When Danger Calls (Blackthorne, Inc.)

by Terry Odell

  That thought took her too far into turbulent waters. Earlier, she'd waited around until Molly and Ryan left the confines of the corral for the trail. The way Ryan interacted with Molly, as if he enjoyed her, even cared for her, brought a lump to her throat. Molly was awe-struck and Frankie feared her daughter was growing attached to the man too quickly.

  As if she herself weren't. Lust, infatuation, gratitude, she told herself. But why did her heart tumble in her chest every time she thought of him? And why did she think of him all the time? Because the alternative was thinking about her mother and Bob, and Brenda. Definitely not because she could be falling in love. Love didn't fit into her agenda.

  Enough daydreaming. She swung her legs out of the car and stood, knuckling her lower back, trying to unkink muscles stiffened by bending and crouching to get some macro shots of newly emerging wildflowers. She straightened her shoulders and strode up the steps to the front door. The door wasn't even shut tight, much less locked. A pang of guilt spread through her as she realized her phone call had sent Ryan flying. She pushed on the door, which swung open without a creak.

  Well, well, Ryan Harper. You really did leave in a rush. Whatever were you doing?

  Books rested in piles on the floor. DVD cases, some open and empty, lay next to the easy chair. The disks sat in a stack on the coffee table. She stepped around the mess and into the kitchen. Dirty dishes on the counter, the half-full trash can in the middle of the room. The bedroom wasn't much better, with clothes lying in haphazard heaps on the floor, and dresser drawers open with contents half in, half out.

  "Bachelors," she muttered. She'd promised not to hold it against him, but she wondered why the place was such a disaster. It hadn't been anything like this the last time she'd been here. Maybe he'd been searching for something when she called.

  If so, she owed him. Humming under her breath, she started in the bedroom. After making the bed, she picked up the clothes from the floor and piled them on top, automatically sorting them into lights and darks for washing.

  In the closet, shirts hung half on, half off of hangers. She straightened them, tripping on a backpack. She assumed the items on the floor had fallen from the pack, and replaced them. Apparently the pack belonged in a gap on the high shelf running along the top of the closet. Not quite able to reach, she stretched and half-tossed it upwards. It took several tries before it settled into position. Scraps of paper floated down. A faded credit card receipt, a torn piece of lined paper with a phone number, and a cigar band. Ryan didn't smoke, did he? He'd better not, not around Molly. Shoving them into her pocket to deal with later, she closed the closet door.

  Tackling the dresser next, she refolded his t-shirts and sweaters and put them away. The top drawer held socks and underwear, and she was tempted to leave everything in its current jumbled state.

  Don't be ridiculous. It's laundry. Sort, fold, and put it back.

  A smile escaped when she noted that in addition to a few pairs of utilitarian cotton briefs, he had some silk boxers. Red, black, and leopard print. Stop. She did not need to be tingling all over.

  In the kitchen, she filled the sink with soapy water and stacked the dishes to soak, then went to attack the mess in the living room. She made up her mind not to say anything when Ryan got back. No need to embarrass him, or look like a nag.

  She started arranging the loose disks alphabetically so she could match them to their cases. The odds were against her getting them back on the shelf the same way they had been. Same for the books. Well, Mr. Slob could deal with it, assuming he noticed.

  When she finished, she ended up with an empty case for Gone With the Wind and a disk marked GWTW. Ryan or Josh must have made a copy. Come to think of it, it had been years since she'd seen the movie, and a little distraction would be welcome. When she slipped the disk into the DVD player and turned on the television, nothing happened. After fiddling with buttons on the unit and the remote, she decided it must be a bad copy—until her eyes spied Ryan's laptop.

  "Your last chance," she muttered, her heart now set on an afternoon with Rhett and Scarlet.

  Although she found no available electric outlet near the sofa, she refused to be thwarted. The bedroom would be even better. Curled up in bed, a box of tissues by her side—maybe Ryan had some popcorn? What better way to spend a lazy afternoon. How long had it been since she'd treated herself to some personal time? She glanced at her watch. Ryan had said not to expect them for several hours. He planned to take Molly to some meadow, get her good and tired, and then back to the ranch to put up the horses before joining her.

