was once again reaching for the inside door handle.
“Help! Somebody help us!” Emma shrieked, struggling with her seat belt latch. “Help!”
Glancing wildly at the closed back of the van, Riley thought, Where’s the driver?
To Emma she cried, “Don’t let him unlock the door!” and smashed her palm down on the horn—the resultant blast split the night—in an attempt to attract attention. Then she grabbed for the gearshift.
Can’t go forward, must reverse.
Nothing happened when Riley jerked the gearshift. The metal shaft didn’t budge. What . . . ? Her pulse pounded. Her stomach dropped. She experienced a split second of blind panic in which she yanked at the gearshift with all her strength while Emma’s screams exploded through the car. Riley was so flustered and frightened that it was almost impossible to think, but then she remembered that she had to depress the brake first. She did that and yanked the gearshift back just as Emma, shrieking, succeeded in unbuckling her seat belt at last.
Crash.
Riley screeched and jumped like she’d been shot as her own window shattered. Her heart catapulted into her throat. Even as she was showered with marble-like chunks of glass, part of a man’s torso plunged through the broken window. A long arm shot past her to turn off the ignition and snatch her keys. Her instant impression was of a black-gloved hand and a shiny black sleeve.
“No, no, no!” she cried, grabbing futilely for the keys, which were protected in a closed, gloved fist. “Em, quick, jump in the back!”
It was too late. Even as Emma scrambled over the console toward the space between the front seats, a tiny beeping sound—the unlock button on the key ring being depressed; Riley recognized it with a thrill of pure horror—sent Riley’s pulse rate skyrocketing.
That was the only warning she got before her door and Emma’s were jerked open almost simultaneously.
Riley’s heart seemed to stop.
As the interior light blinked on, Emma screamed with fresh intensity and tried to hurl herself into the rear. Too late: struggling wildly, she was grabbed and hauled backward toward the open door.
“Riley! Riley!”
“Emma!”
Mouth sour with fear, Riley grabbed at her, caught at her slim, cool arms, her frantically grasping hands, tried to hold her, to pull her back, then screamed with surprise and pain as a hand fisted in her own hair, snapping her head back, and another one closed ferociously around her arm. Panic surging through her, she fought desperately to hang on to Emma, who was jerked free of her to vanish, shrieking, through the door.
“Riley!”
Screaming, Riley, too, was dragged from the car. “Emma!”
Outside, the headlights cast weird shadows across the blacktop. The smell of exhaust was strong. In concert with Emma’s, Riley’s screams pierced the night, almost drowning out the sounds of their struggles and their abductors’ threats and curses. Her hair felt like it was being ripped out by the roots as she was kept from falling to her knees by the fist tangled in it. A muscular arm grabbed her, managed to pin her arms to her body. Despite the heat, cold sweat poured over Riley in a wave as she got a lightning glimpse of the black ski mask her captor was wearing and was hit by an instant, horrifying flashback to the attack in her apartment.
No carjacking, no random crime—this is about the money. Deep down, she’d known it all along. Her heart pounded so hard it slammed against her breastbone. Her pulse sounded loud as thunder in her ears.
“Get off me!” she cried, throwing her head back in an attempt to head-butt her captor, trying everything she knew to break away. “Emma!”
Yanking her hair so hard she saw stars, her captor snarled, “Quit fighting or I’ll break your damned neck.”
Forget that. Riley fought like a tigress as she was half carried, half shoved a few steps, then body-slammed facedown against the Mazda’s trunk with such force that the breath was knocked out of her.
“Riley! Help! Help!” Emma’s panicked cries turned into a shrill, terrified scream that was abruptly cut off.
“Emma!” Despite everything, Riley rallied enough to respond, to lift her head in time to watch Emma, a gloved hand over her mouth, a black-clad arm around her waist, being borne, struggling for all she was worth, around the back corner of the van and out of sight.
“Emma!” Galvanized, Riley summoned every last bit of strength she had.
Aiming the heel of her shoe in a vicious kick back at the right knee of the man holding her and just missing as he dodged at the last second, Riley screamed like a steam whistle, fought to get free—and had her head slammed into the trunk so hard her jaws snapped together and the world went out of focus around her.
“You listen.” Her captor bent over her, holding her in place with his hand in her hair and his body weight pressed against her back, his tone brutal. Too woozy to struggle, Riley lay panting and shuddering against the warm trunk of her car. “We know George has the billions he stole hidden somewhere. You have three days to find out where it is. You find it, and you tell us. Exactly where the money is, and how to get access to it. If you don’t, George will be burying his daughter beside his son. Understand?”
