by Rachel Woods
Spencer turned, allowing the water to rain down on her back as her thoughts drifted to John, the ex-fiancée and Ben. The dynamics of the situation were hard to fathom. She didn’t know how to begin to wrap her mind around the circumstances. There was no way to ignore, however, the bizarre parallels to her relationships with John and Ben.
John and Ben.
The woman’s most startling revelation was a confirmation of Spencer’s secretly held suspicions and conclusions. John knew Ben. They had some sort of contentious, fractured relationship. How long had they known each other? Why had John lied about knowing Ben? It had always been clear that Ben knew John, but John had never acknowledged the relationship. Why? Because Ben had slept with John’s then fiancée?
John’s disdainful feelings about Ben made more sense now. Obviously, John hated Ben. And yet, Spencer wondered if John’s anger toward Ben was for some other reason besides the betrayal of a fiancée and a best friend. Maybe it was something to do with Ben’s crazy claims that he and John were more alike than different, though she doubted it. Unless Ben had been slyly referring to their interest in the same women.
Spencer wrapped the towel around her, walked out of the bathroom, and gasped.
The woman stood near the foot of the bed, giving her a slight smirk. “Clean as a whistle?”
Rolling her eyes, Spencer grabbed the clothes, folded neatly on the corner of the bed, and returned to the bathroom to put them on. Minutes later, back in the bedroom, the woman was still there. Trying to ignore the woman, Spencer went to the couch and sat.
“Okay, black beauty,” The woman tossed a burner phone toward Spencer. “Time to call Prince Charming.”
“I already called him,” Spencer snapped, not bothering to pick up the phone when it landed on the couch, a few inches from where she sat, near the far-right side.
“Well, you need to call him again,” the woman said. “And this time, you need to make sure he understands that you want nothing to do with him because, apparently, last time you called, he wasn’t convinced.”
“How do you know that?”
“Prince Charming filed a missing person report with the police,” the woman said. “Which means he thinks you were kidnapped, and not a runaway bride, which is what we need him to think.”
“Why do you want him to think I left him at the altar?” Spencer asked. “He will never believe that.”
“And why is that?” the woman asked, giving her a smug sneer. “Because you love him with all the breadth and depth and height of your soul or whatever the hell? Because your love will never fail? Because you two were planning to be together forever until the end of time?”
“Because he knows how much I love him,” Spencer said. “He knows how much I wanted to marry him and how much I wanted to be his wife and how I wanted him to be my husband. He will never believe that I would turn my back on him, on our love.”
Taking a seat on the opposite couch, the woman said, “We can’t have Prince Charming running to your rescue. Now get on the phone and convince Sione that you want nothing to do with him.”
“And if I don’t?” Spencer asked. “If I can’t?”
Rolling her eyes, the woman said, “You know, I heard that you’re a pretty good liar.”
Spencer glared at the bitch. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“I know that you stole Ben’s money and Rolex watches,” she said. “And then you put a knife in his gut. You pretended that you cared about Ben. Pretended that you loved him. How difficult can it be to pretend that you never loved Sione?”
Spencer said nothing.
“You lied to Sione, too,” the woman said. “You lied to him about why you really went to his resort. You didn’t tell him Ben sent you there to look for that envelope. So, don’t act like you can’t lie to Sione, okay?”
“How do you know Ben wanted me to look for that envelope?” Spencer asked.
“Ben told me why he sent you to Belize,” the woman said. “Turns out you were successful. In more ways than one. You got the envelope for Ben, which meant he wouldn’t call the cops on you. And you snagged the rich, good-looking resort owner. I’d say it was a pretty good trip.”
“A good trip?” Spencer scoffed. “It was hell.”
“You think so?”
“Ben forced me to lie to Sione. He wanted me to drug Sione,” Spencer said, not sure why she was conversing with the woman. “But that wasn’t even the worst part.”
“What was the worst part?”