  Anticipation rising, she set up the computer and went to the kitchen to hunt for a snack. The dishes in the sink glared at her, and she automatically started washing, then stopped, mid-dish.

  "No. You can soak awhile longer. My turn."

  When the front door burst open, she started. Were they back already? Wiping her hands on a towel, she pivoted toward the living room.

  "Ryan? I didn't expect—"

  The black-clad man at the door was definitely not Ryan. Her heart pounded, but when he stepped further into the room and the light, she relaxed. "Dalton? Hi. I assume you're looking for Ryan. He took Molly riding, but he should be back in an hour or two. I was going to watch Gone With the Wind, but it won't play on the television, so—"

  "Hello, Frankie. Still chattering on, I see."

  "Sorry." She grinned. "Anything I can do?"

  His eyes moved up and down her body, almost tangibly. Uncomfortably so. Had he looked at her that way before? Or did it bother her now because of the way she felt about Ryan? Stop it. She wasn't supposed to feel that way about Ryan.

  He gave her an easy grin. "Actually, I ran into Ryan. He wants me to bring you to him."

  "Is anything wrong? Is Molly hurt?" Scenarios of Molly falling off of Sparky into a stream or down a ravine wound through her head. "Do I need a first aid kit?"

  He chuckled. "Nothing like that, little lady. They're fine and dandy. They want you to join them is all. I've got wheels—we can be there in under ten minutes."

  "Right. Let me get my bag and jacket." She moved toward the table by the door where she had dropped them.

  "Let me help you," he said, and held her jacket. When she reached back to slide her arm into the sleeve, he grasped her wrist, and the next thing she knew, her hands were twisted behind her. Some kind of cloth bag went over her face. The weave was coarse enough to let some light in, but too dense to make out anything but flickering shadows.

  "What are you doing? Let me go!"

  "Sorry, darlin'. I need you to be quiet. His warm Texas drawl had grown colder than the stream Molly had fallen in.

  She felt a sharp sting in her arm, and then even the shadows disappeared.

  Chapter 21

  Ryan woke to darkness, stiff and groggy, a pounding in his head distracting him from the roiling nausea in his stomach. With nothing but instinct to rely on, he knew he was someone's captive. Keeping his breathing steady, trying not to call attention to the fact that he was conscious, he assessed the situation.

  The pain in his head faded as a growing agony in his shoulders swelled, especially in his recently injured one. He squinted into the darkness, the scrape of rough cloth over his eyes telling him he was blindfolded. The air smelled damp and musty, with no hint of a breeze or any warmth of the afternoon sun. Probably in a darkened room, he thought, or else he'd been out for hours.

  Mentally, he worked his way down his body. Something hard pressed against his back, behind his knees, and the edge of his buttocks. A chair? Okay, he was secured to a point above and behind him, keeping him elevated enough so the seat didn't support all his weight. His legs dangled above the ground, unless he'd lost all feeling in them. Wiggling his toes let him know he hadn't, and that he was still wearing his boots. But his legs must be bound at the knees and ankles, because they moved as a unit, and not far. A little discreet wiggling confirmed this, quickly halted by the strain on his shoulders.


  He listened for any signs that he wasn't alone. Nothing but his own breathing. His head cleared a bit, and he remembered the two hikers who'd come out of the woods while he and Molly—Molly!

  Where was she? Damn, his brain was fried. Whatever they'd given him had fogged his memory. Behind his blindfold, he strained to remember, to call up a mental image. A surge of adrenaline as he thought of someone harming her helped clear his head.

  Hikers at the side of the road, packs at their feet. Staring and arguing over a map, one pointing one way, another shaking his head and pointing the other. Skin color? He blinked, as if it would clear the darkness that hung in front of his eyes. Long sleeves. Dark skin, but was it a clue to their ethnicity or simply a result of the sun?

  Voices? Accents? He tried to play back the audio. The crackle of paper as hands slapped against the map. No, no, uttered in deep male voices, but no discernable accent. Hell, he could say no himself in at least eight languages and not give away his native tongue.

  Another layer of fog lifted, and he remembered the third man. Or woman. He'd been ambushed by someone approaching from the other side. Before he could turn and focus, he'd felt a jab in his thigh. Someone yanked him from his horse. He remembered a struggle, and then the lights went out. But not before he heard Molly cry out for her mother.

