Deathmarch (Broslin Creek Book 7)

by Dana Marton

  “If you don’t stop howling,” the kidnapper said as he rolled up the truck’s back door, “I’m going to gag you.”

  The words filled Allie with hope instead of dread as she squinted against the harsh light. If noise was an issue, that meant the man had close neighbors. When she broke free, she might have only a short distance to run before she could bang on a door and ask for help.

  “I need to go to the bathroom.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “Then you’ll have a truck that smells like pee.”

  He said nothing.

  “Why am I here? You said you were going to trade me for something? Drugs?”

  “Money, stupid. Ransom.”

  “You got the wrong person. I don’t have a rich family. Nobody is going to pay any money for me. When I said earlier that I had money, I lied. I panicked. I’m sorry.” Did he think she was one of Rose’s daughters-in-law? “You might have seen me at Finnegan’s, but I’m not a Finnegan.”

  “Your hardass cop boyfriend is.”

  “He’s not my boyfriend.”

  “He’s got my money.”

  Whose money did Harper have? Nobody’s. Allie racked her brain. The only thing she could think of… The police had Lamm’s gold bars in evidence, the one his killer had stolen.

  Oh God. Her breath grew ragged, panic stiffening her muscles. Was she facing Lamm’s killer?

  Slow down. Think. Don’t let him realize you know who he is.

  “I have to pee,” she said again, a distraction, something safe.

  The man looked around behind him, then stepped over to the pile of gallon paint buckets and picked one up to chuck it at her. “There. That’s empty.”

  She ducked the missile that flew by her shoulder, then bounced off a shelf. “How am I supposed to open it?”

  He didn’t look inclined to climb in there and help. “You figure it out, or you piss your pants.”

  Then he reached up and slammed the door down. And Allie’s heart fell and crashed with it, because this time, she heard something she’d missed the last time he’d left her—the snick of a lock.

  She wasn’t just tied up. She was locked in the truck.

  The thought made her want to scream. She didn’t. She didn’t want to be gagged.

  How long had she been gone? Had anyone realized yet that she was missing? She had no idea what time it was, if she’d been grabbed an hour ago, or two.

  She sat on the floor, waited until her eyes adjusted to the near-complete darkness, then pulled the paint bucket over with her foot while humming “The Sun Will Come Out Tomorrow” under her breath. She maneuvered the container behind her back with her knees—a freaking circus act and a half—then wedged her fingernails under the lid, but the lid was stuck. The old, spilled paint had glued it in place.

  She needed a screwdriver, or something else flat and metal. She catalogued everything metal on her: the zipper of her jeans—too short. The underwire in her bra—too flimsy. The supports in her foot brace…perfect.

  She kicked off her left shoe, then used her toes to undo the Velcro fasteners on her other leg. She kicked the brace to her hands, and felt for the edge of the metal under the plastic mesh. When she found it, she held the paint can steady between her back and the rack, then wedged the stiff edge of the brace under the lid and worked it until the lid popped free.

  And then that was that, because she couldn’t take off her pants with her hands tied behind her back. Which was a problem because she hadn’t been lying about desperately needing to use the bathroom.

  Think dry thoughts. God, she was doomed. No! Don’t think that.

  Okay, if she couldn’t use the paint bucket as a toilet, could she use it for something else? She imagined throwing it at the kidnapper’s head. Sadly, also an impossibility with her hands tied behind her.

  She brushed her fingertips over the lid next to her butt. Maybe… She tested the edge with her thumb. But no—not sharp at all.

  “Dagnabbit.”

  For the next minute or two, she just sat there and focused on not crying, not getting discouraged. Everything inside her screamed that she was done. She’d been kidnapped. She was tied up. She was locked up. She was about to pee her pants… Which really wasn’t even that big a deal compared to the fact that she was probably about to be murdered.

  Then she remembered that stupid, hokey sign and her conversation with Shannon. LIVE YOUR BEST HOPE INSTEAD OF YOUR WORST FEAR.

