Reclaimed

by Marliss Melton

  He caught her right arm and did the same thing. She kicked him with all the ferocity she could muster, but to no avail. Panting with exertion, lying flat on her back, Karen assessed him through the lens of her profession and quailed at what she saw. His flat, crooked nose suggested either a rough upbringing or a background in boxing. Given how efficiently he’d subdued her, this wasn’t his first dirty job. Nor would it be his last, given the remorseless gleam in his narrow-set eyes. He’d probably been the victim of childhood abuse, the hardest kind to overcome. A man like this would require years of therapy before he could be cured, no longer a menace to society.

  She clearly didn’t have that long.

  And then there was the other monster. Movement by the door drew her gaze to Jameson, who lounged against the doorframe observing her helplessness with dark satisfaction. The intent etched in his cruel smile chilled her to the bone. Realizing her struggles excited him, she forced her limbs to go slack, to look relaxed, even though she was not.

  The goon immediately trapped her ankles, which he would have managed to do regardless. He tore the pumps off her stockinged feet and tugged on her legs, intending to bind her ankles to the wrought iron footboard, only she wasn’t tall enough for his flexcuffs to reach.

  He cast his eyes around the room. “Hand me those cords from the curtain, will you, boss?”

  Karen closed her eyes, willed herself to wake up, and opened them again.

  That accomplished nothing. She knew she wasn’t dreaming, anyway. An awful taste filled her mouth as the curtains closed, blocking her view of the dark sky. The thick, tasseled sashes landed on the bed just before the bright light of the bedside lamp shone in her eyes. Jameson had come to stand beside her. By then, his henchman was tying off her second ankle, leaving her legs splayed. She wished she’d put on slacks this morning, not the black skirt now rucked to her thighs.

  She had counseled women who’d been raped. To think she might soon suffer what they’d gone through filled her with revulsion and rage.

  When Jameson held up a hand, encased in a silicone glove, she stared at it, horrified. It took her a second to realize he was clasping her home phone.

  “Now,” he drawled in his thick-as-molasses accent, “it’s time to call your husband.” He nodded at his goon, who rounded the bed with his knife. He leaned over her and laid the razor edge against her pulsing jugular.

  Connor. Just the thought of her tall, capable husband sent hope tingling to Karen’s extremities only to slam into the reality that Jameson had planned every detail of this event, and he would orchestrate it like a master puppeteer, down to the smallest detail.

  Those details crystallized in her mind. No doubt they involved catching Connor by surprise, forcing him to watch his wife be degraded by a stranger, then, when that was over, Jameson would murder them both, making it look like a double murder-suicide, with Connor responsible.

  Oh, no. She refused to draw him into this.

  “Listen,” Jameson purred, leaning over. His eyes shone like coals. “Your very life depends on your doing this right. I will dial your husband’s number and you will invite him over. Tell him anything more and my boy, here, will start cutting off your body parts. He’s been restraining himself, haven’t you, Cubbins?”

  An abrupt burning on her neck followed by the warm gush of her own blood made Karen cry out in terror, made her abandon her resolution not to call on Connor. Swallowing a scream, she tried to assess how badly she’s been cut. Cubbins lifted his blade, showed her the blood on it, and made an elaborate show of licking it off.

  Karen jerked her gaze away. Don’t react. Just think. Think, damn it!

  Clearly, she couldn’t martyr herself, not even to protect Connor. She wasn’t that brave, but she was clever. She would signal her situation to Connor somehow, without Jameson or Cubbins realizing.

  “Just. . . give me a second to get my breath,” she panted, fighting to control her fear so she could think.

  All the while, her inner child was screaming, I don’t want to be cut up! Jameson had threatened Skyler with that very thing aboard his yacht: cutting her into pieces and feeding them to the sharks. Don’t think of that. Think of what to say to Connor!

  “Time’s up.” Jameson lifted a gloved finger to the phone’s keypad. “Tell him to come over. Not a word more.” As he tapped out Connor’s number, Karen recognized the sequence of tones and wondered how he’d ever come by it. As ringing sounded on the other end, he put the phone on speaker and held it close to her face.

