Kidnapped!

by Jo Leigh

  With his right hand throbbing at nearly his pain threshold, Michael was more than ready to have this over and done with. If it was Danny in the galley, so much the better. If not, he couldn’t be far.

  Michael inched his way along the teak floor, the incredible interior of the boat showing just how much a bookie like Ed earned for himself. Of course now, with the fifty million in his pocket, he’d probably consider this a toy boat. Something convenient to take him out to his real yacht.

  He stopped thinking about Ed. He was all about the whistler in the galley. Whatever the guy was making, there was some chopping involved. That’s all that sound could be. So that meant a knife. Not a problem.

  Moving as quietly as he could while keeping his balance, Michael made it halfway to the galley. He had to forget about his right hand, about that arm. If he gave it any attention, his instinct would be to pull it from the safety of his back. It was best to concentrate on the gun in his left hand. He listened carefully to the chopping and the whistling, figuring the size of the galley and where his shot should go. There was no room for error, so the second shot had to be close to the first but lower. Get him in the chest, then in the gut. That would take him down without giving him a chance to shoot back.

  After a cleansing breath, he got close, a step away. He turned, aimed, adjusted two inches and pulled the trigger. The first bullet threw the cook forward, over his chopped vegetables. The second severed his spinal cord. At least that’s what it looked like from the way the man fell.

  Michael turned to move deeper into the boat. There should only be one man left on board, not counting Charlie.

  Ed was gonna be so pissed.

  Michael whistled “Alouette” as he continued the hunt.

  THEY WERE OUTSIDE once more, in the bright island sunshine. There were so many people on the streets, mostly tourists with gifts in big bags and flip-flops on their feet. There were more cars now, too. And she wondered how many accidents there were here just because the American tourists had to drive on the left.

  Ed had his hand locked on her upper arm, but he seemed a lot happier now that he was so much richer. She felt certain that all he wanted was to get back to the boat, wait till nightfall and make sure there was no one left to tell the tale.

  He walked her across the street, making her wait for the light. Then they went toward the beach and the water taxis.

  “There’s no reason to kill us,” she said. “Now that you have the money, there’s no way for us to get it back.”

  “Shut up.”

  “Just let us go. We’ll disappear. You won’t hear from us again.”

  “I said shut up.”

  She did, but with every step her worry grew, and she kept picturing horror after horror of what she’d find on the boat. It was making it hard to see, hard to breathe, but she didn’t want to worry Michael by showing up in a full-blown panic attack.

  “Come on,” Ed said, squeezing her arm.

  “You’re hurting me.”

  “Just get your ass in gear. I want to get back to the boat. We’re celebrating tonight at the Ritz. Figure I’m gonna buy myself one hell of an expensive bottle of champagne.” He tugged her again, practically pulling her shoulder out of its socket.

  She stopped and tore her arm free, suddenly so filled with rage she forgot all about her constricted breath and pounding heartbeat.

  He was celebrating at the Ritz? Over his dead body.

  18

  “I DON’T CARE WHAT evidence you have or don’t have. I know Michael Caulfield is behind this.”

  Sara bit her lower lip, trying hard not to react. Mr. Baxter needed to have his say. She turned to Special Agent Webber and he gave her a small nod. They’d talked a lot yesterday, after she’d cried her millionth tear.

  She’d recognized Tate’s purse instantly. That the wallet was still inside shut down the last of her hope. It didn’t matter that the money was gone. Tate wouldn’t have left that wallet. It had been a gift. From Sara.

  She’d debated long and hard about telling William about the purse, but in the end she’d decided he had to know. There was no choice.

  He’d disappeared into the guest room, then emerged this morning more angry than sad. He’d called the meeting they were having now. Who knows? His righteous anger just might pull him through.

  “Sir, we’re doing everything we can to find both your daughter and Mr. Caulfield. We know his motorcycle is missing, but from the state of his apartment it doesn’t appear he planned a trip. There were no suitcases missing, all his clothing was in the drawers and closets. Frankly we’re much more interested in Jerry Brody than Caulfield.”

