They tripped in tandem, tumbling down a hill, and came to a stop in a pile of arms and legs. Sarah jumped up then dropped. Their location was in the open. If a trafficker drove by, they’d be spotted immediately. Blood rushed in Sarah’s ears, and she tried to hear past it. What would Brock do right now? He’d have some kind of plan to get to safety. Her stomach turned thinking of him, but she tried to ignore it. He probably had a plan to get to safety now. The one thing he had said was if disaster struck, she needed to get back to the resort, and he’d see her soon enough. This was definitely a disaster.
Channeling her inner superhero, Sarah resolved to do what she was tasked with. She studied the road. It looked familiar, but everything appeared the same in the dark. Taking a breath, she tried to calm down her sprinting heart. Which way to go? Right, left. Forward, backward. The girl stared at her, clearly expecting her to know what to do next. Eeny, meeny, miny, moe. Decision made. They were going right.
Crawling like she’d seen Brock do by the trafficker’s house, Sarah tugged the girl behind her. They crept for miles, or at least it felt that far, and something struck her as familiar. Maybe. No, she was sure of it. “We’re here. Let’s go.”
Pulling the girl with her, they crossed the street, crawled through a bush, and—yes, the Hummer. Sarah opened the back door, pushing them into the back seat, and slapped the lock button. Not like that would stop anyone who wanted to hurt them, but that was her first reaction. They hid on the seat, breaths bursting from erratic gulps to semi-manageable lungfuls.
“Okay?” It was all she could say.
The girl nodded.
“Me too.”
Neither said another word. They waited and waited. No Brock. His voice replayed in her head. Go! This was a disaster, and he’d given her marching orders. But the idea of driving away from him was painful. She needed help. No, Brock needs help, and I am his partner. What she really needed was to keep it together. Crawling into the front seat, she found the key and turned back to the girl. “I’m Sarah.”
“Bethany.” Her eyes were glassy. Shell-shocked.
“Alrighty, Bethany. Let’s get out of here.” She turned the engine over and slammed the gas pedal to the ground. The Hummer bulldozed through brush and bush, bouncing across limbs until they bumbled back onto the road. Driving as fast as Sarah could manage with the headlights out, she gunned down the road, hitting every crack and crevice along the way.
No one had followed them. Sarah flicked on the lights after a mile and, nearly two hours later, made it to the resort side of the island. Her nerves were shot, her mind not recalling the name of their resort. All the entrances looked the same. Fancy sign. Pretty designs. It took twenty minutes of driving in circles to find the right tourist hotspot.
She turned to find Bethany slouched and asleep. “Bethany, honey, can you wake up?”
Tired eyes fluttered then shot open. Bethany panicked, struggled in her seat belt, and eyed the door for an escape.
“No, wait. Bethany. It’s okay. It’s me, Sarah. You’re safe. Remember?” She reached for the young woman. “Take a breath. You’re okay.”
Bethany’s eyes focused on Sarah then she whispered, “Sarah.”
“That’s right, honey. You ready?”
“Ready for what?”
Good question. “We have to go inside. I have to get help for my husband. You… probably want to call your folks and go back to sleep before you head home?” A sick feeling strangled Sarah’s stomach. Oh, what if those were the least of Bethany’s problems? Please let Brock have reached her in time. “Are you… were you… Do you need to see a doctor?”
Bethany slowly shook her head. “No. They didn’t—” She closed her eyes and took a stuttering breath as tears leaked down her cheeks. “I’m not hurt. Just my wrists were scratched and my tummy hurts; they gave me something that made me sick. I just want to go home.”
“I know. We’ll get you there as soon as possible.” Sarah watched Bethany rub tears away with the backs of her hands. “Let’s go inside. We’ll get you home.”
How Bethany was actually supposed to leave Saint Lucia and get back to the United States, Sarah had no idea. The girl looked too fragile to put on a commercial flight, and if Titan was involved, it probably meant private jets would be used. The logistics would be answered by the same man who would bring Brock home. Time to call Jared Westin.