Folding her arms, Spencer crossed her right leg over her left. “Trust me, you don’t want to know.”
“Trust me,” the woman said and then leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees, her dark eyes alight with some strange, primal excitement, “I do want to know. The worst part is always the most interesting.”
“There is nothing interesting about three women being murdered,” Spencer said, disgusted by the woman’s sick fascination. “They were shot in the head, and they had their left hand chopped off.”
“You’re talking about the three women who Ben told you to deliver money and fake passports to, right?”
Spencer nodded, not surprised the woman knew the whole sordid tale.
“So, who killed the three women?” the woman asked, her eyes shrewd as she sat back. “Did the cops ever find out?”
“As far as I know, the murders are still unsolved,” Spencer said.
“You think Ben killed them?”
“I don’t know, maybe,” Spencer said, shrugging. “Or had them killed. But that doesn’t make sense. Why give them money and passports and then kill them?”
“Ben is diabolical,” the woman said. “He might have wanted to lull the women into a false sense of security before he got rid of them. If the women thought they could trust Ben, and that he was going to help them, it would be easier to get rid of them because he would know exactly where they were.”
“I guess,” Spencer said, troubled by the theory. “But…”
“But what?” The woman sat back. “You can’t imagine Ben being so heartless.”
“I know exactly how heartless Ben can be,” Spencer said.
“He’s crazy about you,” the woman said.
Spencer stared at her. “What?”
“Ben is in love with you,” the woman said.
41
Location Unknown
“Ben is not in love with me,” Spencer said and stood. “If Ben was in love with me—”
One of the guards in black fatigues, the guy with the scar, lurched into the room, panting and sweating. Eyes wild, he clutched his chest, blood seeping between his fingers.
“Gustavo, what the hell happened?” the woman demanded, but her voice was shrill, laced with panic. “What…”
Gustavo lumbered toward them, unable to speak, and held up his left arm.
“Oh my God,” Spencer whispered, stumbling back, staring at the guard’s bloody wrist. The man’s left hand had been hacked off. Coughing blood, Gustavo dropped to his knees.
The woman spun toward Spencer. “We have to get out of here. Stay behind me!”
Spencer took another step back, wary of the fierce terror in the woman’s dark eyes. “What’s going on?”
“No questions right now, okay?” The woman took a knee next to Gustavo’s foot. Lifting the hem of Gustavo’s pant leg, the woman removed a large gun from an ankle holster.
Spencer stared at the guard’s left arm, missing its hand, and winced. Memories assailed her, forcing her into the past, when Ben had forced her to do favors for him in Belize, one of which had brought her into direct contact with a bloody, dismembered hand.
Spencer couldn’t help but wonder if the guard’s missing hand was somehow connected to the missing hand she’d found in Belize, but there was no time for speculation or conjecture. There was no time for anything except doing whatever it took to stay alive, to make sure her baby was safe.
On her feet again, the woman grabbed Spencer’s wrist
and pulled her, rushing toward the wall of French doors. “We are under attack and if we don’t get out of here—”
“Under attack?” Spencer stumbled along, trying to keep up with the woman’s frantic strides as they crossed the bedroom suite. “What are you talking about? Who—”
Abruptly, the woman stopped and Spencer nearly collided with her. “What is it?”
The woman cursed and then turned, forcing Spencer to mimic her moves. Seconds later, Spencer glanced over her shoulder and realized why the woman had done a dizzying about face. Two men stood outside the French doors. Dressed in what appeared to be custom-tailored business suits and wearing dark sunglasses, the men were armed with assault rifles.
“Hurry! Let’s go!” the woman demanded, yanking Spencer as she ran toward the double doors leading out of the bedroom suite. “Move your ass!”
“What’s happening?” Spencer asked. “Who are those men?”
“Mercenary bastards,” the woman said. “I don’t know how the hell—”
Glass shattered and burst under a barrage of rapid gunfire. Spencer screamed and tried to drop to the floor, but the woman forced Spencer to stay on her feet.
