“Don’t you trust me?” she asked.
“With my life,” he replied. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not aware of how sneaky you can be.”
When the front door suddenly opened, Maleah didn’t wait around to ask questions. Without saying a word, she raced up the stairs. Derek released a thankful breath. The very last thing Griffin Powell needed was to have to face his wife’s best friend.
Sanders entered the house first, an advance guard, his dark gaze sweeping across the foyer. Massive shoulders slumped, head down, Griffin returned to his home, a defeated warrior. Derek waited silently for either Griff or Sanders to speak first. Neither said a word. Griff never looked Derek’s way. He lumbered out of the foyer and down the hall toward his study. By then, the other four members of the team had made their way, one by one, into the house, Shaughnessy first, followed by Holt and Rett, with Luke the rear guard.
“I suggest you all get a good night’s sleep,” Sanders told the men. “Meet me in the office tomorrow morning promptly at oh-eight-hundred.”
Since it was already after one A.M., the guys would be lucky to get five hours’ sleep. No one tarried. Everyone, except Luke, left immediately. They would spend the night in the five-bedroom building referred to by everyone as the Powell bunkhouse, located a mile from the main house, Griff had had it built to provide comfortable accommodations for the agents when they worked at Griffin’s Rest.
“Will you need me tonight?” Luke asked Sanders, his gaze traveling down the hallway toward Griff’s study.
“No, I don’t think so. I believe I can handle things here,” Sanders replied and then he glanced at Derek. “If you want to wait for me, we can talk when I return.”
“I’ll wait,” Derek said.
Sanders nodded.
Luke and Derek watched as Sanders walked away, down the hall, heading straight for Griff’s study. Luke turned to leave.
“Hold up a minute, will you?” Derek called to him.
He paused just as he reached the front door.
“Dr. Meng wants to take Meredith Sinclair to Nic’s cabin in Gatlinburg tomorrow morning. She believes Meredith might be able to somehow connect with Nic and possibly be able to locate her.”
“Damn,” Luke grumbled.
“Griff gave specific instructions that Dr. Meng is not to leave Griffin’s Rest. But he didn’t say anything about Meredith. She can’t go alone, and since you two have some sort of rapport, I thought you could drive her to Gatlinburg and—”
“Do you plan to run this by Griff first? He still wants me to get in touch with my various contacts in Europe as soon as possible.”
“I hadn’t planned on running this by Griff. I figured it would be one less thing for him to have to worry about,” Derek said. “Besides, if Meredith doesn’t come through for us with any useful information, then Griff won’t have gotten his hopes up for nothing. Right?”
Luke glowered at Derek, but he said, “Yeah, right.”
“Then you’ll take Meredith to Nic’s cabin in the morning?”
“Against my better judgment, yeah, I’ll take her. Tell the little psychic fruitcake to be ready at six o’clock sharp. I’ll pick her up over at Dr. Meng’s place.”
Chapter 12
The private plane had landed sometime during the night. Exactly where, Nic didn’t know. Someplace warm. Maybe another tropical paradise? Two armed guards had entered the bedroom, manacled Jonas MacColl, and dragged him away while Linden had watched.
“Time to deplane,” Linden had told her. “Come along, Nicole. People are waiting for us.”
“Where are they taking him?”
Linden’s lips had twitched with amusement. “Liked the hillbilly race car driver, did you? Don’t worry. You’ll be seeing him again.”
She had expected to be blindfolded and gagged and had been surprised when Linden escorted her off the plane without either. But now she knew why. Except for the lights lining the runway, it was pitch black, which suggested a private airstrip. Since she had lost track of time—when in hell, one lost track of time. It passed much slower than in the real world, so she couldn’t be sure how far they might have traveled. Her guess was not more than six or seven hours. But in which direction had they flown—north, south, east or west? For all she knew, they could now be back in the U.S. somewhere or in South America or on another island in either the Atlantic or the Pacific.