They left the Hummer, and she ignored the wayward glances from the lone bellboy and front desk girl manning the graveyard shift. Sarah’s and Bethany’s clothes were tattered, and their bodies were scratched. Quite the sight. Sarah led the way to her suite and opened the door. Her adrenaline had fizzled, but determination was front and center. Brock needed help, and she’d make it happen. Every other need—sleep and thirst—was secondary.
Without Sarah giving Bethany any direction, the girl crawled into bed and fell asleep immediately. Sarah sat down at the desk and stared at all of Jared’s emergency messages. Each said to call, but none left a phone number.
Sugar.
Sarah jumped for her cell phone and hoped it would turn on. It’d been on airplane mode since she’d boarded the plane a day ago. No telling if it needed to charge before she could use it.
It sat at the bottom of her purse and—bingo—still had fifteen percent charge left. No international calling, but she could pull up her contacts and use the hotel room phone to call.
A moment later, Sarah was asking the operator to connect a call to the US, then Sugar answered on the second ring.
Her voice was sleep drenched. “Hello?”
“It’s Sarah. Wake up.”
Sugar’s voice cleared. “You okay? It’s the middle of the night. Wait. Aren’t you on vacation—”
“Yeah. Was. I need Jared’s help.”
“Help?” The one-word question was loaded with confusion.
There wasn’t enough time to explain. Simple version. “Jared asked Brock to do a job—”
Sugar sucked in a wary breath. “Jared did what?”
Come on, Sugar. Sarah kept plowing through her explanation. She really just needed Jared on the phone. “Asked Brock to do a job. To rescue a girl. She’s safe. With me. But Brock’s still there. I had to leave him behind.”
“What? Hold on.”
Muffled voices sounded in the background. “Sarah.” Jared boomed into her ear. “You have the girl?”
“Bethany’s with me. Brock’s not.”
“You both safe?”
“Fine, Jared.” Sarah glanced at Bethany, who’d burrowed deep under the covers. “Fine enough. She wasn’t hurt and wants to call her parents, but she’s sleeping. Brock didn’t make it home with us. They have him.”
Sarah’s heart screamed in her ears waiting for Jared to respond. He didn’t.
“Jared!”
He cursed. “Sorry, but Brock knew the deal. I don’t have anyone down there who can help.”
Wrong answer. “So get someone down here.”
“Sarah—”
Sugar’s voice pulled Jared away from the call, but Sarah couldn’t make out their conversation. Hushed, harsh whispers volleyed back and forth on the other side. Scattered sentences filtered through her earpiece. “No way.” “Not alive.” “Never going to happen.”
Tears burned Sarah’s eyes. They were talking about her husband. The one who she’d abandoned at home and then again in Saint Lucia. Her insides cramped in desperation, and the tears escaped, running down her cheeks. “Jared, please. Get him. Save him.”
He sighed into the phone. “We don’t have any intel. You don’t even know that he was taken alive.”
“How do you think I got this girl here? I was there. I saw it all, heard it all. I know he was alive because he told me to go. To save Bethany. And I did. Now it’s your turn.”
“You were there?”
“Yes. He needed help, and I was the only option. Now, you’re the only option.” She could almost see Jared shaking his head, not believing that she’d bee
n there. “He’s alive.”
“You were—”
Really? He wants to focus on me? There wasn’t time for this. “What, Jared? I’m too broken to help? Useless? Pathetic? Take your pick. But I helped Brock because he needed it. I survived, and Brock will too, so help me God.”
Sugar started in on Jared again in the background. Sarah would kill to hear specifics.
Jared grumbled back to the phone. “Sarah?”
“Yes?” Please, please. She swallowed the apprehension choking her windpipe.
“See you in a few hours.” The line went dead.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Falling asleep hadn’t been part of Sarah’s plan, but exhaustion called the shots. She blinked her eyes open and ached. Brock. Then she jumped. A shadow in the sun-drenched room shifted.
Jared stood in the corner of her suite, looking out the window. “You’re a light sleeper.”
“You’re in my room.”
“Knocking’s not really my style.” A knock sounded. “But it is Sugar’s.”
