At last the girl gave up, drew in a breath, and spoke in a tearful voice. “Because I thought—every time you looked at me, you’d see him. You’d think of him and what he did to you. You’d see his face in mine.” She bit her lip. Then she put her head on her knees and broke into tears.
Miranda leaned in close to her. “I don’t think that.”
“Why not? I’m like him. Look what I did to Ella. That was him coming out of me.”
Is that what she thought? “No. You aren’t him. You are your own person. Everyone does things they’re ashamed of.”
“But—”
Miranda touched her cheek, wiping away a tear. “Don’t you see, sweetheart? It’s because you feel so bad about Ella that you’re not like him. He never felt remorse. I know. I faced him.”
Miranda grabbed her arm and pulled her to her.
Instead of resisting, Mackenzie pressed her face to her shoulder and cried.
Miranda stroked her hair. “Mackenzie, baby. You’ve got it all wrong. When I look at you I don’t see him. All I see is the sweet baby girl who was taken from me all those years ago. All I see is that I have you now. All I want is for you to be happy. But I can’t give you that. My history is too dark. Too damaged.”
Mackenzie lifted her head. “No, it isn’t, Mother. I’m glad you found me.”
The words made Miranda so happy, for a moment she forgot where they were.
Mackenzie wiped her face and sniffed. “I have a confession to make.”
Another one? “What is it?”
“I know I denied it when you first came to see me, but I always wondered if I was adopted. I mean, I don’t really look like the Chathams.”
That was true. The coloring was off.
“When I was little, I made up stories about who my birth mother was. I imagined she was some wonderful person. A superhero. And it came true.”
Miranda scoffed. “I’m not a superhero.”
Her eyes sparkled with tears. “Yes, you are. Every time I hear about a case you and Mr. Parker have solved, I’m more amazed. I’m so proud to be your daughter.”
Stunned by her words, Miranda held her close. Mackenzie was proud to be her daughter? The idea thrilled her, despite their current situation. A profound sense of gratitude filled her. At last she had what she’d longed for all these years. A genuine connection with her long lost baby girl.
If only she were a superhero. If only they hadn’t had to get stuck in this room to learn this.
Superhero or not, it was time to get to work. She’d get them out of here. Somehow.
She let Mackenzie go, got out of bed, and rubbed her cheeks.
Once more she looked around the room. “Does he ever open that door?”
Mackenzie shrugged. “Just to put a tray of food down for me. I tried to get out the first time he did it, but he picked me up and threw me on the bed like I was a rag doll.” She rubbed her arms, shivering at the memory.
Suppressing her anger, Miranda glanced at the silver clock on the nightstand. It was almost noon. “Did he deliver your lunch at twelve yesterday?”
“Yes. Pretty close to it.”
Miranda went to the door and put her ear against it. Nothing. “I heard voices after they put me in here with you.”
Mackenzie nodded. “I did, too. They were talking. Then I heard a door close.”
“Uh huh. I think Santana left, and the other guy is guarding us.”
“Who is that man? You know him?”
Miranda ran a hand through her hair. There wasn’t time to explain Sasha’s complicated pedigree to her. “It’s a long story. Just know he’s big and dangerous and capable of almost anything. Apparently he’s completely loyal to Santana.”
“So you can’t turn him.”
She had to smile. “You’ve been watching too many spy movies.”
“What are we going to do instead?”
Miranda looked around the room again. It was sparse. The nightstand was bolted to the wall. There was no lamp on it. No chairs.
She went into the bathroom and pulled out drawers under the sink. Nothing but extra towels and toilet paper. Nothing sharp. “Where’s your backpack?”
“Over here.” Mackenzie got out of bed and crossed to the far corner of the room to pick it up.
Miranda came over and took it from her. She began rummaging through it. “Anything sharp in here? Scissors? A file?”
“No. They don’t let you take things like that on the plane.”
“Right.” Miranda handed the bag back to Mackenzie and went into the bathroom again.
She stared at the mirror. It wasn’t a medicine cabinet. Just a big piece of glass, reflecting the elegant chrome and marble of the décor.
Only one choice as far as she could see.
Again she opened a drawer, took out a large white hand towel, and wrapped it firmly around her fist. She used another one to protect her head and face. Bracing herself against the counter, she reared back and slammed her fist against the mirror.
Bang!
Mackenzie let out a squeal.
The glass cracked in the middle. Miranda whacked it again. The wall shivered. The cracks began to spider out.
“What are you doing, Mother?” Mackenzie whispered, her eyes glowing with shock.
She must have thought she had gone crazy.
“Getting us weapons,” Miranda said, lifting her arm. “One more time.”
She hoped Sasha was in the kitchen fixing lunch and couldn’t hear the noise.
Bang! Miranda’s fist slammed against the glass again, and chunks of the mirror fell off and splintered onto the sink.
Mackenzie stared at the mess.
“You weren’t planning on brushing your teeth, were you?”
“I guess not.”
“Give me your hand.”
She took another towel from the drawer, wrapped it around Mackenzie’s palm, then she picked up a large shard of mirror and laid it on the towel. She pressed her fingers around it, then did the same for herself, selecting a bigger chunk.