Riley’s blood turned to ice in her veins. She sucked in a wheezing breath. For Emma, she would turn over the information, the notebook, everything. Anything. Now.
“I have—” she began, meaning to add “the information you need.”
“Shut up.” He cut her off by the simple expedient of slamming her head into the trunk again. Riley cried out, went limp, breathed.
“I said listen. Three days. No cops, no FBI, no authorities. You go to George, tell him what I said. We’ll contact you on your cell phone on Monday night. If you give us what we want, the girl will be released. If
you don’t . . .”
Without warning, he shoved her violently away from him. Crying out in surprise, Riley went flying, sliding along the side of the car, stumbling, falling to her knees on the rough pavement.
Looking up, she saw her captor running toward the van.
“Wait!” she cried, but it was too late: he reached the van, hopped in.
She was still struggling to her feet as, with a squeal of tires, the van sped away.
— CHAPTER —
SEVENTEEN
Panic. Desperation. Fury. Shock. As the van disappeared into the night, Riley would have collapsed from the gamut of emotions that engulfed her, but she simply didn’t have the time.
Screaming was out, too. Worthless, worthless screaming.
Emma’s life was in danger. She had to pull herself together fast, to think, to deal.
Heart pounding, breathing like she had been running for miles, insides curdling with terror, Riley leaned against the now-dark Mazda and sent a fervent prayer winging skyward: Please, God, keep Emma safe.
Beating back the hysteria that threatened, Riley grabbed onto the tatters of her composure and took swift stock of the situation. It was the middle of the night, no other human being in sight. Emma was gone, kidnapped. She was stuck on a deserted road in a closed-down industrial area with a car that, minus its keys, was useless. Running back the way they had come, she might reach help in, say, fifteen minutes. Running forward, she was probably looking at the same time frame. Another car would almost certainly come along, but there was no saying when, or if, it would stop for her.
None of that would happen fast enough to save Emma.
She needed help. She needed it now.
No cops, no FBI, no authorities. She could hear the warning still.
That left her and Margaret to deal with the situation. That put Emma’s life squarely in their hands.
Riley felt dizzy. Her heart felt like it would beat its way out of her chest. Cold sweat poured over her in a wave.
She had what the kidnappers wanted: she knew where the money was, how to access the bank accounts, the whole nine yards. She would have told them so if they’d given her the chance.
We’ll contact you on your cell phone on Monday night.
When the kidnappers did that, she could give them the information. She would gladly give them the information.
Anything, if they would let Emma go.
But what if they didn’t let Emma go? What if she handed over the information and—nothing? The thought froze her to her bone marrow. What would she—she and Margaret—do then?
Go to the authorities at that point? It might very well be too late.
Emma could be killed. Oh, God, no matter what she did, Emma could be killed.
That was when Riley started to shake. Her knees were suddenly so unsteady that she had to sit down hard in the driver’s seat. Chunks of safety glass from the broken window littered the seat, but she never even felt them.
Her only option seemed to be to hand over the information and trust that the kidnappers would keep their word.
Trust? Kidnappers? The very people who had just dragged her and Emma out of their car in the middle of the night? Get real, Riley.
Emma’s life is at stake.
Riley felt like an icy hand had just closed around her heart. Deliberately she slowed her breathing, determined not to hyperventilate.
She dared not try to handle this on her own. Margaret would be no help at all. Margaret would have a breakdown. This was beyond anything either of them, or both of them, were qualified to take on.
I need help. We need help.
Casting a hunted look around, she felt her skin crawl as she tried to confirm that she was indeed absolutely, totally alone. Darkness stretched silently around her. The warehouses crouched on one side of the road, unspooling in a seemingly endless line beneath pale, wavery security lights. On the other side, a drainage ditch, an empty, trash-strewn field, what looked like an abandoned storage facility, the distant flash of headlights on the expressway.
Her surroundings gave fresh, sinister meaning to not a soul in sight.
She didn’t know if it was her imagination but—it was almost like she sensed a presence.
What if they’re watching me? Remotely? Listening to me? Like, say, through a bug? Monitoring a police scanner? Suppose they have a contact in the FBI?
Panic flooded her. It required an almost-physical effort to beat it back. She didn’t know if any of those things were reasonable, possible. She did know that she didn’t want to do anything that might jeopardize Emma’s life.
