Beverly Barton Bundle

by Beverly Barton

  “Yes.”

  “The three girls will be in Hyde Park tonight,” the man said. “Each will be taken to a specific location. I suggest you be at the Grand Entrance to the park, at precisely eleven o’clock. I will contact you at that time with further instructions. It will be up to you to choose which girl to try to save first. You will have until the park closes at midnight to attempt to rescue all three of them.”

  Holding his phone to his ear, Griff listened to the dead silence for several seconds as he digested the caller’s instructions. York’s minion had introduced Griff to the participants in a life-or-death game to be played out tonight in one of the largest parks in central London.

  “Was that—?”

  “Yes.” Griff relayed the man’s message to Yvette as he slid his phone into his pocket.

  “What if Suzette is not our daughter? Could it be possible that one of those other girls is our child?” Yvette reached out and grabbed Griff’s hand as she gazed up at him through tear-filled eyes. “How can you decide which girl to try to save first? What if you choose the wrong—?”

  He clasped her hand. “Stop doing this to yourself. This is what he wants, for us to suffer while we try to make an impossible decision.”

  “But, Griffin ...” She choked back more tears.

  “For all we know, not one of those three girls in the photo is your child ... our child.”

  “But if one of them is?”

  “I intend to do whatever I can to save all three girls tonight, but you have to prepare yourself for whatever happens.” He leaned down and wiped the tears from her cheeks with his fingertips. “Now go wash your face while I contact Mitchum again and give him an update.”

  “Please remind him that his men are to do nothing to bring attention to themselves. If York finds out that—”

  “Mitchum’s agents are professionals. This won’t be their first hostage rescue mission. They’re not going to do anything to endanger the girls.”

  Malcolm smiled as he listened to his employee in London report on the progress of the Suzette York kidnapping caper. By now Yvette Meng had to be half out of her mind and Griffin Powell on the verge of acting irrationally. What delicious thoughts. He smacked his lips, almost able to taste the sweetness of the moment. If only he could be there, in Hyde Park, to watch the events unfold.

  He hoped that Griffin was as cunning as he had been on Amara, as capable of surviving at all costs. Otherwise, not only would all three girls be killed, but Griffin, a more than worthy opponent, would die tonight and the marvelous games would end far too soon.

  Chapter 21

  Griffin arrived shortly before eleven that night near the Grand Entrance at Hyde Park Corner next to Apsley House. Standing alone close to the Wellington Arch at the southeast corner of the park, he waited for further instructions from the madman in charge of tonight’s lethal games. Despite the late hour, this was a Saturday night and the park was far from empty, although not as heavily populated as it would have been earlier in the evening or if a major event was being held there. He had left Yvette at the hotel, along with one of Mitchum’s agents to guard her. Griff couldn’t be certain that the search-and-rescue game at the park was the only entertainment York had in store for them tonight. It was a wait-and-see situation, one in which they needed to be prepared for anything.

  There was no way one man could cover the entire 350-acre park in an hour. And it was highly unlikely that, even with a dozen of Mitchum’s men spread throughout the park, each having entered separately at various locations over a period of several hours, they would be able to save all three girls. Griff was working under the assumption that the pseudo-York didn’t give a damn about his hostages, not even Suzette, and would willingly sacrifice each of them for his own amusement. Punishing Griffin seemed to be of paramount importance to York, seeing him and those he cared for suffering his only goal.

  Planning ahead without any concrete idea of what York had in store for him during the next sixty minutes, Griff had changed into loose-fitting jogging pants, a lightweight hooded sweatshirt, and running shoes. Mitchum had outfitted him with a Kevlar vest, a commando knife in a leg sheath, and a Glock 17 in a hip holster, now covered by the length of his sweatshirt. The last piece of equipment—a skeleton-style earpiece—would allow Griff to communicate with Mitchum.

  Griff had spent the past three hours mentally preparing himself for battle. Psychological battle. Physical battle. No doubt, he would be faced with a combination of the two, one as deadly as the other. A map of Hyde Park, with which he had familiarized himself as best he could, and a mini maglite snuggled side by side in his sweatshirt pocket.