  What am I going to say?

  On the third ring, Connor answered with a hint of bemusement in his voice. “Karen?”

  “Hi.” Her brain shuffled through options and seized on the first one to pop into her head. “It’s so quiet with Drake and Skyler gone. I thought you might like to come over?”

  The long pause that followed told her either that her offer had caught him off guard or her use of Skyler’s real name had raised a red flag. She was hoping for the latter.

  “Uh, sure,” he said at last. Another weighty pause. “Is everything okay?”

  She glanced at the warning glint in Jameson’s eyes. “Yeah, fine. Just bring some brandy, will you? I’m all out.”

  Jameson snatched the phone back and severed the call. “What was that?” he snarled at her. “Brandy? Was that code for something?”

  “No. That’s what he drinks. I don’t have any.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  The phone started to ring, and Karen’s heart leapt with hope. Connor was calling her back. He suspected something was amiss.

  Jameson tossed the ringing phone onto the chair behind him. “Cubbins, cut her clothes off,” he commanded with relish.

  “No, please!” She caught herself begging and immediately bit her bottom lip. Squeezing her eyes shut, she thought about the man she knew was grinding his molars as he listened to her phone go to voicemail. What he would do after that depended on whether he’d understood her hidden message. They’d been married for twenty-nine years. Hell, that had to count for something.

  Chapter Three

  No answer. Something wasn’t right. Connor glanced down at the piles of paper littering his desk in his fourth-floor office in the J. Edgar Hoover Building in Washington, D.C. He’d planned to stay in the office all night, if he had, to. How the hell was he supposed to kick back and relax knowing Ashton Jameson, whom he’d worked so hard to put behind bars, had violated the terms of his bail and left the state of South Carolina?

  Where the hell had the Centurion mobster gone?

  And why would Karen call him, tonight of all nights, when she’d made it clear at Thanksgiving and, again, at Drake’s wedding that she wasn’t giving him a second chance? It was bad enough that she’d left him standing on the dance floor all alone, looking like a fool. What the hell kind of game was she playing, asking him to come over now?

  Maybe she’d changed her mind. And if she’d forgotten to put the cordless on the charger, which she often did, that would explain why she wasn’t answering his call.

  Only, she’d sounded so strained, and then there was the slipup with Skyler’s name.

  She had to be drunk, which would explain the comment about the brandy, except that she hated fucking brandy.

  He cast a preoccupied glance at the paperwork strewing his desk. As his gaze fell on the memo concerning Ashton Jameson, a sudden suspicion speared him straight through the chest.

  Jesus. It couldn’t be.

  But the suspicion only grew. Shooting to his feet, he pulled his Glock from his desk drawer, checked that the clip was full, and leaned over to jam his pistol into his ankle holster.

  Heading to the door, he snatched his trench coat off the rack and left the office. He was still threading his arms into the sleeves when he reached the emergency exit stairs. No time to wait for the elevator.

  The ringing in his ears resembled an alarm going off. Dread banded his ribcage. He ought to have considered the possibility ea
rlier that Jameson would drive straight from South Carolina to Virginia to avenge the federal agent who’d arrested him. Jameson’s last words to him echoed in his ears: I swear you’ll regret you ever laid a hand on me.

  As he raced down the stairs, Connor snatched his phone off his belt clip and thumbed a number he kept on his speed dial. He would not take chances with Karen’s life.

  “Special Agent Gallway.” The Hostage Rescue team lead answered right away.

  “Hey, it’s Donovan.” His voice echoed off the sandstone walls. “Listen, I need an eight-man team dispatched to my wife’s home address, now. You remember where that is?” Gallway used to attend the Christmas office parties Karen hosted.

  Startled silence on the other end. “Yes, sir. What’s going on?”

  “I think Ashton Jameson’s holding my wife hostage. Meet me on the corner of 24th Street and North Trenton, and I’ll fill you in.”