  He forgot all about stealth. "Who the hell are you?" Ryan screamed into the darkness. "Where's Molly? So help me, if you've hurt her, I'll—"

  Silence answered. His fingers had gone numb, and he clenched his hands in and out of fists to restore circulation. His shoulders throbbed. He worked his legs up and down, back and forth, trying to loosen whatever bound them.

  Could be worse. He could be swinging like a side of beef on a meat hook. At least his shoulders weren't supporting his entire body weight.

  Damn if he wasn't looking on the bright side. Frankie had definitely wormed her way inside him. At least she'd be safe, back at Josh's. And when he didn't show up by dark, she'd go for help.

  But this wasn't only about him. Molly was somewhere. Afraid for her, furious, he struggled against his bonds. Moving flooded him with nausea, and he took slow, deep breaths. Dammit, he'd been in situations like this before, but always as part of a team. A team that would never leave someone behind made pain and uncertainty bearable. He fought the unfamiliar feeling of despair and focused on testing each restraint. He knew better than to struggle, that it would tighten the ropes.

  If he got one foot high enough to pry off a boot, maybe he could slip through the bindings? Be steady. Be methodical.

  Had his ankles moved a little further since the last time he tried? Small increments were still progress. Time lost all meaning.

  Breathe. Move your foot. Don't lose your balance. Breathe again.

  A creak sounded from in front and to his left. He felt a change in the air. Even blindfolded, he sensed increased light in the room. A door had opened. A faint odor of the woods, quickly masked by the acrid tang of sweat.

  He froze.

  "Too late, Mr. Harper. No need to feign unconsciousness. It's obvious you're awake."

  A male voice, not a native English speaker, refined, but an indeterminate accent. Undoubtedly cultivated to obscure its origin.

  "Who are you, and what do you want from me?" he demanded. "Where's Molly?"

  "Ah, the child. Yes. Such a sweet, innocent girl. She is unharmed." A pause. "For now."

  From a distance, to his right, he heard a weapon being racked. Automatically, his muscles tensed. Two of them, then. The hikers?

  "What do you want?" he asked again. "Where's Molly?"

  "Tell us where the file is, and we can talk about little Molly."

  "File? What are you talking about?" Dammit, if he had anything someone wanted this bad, it must be important. The intel from Alvarez? What could these folks want with stolen art? But he knew better than to jump to conclusions. "Let me see Molly and we can talk."

  Footsteps approached, and he heard a sound he recognized. Too familiar. Like a fist slapping against a palm as a warm-up to whacking someone. Not able to see the blow, not knowing where it would hit, only that it would hurt like a mother, he clenched already tight muscles even harder.

  A punch to his solar plexus made him pitch forward. His shoulder screamed with the added strain, and he gritted his teeth to keep from crying out. The next blow was to the side of his head, then one to his bad knee, another one to the face, and he lost track after that, drowning in a sea of pain, no longer giving a damn about being quiet. He swallowed blood. He hoped his nose wasn't broken. Stars swam in front of his eyes, illuminating his private darkness. His ears rang. That creep had been using more than his fists.

  "Enough." Mr. Manners' voice floated through the agony. "I know you enjoy your work, but you're not permitting our guest to answer my questions."

  A grunt, and footsteps scuffed backward. Okay, Mr. Manners was calling the shots. Ryan turned his head to the side and spat blood in the direction of Mr. Muscle. A quick shuffle told him he had either hit his target or come close.

  "I do apologize for my colleague's enthusiasm, Mr. Harper. Now, perhaps we can get down to business, yes?"

  He sucked air through his mouth, the only way he could breathe. "Show me Molly."

  "Surely you won't be so stubborn that you'd jeopardize her safety, Mr. Harper. Where is the file?"

  Pain and fear for Molly congealed into a mass of uncontrolled rage. "What goddamn file, you motherfucker? Your goddamn intel is out of date. I'm not in the business. Got kicked out on my goddamn ass and I don't have any goddamn files."

  "Tsk, tsk, Mr. Harper. Such language. Is it really necessary to be so…vulgar?"

