Face of Danger

by Roxanne St Claire

  On the far western banks, a small weathered-gray wooden structure stood out in stark contrast to the natural beauty.

  “That must be the bog house where Cara grew up,” Vivi said, giving his right arm a nudge toward the handle accelerator. “I want to see it.”

  He took the four-wheeler that way, rounding the path until they reached the house. Vivi was climbing off and jogging toward the house before he’d even shut off the engine.

  “Wait a second,” he called after her, his attention on her instead of the dwelling.

  She paused long enough to check it out, then looked over her shoulder to wave him closer. “I wonder why she doesn’t publicize these humble beginnings,” she mused. “America loves a rags-to-riches story.”

  “Same reason she changed her name, probably. The quest for glamour.” And this place couldn’t be less glamorous. He reached her in three steps and she grabbed his hand to pull him into her adventure, eyes glistening like they did when Vivi was doing something she shouldn’t do.

  Why the hell did that turn him on so much? That trait should be a blinding red flag: Run, Colt, run. And that was the plan, if this whole assignment went right.

  “Let’s go in,” she said.

  “Sure. Let’s B-and-E unsafe, unsecured property. Why the hell not?”

  She just laughed, letting go of him halfway around the back to the door.

  Sometimes her force couldn’t be fought. Like on the plane, in the closet—when would he give in to the constant ache to touch her next? Here, in this desolate, vacant house, on an old pine floor, naked… wrestling… doing exactly what they shouldn’t be doing.

  Anyone could come by. He hung back, inhaling the pine and musk of the afternoon air, listening to the random call of a bird. And Vivi.

  Her soft cry from the back of the house made him drop the sex thoughts and run, his right hand toward the weapon in his holster. She stood at the back door, hands on her hips.

  “No lock picking necessary, big guy. The door’s wide open.” She gave him a meaningful look. “Like someone just left.”

  “Or is still inside.” He stepped in front of her, drawing his weapon. “Stay out here.”

  He moved stealthily into a darkened, mold-scented kitchen, no sign of life unless he counted the spider crawling across a cracked and yellowed Formica counter.

  Dusty and as abandoned as the bog it overlooked, the house couldn’t have been a thousand square feet. He could see into a living area at the front of the house, empty except for a blackened mantel around an ash-filled fireplace. There was one other room off to the side and a bathroom that, from the looks of the pipes sticking out of the wall, once doubled as a laundry room. That was it. There was no furniture, only chipped paint and a stained and threadbare carpet.

  “No one’s here,” he said from the front room, peering out a cloudy pane of glass to the bog outside. The front door was closed and latched with a flimsy lock that a good shake could probably break.

  He headed into the bedroom, toward a closet door. He opened it, ready to fire, but it was as empty as the rest of the house, except for a pile of old paint tarps on the floor.

  “The back door must have just been left unlocked,” he called to Vivi. But his instinct said otherwise. The house smelled like it had been sealed up, not like fresh air had been blowing through.

  He turned and crossed the space into the kitchen, noting the faded paint marks on the living room walls, the outlines where pictures once hung. Dust in every corner, dead bugs, and filth.

  “It’s a wonder she doesn’t just tear this place down,” he said. “Can’t be a good memory—Vivi?”

  She didn’t respond and the kitchen was empty.

  “Vivi?” he called again, heading to the door, freezing at the sound of the ATV starting up. What the hell was she doing? “Vivi!” He jogged to the door just as the four-wheeler disappeared into the woods, before he could even glimpse her on it.

  Son of a bitch. He stuffed his gun back in the holster and listened to the fading engine, his temper choking. What the fuck was wrong with that woman?

  • • •

  Vivi opened her mouth to scream as some insect flew right in. Spitting madly, she threw her hands out into the darkness.

  What the hell happened? Had she fallen? She’d been standing outside the house on the rotten wood of the deck when Lang went in and the board under her feet just caved in.

  Or had it? She’d stumbled, instantly falling down into someplace dark and cavernous, cold and hard, then the board—or was it a trapdoor?—had closed above her. Had she been pushed? It happened so fast.

