Dead By Nightfall

by Beverly Barton

  Fear tightened Nic’s throat. What was happening? Was the yacht being attacked? If so, by whom? Had York anchored there in Colombia on business? Had a major drug deal gone wrong? Or—?

  Her cabin door flew open to reveal a flushed Malcolm York standing outside with several armed guards surrounding him. “We’re leaving the Isis now,” he called as he motioned to Nic.

  When she didn’t immediately respond, he ordered one of the guards to fetch her. Before the man reached her, she snapped out of her momentary shock and walked as quickly as she could in her four-inch, silver sling-back pumps.

  With the sound of gunfire echoing all around them, Nic hurried along the deck with York and his guards, but before they had gone more than ten feet, bullets riddled the deck in front of them, stopping them cold. More bullets shattered the windows above them, showering them with shattered glass fragments. Nic barely managed to stifle a scream. She wasn’t the screaming type, but then she wasn’t accustomed to being fired on without having a weapon she could use to defend herself.

  Whoever was attacking the Isis, had managed to send a team aboard the ship. She caught glimpses of several armed men who were not part of York’s small army of guards. Two of York’s soldiers returned fire as York grabbed Nic and dragged her with him in a hasty retreat. A couple of the guards flanked them, back and front, firing repeatedly at the encroaching enemy.

  When they reached the starboard side of the yacht, Yves Bouchard met them, along with several of York’s guards and crewmen.

  “What the hell’s going on?” York demanded, his gaze fixed on Bouchard, his tone accusatory.

  “This is not my doing,” Bouchard assured him.

  “Then whose? Certainly not mine.”

  “At the moment, does it matter? We are in danger,” Bouchard said.

  York pulled Nic in front of him and draped his arm around her waist. “I have precious cargo to protect.”

  “And if they are here for her?” Bouchard asked.

  “That is highly unlikely. There is no way Griffin Powell could know that his wife is aboard the Isis.”

  Oh my God, was it possible that Griff had come there to rescue her, that the attackers firing at them were his men?

  Before Bouchard could respond, two gunmen came from the bow and two more from the stern, effectively blocking their escape. When York’s guards reacted to the threat, the raiders gunned them down, leaving only two standing. But only one of the invaders went down from the return fire.

  “My God, do something!” Bouchard screamed.

  “What do you want?” York asked the men holding them at gunpoint. “Money? Drugs? Name it and it’s yours.”

  Totally disregarding York’s question, one of the raiders looked straight at Nic and asked, “Are you Nicole Powell?”

  Nic’s heart stopped for a second. Were they here to rescue her? If so, where was Griff? He would hardly be sitting on the sidelines. And if he had sent in anyone as head of an advance team, it would have been Luke Sentell. She didn’t recognize any of these men.

  Taking a chance on possibly jumping out of the frying pan and into the fire, Nic said, “Yes, I’m Nicole Powell.”

  When she instinctively leaned forward in an effort to escape from York’s grasp, he tightened his hold, slid his hand into an inside jacket pocket, and whipped out a handgun. Before Nic could free herself or the gunmen could react, York placed the muzzle against her temple.

  “The lady stays with me or she dies.”

  Nic closed her eyes for half a second, steadied her nerves as best she could with a 9mm kissing her head, and said a prayer that these guys knew what they were doing.

  “You don’t want to do this,” the team spokesman told York. “This ship is surrounded and I have a couple of snipers waiting for my command.”

  “Are you sure I can’t pull the trigger before one of your sharpshooters takes me out?” York asked smugly. “Your assignment no doubt was to rescue Mrs. Powell, not to get her killed.”

  Did York actually believe he had nine lives, that he was the real Malcolm York, risen from the grave, and could be reborn a second time? Or was there another reason for his cocky attitude?

  “It’s your call, Mrs. Powell,” the head of her rescue team said.

  My call? Do I risk my life? Can they kill York before he kills me? Or do I give up this chance to go free in order to play it safe? It’s all or nothing. Am I willing to take the chance? Damn right I am!

  Just as she opened her mouth to speak, the sounds of a nearby scuffle warned them that someone was approaching.