  At precisely eleven o’clock his phone rang. “Griffin Powell here.”

  “Listen very carefully to your three clues,” the voice said. “You will find each prize in a different location.”

  “Okay, I’m listening.”

  “These clues are in no particular order. It will be up to you to decide where to go first. Who you reach first, second, and third is your choice. And if you reach all three in an hour, you may be able to save their lives.” The caller paused and when Griff didn’t respond, he continued. “An arrow is centered in the heart of a rose. A snake slithers near elephants. A king leads to a princess.”

  Griff repeated the three clues, memorizing them, preparing to repeat them to Mitchum once York’s delivery boy completed his message.

  “That’s it?” Griff asked.

  “Oh, one more thing—each prize will be guarded.”

  No big surprise.

  “Thanks for the warning,” Griff said.

  “Good luck, Mr. Powell.”

  Conversation ended.

  Griff checked is wristwatch—11:02. Fifty-eight minutes and counting.

  As Griff made his way from the well-lit Wellington Arch entrance, past Apsley House and the Hyde Park Corner Colonnade, the structures bathed in golden light, he spoke quietly with Thorndike Mitchum.

  After repeating the three clues, Griff said, “Any ideas off the top of your head?”

  “Actually, yes,” Mitchum replied. “But I’m putting all three clues into the computer and running a cross-reference with Hyde Park.”

  “Until something shows up, what are your thoughts? You know London. You’ve visited Hyde Park, right?”

  “An arrow is centered in the heart of a rose could mean the Cupid Fountain in the Rose Garden. You shouldn’t be that far away right now. Take a look at your map and tell me exactly where you are.”

  Griff stopped, pulled out the map and mini maglite, and quickly zeroed in on his location. “I’m on Rotten Row, just past Hyde Park Corner.”

  “Check your map and locate the rose garden. There’s a statue of Cupid in the center of the fountain. There are other statues and fountains, but you want the fountain with Cupid.”

  “Got it.”

  “Be careful,” Mitchum told him. “I have two agents nearby who can get to you in five minutes.”

  “I’m going in now,” Griff said, keeping his voice low as he moved steadily toward the target area. “Every minute counts.”

  Griff ran along the wide, tree-lined bridle path used now not only for horse riding, but cycling, rollerblading, and jogging. The almost four-mile-long road ran parallel along the Serpentine Lake past the Serpentine Gallery and the Princess Diana Memorial Fountain. The Rose Garden was at the east end of the path, close by, requiring only a slight detour from the road. Just as he veered off Rotten Row, he noticed a couple coming toward him from the opposite direction, but they were so absorbed in each other that he doubted they even noticed him.

  Locating the circular area surrounding the Cupid Fountain within the Rose Garden had been an easy task. A little too easy to suit Griff as he stopped before entering the circle and gauged every aspect of the scene before him. The garden appeared to be empty, not a person in sight, not a squirrel or bird stirring this time of night. A summery breeze shimmered through the treetops. The hum of nearby traffic rum
bled across the park. The sound of distant laughter reminded Griff that there were innocent bystanders still in the park, even this late at night.

  A sudden sense of foreboding—an innate gut instinct honed and perfected years ago on Amara—alerted Griff to imminent danger. Just as an arrow whizzed past him, Griff dove behind a bench, hitting the ground near a line of shrubbery. He brought out his Glock as he quickly gained his bearings. The archer was well hidden in the darkness, somewhere in a cluster of trees, west of Griff’s present location.

  Without any warning, a shadowy figure hobbled toward the fountain. Even before Griff heard her whimpering, he realized that one of the hostages, her hands and feet still bound and her mouth gagged, had been sent out into plain view.

  That meant only one thing.