  Where the hell was she?

  The ground underfoot was hard, like cement. The walls were the same, and closed in. A tunnel? A way into the drainage ditches? She knew next to nothing about cranberry bogs, except that they were lined with drainpipes and some of them had underwater platforms for farmers to walk across when they harvested the fruit.

  Was that what she had fallen into?

  And—holy hell—did Lang know? She reached out to get her bearings, touching rough, rounded concrete. Something tickled her fingers and she snapped back her hand.

  Shaking a little, she swiped at her face, not sure if it was her imagination, her fake hair, or—God, spiders! She brushed at her arms. More of them. With a grunt of disgust, she protected her mouth to avoid swallowing one, then from behind her hand she let out a scream that thudded into the walls through the enclosed space.

  No answer.

  “Lang!” She tried again, so loud it shredded her throat.

  The ground rumbled a little and she could have sworn she heard the ATV engine.

  Was he leaving? If he was, she’d kill him.

  Something bumped above her head. She peered up, half expecting another spider on her face, seeing nothing but absolute blackness. How far down was she? It hadn’t hurt to fall, so she couldn’t have dropped very deep in the ground. Was it a hole? A well?

  Gingerly she reached up a hand, feeling air. She called for help, but the plea was swallowed up by the cement around her. Could he even hear her down there? Did he have any clue where she was? Was he right above her on the rotten wooden deck?

  Then why wouldn’t he hear her?

  She screamed again, the sound muffled by the cement.

  She stuffed her hand into the skintight back pocket of Cara’s jeans, fishing out her phone, praying for a—No Signal.

  “Shit!” But at least it cast a light. She turned the screen to see her surroundings and instantly wished she hadn’t. Spiders crawled all over the walls, and the opening above was a good four feet from her reach.

  Still, she tried again, spurred by frustration and the light pressure of a tendril of panic that was slowly curling around her chest. “Lang, I’m down here!” The sound just wasn’t carrying.

  She breathed through her nose, trying to stay calm, smelling dirt and mildew, and the tangy hint of cranberry. The light showed some kind of hole leading out of the bottom, about two feet wide.

  Was there any other option? Could she crawl up? Could she somehow creep up the way she came?

  Thanking God and whatever stylist had recommended that Cara buy rubber-soled boots, she reached her arms out, the phone in her teeth so she could see the spiders, squishing those that skittered over her hands. She made it a foot and slid back down. Damn it.

  But it wasn’t the only way out.

  Crouching down, she shone the light into the tunnel. A rat scurried away, running toward blackness on the other side. This was a drainage pipe, she decided, used for irrigation when the bog was running.

  So it should lead somewhere. To a water source or into the bog. Oh, Lord, please don’t let that be the only way out.

  Another, braver, bolder rat scurried toward her, his eyes trapped in the light. Chills crawled up her skin, her stomach turning.

  “Fuck you, swamp rat,” she said. “I’m fifty times your size.”

  But not too big to crawl through that pipe.r />
  She hated the thought the minute it landed in her head. Surely a drainage pipe led out somewhere, though. Unless it led to another hole like the one she was in, with another covered opening, and then—

  Was she eventually going to run out of air?

  She took another breath and screamed again. “Goddamn you, Lang! I’m down here!”

  Why would he leave without even looking for her? Did he think she would take off without him?

  Anger, frustration, and not a little bit of fear rushed through her, making her flatten her hands against the side walls, using her arms to push up again but, even as strong as she was, she couldn’t shimmy all the way up there.

  But that tunnel. Eesh.

  She tried to go up again, made it a little farther this time, braced her feet, and tried to reach the door above. Not a chance. Shaking, her legs gave way and she hit the ground hard, her knees buckling, one stabbed by a sharp stone.

  A stone! Maybe she could throw it up and he’d hear it hit.

  The rumble she’d heard earlier rolled through the ground. The ATV. He was back. “Lang!” She snagged the stone and pitched it up as hard as she could, crouching to the side as it clunked right back at her.

