Dead By Nightfall

by Beverly Barton

  If not for a man named Griffin Powell, Rafe would not have survived even the first month on Amara. He owed Griff his life. But there were times, those lonely, soul-searching moments when a man cannot hide from himself, that Rafe wished Griff had never intervened. For three years on Amara, the angelic boy who dreamed of devoting his life to God had endured every aspect of hell here on Earth. And for the past sixteen years he had existed for one purpose. He had become a brutal, merciless fallen angel, a weapon of vengeance and punishment. He killed in the name of justice and had never asked forgiveness from the God who had forsaken him.

  “Leo, please let’s go with the others.” Cassie Wilder tugged on his sleeve, her touch jerking him abruptly from his memories. “Harlan knows the most decadent places in London where all sorts of wicked things go on.”

  “If that’s what you would like to do.” Rafe slid his hand down her back to rest in the curve of her spine, playing his role as her attentive date. “Is the entire dinner party going?”

  “I don’t think so. Just a few of us.”

  The group mingled in the private room, several saying their good-byes with air kisses and insipid mock hugs, while others lingered, apparently eager to follow Harlan Benecroft to whatever den of iniquity he planned to visit.

  “You two simply must join us.” Harlan came over and draped his hefty arm around Cassie’s shoulders. “I know this delicious, exclusive club where the entertainment is marvelously titillating.”

  “We wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Cassie assured him as she snuggled against Rafe. “Leo is such a darling about doing whatever I want to do.”

  “A man must never give a woman everything she wants.” Yves Bouchard joined the conversation, a wide smile on his aging pretty boy face. “You must remember that a woman wants a man to be a man and never a doormat.”

  Rafe forced a phony, amused laugh. “I am always prepared to learn from an older and wiser man.”

  Bouchard searched Rafe’s face for any sign of sarcasm and apparently seeing none, he laughed as he slapped Rafe on the back. “I believe I’m going to like you, Kasan.”

  “The limousine is waiting,” Harlan said. “Come, children, the night is young and full of promise.”

  Rafe kept his arm around Cassie’s waist as they joined Harlan’s small group of fun-seekers. On the deepest level of his being, two emotions stirred to life—revulsion and anticipation. The moment Bouchard’s hand touched him, Rafe had cringed, wanting nothing more than to kill the man on the spot. The last time Bouchard had touched him ... But anticipation outweighed the revulsion. After over a decade and a half of searching for the elusive billionaire, he had found him. It was only a matter of time until he sent the son of a bitch to meet his maker.

  Patience.

  Over the years, he had cultivated the invaluable qualities of perseverance, patience, and self-control.

  Rafe was one of six who entered the elevator with Harlan. Cassie and a bone-thin, middle-aged brunette were the only two women in the group. And the way the older woman kept eyeing Cassie, made Rafe suspect she was a lesbian. He knew for a fact that Cassandra Wilder swung both ways and proudly boasted to the press about her sexual exploits as a bisexual woman. Bouchard, though cordial with the others, seemed disinterested in the two women, in Rafe, and in the other three men.

  Once ensconced in Harlan’s limo, the group of seven settled back as their host popped a fresh bottle of champagne and filled their glasses to overflowing. Rafe sipped the sparkling wine while the others devoured theirs. He occasionally nuzzled Cassie’s neck and laid a possessive hand on her knee, all the while subtly observing the others.

  Twenty minutes later, the limo pulled up at the back of a dark warehouse near the Thames. A slightly inebriated Harlan exited first. His guests followed his lead like ducklings waddling behind their mama. After removing a key from his pocket and unlocking a heavy metal door, their host entered the building and led them down a dimly lit corridor to a service elevator. As the clanking elevator ascended, the sound of music and laughter drifted downward from the loft area.

  When they reached the top level, two naked, muscular black guards opened a set of double doors to reveal the private club.

