When Danger Calls (Blackthorne, Inc.)

by Terry Odell

  "Stop moving," she said, not disguising her irritation. "You're making it harder. Back up."

  He slid his feet backward until he clunked into the wall. She sidled in front of him, frustrated by knots she could barely see. "Why isn't there a piece of broken glass, or a rusty nail? They always find those in the movies."

  "Welcome to the real world," Ryan mumbled.

  Her body pressed against his, and he exhaled explosively. He adjusted himself against the wall, giving her space. His jaw clenched.

  "I'm hurting you," she said. "I'm sorry." How long had he been strung up like that?

  "I've been worse." His words slithered out, one at a time.

  "I think it's getting looser. The problem is, if you raise your arms to give me slack, I can't reach the knots as well."

  "Check my pockets. Anything that will cut? Keys?"

  Neither spoke while she reached behind him, patted his rear pockets, then checked his front ones.

  "Nothing," she said.

  "What about my belt? You can use the buckle."

  "You're not wearing one."

  "Makes sense. They knew what they were doing. Anything lying around?"

  "No. It's clean—except it's dirty, if that makes sense."

  "Perfect sense." He braced himself tighter against the wall. "Do what you have to do."

  As she worked the knot, she tried to ignore the intimate way their bodies pressed together, the same way she tried to ignore her fear for Molly. Then she remembered what she'd heard as she awakened. Ryan, his voice choked with rage and compassion, telling them to bring Molly back and he'd give them what they wanted.

  She couldn't blame him for this. Mothers protected their children. She hadn't been there when someone grabbed Molly. Ryan was a professional. If he hadn't been able to save Molly, what could she have done? He was experienced, and if they were going to get out, she'd have to rely on him. And as if that was the answer, the knot opened enough to get her finger under it, and it yielded to her demands. She yanked on the rope, bringing it down from the rafters.

  Once his arms were released, Ryan collapsed onto the platform like a marionette whose strings had been cut. He yanked the blindfold from his eyes and cursed.

  "Are you all right?" she asked. "You're all bloody." She swung her legs over the edge of the platform and sat there, stiff from working with her arms above her head for so long, and still a little disoriented from the drug.

  "From my nose." He touched it with a fingertip. "Don't think it's broken after all."

  He ran his hands down his body, checking and testing. "I'll be sore, but I'm all right. How about you?"

  "I'm fine, I think. Fuzzy. A little queasy. Can't remember much."

  "Feels like there was Versed or Rohypnol in whatever they drugged us with. Gives you amnesia. Things come back, eventually."

  Frankie took a deep breath and looked Ryan in the eye. "All right. What do we do now?"

  Chapter 22

  "First," Ryan said, "we figure out what we're up against." He slid off his perch, biting back the curse as pain shot through his knee. Frankie grabbed his elbow in support.

  "Should you be walking?" She slid her arm around his waist. "I heard them talking—at least I don't think I was dreaming—and they said they'd be back. Won't they bring Molly? Shouldn't we wait? If they come back and we're gone, they might…hurt her."

  From the trembling in her voice, he knew she had already thought about the alternative. So had he. Carmelita's eyes hovered in his memory, and he willed them away. Thinking the worst wouldn't do any good.

  "They said she was okay. We have to believe it." He hoped he sounded convincing. Right now, late afternoon sunlight streamed in through the window, but it would be dark in a few hours, and he had no idea where they were. "Can we get out? Did you try the door?"

  Her eyes opened wide. "Stupid. I assumed we were locked in." She hurried to the door and unfastened the simple wooden latch. She yanked on the handle. Pounded on the door. Crestfallen, she turned to him. "And I guess I was right."

  His brain was still mush. The blood he'd swallowed threatened to come up, and he forced his mind elsewhere. He took a tentative step forward, then another. Frankie joined him and slid her arm around his waist, and he let her take some of his weight while he tested bruised and beaten muscles.

  "Are you sure you shouldn't be resting?" she asked.