  “I’m interested in Caulfield. He was in military intelligence. I doubt very much he intended anyone to think he’d planned this. I didn’t hire him because he was a fool.”

  “I understand, sir. Rest assured, we’re leaving no stone unturned. We’re currently investigating his brother, where there might be some connection.”

  “His brother.”

  “Charles. He has a criminal record. Theft, racketeering, drugs.”

  William stood so quickly he had to grab the edge of his chair to gain his balance. “I knew it. That’s why they needed the five million—drug money.”

  “Mr. Baxter,” Sara said, concerned now that he was working himself into such a lather. “I know it seems to make sense that Michael was in on this, but—”

  “Enough,” he said.

  He’d never raised his voice at her before, and she didn’t much care for it now. But the man was given a pass, at least for today.

  “I know what I know.”

  “Excuse me, Mr. Baxter?”

  Sara, as well as the men in the room, all turned as one to see three of the security team standing by the side wall. They all looked uncomfortable, as if they had thrown a baseball through a stained-glass window.

  “Who are you?” Baxter asked.

  The tallest one stepped forward. “I’m George Bryan. I work surveillance.”

  “I’m E. J. Packer, sir.” Sara recognized him from the scars on his face. “I’m ex-Army intelligence and I run night security.”

  They both turned to the only blond, a slender man with horn-rimmed glasses. “I’m also ex-Army intelligence, sir. Name’s McPherson. Bill McPherson.”

  “What is it?”

  “I served with Mike Caulfield for two years. He is not your man.”

  “What?” William looked from the men to Sara, as if she’d been behind this mutiny.

  “I also served with Mike Caulfield.” This from George Bryan. “I can’t see it, Mr. Baxter. If he’s involved, it’s because he’s trying to save her. I’ve never worked for a more honorable man.”

  “I agree, Mr. Baxter.” E.J. nodded toward Sara. “Ma’am. For my money, looking at Caulfield is looking in the wrong direction.”

  “Get out of here, all of you,” Baxter said, his face red with rage. “You work for him. Of course you’re going to say he’s innocent.”

  The three men, all with their military stance and utmost respect, took his fury like good soldiers. And when they were summarily fired, they didn’t seem surprised.

  But when Sara looked back at the FBI agent, it was clear attention had been paid.

  “YOU SON OF A BITCH!” Tate said so loudly the tourists in back of Ed stopped talking to stare. “You murdering bastard. You’re planning on killing us before you have your champagne?”

  He laughed as he looked around nervously. With his left hand he pulled out his cell phone. “I’m warning you,” he said, his teeth clamped together as he smiled.

  “You’re warning me…what? That you’re going to hurt Michael? You’re planning to kill us. What could hurt worse than that?”

  “Stop it,” he said. “These people are going to think you’re serious.”

  She was serious. So serious that she didn’t even stop to think, she just turned in front of him, grabbed his arms and kneed Ed Martini right between the legs.

&nbs
p; He howled so loudly everyone on the street stopped, and when he fell to the ground, clutching his crotch, more and more people approached. But Tate wasn’t done yet.

  She circled around to his back. His piteous cries had the crowd murmuring, but she didn’t care. She lifted his Hawaiian shirt above his waist and plucked the gun away.

  Several members of the crowd backed up. Despite the hysteria she felt just under the surface, the gun in Tate’s hands didn’t shake at all. She moved around in front of the man and kept the barrel pointed at his head. “Someone call the cops.”

  She didn’t hear any movement. “Someone,” she said again, only a whole lot louder, “call the cops.”

  There were footsteps to her right and in back of her. Horns honked in the road, and she assumed the crowd had gotten so large that they were blocking the street. Hell, they probably didn’t see a sight like this every day.