“The towels are the best we can do for gloves. But now we have something for self defense.”
“Okay,” Mackenzie said weakly.
“Don’t be afraid. Do whatever’s necessary.”
“Okay,” she said again.
If she could help it, Mackenzie wouldn’t have to use that weapon.
A noise came from outside the bedroom. Footsteps. Heavy ones.
“He’s coming,” Mackenzie whispered. Instinctively she put her makeshift knife behind her back.
“Stay here. If he comes at you, lock yourself inside the bathroom.”
“Okay.”
It wasn’t much of a defense, but it was better than nothing.
The footsteps grew closer. Miranda hurried across the room and pressed herself against the wall near the doorframe.
She held her breath.
Slowly the door opened. The odor of roasted chicken wafted into the room.
The edge of a tray appeared, then Sasha’s bald head as he bent down to slide the tray inside the door.
Two plates of chicken and vegetables, plastic ware, and two bottles of water. The bottles looked like they had already been opened. For a second, Miranda wondered why. Then she pushed the thought away.
She couldn’t let herself get distracted.
“Here is your lunch, little birds,” the man sang out in his thick Ukrainian accent. “Eat well.”
Now. She grabbed the door, lunged forward, and stabbed at his head with the shard of glass. She hit flesh, sliced across the back of his skull, nicked off some of his ear.
The huge man let out a cry like nothing she had ever heard before.
Putting a hand to his head, he raised his big muscular black-clad body to it full height and glared down at her, his dark brows forming a deep, angry V across his face.
Miranda’s heart began to pound. She felt like David facing Goliath. How would the shepherd boy have done with a piece of mirror instead of stones?
She didn’t know. All she could think of now was one word.
Fight.
She swung her blade back the other way and got him across the cheek near the eye. Blood oozed down his face as he let out a roar and grabbed her wrist before she could step away.
“You bitch! How dare you attack me?”
He swung his free hand and slapped her hard against the cheek.
The blow stung like crazy. Her head flew to the side with the momentum, nearly toppling her.
Can’t let him get her to the ground. That would be a disaster.
He pulled at her arm, squeezed her wrist until she let go of her weapon. The chunk of mirror crashed to the floor and broke into pieces.
She widened her stance, bent her knees to lower her center of gravity as she turned the other way and socked him hard in the ribs on his unguarded side.
He let out another yowl as he let go of her wrist. He stumbled, stepping onto the food tray, smearing chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy over the floor. He struggled with the mess, trying to get it off his shoe as if it were mud.
Now was her chance. She punched him in the ribs again. And another time.
At first, he was too stunned to react. Then he forgot about the food and reached for her. But the slippery gravy made his legs spread apart.
Now.
Just before his hands touched her, Miranda stepped between his thighs and brought up her knee as hard as she could.
The blow landed just where she’d hope. Straight on the groin.
The giant roared with pain. His eyes rolled back in his head as he grabbed himself and fell to the ground.
He was out for a bit.
Miranda looked at the door. His keys were still in the knob. She turned to Mackenzie.
Still at the bathroom door holding her weapon, her daughter stood staring at her.
“What?”
“You’re amazing, Mother.”
Miranda couldn’t help a little smile. “C’mon. We’ve got to get out of here.”
Mackenzie dropped the shard, picked up her backpack, and followed Miranda out of the room.
While Miranda locked the door with Sasha’s keys, Mackenzie took a quick look around the penthouse. “Mr. Santana isn’t here.”
“Good thing we guessed right about that.”
Mackenzie waved a hand. “The front door’s right there.”
Miranda pointed toward the back. “He brought me in that way. I think the front’s our best bet.”
Mackenzie nodded and they hurried through the door, hoping they didn’t run into Santana on his way home.
They stepped into a serene gold and pale green hall and headed for the elevators. Just before they reached the doors, a screeching alarm rang out.
Mackenzie screamed, and Miranda thought her heart might burst at the shock.
But she forced herself to think. “We shouldn’t take the elevator. Let’s find the stairs.”
As they rushed for the stairwell, she realized what’s going on, and a sense of pure joy filled her heart.
“Is there a fire, Mother?” Mackenzie asked, terror in her voice.
“No, sweetheart,” she said pushing through the door and smiling as she ushered her daughter into the stairwell. “It’s Parker.”
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Parker rode the elevator to the sixtieth floor of Golden Epoch Towers with Special Agent Sloan and Detective Wesson on one side of him, and the building’s concierge on the other.
Twenty minutes ago, per his instructions, Holloway, Becker, and Carlson had entered the building posing as workmen. They located the utility room, hacked into the system, and set off the fire alarm, making sure none of the sprinklers were activated. He did not want to inconvenience the residents or wash away evidence.
Meanwhile Parker and Sloan had found the concierge, and convinced him, with the help of Sloan’s badge, they needed access to the top floor to find a person of interest in a matter of national security. The fire alarm was a ruse to flush him out, they explained.
They did not say the resident was their person of interest, and the concierge seemed to think Mr. Santana might have been accosted by an intruder. He, therefore, was most cooperative.