  "Nothing's broken. Walking helps." He hoped so. He rotated his shoulders, worked his arms, rubbed his wrists. Frankie's growing impatience was obvious from the way she increased the pace of their stroll around the small cabin. She must have had a lower dose of whatever knocked them out. Plus, she hadn't gone three rounds with Mr. Muscle.

  She dropped her arm from him and paced, picking up speed like a NASCAR driver. He limped along, grateful that she hadn't been hurt. After ten laps, he flagged her down.

  "Take it easy, honey. You're giving me whiplash."

  She stopped and leaned her back against the wall, oozing to the floor. She hugged her shins and rested her forehead on her knees. "I'm sorry. I have to move when I'm upset. What if they tied her up? Blindfolded her? She'll be so scared. They said wait. Maybe that's the smart thing to do. They could be right outside waiting for us to try to escape."

  He stood across the room from her, gripping the shelf for support. Damn, he was still woozy. He lifted his head to the window, inhaling the fresh air flowing in, trying to work off the drugs.

  "We can't rush blindly into anything. We're going to have to be patient for a little while and come up with a plan." His head cleared a bit, and he managed to string a couple of thoughts together. "I have a file they want. That's our bargaining chip. If they hurt me or Molly, they won't get it."

  Her head snapped up and even in the dim light, her eyes flashed. "Well, then why didn't you give it to them already? What gives you the right to play God with my daughter?"

  "Because I don't have a clue what the hell they're talking about," he muttered.

  "What do you mean, you don't know what they want?"

  She uncoiled and resumed her circling, her feet scuffing up dust into motes that danced in the sunlight.

  "My job makes me enemies. Those two thugs could be someone I pissed off years ago. Or hired out by someone I pissed off."

  "If you had to guess, what would it be?"

  "Logic says my last job. Someone gave me some computer files he said were important. But I've looked. The only thing on them is a list of some stolen art, or forgeries—nothing particularly special."

  "So give it to them."

  "From what the guy said, he's got what he wants, but he needs some key. That's the part I have no clue about."

  "Can you pretend to have it, or make up a story? So he'll let Molly go?"

  He crossed the room and intercepted her, cradling her face in his hands. "Honey, you're going to have to trust me here. These people are not honest. Simply because they say they're going to release her is no reason to believe them."

  "You don't think they've already hurt Molly?" Tears glistened in her eyes.

  "Listen to me. We are going to get out of here, figure out where they hell we are, and take it from there. I need you to do what I say."

  She nodded, but didn't look convinced.

  He hauled himself onto the shelf and checked the window. The boards were nailed from the outside, the one thing that had gone right since this mess started. If he could kick one or two away, Frankie should fit. He lay on his back, curled his fingers over the edge of the shelf behind him for support, and kicked against the planks. Pain shot through his left knee. Tears sprang to his eyes. He kicked again, using his right leg. No point in escaping if he couldn't walk.

  "Can I help?" Frankie asked.

  "You're not tall enough. But I think I felt the board give."

  Five kicks, and one end of a board loosened. Two more kicks, and he'd knocked it free. He stood, too quickly, and gripped the window frame until the dizziness passed. Once it had, he wrenche
d the board from the window. He leaned out, grateful to see there wasn't much of a drop to the ground, and that the terrain beneath the window was level and not too rocky. The next board popped off readily. Maybe Frankie's presence was enough to create a bright side.

  "Come here," he said. "I'm going to lower you out the window. Go around and see if you can open the door. Most of these old shacks don't have padlocks."

  That made two things working in their favor, he thought when Frankie pulled the door open. He blinked at the bright light.

  "You were right. It's a board in a slot, not even a real lock," she said.

  Once they were outside, he refastened the door. The window was at the back of the shack, away from the approach trail, so he didn't think anyone would notice they'd escaped right away.

  "Let's go," he said.

  "Where? Do you know where we are? Are you sure we shouldn't wait?"

  "I have something they want. They have something we want. They're not going to relinquish their power and bring her back that easily. The important thing is to figure out where they are, and where they have Molly."