  That was the trick, wasn’t it? She had only so much time and energy left. She wasn’t going to spend them on thinking about being killed, on being scared and feeling defeated. She needed different images in her mind. Escape. Freedom. Success.

  And it went for her life as well if she got out of here… No, when she got out of here. She was going to have a serious conversation with Harper. She was going to give hope a chance.

  Deep breath.

  Screw giving up.

  She pictured Calamity Jane on her left and Annie Oakley on her right. If she needed something sharp, she would make something sharp. She thought about it, then dragged the paint-can lid against the rough metal of the rack behind her.

  The awkward motion sent pain shooting through her shoulders. She didn’t care. She put all her strength into sharpening the metal lid, gritting her teeth as hard as if she was trying to bite through the barrel of a six-shooter.

  After what felt like an eternity, dropping the damn lid at least half a dozen times, she tested the edge again. Better. She smiled into the near darkness.

  When she had what amounted to a decent blade, she used it to saw through the plastic coating on the wire leash that held her. Then she tried to saw through the wire, but that didn’t work. So she twisted her wrists until she got hold of that wire, and she bent it back and forth, back and forth, until the copper fatigued and the damn wire broke at last.

  Thank God, thank God, thank God.

  Sweat dampened her skin. She was breathing hard, but she was free.

  The first thing she did was pee in the damn paint can. She couldn’t run with her bladder bursting. When she finished, she tucked the can into the corner and inched toward the truck’s back door, carrying her makeshift blade.

  She wedged her fingers into the inch-wide gap under the door and tried to yank it up, but it didn’t go past another inch, caught on something.

  She reached out and felt around blindly for what held the door shut on the outside. More plastic-covered wire.

  No. She felt more carefully. Something thicker. Felt like one of those bicycle locks.

  Not something a sharpened paint-can lid could saw through. This was as far as she was going to get.

  “Let me out!” She banged on the door in a rush of panic. “Let me out, please!”

  She screamed for a good minute before she heard the door to the house open again, and then she realized how insanely stupid the screaming had been, drawing attention to the fact that she’d broken loose, so she scuttled back to the rack and shoved her hands behind herself.

  The truck’s back door rolled up with a bang. “What the hell!”

  The light blinded her. She almost raised her hands to shield her eyes, but caught herself at the last second. “I’m sorry. I can’t stop. I’m sorry. I think I’m having a panic attack. I can’t breathe!”

  She didn’t have to pretend hyperventilating. She was damn close to the edge.

  “Please,” she begged. “Could you just leave the truck open? I won’t try anything. I can’t. Just please let me breathe. I’m about to have a heart attack. If I die, you’ll never see any money.”

  She cried, letting go in huge heaving sobs. Didn’t have to pretend much there either.

  “Why did you take your shoe and your brace off?” he yelled at her.

  “Too tight. It hurt. I think my ankle is swelling up again. I was in an accident a few days ago. I couldn’t run if I wanted to. Please.”

  “Fucking bitches.” He spat. “Always more trouble than you’re worth
.” But he only pulled the rolling door down halfway before he walked away.

  She could hear him clomping up the handful of steps, then the door to the house slammed shut behind him.

  In case it was a trick, in case he was waiting for her, testing her, Allie sat where she was for another twenty minutes or so before she refastened her brace back, then tugged on her shoe. She carried her makeshift blade with her once again as she inched toward the half-open back door on her hands and knees.

  She stuck her head out of the truck first, making sure she was alone. Then she climbed out and hobbled to the garage door. If she could push it up a foot, she could crawl out. The switch by the door that led to the house wasn’t an option. The kidnapper would hear the rattling and would be out there before she made it halfway across the garage.

  “Open. Open, open, open, please,” she whispered breathlessly as she strained.