  “Ah,” York said. “I believe my ace in the hole has arrived.” He didn’t move, not even by an inch, as the sound of footsteps drew nearer. His steady hand held the grip, his finger poised on the trigger.

  The rescue team members saw the source of the ruckus first, moments before two men emerged from below deck. The momentary distraction barely fazed the rescuers, who each zeroed in on a target—York, his one remaining guard, and the new guard who had just appeared on the scene.

  Nic noticed Bouchard, who had barely breathed for several minutes.

  The bastard’s scared shitless.

  Nic glance sideways.

  York’s guard who had brought the other man with him from below deck kept his weapon trained on his prisoner. Jonas MacColl, his ankles and feet unbound, but his arms pulled behind him and his wrists cuffed, cast a surly glare at York and then glanced at Nic. The moment their gazes connected, he shook his head.

  “Touching, isn’t it, how he is trying to protect you,” York said to Nic. “I’ve raised the stakes a little higher. You’re a risk taker, Nicole. Otherwise you never would have married Griffin Powell. But are you willing to bet your life and Jonas’s that your rescuers can kill me and my guards before we can kill you and Jonas?”

  “You son of a bitch!” Jonas lunged forward, his intent obvious. He was heading straight for York.

  His guard grabbed Jonas by his cuffed wrists and yanked him backward and down on his knees before kicking him in the back with his booted foot. York’s other guard pointed his rifle straight at Jonas.

  Jonas grunted with pain, but recovered quickly and looked up at Nic as he struggled to stand. “Don’t let him use me to hurt you. If you do, he wins.”

  “Nicole’s hero,” York said to the rescuers. “Be sure to tell Griffin Powell how his wife gave up her chance of freedom to save a man who seemed willing to die for her.” York laughed.

  He was insane. Certifiable

  “Decisions, decisions,” York taunted.

  “Shut up!” Nic yelled at him. “Just shut the hell up.”

  What was she going to do? Risking her own life was one thing, but risking Jonas’s life, regardless of what he had told her to do, was something else. But there was always a chance that the snipers could take out York and several of the gunmen before they could kill either Jonas or her.

  But what were the odds that she and Jonas would both survive?

  If I die, my baby dies.

  “Mrs. Powell?” the team leader said.

  And then with a response caught in her throat, all hell broke loose. One of the snipers fired from his position on shore, killing the guard threatening Jonas. York yowled, his expression one of shocked outrage, his trigger finger reacting instinctively to the impending threat. Jonas lunged forward and barreled into York, the impact altering the pistol’s projection, sending the bullet outward instead of inward, grazing Nic’s temple instead of entering her head.

  Jonas shoved Nic onto the deck, his body a shield between her and York as York aimed and fired a second time.

  Chapter 19

  York owed Anthony Linden his life. The man was a killing machine. He managed to keep the rescue team aboard the Isis busy long enough for the one guard left alive with York to help him and Bouchard get Nicole Powell and her would-be savior Jonas to safety on the waiting motorboat portside. Where the boat had come from, York didn’t care at the moment. If Satan had spit it out of hell
or angels had brought it down from heaven, he could care less. The boat provided an escape route and that was all that mattered. Getting Jonas down the ladder and onto the boat was no easy task, but they managed. If not for the fact that Jonas was a major player in his games with Griffin Powell, he would have left the wounded hero to die on the yacht. And he also knew that Nicole would be more manageable if he kept Jonas alive for leverage.

  Linden, their mighty protector, joined them on the boat as gunfire blazed all around them. The man was worth more than his weight in gold. Once on board, he motioned to the young helmsman manning the vessel to take off, and then he turned to speak to York.

  “The minute I realized what was happening, I contacted Fernandez,” Linden shouted to York over the roar of the outboard motor. “He dispatched a boat from nearby and he’s sending enough men to take care of our unwanted visitors and clean up afterward.”

  As if on cue, two helicopters roared through the sky like giant blackbirds, wings flapping and emitting a repetitive cry. Machine guns rained lead across the Isis, along the shore, and inland where the rescue team’s snipers and backup soldiers were stationed.