Wherever they were, she assumed that they had entered the country illegally. Linden rushed her off the plane and straight to a waiting car instead of taking her through an airport terminal.
He shoved her into the backseat of a black sedan, an older-model vehicle with tail fins and heavy with the type of chrome that hadn’t adorned automobiles in more than fifty years. The side windows in the car had been darkened, making it impossible to see out or to see in. Except for the driver—and all she could see was the back of his head—she and Linden were alone.
She wanted to ask him a dozen questions, but knew he wouldn’t answer even one. Keeping her guessing apparently was part of the fun for Linden and his employer. Had Malcolm York instructed Linden to build the tension, to allow her to imagine the worst, to put the fear of God into her? If so, then he had succeeded in his task. By her very nature, she was a fighter, but considering the fact she was pregnant, surviving was far more important than showing her captor how tough she was.
“You’re very quiet,” Linden finally said.
She didn’t reply.
“Suit yourself.” He chuckled. “I’m sure your husband will have a great deal to say when he finds out just how chummy you’ve become with another of Mr. York’s guests.”
Nic clamped her mouth shut to keep from blasting Linden. She wanted to scream that not a damn thing, other than conversation, had gone on between Jonas MacColl and her. But common sense overruled emotional reaction. In order for Griff to find out about Jonas, either Linden or York would have to contact him.
Okay, so let’s say that they contact Griff. Will they ask for a ransom? Will they promise him my safe return in exchange for something they want from him? Or do they plan to call Griff simply to torment him?
During the ride from the airstrip to their destination, Linden kept needling Nic, trying to get a rise out of her. But she managed to remain in control and that seemed to piss him off, which delighted her.
When the old car came to a stop, Nic sucked in a deep breath and willed herself to be brave. Someone opened the car door on Linden’s side and as soon as he got out, he reached into the backseat, grabbed Nic’s arm, and hauled her out and onto her feet.
She might not know what country she was in, but by taking a good look at her surroundings, she knew Linden had brought her to a small, isolated harbor. Poorly lit, the rickety wooden wharf and the scattering of gangling, ramshackle buildings appeared totally deserted, except for two outback motorboats, each manned by a couple of armed guards.
Just as Linden urged her to move in front of him, onto the weathered pier and toward one of the boats, she heard another vehicle that looked like an older-model Lincoln drive up and stop. When she glanced over her shoulder, she saw a large black man emerge from the front seat, open the back door, and pull someone from the back of the car. Before Linden forced her to turn around and one of the guards helped her on board the first motorboat, Nic recognized the other prisoner. Jonas MacColl, securely shackled, struggled to walk toward the pier. When he tripped and almost fell, his jailor rammed the butt of his rifle into Jonas’s ribs. Nic bit her bottom lip to keep from crying out.
“Aren’t you happy that your new friend will be going with us?” Linden sat down beside Nic in the boat.
She simply met his curious stare head-on, revealing no emotion with her silent response.
In her peripheral vision, she could see the black guard shoving Jonas into the other boat before he climbed aboard himself. Three men to guard one shackled prisoner? Were they that concerned that Jonas might escape? Or had he proven himself to be such
a badass that they were actually afraid of him?
The motors roared to life and within minutes the boats sped out of the secluded old harbor and zoomed toward the sea. Were they being taken to another island, another private hunting club where men were stalked and killed as if they were animals and women were used as sex slaves?
There ahead of them, out in the ocean, bright lights blazed on the horizon. Were they the lights of a small coastal town? A nearby island? Or were they coming from—? It was a yacht! An impressive-size ship, at least a hundred feet long.
Did the yacht belong to Malcolm York? If so, was he on board, waiting for her?