  Heavy, room-darkening drapes covered all the windows, cocooning the massive loft in shadowy warmth. The diffused lighting, soft pinks and vivid reds, created a mysteriously wanton atmosphere. Small stages set up at ten foot intervals around the outskirts of the huge room surrounded the crowds of onlookers, men and women of various ages and races. On eight of the twelve separate podiums, one or more performers participated in some type of sex act for the entertainment of the club’s patrons.

  Rafe had seen this type of club before and knew that for the right price any of the performers could be bought—for the night, the week or indefinitely.

  Around the world, people were bought and sold as if they were livestock, some sold into servitude, some into sexual bondage, and others as prey in hunting games for bored sadists who no longer found hunting wild animals a challenge.

  He knew only too well the nightmarish hell in which these boys and girls, who ranged in age from preteens to young adults in their early twenties, existed. That world was populated by rich and powerful perverts such as Harlan Benecroft and Yves Bouchard, a world created and perpetuated by men such as Malcolm York. A world from which he had barely escaped with his life. A world that had robbed him of his innocence, his dreams, and his very soul.

  This time when he entered the dark underbelly of society, Rafe Byrne entered as a predator, not as the prey. He would keep up the ruse for one purpose and one purpose only—to lure Yves Bouchard into a trap from which he could not escape.

  After their brief conversation, Anthony Linden had escorted Nic back into the sleeping quarters of the private jet, instructed her to sit on the bed, and once she was seated, had taken her photo using his mobile phone.

  “Your husband will want proof that you’re alive and well.”

  Alive maybe. And for now, she was as well as she could be under the circumstances. But more than once during the flight, she had fought the urge to throw up. If she did vomit, she would pass it off as nothing more than motion sickness. She intended to keep the fact that she was pregnant a secret from her abductor. If Griffin Powell’s wife was worth a king’s ransom, what would Griff’s wife and child be worth?

  Having gone over half a dozen different scenarios during her seclusion, Nic had come to the conclusion that until they reached their destination and she acquired more information, she couldn’t devise a workable plan of action.

  Suddenly she felt the plane begin to descend. Was the pilot preparing to land? Surmising that at least three or four hours had passed since she had awakened from her drugged sleep and found herself on the plane with Linden, Nic tried to think of exactly where over the U.S. they might be. Linden had said they were traveling south. If he had been telling her the truth, then calculating four hours plus however many hours she had been asleep, they could be about to land somewhere in Mexico or Central America or even on one of the Caribbean islands. If she was allowed to talk to Griff, she would find out a way to give him a clue to her whereabouts, assuming she could figure out where they were.

  As the plane continued its slow, steady decline, Anthony Linden unlocked the bedroom door and motioned to her. “We’ll be landing shortly, Nicole. It’s time for me to prepare you for departure.”

  A short time later, she understood what he’d meant by preparing her. Within minutes of their arrival at only God knew where, Linden yanked Nic to her feet, pulled her hands behind her back, bound her wrists, and then quickly gagged and blindfolded her. With a tight grip on her upper arm, he guided her off the plane. The moment the warm air swooshed around her, Nic sucked in a deep breath. Almost hot except for the balmy breeze, the weather was decidedly tropical. Linden hadn’t been lying. They had flown south.

  Once her feet hit solid ground, she was all but dragged away from the plane and to a waiting
vehicle. Not a car or truck. As the driver, who hadn’t spoken a word, jerked the gearshift into reverse and backed up, Nic realized she was seated beside someone—probably Linden—inside a jeep. No seat belt restraint, just the tight grip of a large, hard hand manacled around the back of her neck. Keeping quiet and staying alert, she breathed in the scents and listened to the sounds. She might not be able to see where she was, but she could use her other senses.

  She knew only that they were south of the continental U.S., possibly in Mexico or even farther south in one of the Central American countries. She had no idea exactly where Linden was taking her or what awaited her upon their arrival. But she did know that she was a hostage, that she had been kidnapped because she was Griffin Powell’s wife, that she was soon to be the guest of a man who called himself Malcolm York. And she suspected that the odds of her coming out of this alive were slim to none.