  “I’ll be sure to thank Lorenzo when I see him again,” York said as they headed out to sea in the small motorboat.

  Lorenzo Fernandez was a business associate, a native Colombian, someone York could count on to protect him and their mutual interests. A man who possessed his own well-trained army was just the kind of friend to have when one found oneself in such a dangerous predicament.

  Linden picked up lifejackets, tossed one to York and another to Bouchard, then he slipped into one himself before throwing a couple of them toward Nicole and Jonas.

  York glanced at Bouchard. His sophisticated French friend did not have the stomach for battle. He had always known that sad truth about Yves. The man was soft. He could mete out punishment, but could not handle pain and suffering himself. He enjoyed the hunt, loved the kill, but could never have survived even one hour as the quarry.

  “There’s a larger boat waiting for us,” Linden said. “It will take us to Santa Marta. You can contact Fernandez when we’re aboard to discuss future arrangements. I’m sure he’s looking forward to making a lucrative deal.”

  York laughed. “No doubt. He’s a greedy bastard.”

  “Damn it, York,” Nicole Powell yelled over the pounding waves and motor’s rumble. “Help me.” She had ripped apart the bottom of her couture dress and used it as a bandage to soak up the blood seeping from Jonas’s gunshot wound. “Did you bring him with us just to watch him die?”

  York could understand why Griffin Powell had found this woman so irresistible, why he had claimed her for his own. Despite what she had recently endured, she was not shivering with fear or weeping uncontrollably or begging for mercy. She was angry and belligerent and demanding. She was spitting fire like a she-dragon. He smiled. The lady was a fighter. Her warrior attitude combined with her statuesque body would make her a favorite in the ring, despite her age.

  “I brought Jonas with us just for you, my dear,” York told her. “It’s entirely up to you if he lives or dies. Unless you allow him to bleed to death, which I can do nothing to prevent, then I’ll see that he gets medical attention when we’re out of danger.”

  Nicole glowered at him, rage and hatred burning in her dark eyes. But she didn’t waste another minute on him, didn’t utter another condemning word. Instead she checked Jonas’s wound and saw that the blood-soaked rag of silver silk was drenched. She hurriedly ripped her evening gown from above her knees to the shredded edges. After wadding the cloth into a thick pad, she pressed it down on top of the soaked rag at Jonas’s side, doing her best to keep the hole plugged and stop the flow of blood.

  York could see her talking to Jonas, but couldn’t hear what she was saying. However, within seconds, she lowered Jonas onto his back, took one of the lifejackets Linden had tossed toward her, and used it to elevate Jonas’s legs. She put on the remaining jacket and lay down beside the wounded man, halfway covering him with her body as she continued applying pressure on the wound.

  Watching Nicole, so fierce and brave and competent, excited York. He looked forward to introducing her to her first kill-or-die competition. She would be a champion; of that he had no doubt.

  Sanders received the report around midnight that Friday night. Before he ended the telephone conversation, Maleah suspected the worst. Something had gone wrong. There would be no celebration tonight. Derek reached over, took her hand, and gave it a quick squeeze.

  “Keep the faith, Blondie,” he told her, his gaze caressing her reassuringly. “No matter what’s happened—”

  “The rescue attempt failed,” Sanders said the moment the phone call ended.

  “Was Nic on the Isis?” Maleah asked.

  “Yes.” Sanders stood ramrod stiff, his demeanor philosophic, his voice edged with only a hint of anger. “The team that went in had the upper hand at first, but apparently someone aboard ship managed to get out an SOS and a small army invaded, along with helicopters and machine guns. York escaped with Nicole.”

  “Then it’s definite that Nic is alive and still with York,” Derek said.

  “Apparently.”

  “We need to contact Griff now,” Derek told Sanders. “You have no choice now but to bring him up-to-date on what’s happened.”

  Sanders nodded.

  Maleah wanted to cry, but she didn’t. Tears wouldn’t change anything. Crying her heart out wouldn’t help Nic. She felt helpless not being able to save her best friend. Right now, all she could do was work with Derek and Sanders to gather as much info as possible and hold down the fort here on the home front.

