by Fiona Brand
She suddenly knew why Henry looked so smug; he had just fed her something.
"What did you give me?" Her throat was so dry the demand came out as a thready whisper.
"Just a couple of sleeping pills. They should keep you nicely knocked out."
He was as matter-of-fact and professional as a doctor leaning over a patient. She gagged, trying to roll on to her side to spit the residue of the pills out. Henry's hands came down hard on her shoulders, pinning her to the floor. She felt dopey already, heavy and lethargic. He was enjoying her pathetic attempt to struggle.
Rage and fear gathered into a tight, hard knot inside her. "Why are you doing this?" she demanded. "It can't be for the money. You always had plenty of that."
Henry eyed her with cold, analytical interest, as if he was examining an insect beneath a microscope. "Clever girl. Money was never an issue. My stepfather and your father were always very generous."
"Did you kill my father?" She had never before voiced her suspicion, but now it seemed entirely probable that he had killed Hugh Tarrant.
"Tut-tut. He died in an accident."
"But once he was out of the way, you decided Tarrants should be yours. You tried to kill me, and you killed my mother."
Henry's grip tightened on her shoulders. "Eloise was already a hypochondriac. She took so many different drugs it was a wonder she didn't kill herself." He smiled, but his eyes stayed empty. "She depended on sleeping pills. I gave her the same ones I just made you swallow. Killing Eloise was easy."
Anna had a flash of memory. Eloise always vague and distant, dreamy, from the medication she couldn't get through the day without. It had torn her in two to leave her mother behind when she'd made the decision to run, but she had known she couldn't keep both of them hidden. Eloise had never worked a day in her life. She had needed someone to keep an eye on her through the day. Otherwise she did silly, muddled things, like leave appliances going.
She'd been beautiful and harmless, and she wouldn't have hurt a fly. Anna stared into Henry's remorseless gaze and saw the familiar shift in his eyes – the dreamy warmth that lived in her nightmares, the secret he'd tried to share with her – felt all the hairs at the base of her neck stand on end as he lifted a hand to her cheek. The back of his fingers stroked against her skin. She flinched, rage and fury flashing through her. She wanted to hit him, swing at him with her fists, but she could barely move her arms. If she had a gun she'd shoot him. She could feel his intent, the knowledge that Henry had never wanted to just kill her – feel the weight of what he wanted crawling on her skin, pressing against her temples. He'd never managed to get beyond this, a touch on her cheek, she'd always gotten away from him. Panic spiralled through her because she knew she wasn't going to get away from him this time. She was trapped. She could feel the sleeping pills dragging her down, and something hot and desperate leaped to life inside her, a wild surge of impotent rage, choking in her throat, bursting outward on a raw cry of denial. "No!"
Henry reeled back as if she'd struck him, clutching at his head. "What did you do?" he demanded in a curiously high-pitched voice.
It took Anna a dazed moment to identify the pitch as panic.
"What did you do?" he roared.
Anna stared at him blankly. What had she done?
She had lost her temper, fury and grief exploding outward. She had looked at Henry and shouted "No."
"Witch," he muttered. "You're a damn witch like your mother."
Witch. Her stomach twisted, and she lurched to her knees, swaying. This time Henry did nothing to stop her.
What had she done? She struggled to analyse what had happened. She must have used her mind in some way – hit out with her mind. It had been a knee-jerk reaction, an unequivocal rejection of evil.
It was the same thing she did to Blade, but in reverse. Striking out instead of calling.
Henry backed up to the door and rapped on it, his gaze locked on her, a little wild, as if she'd just grown fangs and was liable to bite. Immediately Anna heard the scrape of a bolt being pulled back; then Seber appeared, peering over Henry's shoulder with horrified interest, as if he'd been listening at the door and now wanted to see the monster for real.
"I always knew you were strange," Henry snapped, cold loathing in his voice as he backed from the room. "But that won't help you in a few hours."
Blade let Ben and Carter into the suite. It was late afternoon, and they were almost ready to go.