  Knowing he had only minutes, perhaps only seconds, to act in order to save the young woman, Griff crept along the outer perimeter of the fountain area, along the paved walkway backed by trees and shrubbery. Gun in hand, prepared to shoot to kill, he raced toward the lone figure trembling at the edge of the fountain. Within arm’s reach of the girl, Griff cursed his timing as an arrow ripped through his hooded jacket and pierced the Kevlar vest beneath. The impact knocked him backward and off his feet. Reeling from the force of the archer’s shot, he struggled to recover. With the arrow embedded in the protective vest, he rose to his knees and then up on his feet. But not fast enough to prevent the next arrow from hitting its intended target.

  Griff lunged forward, hoping against hope, and within seconds realized the futility of his rescue attempt. The arrow burst through the girl’s neck. Blood gushed from the deadly wound as she fell face forward into the watery bowl surrounding the fountain.

  Before he could reach the girl, two dark-clad, armed men rushed toward him and quickly identified themselves as Mitchum’s agents.

  “I’m okay,” Griff told them. “And we can’t help the girl. You two go find the archer before he gets away.”

  “Another agent is tracking him,” one of the men said. “Our orders are to take care of you.”

  “All I need is to get rid of this arrow and move on to the next location,” Griff told them. “Time is running out for those other two girls.”

  Griff didn’t want to think about the possibility that he would no more be able to save either of the girls than he’d been able to rescue the first one. He wanted to know if the victim was Suzette, but he couldn’t waste time with identifying her now.

  After all, in the long run, would it really matter?

  Only if one of the three hostages actually turned out to be Yvette’s daughter.

  “ ‘A snake slithers near elephants,’ ” Mitchum repeated the second clue. “The Serpentine Lake is in the middle of the park and stretches westward all the way to Kensington Gardens. But close to the southeastern edge of the lake there is a display of elephant sculptures. There is a serpent and elephants only at that one specific area.”

  Griff checked the map, ascertained the location of the elephant sculptures, and wasted no time in heading west along Rotten Row. Once again only yards off the bridle path, he found the area mentioned in the second clue. Thirteen life-size elephant sculptures, comprised of what appeared to be willow bands wound around metal frames, meandered almost lifelike among a small bevy of trees. A short distance behind him, the Serpentine Lake murmured faintly. Reflected moonlight shimmered across the water’s surface.

  The drone of his own pounding heartbeat grew louder inside his head as he surveyed the scene. Another hostage’s life depended on him making the right life-or-death decisions. But he was as much a pawn in York’s murderous game as the three young women York had chosen to use as bait.

  Tonight’s game was about far more than attempting to locate the captives and save them; it was about following York’s orders, about paying any price to save Nic’s life. And no one knew this better than York did.

  Cautiously, ever aware of danger lurking in every dark corner, Griff searched for any sign of the next girl and her guardian. Alert to the possibility of an attack, he took no undue chances. But after a five-minute exploration of the area in every direction, Griff decided that the second clue was not the second location chosen for battle. If not here, then where? Apparently the third clue named the spot for the second confrontation.

  Returning to Rotten Row, Griff contacted Mitchum. “If you have agents heading my way, stop them. Send them to the location described by the third clue after you tell me where you think that is.”

  “Bloody hell,” Mitchum grumbled. “ ‘A king leads to a princess.’ I believe the king refers to Rotten Row itself. The term is derived from the French ‘route du roi’ or king’s road. The third location is probably somewhere near the Princess Diana Memorial Fountain. That’s all the way down to the bridge that crosses the lake.”

  “Then I’d better get moving.” Griff refused to give in to the temptation to check his watch. What good would it do to know exactly what time it was?

  Before heading off down the path again, he located the memorial and the bridge on the map. If he hadn’t kept himself in tiptop shape, there would be no way he could keep up a running pace or manage to reach the bridge, face whatever awaited him there, and then backtrack to the elephant sculptures for the final skirmish, all before the stroke of midnight.

  Just as he spotted the memorial fountain up ahead, he caught a glimpse of movement in his peripheral vision on both sides of the path. Mitchum had said that his agents would be coming in from the west, from the area where the Serpentine Gallery pavilion was located, so he figured the activity to his left was his backup team temporarily keeping out of sight.