  Something slammed, then more footsteps clunked above her. Whatever trap she’d fallen or been pushed into was probably invisible enough that he’d never think to look where he was walking. Without a clue as to where she was, he was no doubt heading off to look for her in the woods or in the swamp or somewhere in the hundreds of acres around them. He figured she’d ignored his command, broken his rules, and taken off for her own search of the woods.

  She could just hear him making the wrong assumption that she was being Vivi.

  She had to get out of this, just to prove that son of a bitch wrong. The thought gave her just enough nerve to crouch down in the tunnel one more time. What was a rat or two compared to being buried alive and not ever getting to tell Lang he was wrong?

  Spewing dust and spiderwebs and probably a few more pesky insects from her mouth, she got on her knees, using one hand to hold her phone as a flashlight.

  Then she took a deep breath and started crawling. In her head she chanted an old Italian prayer to St. Jude, the patron saint of lost causes. It rose up from her memory in the lost cadence of her mother’s voice and guided her along.

  CHAPTER 9

  Colt called for another ATV and a search party immediately. Arms scraped by pines and vines, he rumbled around the bog, fury slowing giving way to fear with each passing minute.

  What could have happened to her?

  Gripping the handles, he maneuvered around a copse of trees, his eyes scanning the landscape. She couldn’t have disappeared. Unwanted images flooded his mind. Vivi held hostage. Vivi hurt. Vivi dead.

  He waited for the kick of déjà vu, the flash of seeing Jennifer’s body on the road, the agony of feeling for a pulse that wasn’t there.

  But for the first time in five years, that memory didn’t roll up like bile into his mouth. Grief didn’t consume him. Something else did. A feeling like he cared.

  Oh, Jesus, no, Colt. Don’t go there. Not again. Never again.

  He smashed his thumb against the accelerator like he could crush the turmoil that thought caused, kicking the vehicle into the next gear, spitting pine needles and dirt as a possum darted in front of him, barely missing getting flattened by Colt’s ATV.

  Was he out of his fucking mind? Falling for someone again? And not just anyone. No, Vivi Angelino certainly wasn’t just anyone. She was too much like—

  His phone vibrated and he slowed just enough to grab it. “Yeah?”

  “We found an ATV abandoned in a ditch.”

  Shit. Shit. “Where?”

  “About a half mile west of the bog, just across the road from the water. There’s a small lighthouse on a rise. The ATV was right under it.”

  “No sign of her?”

  “None. Whoever was driving it left by boat. Or swam. Or is out there on foot.”

  She wouldn’t leave without telling him. She was reckless, but not stupid.

  If anyone was stupid in this partnership, it was Colton Cautious Lang, who ought to know better than to care.

  He arrived at the ditch in a matter of minutes, just in time to see a crew moving the ATV up through the soft peat of the outskirts of a bog, at a point where Nantucket jutted about forty feet into the Atlantic Ocean. A road separated the property from the water, and a single weathered dock extended past the shallows, which were dotted with a small, abandoned lighthouse.

  His gaze drifted to the water. It was relatively calm and virtually empty except for fishing boats in the distance.

  He’d never heard a motorboat, had he? Who could have taken Vivi and where the hell was she?

  He went through the motions of examining the ATV, organizing the search, and arranging to have the Coast Guard search the waters. After more fruitless searching, he ended up back at the house, his whole body aching.

  Someone took her. Maybe Roman Emmanuel—maybe some lunatic who thought he’d snatched Cara Ferrari.

  That was the only explanation that made any sense, and he wanted to shoot himself every time the words hammered through his head and kicked his heart.

  Someone took Vivi.

  He entered the kitchen, where Mercedes Graff sat at the long table in conversation with a man, who instantly stood.

  “ASAC Lang?” he asked. “I’m Special Agent John Broder with IA. Can I talk to you?”

  Jesus Christ, Internal Affairs, now?