  Nic, wherever you are, whatever is happening, please know that all of us who love you are doing everything within our power to find and rescue you.

  Maleah added a silent prayer. God, please watch over Nic and her baby.

  Griffin had already showered and shaved when he took the six thirty call from Sanders that Saturday morning. He had listened while his trusted second-in-command explained what had occurred the day before, the decisions Sanders, Derek, and Maleah had made, and the reasons they had kept him in the dark while the rescue attempt had been made.

  Nic had been aboard a yacht called the Isis, a ship owned by Kroy Enterprises, the multibillion-dollar international conglomerate spearheaded by the fake York.

  “If we had waited ...” Sanders’s voice trailed off.

  “You couldn’t wait,” Griff said. “You did exactly what I would have done.”

  “I am sorry that the men I sent in were unable to rescue Nicole.”

  “So am I. But at least we know she’s still alive.”

  Anger, rage, and disappointment brewed inside Griff, mixing with a deadly combination of fear and regret. He had no one to blame but himself. He was responsible for condemning himself to hell and for dragging Nic with him into damnation.

  “Tell me what you need, what you want me to do,” Sanders said.

  “Continue to do what you’re already doing. Information is power. Keep searching, keep digging.”

  “And you and Yvette and the girl?”

  “We should have DNA results by Monday.”

  “You’ve seen her, talked to her. Do you think—?”

  “I think our pseudo-York went to a great deal of trouble to find a young woman whose physical appearance would match that of a child who could be mine and Yvette’s.”

  “But you do not believe she is the child Malcolm York took from Yvette only moments after it was born.”

  “My gut tells me that this girl is not Yvette’s child, but ... I’m not sure.”

  “I understand.”

  “Sanders?”

  “Yes?”

  “Next time, if there is a next time, contact me immediately. Don’t wait until after the fact.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Griff ended the call, slipped his phone into the inner pocket of his jacket, and left his room. He hesi
tated before knocking on Yvette’s door, but tapped softly several times, assuming she had slept no better than he had and was probably awake and dressed. She eased open the door and looked up at him.

  Yvette Meng was beautiful. Even in her early forties, she possessed a youthful glow, her creamy skin flawless, every feature as perfect now as it had been the first time he saw her.

  “Good morning,” Griff said.

  She nodded. “You are up very early.”

  “As are you,” he replied. “I’m heading down for coffee. Would you like to go with me or would you prefer to have breakfast in your room?”

  “I will go with you.” She slipped back into her room for a minute and then returned with a small leather clutch.

  When they reached the lobby, the clerk called out to Griff, “Mr. Powell, there’s a special delivery for you, sir.”

  Griff tensed. Sanders had not mentioned a delivery. It wouldn’t be from the Powell Agency in Knoxville. And if Powell headquarters in London had sent something, Thorndike Mitchum would have given him a heads-up. Griff walked over to the counter just as the clerk brought out a padded manila envelope and handed it to him.

  “Thank you.” Griff clutched the envelope, curious about its contents and instinctively wary of the unknown. Whatever the contents, it wasn’t good news.

  “It looks innocent enough.” Yvette glanced at the thin package. “But you think it’s from York, don’t you?”

  “Let’s have our coffee and tea in the patio garden,” he suggested, then asked the clerk if he could arrange for coffee, hot tea, and some scones to be delivered to the patio area.

  “Certainly, Mr. Powell. Whatever you like.”

  Griff escorted Yvette out to the garden, the morning sun bright, the air crisp and clean, the village’s coming-awake sounds echoing all around them.

  “Might as well get this over with.”

  Griff inspected the envelope, noted the name of a London-based private delivery service, and became more convinced than ever that the pseudo-York had sent him a “gift.” Without hesitation, he ripped open the package, reached inside, and withdrew the contents—photographs. Half a dozen pictures of Nicole and a man Griff did not recognize. He flipped through the photos quickly, his gut tightening painfully, and then he sat down and laid the pictures on the table.