  Ed Martini writhed on the sidewalk, holding himself like a child who has to pee. Martini, who hadn’t blinked when Michael’s wrist had been broken, who thought nothing of killing two innocent people, then drinking champagne. The pig deserved to die himself, but maybe it would be worse for him if he had to go to prison here. She didn’t think the Caymans had extradition laws, but that didn’t matter either. He wasn’t going to kill Michael. Not now.

  “Hey, hey. Put the gun down, miss.”

  She looked up to see two police officers standing on the road. “He’s a kidnapper and a thief and a murderer, and I have proof of all of it.”

  “Put the gun down and we’ll talk.”

  She didn’t want to. She wanted to pull the trigger. But she didn’t. She just bent, put the gun on the ground and backed away.

  The cops, in their crisp khakis and black hats, split up, with one man shooing the bystanders away and the other coming toward her. Two steps in, Ed lunged forward and grabbed the gun.

  She leaped back, cursing herself for not kicking the weapon as far as she could.

  Ed got to his knees, then to his feet, the gun in his right hand pointing at her chest. His face was a red mess, with tears and more dripping from his nose and chin. He didn’t look so smooth now. What he did look like was a man who didn’t care about consequences. Not when he clearly wanted to kill her so damn badly.

  “Sir, put the gun down. Sir…”

  Ed didn’t even glance at the cop. He just snarled at Tate. “You bitch. You’re gonna pay—”

  “I’ve already paid. Isn’t fifty-five million enough? Isn’t kidnapping and assault enough? You broke his wrists! All he was trying to do was protect me, and you’ve crippled him.”

  “He’s long past caring,” he said, lifting the gun. “And in one second you’re going to be, too.”

  Tate closed her eyes, prepared for the impact of a bullet to send her crashing into the crowd. But it didn’t come. She heard a scuffle, then a thunk, and she opened her eyes to see the two sturdy police officers on top of Ed, their knees planted on his back as they twisted his hands around for cuffs.

  Tears filled her eyes and she laughed and wept as she realized it was over, that Ed was really in custody. And then it hit her, what he’d said about Michael.

  Her legs didn’t want to hold her up as she let the truth in. Michael was dead. They hadn’t broken his other wrist, they’d shot him. Of course they had. Why bother to keep him around? She’d proved she would do anything for him, so all they’d needed was her own belief that she could save him.

  Michael was dead.

  LEAVING THE COOK IN the galley, Michael went back down the narrow corridor toward the master suite and the other berth. Danny, unless he’d taken Ed and Tate to the island, had to be there somewhere. Probably prepared, as the cook’s death hadn’t been all that quiet.

  There was a head just before the smaller berth, and Michael slowed as he neared it. His arm and shoulder throbbed to the beat of his heart as he silently made his approach.

  Gun at the ready, he kicked the door in, but no one was there. The room was too small to hide in, which meant Danny had to be in one of the bedrooms. If he was on board at all.

  The berth, with a couple of beds and very little else, did have space to hide. Although a man Danny’s size would have trouble.

  If the roles had been reversed, Michael would have gotten behind the door, listening carefully for footsteps. He wouldn’t wait for his assailant to show up, he’d shoot through the door.

  With that in mind, Michael decided to lure Danny out. He still had a lot of ammo in the mag, so he got close, aimed his weapon at the master suite door and fired.

  Despite the name, silencers never really silenced a gun. They helped, but for anyone below deck, the gunshot would have been heard. Just in case Danny had headphones on, Michael put the gun under his right armpit—which hurt like a bitch—unscrewed the silencer, then retrieved the weapon. Two more shots, and this time someone would have to be dead to miss the sound.

  Michael crouched in the head doorway, waiting. It was tough to be patient. His mind went one of two places—Tate or pain. He had to keep bringing himself back to his target.

  Three minutes went by and Michael saw the door to the master suite move.

  Danny had ducked—at least that’s what it looked like from the position of his gun. It didn’t matter. He could have crawled out on his belly. For all his size and weight, there was nothing the man could have done to save his own life.

  Michael put three shots into the door. Danny fell like a massive tree, his head cracking loudly on the teak floor.