He walked over and let his wife in. Bethany snored next to Sarah on the bed but didn’t stir. She tucked the teenager in. “How long have you been here?”
“About ten seconds.”
Sugar rolled her eyes as she waved. “He didn’t knock?”
Sarah shook her head. How long had she been out? Checking the alarm clock, not that long. They’d definitely hopped a private jet and maybe even a helicopter from the airport.
Jared ignored them. “Here’s how this is going to go. It’s a long shot that your man’s alive.”
Her chest seized, but Sarah nodded.
“You and Sugar are going to get Bethany safely stowed on a waiting jet. I’ll go see what there is to see about Brock. If it’s good news, I’ll bring him home to you. If it’s not, at least you’ll know.”
“Jesus, babe.” Sugar cocked one hip out and propped a hand on it. “Quit the dick role already.”
Jared glared. “Let’s not pretend this—”
“Thank you.” Sarah slipped out of bed and tucked the comforter around Bethany. “I understand what happened. So, just…” Pain choked her silent.
Sugar slammed Jared with a glare. “No need to explain or apologize.”
He cursed, threw Sugar a kiss, and stalked to the door. “I’ll be back, with or without Brock.”
***
Back to square one. Brock was handcuffed to the wall where he had found the girl earlier. Weak-muscled and mind spent, he was content to hang by the wrists. His legs had started clotting, and the pool of blood tapered off on the floor. Between the bloody wounds stymieing into scabs and having a good feeling Sarah had safely evacuated with the victim, he would rest long enough to rejuvenate and bust ass back to the resort. Someone would have to kill him before he gave up on his rope and ice cream shopping list.
The deadbolt lock turned. Well, so much for taking it easy.
A well-dressed man walked in, eyeing him. It was the same man who the security team had evacuated with a flak jacket the night before.
“Glad to see you are awake.” His pointy nose and beady eyes went perfectly with his French accent.
Brock shrugged. The better-than-thou attitude always irked him. “I’ve been in and out. Accommodations could be nicer.”
“Aren’t you cute?”
“My wife thinks so.” Maybe.
The Frenchman pulled a cigarette container and gold-plated lighter from his pocket. With much fanfare, he selected a hand-rolled cigarette and lit it. Sweet tobacco burned into the air. “You stole from me.”
Brock squinted one eye and tilted his head, sarcastically considering what the man had said. “I returned something that wasn’t yours to take.”
The man rolled his cigarette between his thumb and forefinger. “You have quite the attitude for a bleeding man tied to a hook.”
“I’ve made a lot of bad decisions lately. Starting to think I shouldn’t trust my own judgment.”
The Frenchman took a long drag and let the smoke waft out his mouth while he paced the tiny room. “Interesting.”
He shrugged. “Not really.”
“I agree.”
Brock laughed and dropped his gaze. “Fucker.”
Polished shoes stopped pacing by his busted calf. He knew what would come next. Bad news was always so predictable. But the pain still exploded when the Frenchman reared back his toe and punted into his leg. Vicious torment shot up his thigh and down to his toes. Brock grunted, absorbing the impact.
“Tough man,” Frenchie sneered.
“Just another day in the life of me.” Brock gritted his teeth together. “Each one getting better than the last.”
“Explain to me why one man freed my girl?”
“Seemed like the right thing to do. You sickos have messed with enough kids. My day would be a better day if someone took you out. Penance for making the world a worse place.”
“Ah, and I think the same about you.” Smoke encircled the man’s head. “I hate losing my merchandise.”
Brock’s brow pinched, and his molars ground. “She’s a kid, asshole.”
“She was my product. Hand-selected, I’ll have you know. That young woman met very specific criteria I’d been searching for. And for losing her, you will pay.”
Anger boiled under Brock’s skin. “Nothing about that kid was a woman. Get over yourself.”
Frenchie took a small pistol from his pocket. It was gold-plated and matched the lighter.
Of course. Brock chuckled. “We going to do this now? You’re just going to blow my brains out with your fancy one-shot?”
“There is always something distasteful about Americans.” Frenchie paced the room again then stopped and ashed his cigarette over Brock’s leg. “But you don’t seem to care about your life.”