“Keep your head down, but don’t stop moving!” the woman commanded.
Bullets followed them out of the bedroom suite, slamming into the walls and the door frame. They dashed down the wide hallway and at the end, they went left. Halfway down the hall, another man in a business suit rounded the corner. As he walked toward them, raising his gun, Spencer screamed and tried to flatten herself against the wall. The woman raised the weapon she’d taken from the dead guard and fired several shots. One of the bullets caught the man below the right eye. He dropped to the floor.
“Here, take this.” The woman shoved the gun at her. “I might need you to cover me!”
Spencer shook her head. “I don’t know how to use a gun!”
“Just point and squeeze the trigger!” The woman hurried to the well-dressed mercenary, grabbed his rifle, and turned, cursing. Spencer glanced right. The two men they’d seen outside the French doors stood where the main hall and the hall leading to the master suite formed a T. The men started shooting, and the woman returned fire.
Screaming and covering her ears, Spencer dropped the gun the woman had given her and sank to her knees, crouching next to an accent table against the wall. Despite the terror of the gunfire, Spencer couldn’t help but wonder if, instead of cowering behind a table, she should be trying to get away. The woman was engaged in warfare. Wouldn’t this be the best time to crawl to the end of the hall, using the distraction of the shootout as a cover? But what if she made it around the corner and came face to face with another attacker? She would be a sitting damn duck, shot on sight. Maybe, maybe not. Was it possible that one of the attackers might help her?
The rapid discharge of fire continued, and Spencer closed her eyes, thinking that she was going insane. She had to be out of her damn mind, thinking she could get a mercenary to listen to her story and convince him to help her get away and get back to John.
For now, it was best to stay with the woman.
John’s ex-fiancée had been paid to kidnap her and keep her alive until demands were met. Eventually, the woman would release her. Who the hell knew what these men had planned? Why had they attacked?
Covering her head, Spencer prayed she wouldn’t be shot as a volley of bullets burst through the air above her, filling the hallway with smoke and the smell of gunpowder.
“Come on!” the woman ordered when the gunfire ceased.
Shell-shocked, Spencer glanced up. The woman reached for her, but Spencer resisted, shrinking back.
“I held them off, but we have to go now!” The woman yanked Spencer to her feet. “Come on!”
As she ran behind the woman, Spencer glanced back. The men were gone. Spencer guessed they had retreated back around the corner, maybe to reload, maybe because they’d been wounded. Didn’t matter. The woman was right. They had to go. Hesitation and reluctance would guarantee her a bullet to the back of the head.
After heading around the man the woman had shot in the face, they followed the hall as it turned to the right and then opened to the large den with its oversized couches and recliners. In the den, the woman angled left, toward an opening to a hallway that led to the dining room and kitchen. Spencer detected movement to her right and glanced that way. Two men ran into the den from the opening on the right and immediately began shooting.
As bullets flew, Spencer hit the floor, following the woman’s lead. Crawling across the hardwood floor, they headed between two recliners and then around to the back of the couch.
The woman got to her knees, peeked above the back of the couch, and fired a hail of rounds. Quickly, she crouched down again when a hail of bullets came back, many of them slamming into the wall across from them, ripping holes into framed art, the crown molding, and the wainscoting.
“Crawl to the hallway and then get to the kitchen,” the woman said when the bullets stopped for a moment. “I’ll cover you, but stay on the floor and go as fast as you can. When you get to the kitchen, wait for me.”
Trembling, near hysteria, Spencer managed to nod.
“But don’t get any ideas about trying to escape, black Barbie,” the woman warned. “You’ve still got that collar around your neck.”
Anger and annoyance flared when Spencer touched her neck and felt the collar. With World War III going on around her, she’d forgotten about the shock device.
“Go!” the woman ordered as she rose above the back of the couch and began firing again.