  Chapter 4

  Shortly before dawn, Griffin Powell emerged from his study, an unconscious Yvette in his arms. He had survived the past few hours and come through the darkest moments of his life solely because of Yvette’s sacrifice. After learning that Nicole was missing, probably kidnapped by Anthony Linden, Griff had gone mad. The magnitude of his anger and frustration, coupled with his guilt and anguish, could have destroyed him. He had been on the edge of the abyss, inches from taking an irrevocable plunge. He would have lost his mind had Yvette not used all the power of her unique psychic talents to absorb enough of his emotions to restore his equilibrium. Long ago, she had saved him in a similar manner. He owed her not only his life, then and now, but his sanity.

  If only he had explained everything to Nic. If only he had been completely honest with her from the very beginning.

  “Sanders!” Griff shouted his best friend’s name. Sanders was far more than a good friend; he was Griff’s right-hand man and his most trusted confidant.

  Within seconds, four people appeared, each rushing toward him. Shaughnessy Hood’s hulking form moved with amazing speed and he reached Griff’s side before Sanders, Derek, and Maleah.

  Griff looked at Shaughnessy as he placed Yvette in the six-foot-six bodyguard’s huge arms. Then he turned to Sanders. “She needs someone with her until she regains consciousness. Send for Meredith Sinclair. Tell her it’s urgent. She’ll know how to help Yvette.”

  “Meredith is with Luke Sentell,” Sanders reminded him. “They’re en route from Paducah, Kentucky. She went with Luke straight from London to return Michelle Allen’s niece to her parents.”

  Griff grunted. He remembered now. The child, barely seven years old, would have needed a woman’s tender care after the ordeal she had been through recently. Abducted by Linden from the safety of her own bed, whisked off to England, and held hostage as a means of forcing her aunt to do a madman’s bidding, Jaelyn Allen had been rescued by Luke Sentell, with Yvette’s protégée, Meredith, assisting him.

  “Yes, of course, I remember now. As soon as Meredith returns to Griffin’s Rest, send her directly to Yvette,” Griff said. “In the meantime, choose another of Yvette’s students to stay with her, preferably someone with the ability to soothe her.”

  Sanders nodded. “That would be Blythe Renshaw.”

  “Then send for her immediately and once that’s done, join me in the office. I assume you’ve already begun—”

  “Agents have been dispatched to the cabin and one to speak personally with Cully Redmond’s sister,” Sanders said. “All available personnel have been called in to headquarters in Knoxville and the wheels set in motion to obtain all possible info.”

  After assuring Griff that he had followed procedure without any delay, Sanders left to do as he had been instructed.

  Griff called out to him, “Send in the housecleaning crew to clean up in there.” He inclined his head toward the utterly destroyed room.

  Sanders paused and listened. He nodded once before walking away, without uttering a single word or giving a quick backward glance.

  Griff then told Shaughnessy, “Take Dr. Meng upstairs to one of the guest rooms and stay with her until Ms. Renshaw arrives.”

  With the utmost care, the gentle giant of a man held Yvette as if she were made of spun glass as he immediately followed Griff’s orders.

  “You two, come with me,” he said, sliding his gaze hurriedly from Derek to Maleah. “Once I place several calls to my contacts in D.C. and around the world, we will begin receiving a tremendous amount of information. Ninety-five percent of it will be worthless. It will be up to us to figure out which five percent can actually help us locate Nic.”

  Griff forced himself to look directly at Maleah, to face her and accept her wrath. No doubt at this very moment, she hated him almost as much as he hated himself. Maleah Perdue was his wife’s best friend. She had stood by Nic, shared confidences with her, and possibly knew her better than anyone on Earth. Knew her even better than he did.

  “I’m going to find her,” Griff swore to Maleah.

  She stared at him, tears moistening her eyes, her teeth clinched tightly. He sensed that she wanted to physically attack him, to claw his eyes out, to damn his soul to hell.

  Mercy God, didn’t she know he was already in hell?

  Derek Lawrence grasped Maleah’s hand.