  The damn door proved to be too heavy, however, especially with being unable to put her full weight on her bad ankle, with her hands having been beaten bloody while she’d been banging on the side paneling on their way here. The door wouldn’t budge, no matter what she tried. Maybe it was locked somehow. Maybe the kidnapper had the whole place secured.

  There must be another way.

  She limped around the truck to the opposite end of the garage, stopping under the narrow window on the back wall. She wiped away the mesh of spiderwebs with distaste, then felt around the opening mechanism.

  She couldn’t budge that either. The metal had rusted shut.

  The glass was wired security glass, thick and impossible to break. She certainly couldn’t break it quickly and quietly. If she tried, he’d hear her and come running.

  She scraped around the rusty lock on top with the sharpened edge of the paint-can lid, but it was the wrong shape. She couldn’t get at the problem. She needed a sharp knife, a much narrower blade.

  She tried again anyway.

  “Come on, come on, come on.” She whispered the words like a prayer.

  The stupid window wouldn’t give. She rattled, shoved, pulled. Nothing. As if the frame had been welded shut on the outside.

  The thought that that might very well be the case nearly made her cry. Maybe the damn kidnapper had been that thorough. Maybe he’d anticipated her jailbreak.

  She shook her head, angry now. She refused to give in to despair. She tried again, and again, and again.

  She wanted to scream with frustration, but she didn’t give in to that either. She gritted her teeth instead. Make as little noise as possible.

  She did all right, just some scraping sounds here and there.

  Until the metal lid popped out and snapped back, hitting her on the bridge of her nose. The pain was sharp, unexpected, but she didn’t yell. Although she might as well have.

  The piece of metal fell to the floor at her feet with a loud clatter that echoed in the garage.

  Footsteps reverberated inside the house, heading toward the door. She fought the lock frantically, biting back a curse when she ripped off a fingernail.

  No pain was going to stop her now. She fought that damned window with all the strength she had.

  Dammit, dammit, dammit. Open, you rotten piece of possum shit!

  * * *

  When Mike picked up the phone at the B and B, Harper asked, “Is my mother there, by any chance?”

  “Came over ten minutes ago. She’s been in the kitchen with Shannon, doing something called stress baking. I was about to call you. Kidnapper just made contact. He wants to switch Allie for Lamm’s gold at the old Portly Paco’s at four a.m. Just you and the gold. If he sees anyone else, Allie is dead. Usual prime-time crime-drama speech. Must have time to watch a lot of TV. But it’s something, right?”

  “It’s something.” Relief shot through Harper. Contact. Finally. “Not a bad location. He’s not too dumb. We shouldn’t underestimate him.”

  Portly Paco’s had once been a busy roadside stand selling Mexican food on Route 1. The wooden structure had burned down the year before, and Paco decided not to rebuild. He bought a brick-and-mortar restaurant in town instead, upsized, and was thriving. Harper ate there at least once a week.

  What had been the original Portly Paco’s was now an empty parking lot near the junction of the highway and Wilmington Boulevard, another major route slicing Broslin in half. The spot was surrounded by nothing but fields—nowhere to hide police cars—an easy getaway for the kidnapper who could go in any of four directions.

  “Has the guy’s cell phone been traced yet?” Harper asked.

  “Techs are still working on it. It’s a burner.”

  Of course it was. Hollywood gave people too many ideas.

  The exchange was four hours away. Way too long a time to leave Allie in the hands of a killer. It was time Harper didn’t control, space where anything could happen.

  Unacceptable.

  “I want to talk to my mother,” Harper said. “I know how to figure out who took Allie. We need to grab her before the exchange, if we can. I want the element of surprise to tilt the odds in our favor.”

  * * *

  Allie sat by the rack in the back of the truck, where she’d been originally tied up, but her hands behind her were free. Not only free but holding the sharpened paint-can lid—a weapon.

  “Could I have a glass of water, please?” she asked when the kidnapper appeared at the foot of the truck to check on her.

  She was breathing hard and trying to hide it. She’d raced back into position just in time before the guy had come out into the garage.