  Hanging up, he pushed open the heavy door to the parking garage and ran for his car, one of a few remaining. As he squealed out of the parking lot, he suffered the sense that time was ticking away on an imaginary stopwatch. He gripped the steering wheel harder and floored the accelerator.

  **

  Jameson’s dark eyes raked her now-naked body.

  Karen angled her chin and stared at the ceiling, outwardly composed, though she felt anything but confident with her clothes stripped and peeled off her body.

  “You take good care of yourself,” he noted with approval.

  Fuck you, she thought, refusing to look at him. She worked out five nights a week to keep from going home to an empty house, not so sickos like Jameson could appreciate her body.

  Cubbins, standing at the foot of the bed, smacked his lips with relish. She’d never felt so vulnerable, so transparently helpless. The loss of her dignity she could deal with. But Connor would see her differently if Cubbins defiled her. And that would hurt the most.

  Clinging to the thin thread of hope that he’d guessed her circumstances, she prayed that he would hurry. For thirty-five years, now, he had dealt with men such as these. Surely he had picked up on her distress. Nor would he walk blindly into the trap Jameson thought he was setting for him.

  A hand landed hot and heavy on Karen’s calf, sliding toward her knees. Bile crept up Karen’s throat.

  “Not yet,” Jameson snarled, arresting Cubbin’s advances. “You’ll have her soon enough. Go wait by the front door. Tell me when you see him coming.”

  With a snarl of impatience, Cubbins slumped away and left the bedroom. Karen swallowed hard at the reprieve. Jameson, she was fairly certain, wouldn’t touch her himself, for fear of leaving DNA behind. He’d hired Cubbins for that purpose, in the event that authorities suspected third-party involvement.

  “What’s taking him so long?” Jameson threaded his gloved fingers through her short, russet hair.

  “He’ll be here soon.” Her voice cracked. She wondered if she ought to try and reason with him. Talking clients off of ledges, both real and symbolic, was a common-enough task for her. “You know, it’s not too late to walk away,” she said, smoothing the tremor from her tone. “You have to know there’ll be consequences for your actions.”

  “No one will suspect me.” His nasty smile informed her that she was wasting her energy. Whatever conscience the man still had was overshadowed by his narcissism. It was simply inconceivable to him that he might lose at this game he was playing.

  Stepping toward the chair where he’d tossed her telephone, he retrieved it. “Find out where he is,” he demanded, tapping out Connor’s number a second time. “Tell him you’ve left the front door open. One more word and I’ll strangle you myself.”

  Encircling her neck in one gloved hand, he held the phone to her face.

  Connor answered immediately. “Karen.”

  His feral tone sent relief flooding through her heart. He knew! Oh, he knew.

  “Are you almost here?” Her voice wobbled with desperation, and she glanced fearfully at Jameson as he tightened his grip.

  “I’m picking up the brandy you asked for. How many bottles?”

  Her heart skipped a beat. Was he asking how many men were in the house? “Two,” she said. “Just get one expensive one, though. The front door’s open,” she added as Jameson slowly squeezed her windpipe.

  “I’ll be there soon. And, Karen?”

  The constriction of her throat made it impossible to answer.

  “I’m sorry for everything.” Connor’s voice seemed to come from so very far away, and for a heartbreaking instant, she considered she might never see him again.

  With a punch of his thumb, Jameson ended the call. He hurled the phone aside, closed a second hand around her neck, and squeezed harder. “You bitch.” He shook her by the throat. “You tried to tell him who I am!”

  Her words of denial were stuck in her throat, along with the air that could neither get out nor in. She fought to stay calm, to keep her racing heart from using up all her oxygen. He doesn’t want me dead yet.

  At last, he released her and stepped back. Her lungs expanded with relief.

  “Hey, boss,” Cubbins called suddenly from the front of the house. “I think I see a car coming.”

  As Jameson left the room to confer with him, Karen’s composure shattered. She released the sob she’d been holding in since Connor’s apology. I’m sorry for everything.