While the other team members stood guard outside watching the doors in case their suspect tried to slip out, Holloway, Becker, and Carlson ascended the stairwells informing the occupants the alarm was only a drill, and they could safely return to their offices or homes. At the same time ensuring Santana did not escape via the stairs.
The rhythmic shrieks of the alarm chafed his nerves as Parker stepped off the elevator into a large refined hallway.
“There’s only one access to the penthouse,” the concierge shouted above the din. “It’s over here.”
He took them to the entry and used his access key to open it as he knocked. “Mr. Santana?” he called out. “I have some gentlemen who need to speak with you.”
Parker laid an arm against the door and pushed past the concierge and into the dwelling.
“Santana? Are you here?” The desire to kill the man who had taken his wife and her daughter flamed in his chest once again.
But there was no answer.
Parker scanned the open design. The kitchen, the dining room, the living room beyond it with white leather furniture and an opulent fireplace. The place was filled with pricey signature pieces. The man’s taste was impeccable, if cold and devoid of feeling.
But the area was empty.
“Look over here.”
“What is it?” Parker followed Wesson down the hall to where Sloan was standing.
An interior door stood open, the wood of its frame split and splintered, its lock broken.
“Looks like someone kicked it in.”
“The lock is on the outside,” Parker said. “They kicked the door from inside.” Was this where Santana had kept them?
There was a bloody handprint on the frame.
Parker stepped over the debris and into the space. It was a large bedroom. The comforter on the bed was rumpled.
“Oh, my gosh,” said Wesson, following him.
Sloan scanned the room. “What went on here?”
There was a food tray, its contents smeared over the hardwood floor as if it had been stepped in. There was a pool of blood as well. And broken glass. A struggle had occurred here.
Parker marched across the room to the bath. The mirror had been shattered. A large shard lay near the doorway.
He spun around. “Where are they? Did Santana escape with them?”
“I don’t know.” Sloan sounded lost.
Panic rising in his chest, Parker rushed back through the door and into the hall. Bloody shoeprints led toward the kitchen, then toward the back. A man’s prints. Large.
He was almost to the living room when the front door swung open behind him.
“Mr. Parker?” It was Holloway’s voice.
Parker spun around and blinked. His heart nearly stopped at the sight.
There was Miranda and Mackenzie alongside Holloway, Becker, and Carlson.
“Look who we found in the stairwell,” Becker said with glee.
Stunned, Parker gazed at his lovely wife. Her clothes were a mess. Her left cheek was swollen. Her blouse was torn and bloody. Her dark hair was going every which way.
His brave warrior had never looked so good to him.
He didn’t care what any of them thought. He rushed toward her as fast as he could.
She did the same.
They met at the corner of the kitchen counter, and she threw herself into his arms.
“Oh, Parker. Parker.”
Miranda kissed her handsome husband over and over, her heart bursting with joy.
When at last she came up for air, he let her go only to hug Mackenzie.
“I’m so glad you’re safe now,” he said to her.
“I am, too, Mr. Parker. Mother saved us,” she grinned.
“I’m sure she did.” Parker put his arm around Miran
da. “Let’s take her back to the hotel.”
“Good idea.”
Then Miranda saw the blood on the floor. She broke away from the happy reunion and slipped down the hall.
The door of the bedroom had been kicked out.
Stunned, she stared at it. “We locked Tamarkin inside there when we left. It couldn’t have been over twenty minutes ago.”
Sloan leaned against the broken door post and shook his head in disgust. “Evidently he got out.”
Miranda glanced over at Mackenzie. Her face was pale and still tear-stained.
“We’ll take over now, Steele,” Sloan told her. “We’ll process the scene. Why don’t you all go back to the hotel.”
“I’d like to help,” Wesson offered.
Of course, she did. Feeling suddenly spent, Miranda nodded. “Sure.”
Parker held out a hand to her. “Let’s go.”
He was right. There was nothing they could do here that Sloan and the Boston people couldn’t handle.
“C’mon, everyone,” she said to her team. “Let’s get out of here.”
But as they headed down the hall to the now operational elevator, Miranda wondered if they would ever find Donovan Santana.
Chapter Sixty
Santana drove down Washington in the disgusting white three-year-old Kia Soul with the stolen plates.
He despised the ugly vehicle. He despised having to drive himself. He despised having to lurk around his own city like a common thief. One more thing he would make his prisoners pay for.
Soon Wade Parker would find his wife and bring his team with him. What he would actually find would be a rude awakening.
As he neared the building, Santana heard sirens. Loud sirens. That was strange for this time of day.
He came to a stop at the light on the corner, and as he peered through the windshield at the plaza in front of the entrance to Golden Epoch Towers, he thought he must be dreaming.
Their lights flashing, fire trucks and police cars surrounded the building. Uniforms milled about on the diamond patterned walkway.
In shock he watched the civilians standing in groups near the decorative streetlamps as they watched the scene. Others ignored the hubbub and scurried back and forth in front of the entrance to the street.
A feeling of dread came over him. What in the world had happened to his building?
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