  “And we’re going to help you find her,” Derek said. “We’re a cooperative team working together for the duration of this all-out manhunt. We have one goal—find Nicole and bring her home safely. Nothing else matters.”

  Morning sunlight poured into the room like melted butter over hot pancakes—soft, warm, and golden. As she roused from sleep, Nicole blinked her eyes several times, all the while her mind slightly muddled. At first, she wondered why Griff had opened the blinds when he usually kept the room dark until after they were both awake. Still in that relaxed state between sleep and becoming fully alert, she turned over in bed and ran her hand out in search of her husband.

  She was alone in bed. Griff must have gone downstairs already. He would bring her a cup of coffee soon, sit down on the bed, and give her a morning kiss.

  Nicole’s eyes snapped open wide.

  She was not home at Griffin’s Rest. This was not her bed. Griff was not downstairs.

  After flipping over on her back, Nic gazed up at the white ceiling. In the quiet stillness of the room, she listened and heard the delicate hum of a motor. Easing herself into a sitting position in the center of the large king-size bed, Nic glanced up and down and then circled the entire room. A large ceiling fan with palm leaf–shaped blades rotated slowly, sending whiffs of cool air downward. The twenty-by twenty-five-foot room, tastefully decorated with ornately carved dark furniture—four-poster bed, highboy, and large chest—was in direct contrast to the pale white and cream drapes, bed linens, and brocade material covering the armchairs and the chaise longue.

  Where am I?

  And then, once again, it all came flooding back, her memories like a tidal wave. Her abduction from the cabin in Gatlinburg. Her conversation with Anthony Linden aboard the private airplane. Being bound, gagged, and blindfolded upon arrival before being transported via a jeep to—? Where was she?

  Linden had guided her from the jeep onto a boat. At that point everything was fuzzy, but she vaguely remembered being carried inside a building and ... And what?

  Damn it, he had drugged her again.

  While sitting blindfolded on the boat, she had felt a sharp sting on her arm. Now, she realized that sting had been caused by a hypodermic needle. Apparently after she had fallen into a semi-unconscious state shortly before the boat docked, Linden had removed the gag and the blindfold and untied her wrists.

  Nic scooted to the edge of the bed, slid her feet off onto the floor—her bare feet—and stood on the highly polished wooden floor. Someone had removed her shoes. She glanced down at herself and gasped. She was completely naked.

  Who had undressed her?

  What, if anything, had Linden—or anyone else—done to her?

  Seeing a large gold
-framed cheval mirror in the corner of the room, Nic ran straight to it and inspected herself from head to toe. No blood. No bruises. No sign of being abused. But then she had been unconscious. With cautious deliberation, she ran her fingers over her mound and between her thighs. Nothing there to indicate she had been violated.

  As she searched the room for an exit—a way out—she discovered a luxurious white marble bathroom, a balcony overlooking an inner courtyard—lush with greenery and flowers, a pool in the center—and one locked door. Draped on a pink padded hanger on the back of the bathroom door, as if it had been placed there just for her, she found a cream satin robe. Without hesitation, she jerked it off the hanger and put it on, eager to cover her nakedness. Just as she knotted the satin belt around the robe, she heard the sound of a door opening and closing.

  Her breath caught in her throat. Garnering her courage, she forced herself to walk out of the bathroom and back into the bedroom. Not knowing who had entered or what she would find, Nic stopped suddenly the moment she saw the dark-skinned woman, dressed in a colorful muumuu, carrying a large silver tray.

  “Good morning, missus.” The woman smiled at Nicole before she placed the tray atop the large table between the two armchairs.

  “Who are you?” Nic tried her best to keep her voice calm, not an easy task considering the predicament she found herself in at the moment.

  “I am called Lina,” the woman replied. “You want I pour tea now?”

  “No,” Nic said and then added, “No, thank you.”

  “You want I make bath now?”

  “No.” She walked straight toward the woman who appeared to be in her early twenties. “Lina, I want you to tell me where I am.”

  Lina looked at her as if she didn’t understand the question. “You are here at Sea View.” She pronounced the two words as if one, sounding like zee-few.