  "Put it on my tab," he muttered.

  "I'm afraid I don't understand your reference, Mr. Harper."

  "Inside joke."

  The door opened again. He heard footsteps followed by a thud of an object dropped to the floor. Mr. Manners moved away, and after some hushed whispers, the door closed. When he spoke again, his voice was flat. Ryan shivered with its coldness.

  "It appears I was partly mistaken, Mr. Harper. The file is now in my possession. However, the key is missing. I am sure our people will be able to decode it, but I'm afraid time is of the essence. If you will relinquish the code, you will soon be reunited with the child." Ryan heard a skidding thud, as if the man had kicked an impediment out of his way. "And perhaps someone else you seem to be fond of."

  God, no. Frankie? Pop? "I don't know anything about any code, or key, or whatever."

  "You lied before, Mr. Harper. Why should I believe you now? Perhaps you would like a little time to consider the situation. I will be back."

  "Not without Molly. I see her, or I don't talk."

  Footsteps retreated, the door opened, clicked shut, and then silence. No, not total silence. He held his breath. No movement, but faint breathing sounds, barely audible. Someone else was in the room.

  *****

  Frankie drifted within the darkness, slowly rising from the mist that surrounded her. It couldn't be time for work already. She hadn't prepared her lessons. "Ten more minutes," she mumbled under her breath. Aware she wasn't in her own bed—that she wasn't in a bed at all—she snapped awake, trying to remember.

  She'd been in a car. But she wasn't moving, heard no engine sounds. Had it been a dream? Dim light filtered through the cloth covering her head. Her cheek pressed against a hard surface. Even through the cloth, it was rough and smelled like dirt and wood. A dirty floor. So, she wasn't in a car. Brilliant deduction. Hip bones and floor met in painful discord. She shifted. Thousands of stinging needles flamed in cramped limbs as the circulation returned. She gasped through her teeth.

  "Who's there?" A deep voice, rasping and nasal, came from above.

  Her head cleared a little. She couldn't see. Maybe the voice was another blinded captive.

  A cough, a throat-clearing sound, and spitting. "I know you're there. Who the hell are you?" This time, the voice was clearer. Her heart
lifted. Ryan.

  "You owe me a quarter," she said, clambering to her feet. Dizziness kept her from following the sound of his voice, and she bent double, taking slow deep breaths.

  "Frankie. God, are you all right? What happened?"

  "Dizzy. Give me a minute. How's Molly? They didn't blindfold her, did they? She's afraid of the dark, especially in strange places."

  The answering silence chilled like a glacier. Yanking the sack from her head, she blinked and scanned the space, searching for anything that might be Molly.

  A single room. Some sort of storage shed? One window, partially boarded over, striped the floor with gold from the late afternoon sun. A wide shelf, about four feet from the floor, ran the length of two adjacent walls. Ryan hung from the roof, half-seated on the shelf. But no Molly.

  Rushing to free him, she braced herself for answers she didn't want, and asked again, "Where's Molly?"

  "I'm so sorry." His voice was a hoarse croak.

  Her heart lurched. The room spun, and she grabbed the shelf.

  "No. No, she's not…she can't be…"

  "Honey, no. They said she was all right. I am so damn sorry. I never saw it coming."

  "What did you do to my daughter? I trusted you with her. How could you let anything happen to her? What kind of a man are you, letting someone steal a child?" Hysteria mounted, but she swallowed it. Screaming wouldn't bring Molly back.

  Ryan groaned. "God, honey. I don't know. Please. Get me down. We'll figure it out."

  She grabbed his legs, helping him get his feet onto the shelf. "Wait," she said. "Don't stand up all the way. You'll hit your head. We're in some kind of a storage shed. You're on a shelf. The rope around your wrists goes over a beam or a rafter or whatever you call it, and it's a low ceiling to begin with."

  "My blindfold. Take it off."

  "Let me get this first." Right now, she couldn't deal with his eyes. His face, covered in blood, with purple bruises swelling on his cheeks, evoked a twinge of pity. She blinked. She didn't want to feel sorry for him. He'd lost her daughter. Stretching on tiptoe to reach his wrists, she fussed with the knots, trying to stop the trembling in her hands.