  "We should go back to your place, or your father's. Or the first place with a phone. Call the police. They can call the search parties, and the dogs, and helicopters, and—"

  He put his finger to her lips. "We can't."

  She wrested his hand away. "Why not? What can the two of us do in the middle of wherever we are? You're hurt, and I'm no woodsman—woodswoman—woodsperson. Whatever. I'm no good in the woods. The cops have experts. I don't mean you're not an expert, but there's only one of you. Come on. We have to get going." She headed down the trail, dragging him behind her.

  "Frankie, stop."

  "What do you mean? It'll be dark soon, and we need to get help. Fast. Down is the logical way to go, right?" She tugged at his arm.

  He spun her around and put his hands on her shoulders. "I want you to trust me. I know these kind of people."

  "I may not know them, but I'm smart enough to know I don't want my daughter anywhere near them a second longer. The faster we get help, the sooner they'll find her."

  "Frankie, listen to me." His mouth went dry, and his throat tightened. God, he didn't want to hurt her, but no matter how much he dreaded telling her, he couldn't find any way around what he knew was the truth. Her eyes, seconds ago eager with the thought of rescuing her daughter, signaled uncertainty. And fear. He rubbed the back of his neck.

  "What?" she said. "Tell me. You said she was alive. They said they'd bring her back. Why do we have to go find her all by ourselves?"

  He pulled her off the trail and sat on a log, lowering her beside him. He felt the tension, like a tightly coiled spring, where her thigh touched his. "Molly's not a child to these people. Not a person. She's a commodity. A bargaining chip to use to get me to talk. But I don't have the information they want. If she's useless that way …." He searched for the words.

  "They'll kill her. Is that what you're trying to say?"

  Part of him wished that was all they'd do. A boulder sat in his belly. "She's young, she's got big, blue eyes and light hair. There are places where she'd bring a good price. They'd probably keep her safe for a few years, until she's older—"

  Frankie jumped from her seat and paced. "White slavery? Or—God, are you telling me they'd sell her to some…man…some animal…who'd…who'd…with my baby?"

  He tried to hold her gaze, but couldn't, and talked to the trees above them instead. "I'm not willing to risk it. I'd love to believe they're sitting around a fire, reading Green Eggs and Ham with Mr. Snuggles and drinking hot chocolate, but those aren't the kind of people we're dealing with. If they know someone's after them, the first whiff of the cops, and they'll disappear, and take her with them."

  She stopped in front of him, her lips white, her cheeks flushed. He stood, ready to gather her into his arms before she collapsed. She swayed for a moment before she looked at him, chin raised and said, "Then let's get the hell moving and find the bastards who have my daughter."

  *****

  Frankie moved as fast as she dared down the trail, Ryan limping beside her. Dried blood painted his face, and his lips were parted as he sucked air. Good. He deserved to hurt, after what he'd let happen. Soon enough, she panted as well, part from exertion, part from panic.

  She slowed, but Ryan forged on. Some of her panic left as she saw the determination in Ryan's face. Being angry at him was a waste of precious energy. If he could suppress his pain, she could do the same with her fears. Let her turn her mind elsewhere. She wasn't certain they'd made the right decision. But for now, she followed him down the trail, putting her trust in his experience. Look for the bright side. She was out in the middle of nowhere, some evil people had kidnapped her daughter, but she was with a man who knew what he was doing.

  They reached the point where the trail met the road, although it was narrow and unpaved. She noticed tire tracks in the dust. Ryan stopped and looked in both directions.

  "Can you tell which way they went?" she asked.

  He shook his head. "One lane road. But there seems to be more tire activity than I'd expect out here."

  "Here? Do you know where we are?" She sucked in a few deep breaths, trying to loosen the bands in her chest.

  He nodded. "If we bushwhack, about five miles from Josh's place. On the road, closer to ten. But we need to think about where they went, not about getting back."

  She wondered if he'd stopped to let her catch her breath until she noticed his own labored breathing and took a closer look at his bruises. He must have sensed her concern, because he gave her hand a reassuring squeeze.