He pretended not to care, but it gave him an idea. “Gimme a smoke and let’s do get it over with. I’m not into big, drawn-out ordeals.”
Frenchie laughed. “Very well. A cigarette, and that will be that. Certainly won’t miss all the crying and pleading that comes with this part of the job.”
Brock dropped his shoulders like a defeated pussy. Dumbass. Frenchie removed a set of keys from his pocket and reached for Brock’s handcuffs. His hands dropped; pins and needles tingled from his fingertips to elbows. He rolled his wrists and massaged his fingers then rubbed his eyes, playing the part of a dead man walking. Well, dead man sitting, readying to smoke his final cigarette. I hate cigarettes.
The Frenchman held the hand-rolled tobacco toward Brock. He accepted, wrinkling his forehead and letting his shoulders hang even more despondently. “At least I got the girl.”
“Whatever, as you Americans say. Seems that would be the least of your concerns.”
Brock’s head rolled, and he eyed the door behind Frenchie, then pathetically prattled about how he’d lived his life with honor. The cigarette stuck to Brock’s lip, and he let it hang until the Frenchman bent over with the lighter. Brock inhaled, savoring the disgusting burn, smiling with appreciation toward his captor. “Merci.”
Frenchie’s beady eyes pinched and acknowledged the thank you.
Brock sucked down another gag-inducing drag of the cigarette. The long embers reddened and burned. Smoke wafted around his head, sliding out his mouth as he let a sickening, relaxed exhale set his mood. Contemplative. Ready to meet his maker.
Frenchie seemed to appreciate the need for the nicotine. His guard was down, and Brock was in prime position. In a flash, he blew the smoke out hard, threw the long end of the cigarette into Frenchie’s eyes, and followed with a right hook to the jaw.
An eruption of pain traveled through Brock’s legs. The pistol skittered across the room. He lunged across the floor. His fresh scabs roared, stinging and throbbing pain. Nauseous from the pain and nicotine, he swallowed a threatening dry heave and snagged the pistol off the floor. A quick look over his shoulder, and he cocked the fancy hammer and let the engraved, plated pistol explode at
point-blank range.
Frenchie had been mid-rebound. Arms outstretched, he’d been throwing himself toward the gun also. But momentum stopped. Blood splattered. The blast echoed in the tiny room.
Whoever else was in the house surely heard the blast. Time to move. Brock checked Frenchie for additional firepower but came up empty-handed. He rolled off the floor, staggering to the wall and to the door. Brilliant agony pierced his breaths. Each struggling step sent shards of pain cutting through his veins. Gritting his teeth until his jaw could crack, Brock sweated each miserable move.
The deadbolt was unlocked, and he dragged himself out the door with the pansy-assed pistol in hand. No one rushed up the stairs. Guess shooting inside didn’t break any house rules. But if Frenchie didn’t appear soon, it would probably raise some eyebrows. Brock had to get out fast. Too bad nothing about his leg injuries made fast easy.
Slinking down one god-awful step at a time, he thought about Sarah. About his girls. Brock would make it home, no questions asked. He’d make them a new life. Whatever Sarah wanted. New school? No problem. A job? If she wanted one, it was hers to figure out. She could redecorate, re-wardrobe, re-anything. If she wanted more, he would figure out a way to support them. Whatever they wanted in life.
Cheering men stole him away from his pain-numbing thoughts. But had there been another noise? Brock peered through a banister rail. No men in sight. Scooting down the remainder of the stairs, he listened to the trafficker’s men in the parlor. Soccer broadcast loudly on a television and no one reacted to the other sound Brock was sure he had heard.
Ideally, he could snag keys to one of the Jeeps sitting outside and make his getaway. Considering how much blood loss and festering infection he had, that would be the perfect solution. But the SUVs were parked out a window and within eyeshot. He couldn’t waste time hot-wiring. Find keys. He could do a quick recon, but if nothing turned up, he’d have better luck slipping off the property on foot. There was always another way to find transportation.
The Titan Series: Military Romance Boxed Set Page 86