Flash of Death

by Cindy Dees

  Right. Girlfriend. What the guy didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. In a matter of minutes, she was seated behind the wheel of her car and on her way south out of San Francisco. It was nearly four hundred miles to Malibu, but traffic was moving fast on I-5 and she made outstanding time, killing the trip in a little under seven furious hours. Plenty of time to work up a really good head of steam.

  It was late afternoon when she parked beside the Malibu Pier. If Trent was surfing, he was no doubt doing so at Surfrider Beach, just north of the pier. It was a blustery day and she secured her hair in a ponytail as it whipped in her face. She grabbed a sweater out of the trunk of her car and held it tightly around her body as she slogged out onto the sand.

  The ocean roared its anger and only a few people sat or strolled on the beach. The water was dotted with dozens of surfers, however. And she could see why. The waves were easily twenty feet tall, and the occasional big wave topped thirty feet. These waves were not for amateurs. But then Trent was a world champion.

  A half-dozen Jet Skis hauled wet-suit-clad surfers up and down the swells, depositing them just beyond where the breakers started. Which one of the neon-colored specks was Trent? Shielding her eyes from the wind and flying sand, she squinted out to sea.

  “Looking for someone?” A grizzled beachcomber startled her by asking from right beside her.

  “Uhh, yes. Trent Hollings.”

  “Hollings. Let’s see. Big, good-looking guy. Dark hair. Light eyes. Prefers a left-hand curl...big wave rider. Uses a long board. That the one?”

  “Yes. That’s him.” She didn’t know what kind of waves Trent preferred or what kind of board he used, but the physical description certainly fit.

  The long-board thing narrowed down the possibilities of which surfer he was since the majority of them were using short boards. But there were still at least a dozen long-board surfers on the waves. At the end of the day, she supposed it didn’t matter which surfer he was. It wasn’t like she could march out into the ocean and demand that he come in to shore and explain himself.

  Actually, she didn’t give a darn what he had to say for himself. She did have a few things to say to him, however. She’d had the entire drive down from San Francisco to plan her scathing speech, in fact.

  Realizing the beachcomber was still standing there, she asked him, “Any idea when the surfers will call it a day?”

  “Not till sunset. That’s in about an hour-and-a-half.”

  Impatient to give Trent a piece of her mind, she had no intention of leaving and letting him slip away from her unscathed. She would wait. But it was cold out here. She slogged back to her car to dump her shoes in the trunk and fetch her emergency blanket. Plopped down on a corner of the blanket on the sand, she wrapped the remainder of the wool-plaid throw around her shoulders.

  The surfers were mesmerizing. They flew across the waves like ballet dancers with wings beneath their feet. And they looked as fragile as brightly colored butterflies against the towering walls of water crashing down around them. Although the occasional surfer was overtaken by a break and swallowed up for a heart-stopping minute in the frothing surf, most of these guys were really, really good. They safely dropped off the back side of the crests or rode the waves in until they petered out. Then they’d paddle over to the nearest Jet Ski, ride back out and do it all again.

  Which one was Trent? She narrowed it down to three or four of the tallest, most powerful surfers. But beyond that, she couldn’t tell. The sun expanded into a giant, pulsing ball of red as it slipped below the cloud deck to briefly show itself and then slide behind the sea.

  No big surprise, teen girls started filtering onto the beach as sunset approached. Chloe was a bit shocked by the sheer number of groupies and the scantiness of their bikinis in this chilly weather.

  The temperature dropped precipitously with the sun, and the last of the surfers grabbed quick waves and rode them all the way in to shore. She thought several of them actually eyed her appreciatively as she searched for Trent. But in light of the nubile, half-naked phalanx of hot chicks swarming the surfers, she probably was mistaken. At thirty years old, she was a senior citizen on this beach.

  Trent was one of the last to jog ashore, a bright yellow-and-orange surfboard tucked under his arm. Her heart raced at the sight of him. Or maybe it was anticipation of the confrontation to come making it pound like that. Either way, she hurried to where he bent over his board, unhooking it from its ankle tether.

  He glanced up as she drew near. The lanyard slipped out of his hand and fell to the sand as he straightened abruptly.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” he demanded, his voice rough like he’d been shouting over the surf and swallowing saltwater all day.

  “You and I need to talk,” she shouted back over the crashing-ocean noise.

  “I’ve got nothing to say,” he growled. “You’re convinced that I’m incapable of real feelings or sustaining a relationship. That basically says it all.”

  Dammit, he’d stolen her line! “And it’s over?” she demanded. “Just like that?”

  “Yup. Just like that.” He picked up his board and commenced hiking up the beach toward a crowded surf shack. Warm, yellow light poured out onto the sand as twilight fell quickly.

  She followed him, not about to let him get away with an exit line like that. Although she wasn’t at all sure what there was left to say between them. If he could walk away from her without a backward glance like this, then she’d been right about him, after all. He wasn’t capable of real feelings or any remotely resembling commitment.

  “I loved you, dammit!” she shouted over the roar of the ocean.

  Trent stopped a dozen yards short of the surf shack and its raucous crowd of surfers stripping out of wet suits and hoisting cans of beer, staring like she’d just spoken to him in Martian. “You love—” He broke off, looking past her first, and then all around the beach. “Where are your bodyguards?” he demanded.

  “I told Jeff I don’t need any.”

  “And he went along with that?” Trent exclaimed. He shoved a distracted hand through his wet hair, standing it up in every direction. “We’ve got to get you off this beach and under cover!”