  The second hostage and her guard would be to his right, somewhere in or around the memorial. The granite circular fountain resembled a narrow river, flowing in two directions from the highest point, swirling and bubbling as the waters joined in a small pool at the bottom. As Griff made his way toward the memorial, he sensed someone watching him. Waiting. Preparing to attack.

  And then he saw her. Running. Coming from the roadway, down the pedestrian path between the lake and the memorial. The roar of motorbikes rumbling like a thundering herd of mustangs came to life and within seconds three Triumphs barreled down on the fleeing girl. Griff drew his Glock, took aim, and hit the lead cyclist, hurling him to the ground and sending his driverless bike sailing through the air and into the lake.

  Racing like mad, determined to pick off another rider before the two remaining attackers could run down the frightened young woman, Griff saw the reason she hadn’t screamed or cried for help. Although her hands and feet were unbound, she remained gagged. Ignoring him as if he didn’t exist, as if he hadn’t only moments before gunned down their comrade, the two bikers caught up with their prey. Slowing their Triumphs to the girl’s running speed, the two bikers flanked her. Less than ten feet away, Griff aimed at the rider on the girl’s right, but before he got off a shot, the man ran straight into the girl, knocking her onto the walkway and running the bike over her. He backed up over her and then reversed gears and ran over her again. When the cyclist backed up and revved his engine, preparing for another attack, Griff fired. The bullet hit the guy’s shoulder just as his partner on the other bike fired at Griff, missing him by mere inches.

  As Griff neared the path along the lake, Mitchum’s agents appeared and took out the cyclists while Griff rushed to the severely injured girl. He knelt beside her, felt for a pulse, and finding one, he hurriedly contacted Mitchum. “We found her. She’s alive. Barely. She needs medical attention ASAP.”

  Griff whispered to the unconscious girl, “Hang on. Help’s on the way.”

  He smoothed back her shoulder-length black hair and touched her flushed cheek. Poor kid. She wasn’t Suzette York and whoever she was she probably wasn’t Yvette’s child, but she was somebody’s little girl.

  “One of you take over,” Griff called to the agents. “Mitchum is sending in the medics. I have to backtrack to the elephant statues.” />
  He rose from the pathway and going against his better judgment, he checked the time—11:44. Sixteen minutes till midnight.

  Winded, his heart beating ninety-to-nothing, Griff arrived back at the elephant statues at the southeast end of the lake.

  A snake slithers near elephants.

  At Cupid’s Fountain, the first hostage’s guard had used a bow and arrow to attack Griff and kill the girl. At the memorial fountain area, cyclists had chased their victim and run her down, as the paparazzi had chased Princess Diana. If Griff could figure out the method the third hostage’s guard planned to use, he might be able to stay one step ahead of him. An elephant gun? Snake venom? Both were highly unlikely.

  Think outside the box. Don’t think literally. Think figuratively.

  He needed to think like a highly intelligent, diabolical madman.

  “You’re on your own for now,” Mitchum informed him. “It will take a good ten minutes for my nearest agents to make it across the park from the vicinity of the Speaker’s Corner near the Marble Arch. The ones you left behind at the memorial are handling cleanup and waiting with the victim for our medical team to arrive.”

  “Got it,” Griff said. “Any idea about a connection between snakes and elephants and a way to kill?”

  “Nothing plausible,” Mitchum admitted. “Then again, our Mr. York could be planning to change the rules mid-game. No way to know.”

  “I don’t see a damn thing. No sign of anyone. There are too many blind spots at this time of night. The moonlight helps and the lights from the pathway and here and there around the lake, but with so many trees and bushes, they could be hiding anywhere.”

  Mitchum grunted.

  “If anything goes wrong ...”

  “Positive thinking, old chap.”

  Griff chuckled. “Take care of Yvette.”

  “Will do.”

  As the tension coiled in his gut, tighter and tighter, Griff surveyed the area and found nothing suspicious. Vigilant on his hunt, noting every sound and smell, watching his back, uncertainty at war with duty, he spent the next ten minutes searching, second-guessing his every move.