Rafe did not own a car. He either rented or leased, but never under his real name, always under a pseudonym. The basalt black metallic Porsche Cayman had been leased under the name of his present incarnation, Leonardo Kasan. He found the name amusing in a bizarrely twisted way. Leonardo and Kasan had been two of the most sadistic guards on Amara. To this day, he could plainly visualize the brutally vicious Kasan who took great pleasure in beating the prisoners. Big, muscular, with a black beard and mustache, Kasan had starred in many of Rafe’s worst nightmares. And Leonardo, the short, stocky little prick, had marched around with his M16, firing at will, laughing as his shots forced a captive to dance or cringe in fear. And nothing had made him happier than being assigned to kill a weak, sick, no-longer-useful slave.
Kasan and Leonardo had been executed, but not by his hand, something he would always regret. Griffin had killed Kasan. Hand-to-hand combat in which Griff had gutted Kasan. And Sanders had taken out Leonardo with a single bullet square between his eyes. At least Rafe had been able to see that kill.
He had no time today to reminisce, to waste on memories that would never leave him. Today would be spent preparing for the future, putting his plan to infiltrate Yves Bouchard’s exclusive circle of friends into action. As with each of his previous plans, this one would take finesse and infinite patience. Lucky for him he possessed both.
He had chosen Le Gavroche for lunch today because it was not only one of his favorite restaurants in London, but also because Sir Harlan would expect to be wined and dined at nothing less than a two-star Michelin establishment. And Rafe’s aim was to please, to kiss his ass, if necessary, in order to ingratiate himself to the old buzzard and gain entry into that decadent, perverted social set that included Bouchard. Choosing a three-star restaurant might have been interpreted as trying too hard and may have sent up a red warning flag. Rafe included subtlety in his arsenal of useful skills, along with patience and finesse.
Aware that Sir Harlan expected punctuality in others, Rafe arrived at 43 Upper Brook Street precisely at ten till one for their one o’clock lunch date. Dressed in the appropriate attire of a successful businessman—tailored suit and silk tie—he entered the brick building that housed the luxurious restaurant. The establishment possessed a gentleman’s club atmosphere. He found Sir Harlan had already arrived and been seated at their table.
The moment Rafe approached, Harlan Benecroft greeted him with a smile. “Good to see you again, my boy.” He glanced around the room. “Absolutely marvelous choice for lunch. I adore excellent French cuisine.”
“As do I, Sir Harlan.” Rafe sat across from his guest.
“Please, drop the ‘Sir.’ I am simply Harlan to my friends and I feel quite certain that you and I are going to be great friends. I sensed it the moment Cassie introduced us.”
“Thank you, Harlan. And since we are destined to be great friends, you must call me Leo.”
When Harlan laughed, Rafe laughed.
Oh, yes, we are going to become the best of friends.
Their maître d’, a bespectacled young woman, greeted them with a warm smile. Rafe noticed that at a nearby table the waiter gladly translated the French menu for a young couple and even made several recommendations. At another table, when a lady left, no doubt to go to the restroom, a staff member neatly folded her napkin.
After they ordered, a lobster salad with mangos and avocados for Rafe, they settled back to sip on the wine Harlan had requested—Barrel Selection 2003, Low Yield Rous-sanne, Domaine de Sainte Rose.
“You know the story behind the name of this restaurant, don’t you?” Harlan studied Rafe, aka Leonardo, carefully, eagerly waiting his reply.
Suspecting that Harlan hoped he would respond negatively, and would love to enlighten him, Rafe said, “Actually, no, I haven’t heard the story.”
Harlan’s wrinkled face lit up as if a spotlight had just hit it. “You know, of course, that Le Gavroche means urchin in French. Yes?”
“Yes.”
“Gavroche was a character in Les Misérables. The original painting of the little ragamuffin, who gave this divine restaurant its identity, was presented to the Roux Brothers, the founding chefs, on opening night.”
“And when was opening night?” Rafe asked as if he gave a good goddamn.
“April of 1967. A little before your time, eh, Leo?”
Again, when Harlan laughed, Rafe laughed.
“I am told that it was quite a night, with three American movie stars among the guests. Ava Gardner, Robert Redford, and Charlie Chaplin.”
“You must have an incredible memory.” A little flattery. Not too much, but suitable for the moment.