  “I have two minutes,” he said gruffly, striding to the industrial-size fridge. “I need water.” And Vivi. God almighty, he needed Vivi.

  “The Sub-Zero’s been emptied out,” Mercedes said, pushing her chair back. “I’ll get you some from storage.”

  “No.” Colt shot up his hand. “Finish your conversation with Special Agent Broder. I’ll get it myself.”

  He needed a quiet moment to collect his emotions before he faced IA.

  “Water’s in the pantry around the corner,” she said.

  He headed there, yanking open the door to a dark walk-in storage pantry. He hit the lights and closed the door behind him, leaning against it for a second, waiting for the hurricane of anger and worry and frustration to pass.

  Someone took Vivi.

  The impact of it was like a suffocating squeeze on his throat, cutting off his air. Or maybe that was a fucking lump forming because just the thought of losing her—damn it! He lifted his fist and slammed it into the wall next to him, wobbling the canned goods on the shelves.

  What if she was—

  The wall vibrated again, just as violently as when he’d punched it. For a second he didn’t move, staring at the rocking bouillon.

  Then he heard the thud—from the other side of the wall, making all the canned goods shudder again. This time the wall actually inched out. A can of corn toppled and clunked to the ground.

  “What the hell?” he muttered under his breath, not wanting to alert whoever lay on the other side of that wall to his presence.

  Slowly, he reached for his weapon, drawing it, unconsciously bracing his legs to fire.

  The wall creaked and opened farther, pushed by someone on the other side. He raised his weapon, waiting for the intruder.

  Hinges squawked. Very slowly, the secret, hidden door opened, someone panting breathlessly as he pushed. Someone…

  Vivi.

  For a second, neither of them spoke, too stunned at the sight of each other. Her hair was bedraggled, her face filthy, her clothes torn. He just stared, blinking, not able to believe what he saw.

  “Vivi,” he croaked, that lump in his throat practically choking him.

  She fought for a breath as she stepped into the pantry. “I found the security breach.”

  She hadn’t been expecting him, and she sure as hell hadn’t been expecting this. Shock, a little horror, anger, for sure. But when Lang grabbed Vivi’s shoulders and yanked her into his c
hest, the move stole what little breath she had left.

  “Jesus, Vivi, I thought you were dead.” He pressed his mouth to her hair and squeezed her harder.

  “I thought I was, too,” she admitted, pulling away enough to see his face, dying to tell him what she’d discovered, but he cupped her chin with a solid grip.

  “Dead,” he repeated as though he’d been holding the word in for a while.

  “Hey, Cautious, have a little faith in—”

  His mouth descended before she could finish the sentence. It was a harsh kiss this time, fueled by rage she could practically taste. This wasn’t affection, attraction, or relief. This was just… raw, and the sensation almost knocked her right back down to the tunnel she’d just crawled through.

  Her lips burned and her heart galloped and her whole body wanted more. She fought that urge, instead flattening her palms on his chest, half to push him away, half for the thrill of feeling his heart in perfect, wild syncopation with hers.

  “You need to see what I found,” she said breathlessly.

  “What happened to you? Where did you go? Why the hell did you leave me?” he demanded, gripping her face, his expression so pained it was impossible to tell who exactly he was furious with: her or himself.

  “I didn’t leave you!” She managed to wiggle out of his fingers. “I was on the porch deck when I fell or was pushed into some kind of secret opening to the tunnel. I was right under your damn feet, Lang. Didn’t you hear me screaming?”

  He shook his head. “You think you were pushed?”

  She dug into her memory, trying to capture the moment again. “It just all happened so fast I really don’t know, and it’s killing me. I was standing on the deck, the board under me kind of wobbled, then, wham. I was down. That tunnel must be completely soundproofed if you couldn’t hear me screaming. But more importantly, the bog house and this one are connected. You can get from there to here without ever stepping foot outside. Although”—she brushed some filth from her face and tried to bury the memory of just how many creepy-crawly living things she’d encountered as she powered through the drainage tunnel—“it ain’t a stroll through the park.”