Stay calm. Think it through.
What she came back to, after swiftly taking into consideration every possible danger that she could foresee, was I need help.
There was only one person she could think of to call.
Her own personal 911 hotline.
* * *
THE SHARP blare of a trumpet—a ringtone he’d deliberately chosen for one particular caller—woke Finn up out of a sound sleep. His eyes opened on pitch blackness. His senses told him that he was in an unfamiliar bed, an unfamiliar place. Still, he knew immediately where he was and what that blasting trumpet portended. Waking fast and in full possession of his senses was a necessary ability he’d acquired over the years. Didn’t prevent him from experiencing a thrill of alarm as he scooped his phone off the bedside table and answered. If Riley was calling him after that little disaster of an encounter earlier, something majorly bad must’ve gone down.
“Yeah,” he said.
“I need you.” Riley’s voice was unsteady. His gut tightened in response. “Can you come?”
“What’s happened? Where are you?”
Without answering the first question, she said a street name and location that meant nothing to him, and added, “Hurry.”
“You in danger?”
“No, not me.” Her voice still had that wavering quality that affected him like a jab to the stomach. It had him throwing his legs over the side of the bed and reaching for his pants like the hotel was on fire. “I’ll fill you in when you get here.”
“Quick as I can,” he promised, but hadn’t even finished speaking before she hung up.
He glanced at glowing green numbers on the digital clock—2:20 a.m. He’d been asleep for all of half an hour.
Five minutes later he was dressed, in the Acura and speeding toward where the blinking light on the mobile receiving unit told him she was. On the way, he hit the button that allowed him to listen to everything that had been recorded by the bug in Riley’s cell phone since he’d left her in the Palm Room.
By the time he spotted the Mazda’s emergency blinkers flashing through the darkness on the deserted stretch of road that ran parallel to the expressway, he knew what had transpired, why Riley sounded so distraught. Grimly he’d placed the phone call needed to get an all-out search-and-rescue effort for Emma Cowan going, then another one to find out what the hell had happened to the team that was supposed to keep Riley under visual surveillance as she left work.
They were, as it turned out, still in the parking lot outside the Palm Room. Been there since 1:55 a.m., according to Detective Tim Smith, who answered the call from the car in which he and his partner were watching the club’s entrance.
“She hasn’t come out yet,” Smith reported.
Finn clamped down on all kinds of unpleasant replies, said, “She’s covered, you can stand down,” and disconnected.
Pulling onto the shoulder behind Riley’s car, which was stopped in the slow lane, he shut off the mobile receiving unit and shoved it under his seat, pocketed his phone, slammed the car into park, and got out.
She was sitting in the driver’s seat. The Mazda’s interior light flashed briefly as she got out to meet him.
Striding around the back of her car, he took in the slim, sexy shape of her silhouetted against the darkness as she walked toward him, swaying slightly on those killer high heels. As he got closer he saw that her s
tockings were ripped all to hell, her dress was covered with pale dust, and her hair was a disheveled mess. Another couple of strides, and he could tell that her face was white as a corpse’s, her eyes were huge and dark, and her mouth was shaking.
“Emma’s been kidnapped,” was how she greeted him.
“Are you hurt?” he asked sharply.
“No.” There was impatience in the way she shook her head, even though all evidence pointed to the contrary. Her voice was hoarse, but surprisingly steady given the circumstances. “Two men in a van—they took her. For the money.” She took a breath, and he heard the hitch in it, which told him everything he needed to know about the state of her emotions despite the brave front she was putting on. “There was no license plate. A plain white van. That’s all I can tell you.”
“We’ll get her back,” he said, and slid a hand around her elbow to steady her as she wobbled and then stopped walking, maybe two feet in front of him.
“Will we?” Her eyes met his, begged. She was looking at him like he was her one hope of salvation, and something about having her look at him like that, about her, period, did something unexpected, something he didn’t like at all, to his insides.
“Yeah.” His reply was terse.
“Okay.” She closed her eyes like she took that single, bitten-off syllable as a promise, like he’d lifted a weight off of her, like she was placing her complete faith in him. She looked vulnerable, and beautiful, and as his eyes slid over her face his insides did that weird twisting thing again, which alarmed him almost as much as it pissed him off.
“God damn it,” he muttered, meaning it, and pulled her into his arms.
She went to him as though in his arms was exactly where she wanted to be.
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