  "I've been hurt a lot worse, honey. And today's nothing compared to how I'll feel tomorrow, so let's keep moving." He paused, and his eyes widened. At least one of them did. The other was disappearing behind purple swelling. He raked his fingers through his hair.

  "Shit. I'm not thinking straight. Let's start at the beginning. At least three thugs are involved. They picked me up on the trail. The next thing I know, I'm hanging from the ceiling. They had to have put me in a car or truck. My guess is wherever they have Molly is going to be somewhere fairly accessible."

  "But you said it would be faster to…bushwhack?"

  "If I knew where they were going, we could take a shortcut through the woods, yes." Alarm rose in his eyes. He put his hands under her chin, lifted her face.

  She pushed his hands away and rubbed her cheeks. "What's wrong? Did they mark me?"

  "No, you look fine. It finally registered that they drugged you and dumped you in the shack, too. Where did they pick you up? Did anyone hurt you?" He ran his hands gently down her arms, as if feeling for broken bones. Picked up her hands, traced his fingers along her wrists. "They didn't tie you up?"

  Her own memory hovered in the distance. She strained to remember more. "No, I had that sack—" she pointed to the burlap bag Ryan had tucked into his jeans—"over my head, but I wasn't tied. Just drugged."

  The relief in his eyes was obvious. "Let's walk that way." He tilted his chin up the road. "There are more of these shacks. Old storage sheds, and places where the old timers could get out of the weather if they had to. There's a stream not far, and we both need to hydrate. We won't be any good to anyone if we collapse."

  Until he said it, Frankie hadn't realized how dry her mouth was. Fear or dehydration, it didn't matter. She was suddenly very thirsty.

  At the stream, Frankie crouched and cupped water into her mouth. Was this part of the same stream Molly had tumbled into what seemed a lifetime ago? At the time, she couldn't remember ever having been so frightened for her daughter. She didn't know then how much deeper fear could burrow.

  She drank her fill and splashed the icy water on her face to clear her head some more. Ryan knelt a few yards away, using his blindfold as a washcloth, cleaning the blood from his face, and pressing it against the bruises on his face. He rinsed the band of cloth, dipped it once more, and tied it around his forehead. As much to eas
e what had to be a killer headache as to keep his hair out of his eyes, she thought.

  Battered and bruised, he was a warrior.

  She stood and stepped to his side. "Are you all right?"

  He gave her a crooked smile. "I'd feel better if I had some kind of weapon. I'm afraid our captors are armed with more than a gunny sack and a few rusty nails. You wouldn't have an AK-47 in your pocket, would you? An M-16? How about a Swiss Army knife?"

  "Don't think so." She dug through a front pocket. "I have two quarters, a dime and a rubber band." She laid them on a tree stump, before fishing through her other one. "Chap stick, some tissues and—oh, I found these in your closet. I was going to throw them away, but I forgot. He dismissed the scrap of paper and the credit card receipt, but took the cigar band.

  "I didn't think you smoked," she said.

  "I don't. It was a present from my last job." He turned the band around, then went rigid. His eyebrows shot upward.

  "What? Is it important?"

  "I don't know, but considering where this came from, it might be what those creeps are looking for. There are some numbers and letters written on the back." He slipped it into his back pocket.

  Her pulse raced. "Then you can give it to them, and they'll give us Molly, right?"

  His jaw clamped shut. His eyes moved to the ground. She tried not to scream. "You said that's what they want. They said if they got the key, they'd give Molly back. You're going to give it to them, aren't you?"

  His lips narrowed to a thin, white line. His brow furrowed. He rubbed his jaw. "I—"

  "You what? You'd sacrifice my daughter for a bunch of art?" He couldn't be thinking about keeping the key, if that's what it was, a secret. It could be Molly's death sentence—or worse. Drawing a breath became an effort.

  "What if it's more?"

  She could barely hear his words. But the anguish came through loud and clear. "Oh, my. Like, the plans for a terrorist attack?" Visions of explosions, of dead bodies—dead children—floated in front of her. She swayed. Her daughter or …. He couldn't expect her to choose.