Minutes later there was a knock at the door. Ben let West in. There was a brief, stunned silence. West had always had an edgy style with clothes, but today he'd surpassed himself. He was dressed all in black, which was no big surprise, since they had all agreed to wear black street clothes, with nothing identifiably military on them, in case they were compromised. Over his, West wore a long, elegant duster coat. His hair had grown long enough that it tumbled to his shoulders in dark, silky ringlets. In stark contrast to his almost feminine hair, his jaw was square and stubbled, his eyes amber and unblinking beneath straight, dark brows. He looked like a poster boy for the mob. He had more coats draped over one arm.
Blade whistled his appreciation. "What happened to you? The fashion police give you a makeover?"
West's tawny eyes glinted with amusement. He opened the coat, displaying the arsenal beneath. A shoulder holster housed what Blade knew to be West's favourite hand gun – a Bernadelli Practical, a custom-made sporting pistol, exquisitely balanced and adapted for street use. Blade knew for a fact that West always carried a knife strapped to his ankle, and sometimes one in a spine sheath. He probably had a back-up gun strapped to his other ankle, as well. West had spent time on the streets as a kid. He didn't say much about that time, but they all understood. Some children clung to a blanket or a cuddly toy; West had gone for hardware. It was a security thing.
Blade eyed him steadily. "You can't take the guns."
"Don't worry, I'll leave them behind, but it'll be like going out naked," West said dryly, tossing a coat to each of them. "Consider these early Christmas presents. Did a favour for a friend, and he insisted on paying me. Got half a dozen of the damn things."
Blade shrugged into the coat and caught a glimpse of his reflection in a full-length mirror near the door. Oh, yeah, the archangel from hell. Now he looked dangerous. "What did your friend do, work on a movie set?"
"Close. He's a men's wear retailer. Got in the way of some Asian bad guys."
"Triad?"
West shook his head, wandering over to the dining table where Blade had spread out maps. "If it was Triad, he wouldn't still be alive."
They all gravitated to the table and began finalising their plans. De Rocheford was expecting a land assault. They had decided to go in by sea. That afternoon, Blade had chartered a flight, and West had done a reconnaissance of the property by air at a high enough altitude to avoid suspicion, using some of the cutting-edge camera equipment he owned. West was a technology buff and a perfectionist. The result of his expertise was a set of high-resolution photographs, displaying de Rocheford's peninsula in exquisite detail.
Carter studied the shots that showed the cliffs to best advantage. It was his job to choose their insertion point, because where they beached depended on where the most accessible route up the cliff face lay. They were all competent rock climbers, but Carter was extraordinary. He had spent a lot of his leisure time either scaling mountains or crawling through caves, potholing, and had a feel for climbing – a canny knack of finding footholds or handholds where there seemed to be none. He drew an arrow on one photograph, then pulled a map toward him and made a corresponding mark on it. He flicked a glance at Blade. "You've got confirmation our lady's there?"
Blade bit back his frustration. Hours had passed, and he didn't have confirmation. The plain fact was, Anna could be anywhere. He had been banking on her mentally contacting him, but so far, he'd had sweet nothing.
"We assume she's there," he said flatly. "We don't have another lead, and de Rocheford is just cock
y enough to want to flaunt his power. He's spent a fortune on security and buying toy soldiers. I'm betting he wants to play with them."
He leaned over Carter's shoulder, studying the place he'd picked out as a landing site. "I'm also priming the cops to search his place tonight. Ray Cornell's been on Seber's tail for weeks, trying to catch him with his pants down. I told him I could have an address for him tonight, in which case the police will be knocking on the front door, creating a diversion, while we go in the back way. But I'm putting that decision to the vote. I won't call Ray unless you all agree."
Ben asked several curt questions, and they tossed the matter back and forth for a few minutes.