  Michael backed up until he could sit on the edge of the john. His whole body throbbed with pain, mitigated slightly by relief. Even that only lasted a minute. Tate was still out there. And Charlie.

  He hadn’t heard a thing from upstairs, but that didn’t mean Charlie hadn’t recovered. At least his brother didn’t have a gun. He’d probably end up shooting himself if he had.

  Michael stood, momentarily dizzy. Then, after a few deep breaths, he headed back to the saloon. The smell of death followed him, tainting the scent of the ocean. He felt pretty sure that the coppery taste at the back of his mouth would remind him of tropical islands for some time to come.

  The saloon itself was in good shape. Michael’s gaze went right to the big leather chair. The government would be selling off the boat once Ed was in prison, and it felt damn good to know the bastard would never sit in that chair again.

  Michael needed Tate to get back. Looking toward the beach, he didn’t see any water taxis—but then, they were pretty far offshore.

  Shit, he couldn’t put it off any longer. He turned to the small room that had been their prison for ten days. Jazz’s body was still in the doorway, and beyond him, Charlie.

  IT HAD TAKEN TOO LONG for the police to get their act together once the street cops had taken her to the station. She’d had to scream to get the right person’s attention, but once Chief Eccles understood what was at stake, he made things happen.

  In fact, she had to fill in the details as they sped to a police boat. It was long and sleek and, according to the chief, faster than the speed of criminals.

  He brought along six men, heavily armed, in what she assumed to be the British colonial equivalent of a SWAT team. As they flew over the water toward the Pretty Kitty, all Tate could do was pray. If only he could still be alive, she’d give more money to charity. She’d work in a soup kitchen. She’d trade years off her own life. Anything. Just not what Ed had said. Not that.

  She stood up, too insane to be still, next to the captain. Wind and sea mist sprayed her face, ruining the makeup she’d so carefully applied this morning. Well, that and her tears.

  CHARLIE HADN’T MOVED at all, and as Michael knelt next to him, his chest constricted with a stab of guilt and regret. He put his fingers to Charlie’s throat, searching for a pulse. He thought maybe…but that could be his own heartbeat.

  He bent down, putting his ear right over Charlie’s heart. There, damn it. He wasn’t dead. He wasn’t in great shape, b
ut he wasn’t dead.

  Relief made his eyes water as he sat back up. Now it was just a matter of time before Tate and Ed came back. Before Michael could finish taking the trash out.

  He put his left hand down to steady himself as he rose.

  The blow to the back of his head pitched him forward again, and for a second he thought Ed had returned to surprise him. But when he looked up, it wasn’t Ed but the not-so-dead, very pissed off Jazz.

  THERE IT WAS IN THE distance, the Pretty Kitty. She’d been brought aboard unconscious and she’d been taken under duress, so this was the first time Tate had really seen the boat. It was gorgeous. Sleek like a cheetah, it was an exceptional yacht in a harbor full of yachts. No wonder they’d gotten to the Caymans so quickly.

  The beauty of the vessel paled as the thought occurred again, as fresh as the first time, that it was Michael’s coffin. She chased the image away as quickly as it had come, but there was no more admiration for the boat.

  She held on to the dash, willing this boat to hurry. To take her to the man she loved. To find him alive. Nothing else mattered. Nothing.

  JAZZ STOOD UNSTEADILY on his widespread legs. His shirt—Hawaiian, like Ed’s—was matted with blood. Blood that dripped down his fingers into the pale plush carpet.

  He glowered at Michael with malevolent red eyes. “You’re gonna die,” he said. “You are gonna die slow.”

  Michael reached for his weapon, stuck into the folds of his pillowcase brace, but Jazz beat him to the punch with his own second gun at the small of his back. The Derringer was small, but it would kill just fine.

  “Drop it,” Jazz said.

  “Like hell. It’s over, Jazz. You’re the only one left alive.”

  “Ed’s still alive.”

  “He won’t be—”