Harlan beamed. “So I am told, especially for a man of my years.”
“A young man such as I would consider himself fortunate to learn from a man of your vast experience.”
Squinting as he focused his gaze directly on Rafe, Harlan studied him for several unnerving seconds before he said, “I believe you actually mean that. And if you do, then my dear Leo, I will be more than happy to become your most willing teacher.”
Feeling as if he had dodged a bullet, Rafe gave a mental sigh as he lifted his glass and said, “To our future as friends as well as student and teacher.”
For the next hour, Rafe enjoyed the delicious meal, topped off with a dessert of Omelette Rothschild, an apricot and Cointreau soufflé, while he spun a simple, succinct tale of his life and shared confidences with his newfound friend. Years ago, Rafe had invented histories for each of his pseudonyms, including the wealthy playboy, Leonardo Kasan, who enjoyed fast cars and loose women and dangerous walks on the wild side.
Harlan seemed interested and apparently easily convinced by Rafe’s practiced lies. Another talent Rafe had perfected—lying.
After Rafe took care of the bill, he escorted his mentor outside, shook the older man’s hand, and thanked him for the pleasure of sharing lunch with him.
“The pleasure was all mine,” Harlan said. “We must do this again soon.”
“Most certainly.”
As Harlan turned to walk away, he paused, glanced back at Rafe, and said, “Leo, would you be interested in joining me and a few friends at my home for ...” He cleared his throat, then grinned wickedly. “For dinner and after-dinner entertainment on Saturday evening? That is, of course, if you’re free.”
“If I find I have a conflict in my schedule, I will cancel the previous engagement,” Rafe said. “I look forward to joining you and your friends for dinner and especially for the after-dinner entertainment.”
The relatively short drive—about an hour—from Griffin’s Rest to Nicole’s Gatlinburg cabin seemed longer. Meredith wasn’t good at making idle chitchat and since she and Luke Sentell had very little in common, she had tried her hand at casual conversation. After several attempts at discussing mundane subjects such as the weather, the state of the national economy, and his favorite sports team, she stopped trying so hard. He was no more in the mood to pass away the time talking than she was. Of course, knowing him as she did from past experience, she should have realized that he was acting as her escort and bodyguard out of duty and not because he wanted to be with her.
She doubted that anyone really knew the man. She certainly didn’t.
You’ve worked with him, you as a psychic consultant and he as your keeper. You are not friends. You are l
ittle more than civil acquaintances.
She often sensed that he disliked her. She knew he hated babysitting her, a term he used to describe having to look after her when she agreed to help on a Powell Agency case. The had joined forces most recently in the rescue of Jaelyn Allen, former Powell agent Michelle Allen’s seven-year-old niece who had been kidnapped by Anthony Linden. Several times during the days they had spent in England searching for the child, she had thought maybe Luke was beginning to like her just a little. After all, he had given her the very first nickname she’d ever had.
She had asked him, “Luke, why did you call me Merry Berry?”
She knew that in the past, he had called her a lot of other names, mostly behind her back. But he had called her Merry Berry almost affectionately, the way a guy would his kid sister.
Is that how he sees me, like a clumsy, slightly nutty—?
“Earth to Meredith,” Luke said.
“Huh?”
“You were off in la-la land, weren’t you?”
“I was just thinking about us,” she admitted.
“Us? There is no us.”
“Of course there is. There’s you”—she pointed at him—“and there’s me.” She pointed at herself. “That’s us. We’re here in this car together, working on a case together again, which means there most certainly is an us.”
Luke groaned. She knew what that meant. She had heard the identical sound and seen that God-help-me expression on his face repeatedly while they’d been in London only days ago. Odd how it seemed longer.
“Okay, okay. I concede that there is an us,” Luke told her. “Now pay attention.”
“To what?”
“To what I’m about to say.”
“All right.”
“We’ll be at Nicole’s cabin in a few minutes. I need to set up some ground rules before we get there.”
Dead By Nightfall Page 13