  Come closer, asshole. Come inside.

  He stayed where he was and said nothing.

  “Food? Please. A box of crackers. Anything. I’m starving.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Because you’ll let me go soon? When’s the exchange?”

  He looked away.

  “You’re going to let me go, right? If you don’t bring me to the exchange, Harper isn’t going to hand over any gold.”

  “Shut up, or I swear to God…”

  Was that the smell of beer wafting on the air? Was he drunk? How drunk was he? Could she use that to her advantage?

  “You’re going to give me to Harper, right? When Harper gives you what you want?”

  “That was the plan.”

  Was? “And now?”

  “You’re a fucking nuisance. That’s what all you dumb bitches are.”

  “Hand me over, then, and I’ll be out of your hair.”

  Except she couldn’t visualize how that might go down. In every scenario she imagined, he would need accomplices. She could see three guys: one to handle the money, one to hold the hostage, and one to watch the other two’s backs. Because if they had any brains, they’d know that Harper would not come alone to the exchange.

  Except the man contemplating her darkly didn’t seem to have a team.

  “Maybe I need to simplify,” he said, as if his thoughts were running along the same lines as hers.

  A terrible dread settled into Allie’s stomach. “You have to hand me over.”

  “It’s an unnecessary complication. I can just show up at the exchange, shoot your cop boyfriend, grab the money, and run.”

  “Please, let me go.”

  She measured the distance between them, at least a dozen feet, too far for her to throw herself at him in a surprise attack.

  “I want my damn money!” He pulled his gun from his waistband. Lowered his voice. “I didn’t set out to kill anyone.”

  She was breathing too fast again, on the verge of hyperventilating. She forced herself to slow down. “You could leave me here like this, in the truck. Take a faster car.”

  “Of course I’m taking a getaway car and not a stupid bread truck, you dumb bitch.”

  “Just leave me, then. You won’t come back here anyway, right? You’re leaving town with the gold.”

  “Should have gotten out years ago.”

  He raised the gun.

  No,
no, no.

  “Harper will never stop looking for you if you kill me,” Allie rushed to say. “That good life you’re picturing, drinking beer on the beach somewhere. That will never happen. You’ll be on the run for the rest of your days, looking over your shoulder every second.”

  He lowered his weapon an inch or two, as if he was considering her words. But then he slowly raised the gun again and aimed it at her chest.

  She froze.

  She was no longer tied up, but it didn’t matter. Staring into the barrel, Allie couldn’t move a muscle.

  She wasn’t Calamity Jane.

  She wasn’t Annie Oakley.

  She wasn’t Harper.

  She didn’t have the skills to deal with any of this.

  “Please, don’t,” she begged. “Like you said, you didn’t mean to kill anyone. Maybe before, you were nervous, your hand twitched. The gun went off by accident. But now… You took me from my room and brought me here. If you shoot, that’s premeditated murder.”

  She watched his eyes to see if her words were working on him, holding her breath.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  “Do you have Allie?”

  “Not yet. Mom, do you remember who put in the safe at Finnegan’s?” Harper tapped the steering wheel with impatience. He was pulled over in the parking lot of First Broslin Presbyterian, needing more information so he’d know where to go next.

  To her credit, Rose Finnegan didn’t waste time by asking why he’d suddenly gone wondering about the pub. “Donovan Security.”

  “Lamm’s safe had to be installed by the same people, right? I mean, how many safe-installer outfits could there be in a town the size of Broslin? What do you know about them? Anything might help.”

  “Closed a couple of years ago when Ernie Donovan died.”

  Harper swore, but was smart enough to do it silently. His mother wouldn’t be above threatening to wash his mouth out with soap at the next family breakfast. “Do you remember who all worked for Donovan?”

  “Back when our safe was installed? Twenty years ago? Got any easier questions?” But then, after a moment, she said, “His two boys. Other than that, I think he mostly had a rotating list of part-time employees.”