They had already discussed all the reasons why they couldn't take firearms with them. They were all SAS – Blade knew that even though he had left just months ago, he would still be tagged as such. If they were caught carrying out a hostage rescue mission on home territory, the salsa would hit the fan. Ben, Carter and West would be kicked out of the Service, and they would all bring the SAS into disrepute. If they were found to be carrying firearms, they could face criminal charges, as well. In any case, this whole mission hinged on getting in and out quickly and quietly, not tearing the place apart with HK submachine guns. Adding the police to the mix both gave them an advantage and put them at more risk.
"It's called hedging our bets," Blade said. "De Rocheford thinks he's got all his ducks in a row, but he's forgotten one thing. The good guys only play by the bad guy's rules in the movies."
"Uh-huh," Carter said reflectively. "So the rules of engagement are that we're gonna have the bad guys and the cops after our hides." He shook his head in admiration. "It was just as well you left the SAS when you did; otherwise, they would have promoted you."
*
Half an hour later, they stepped out of the elevator. Sadie Carson, a brisk, fifty-something woman with a boyish haircut and trim jeans, was waiting to get on with a trolley of plants. She and her twin sister Addie were on the staff of Lombards and took care of all the hotel's plants and gardens. Now Sadie took her time giving them all an unabashed once-over.
She had got to know them all last year when they had based an operation to catch a terrorist at the old Pacific Royal hotel, which had since been demolished. She treated them all like slightly dim nephews, but she always made no bones about enjoying the view.
"Nice earring," she commented, leaning forward to peer at the small gem winking at Blade's lobe. "Got one just like it."
Blade's brows went up. He'd left his hair loose, and the earring in, though normally he didn't wear it when he was "working." But in this case, the black balaclava would cover it.
She nodded sagely, hands on hips. "You boys off on a mission?"
West cleared his throat, his eyes wary. "What makes you say that?"
Sadie gave him a pitying look. "I can smell the gun oil. But those coats do a good job of hiding the weaponry. You boys should get yourselves some sunglasses. You'd look just like that movie Matrix."
With a cheerful nod, she pushed her trolley into the elevator, a pair of gardening gloves flopping from a back jeans' pocket. The elevator doors swished closed.
Ben traded a glance with Blade as they strode through the car park. "Ever thought of putting Sadie in charge of security?"
"Nah," Carter said, before Blade could reply. "Too scary. Just imagine the pat downs."
Chapter 14
The door slammed behind Henry and Seber. Anna heard a key turn, the bolt rammed home.
She listened for their retreating footsteps, then fell forward on her hands and knees, retching. The pill that had been lodged in her throat shot out, but the other one must have gone all the way down.
Sitting back on her feet, she shakily wiped her mouth and stared around the small room she'd been shoved into. The sun was setting, and panic gripped her; she had to wonder if this was the last daylight she would ever see. The only window was barred but had no glass in it. She could feel the brisk sea breeze on her face, and she lurched to her feet and stumbled forward, grasping the bars, pressing against them as if she could magically slide between the columns of cold metal.
The view was familiar.
She blinked, for a moment disbelieving; then the truth hit. She was locked in what was left of the old beach house on the cliffs near Henry's modern, architecturally designed eyrie.
The house was in realty a dilapidated old farmhouse, the original home on the property Henry had bought years ago when he had insisted they all move to New Zealand. They had never actually lived here, because the new house had been completed and ready for them.
Anna had always thought of this entire property as belonging solely to Henry, even though it had been bought with Tarrant money. It had certainly never belonged to either Anna or her mother. It was built at the tip of a wild peninsula and was as isolated as a fortress, guarded on three sides by the broken cliffs that plunged down to rocky beaches below, protected on the fourth by high fences and a heavy-gauge steel, electronically controlled gate. She had no doubt the security here was even more impressive now than it had been when she left. Keeping up with the latest security gizmos had always been a particular hobby of Henry's.
Her fingers tightened with bruising force on the bars. The last time she had been in this house, she had nearly died.
She had been a teenager and had sneaked away to spend the night huddled on one of the old beds that used to reside in the bedrooms, and had woken to find the room ablaze and thick with black smoke. She had escaped by breaking a window that had been mysteriously nailed down, but it had been a near thing.