Spencer flattened her body and half-crawled, half-shimmied across the floor. In the hallway, she stood and took off, heading for the kitchen. Once there, Spencer paced around the island, contemplating making a run for it. But she couldn’t forget about the collar. If she wasn’t in the kitchen when the woman came looking for her, she would make her pay for trying to escape. Spencer didn’t want to be shocked again. It was painful, and she was terrified of the effects it might have on the baby.
What if the woman never made it to the kitchen? The gunfire was intermittent but hadn’t completely ceased yet. What if the woman was shot and killed? If the woman was dead, then Spencer would have no choice, she would have to—
The woman ran into the kitchen, holding her shoulder, sweating and wincing.
“Oh my God,” Spencer said, staring at the bloody, mangled flesh just beneath the woman’s left shoulder. “They shot you!”
“I’ll live,” the woman said. “We gotta go.”
“What happened to the gun?” Spencer asked, noticing that the woman didn’t have the rifle.
“Ran out of bullets,” she said, heading to the kitchen door. “But those bastards are reloading so we need to leave!”
Spencer followed the woman outside. The sky was overcast, but despite the lack of sun and the low cloud deck, Spencer blinked as her eyes adjusted to the natural light. It was humid, and the breeze carried a familiar tropical scent that, along with the smell of bark and foliage, gave her a feeling of déjà vu.
She and the woman ran around the side of the house, following a wide stone path. Behind the three-car garage, on a pea gravel plaza surrounded by hibiscus bushes, two golf carts were parked near a banyan tree. The woman jumped into one of the golf carts and started it as Spencer climbed in next to her.
Shifting the cart into gear, the woman reversed the cart to back it away from the tree, and then she sped off, steering the cart in a wide arc, heading toward the front of the garage.
Several feet from the courtyard in front of the house, Spencer heard an engine motor behind them and looked back.
Two of the mercenaries were in the second golf cart, speeding behind them, quickly gaining ground. The woman looked back and cursed. Spencer tried to get her bearings and tried to think. Her thoughts were scrambled, her emotions chaotic. She entertained ideas of jumping out of the cart and leaving the woman to deal with the men. She wondered if
the best thing would be just to give up. Raising the white flag would most likely mean certain death. Jumping from the cart would be even worse, especially for the baby.
“Sonofabitch!” The woman swerved the cart right, then left, and then right again, careening over puddles and sending Spencer across the bench seat and almost out of the cart.
Her heart beating wildly, Spencer looked back again. The men stayed on the woman’s tail as she headed away from the house, speeding down what seemed to be a private road, wide enough for two vehicles, bordered by thick jungle.
Belize, Spencer realized, as a gust of wind swept past her face. She was in Belize. Somehow, someway, the woman had taken her to Belize. Questions crowded her mind, but Spencer ignored them. She had to focus on staying alive and making sure she didn’t fall out of the golf cart.
The woman made a wide arc to the right, and the man driving followed, and then abruptly, the woman switched back left. The man, still heading right, almost clipped the back of the woman’s cart. Spencer clutched the side support bar, praying the woman wouldn’t crash or tip the cart over, praying for her baby, and praying that God would save her life so the baby could be carried to full term and then delivered and placed in her arms. Mimicking the woman’s move, the man overcorrected as his cart’s tires lost traction for a moment, but he managed to stay with the woman as she sped toward the end of the road.
Gunshots cut through the sound of roaring engines. A bullet hit the hood of the golf cart, the force of it sending the cart left, toward the jungle. Spencer screamed.
Grunting, the woman yanked the wheel right—
Another shot.
The bullet hit the bench seat, inches from Spencer’s leg.
“Damn!” The woman pulled the wheel hard, sending the cart skidding and spinning in a dizzying circle before she was able to get control again and steer straight. “Take the wheel!”
“What are you doing?” Spencer screamed, horrified as the woman took her hands from the wheel to remove something from beneath the seat—a gun.