  Dear God, so was she. If she’d just accepted his compliment on the dance floor at Drake’s wedding, then maybe she wouldn’t be alone and vulnerable at this moment.

  If only he’d apologized to her then, instead of now. Funny how four simple words, I’m sorry for everything, could obliterate three decades of resentment. It didn’t even matter that he’d missed Drake and Lucy’s childhood because he was busy forging his career.

  Suddenly, ironically, she could see why he’d been so aloof, at least about his job. Who’d want to talk about the kind of fiends he dealt with on a daily basis? She’d spent less than an hour with two of them and she’d had enough to last her whole life. Connor had probably locked her out of his world to protect her, not to mention so he didn’t have to think about the bad guys in his off-hours.

  If anyone should apologize, it was she. For thinking another man could supply the emotional intimacy she craved. For being unfaithful to the only man she’d ever loved.

  Hot tears overflowed her eyes and ran into her hair. I’m sorry, too, Connor. I’m so terribly sorry. She only hoped she still had the chance to tell him.

  Chapter Four

  Uttering an unaccustomed prayer, Connor swung his Dodge Charger into Karen’s driveway and cut the engine. Please let this work. He sat in his car a moment, giving the HRT members time to catch up to him on foot and to surround the house. His pounding heart rocked him in his seat. He and Gallway had rendezvoused at the street corner and devised a rescue scenario in less than five minutes.

  There was no plan B. It was Plan A or bust.

  Gallway didn’t like it, but Connor had convinced him it was necessary. He’d seen this kind of set up before. The second bullets started flying, Jameson would put his gun to Karen’s head and pull the trigger, mobster style. The only way to decrease the odds of that happening was for Connor to get as close to her as possible before HRT made its move.

  His old home sat in darkness. Not a single light shone from any of the front rooms, only a subtle glow coming from the master bedroom at the rear. He thought he saw a silhouette behind the living room window. At the same time, the ninja-like figures of the HRT members drifted through the shadows at the edges of the property.

  Most of them would enter the house via the basement entrance, using the key Connor had held onto. A few would remain behind the mature azalea bushes dotting his property in order to catch any “squirters” lucky enough to escape.

  Kudos to Karen for confirming in their coded speech that there were two men holding her. No doubt Jameson was the expensive brandy.

  His cell phone vibrate
d. Gallway was calling him. “Yeah.”

  “Entering the basement now,” Gallway murmured, his shallow breaths audible. “I hear footsteps overhead and a man’s voice.”

  “Proceed to the top of the stairs and wait for the go-code,” Connor said. “The stairs squeak, so easy going up.”

  “Roger that. Be careful, sir. Keep your phone on.”

  Without hanging up, Connor dropped his phone into the inside pocket of his trench coat. That way, HRT could overhear his cue. His intestines knotted as he pushed out of his car. Fear was a familiar bedfellow in his line of business, but this went beyond fear. This was personal.

  The thought that this could be his last day alive jagged through this mind. And he’d spent it how? Working, as usual—something he had done day in and day out his entire adult life. Diligence had made him a special agent in charge. It had also sent his wife into the arms of another man and cost him his marriage.

  What a fool he’d been to think that he, alone, could hold back the tide of crime. There were others like him, men like his son Drake, who were willing to share that burden so that their jobs didn’t consume them, so that their lives still held quality and meaning.

  It was Karen who’d brought meaning to his existence. And yet, in his ambition and his egotism, he’d failed to realize it. Until it was almost too late.

  As his toe hit the front stoop, he gathered his splintered thoughts, climbed the steps and reached for the doorknob. Just like Karen said on the phone, it was unlocked. His palm itched for the weight of his Glock. But if he came in shooting, she would pay the price. He’d seen that happen with the Marsalis case. So he kept his Glock out of sight, hoping it would be overlooked.

  Turning the knob, he gingerly pushed the door open. The familiar fragrance of home, of apples and vanilla, greeted him, along with a hair-raising silence.

  “Karen, I’m here,” he called out in a voice he hardly recognized.