Anna remained standing for as long as she was able, fighting the effects of the sleeping pill, staring through the bars at the vast expanse of the sea, watching dusk deepen and the ripe, golden orb of a full moon crest the horizon. Her mind was muddled, hazy, but her dilemma was not – she could call out to Blade, but she hesitated. Maybe he could find her in time, get past Henry's security and help her, but in doing so, she would draw him into danger and possibly cause his death.
When she could no longer stand, she knelt, clutching the windowsill until her fingers went numb with the effort of keeping herself upright.
When she fell for the third time, she decided to stay on the floor and put all her remaining energy into mentally fighting the drugging effect of the pill.
Unfortunately, that strategy wasn't working any better than the first one had. The scents of dust and mould and the mice that inhabited the cottage were acrid in her nostrils. She hated the smell, hated the knowledge that she was lying in utter filth and didn't have the energy to even lift her cheek from the gritty surface of the bare wood floor.
An argument broke out in the adjoining room. She could hear Henry's smooth voice, then the flatter, more staccato cadence of Seber's. Occasionally a third man interjected.
Blade's name jerked her back to full consciousness on a hot pump of adrenalin.
Her eyes popped open. She had wondered why they had bothered with the sleeping pills when Seber could simply have shot her. They could have tossed her body into a boat, taken her miles offshore and dumped her by now, but they hadn't.
She could have kicked herself. The chance that they didn't know Blade was helping her had always been slim, but she'd had to consider it, despite the fact that they had taken her from the Lombard Hotel. Henry had known all along that Blade was helping her, and he was planning to kill him, too. They were drawing him into a trap, using her as bait.
She had to call out to him, give him as much information as she could on her location. She didn't know if it would help, but she had to try to warn him.
She pushed herself to her knees, then grabbed for the bars, finding them and dragging herself upright. She swayed, propping her weight against the wall, her face pressed into the bars as she concentrated on remaining upright and keeping her grip.
She stared fiercely at the sea. Now that she had to do this for real, knowing what she was doing, she was struck with
the fear that it wouldn't work. Closing her eyes, she concentrated, searching for that inner place. Blade's face wavered, his expression grim, dark eyes fixed piercingly on her. He said her name, an impression of sound and heat washed through her in a glittering torrent. For the barest moment she thought she caught the scent of him, felt a familiar jolt as if he'd reached out across the distance that separated them and touched her.
Tears shivered on her lashes, the hot spill quickly turned cold. She had to wonder if that was the last time she would ever see him, then she was slipping down, down, and once again everything went black.
*
Blade stared at Ben, once more becoming aware that he was standing beside the Jeep, his hand braced against cold metal. Sensation crowded in on him as abruptly as if someone had just flicked a switch: the cool rush of the sea breeze against his skin, in his hair, laced with the scents of salt and dried kelp; the rhythmic wash of the waves. Ben's hand was gripping his arm, steadying him. He could hear the faint noises West and Carter made as they pulled the inflatable boat off the back of Carter's truck.
Ben released his grip. "What is it?" he demanded. "You look like you saw a ghost."
"Not a ghost." Blade shook free of the stark image of Anna's hands clenched around bars, the sea shimmering beneath moonlight The view had been up high, as if the building was perched on a cliff. That described de Rocheford's place.
Rage and relief twisted through him, mixed with a grim satisfaction. Anna had called out to him, and she'd done her best to show him where she was. She was all right, but someone had put her in a damn cage.
The strangeness of the communication barely registered. He had been going crazy waiting, and his primary feeling was relief. A part of him still wanted logical answers, but the important thing had been that the communication link had worked.
Blade pulled out his mobile phone and punched in a number.
Ray picked up on the first ring. "If you can tell me where Seber is, I'll name my fourth-born child after you," he muttered. "We got a paint scraping from Seber's car, tying him to a hit-and-run, and now the bastard's dropped out of sight. Every cop in the damn city's looking for him."