  “I’m fine. I figured out who was stealing the money from Paradeo. It was Barry. The FBI will find his accomplice or accomplices and the drug cartel will get off my back.”

  “And until the FBI finds these alleged accomplices? You’re still in danger until then,” he snapped.

  She shrugged. After the pain of the past day, she didn’t especially care about being in danger. It was such a small thing in the face of loving and losing Trent. The prospect of decades of gray, lonely years unfolding one after another until she died, bitter and alone, frankly wasn’t all that appealing.

  “Don’t give me that I-don’t-care-about-danger look,” he growled. Dropping his board, he stepped forward aggressively, took her upper arm in his big hand and steered her bodily toward the parking lot.

  “Stop! You’re hurting me!”

  “I am not, and you know it. Be quiet and let me get you out of here. And then you’re telling me what you just said again.”

  She planted both heels in the sand and managed to bring him to a halt after he dragged her a half-dozen feet. “You can drop the fake-concern act, Trent. I don’t buy it anymore. Jeff told me he ordered you to keep an eye on me in Denver as a favor to Sunny. You took that order a wee bit literally, didn’t you? I highly doubt he meant for you to sleep with me.”

  “He didn’t order me to watch you until after—” He broke off. “Not now. Get your cute little tush in gear before I toss you over my shoulder and carry you off this damned beach.”

  He sounded genuinely furious. Reluctantly, she had to admit he probably had reason to be mad at her. Still, his high-handed attitude irritated the daylights out of her. She stomped along beside him rather than give him the satisfaction of bodily hauling her out of here. As they reached the asphalt parking area, a streetlamp
flickered to life with a loud buzz, and Trent started violently. Wow. He really was tense. Although, she failed to see why. The threat to her was all but over.

  He stopped in front of a sporty SUV. “Get in the car.”

  “I’ve got my own car, thank you very much,” she retorted.

  “I don’t care. Get in.”

  “No! You can’t just order me around, Trent. I’m not one of your floozy fan girls.”

  “Clearly not,” he retorted dryly. “I will pick you up and toss you in my car if you continue to be obstinate.”

  That was it. She’d had it with him. She turned on her bare heel, grinding sand into it painfully, and marched to her car. She grabbed her door handle and Trent’s hand closed over hers. It was cold—probably from the ocean, but it still sent heat whipping through her.

  “I’ll drive,” he said quietly.

  At least he wasn’t yelling at her anymore. She nodded stiffly and slipped her hand out from under his. He took the keys from her and slid behind the wheel as she walked around to the rear and opened the trunk. She slipped on shoes and stowed the blanket and sweater...and never saw the guy coming. One minute she was bent over the trunk, and the next, a large, fast-moving shadow swooped in on her. A powerful arm went around her waist as a hand slapped over her mouth. She was spun and thrown all in one movement. She landed on the floor of a van, slamming to the ribbed metal hard enough to knock the breath out of her.

  Tires squealed beneath her and the sliding door slammed shut, enclosing her in darkness. She scrambled upright, hands up in fists.

  “Easy, Miss Jordan. I have a gun on you.”

  Miguel Herrera. Where was Trent? Why hadn’t he come roaring to the rescue? “What did you do to my...boyfriend?” She hoped Herrera didn’t hear her hesitation.

  “One of my boys is keeping him company. He isn’t going anywhere until I say so, or until he fancies a gut full of bullet holes.”

  Oh, God. She was on her own. And as her eyes adjusted to the van’s dim interior, Herrera was, indeed, pointing a gun at her. Along with another man sitting on a crate in the back near the rear doors.

  She’d learned very young never to show fear unless she wanted to get eaten alive. The more terrified she was, the more belligerent she knew to act. Right now, she scooted backward until she was leaning against the wall and propped her forearm on an upbent knee as casually as she could muster, even though she felt like throwing up. Where are you, Trent? “You keep kidnapping me, Miguel. Why don’t you just call me and ask whatever you want to know? It would save us both so much trouble.”

  “Cool customer,” he commented under his breath. Then, louder, “Shut up. When I want you to talk, I’ll ask the questions.”

  Uhh, okay. She was in no hurry to spill her guts to this man. Death was probably in her very near future, but the decision wasn’t in her hands at this point. She visually searched the floor of the van for a weapon or something to help her escape, but the vehicle was bare.

  Somehow, she didn’t believe that Trent would be kept off her trail for very long. For once, she was glad for his freakish speed. He would figure out a way to use it to his advantage and follow her. If nothing else, he would get word to Winston Ops and they would use their scary powers to track this vehicle and send help.

  The key now was not to panic and to keep her captors relaxed. Happy even. Hence, she would be as cooperative as she possibly could be until the cavalry arrived. It was a plan, at any rate, and held the encroaching panic at bay.

  Chapter 12

  Trent saw a flurry of activity in the side mirror, and instinct had him ripping open his door and rolling out of his seat before his brain even registered what was happening. Panic and rage erupted in his skull and his body coiled to spring. Except when his feet landed on the pavement, he registered guns—several of them—trained on him. Even he wasn’t proof against that many flying bullets.

  He froze, snarling in fury as a man threw Chloe in the back of a van and jumped in after her. The thug in the parking lot in front of him didn’t worry Trent. He could take that bastard. But the guy in the passenger window of the van pointing an automatic assault weapon at him with cool precision was another story. Even a bare instant’s observation told Trent this guy was a pro who would neither miss nor hesitate to empty a full clip of lead into Trent’s gut.

  The van peeled out as Trent stared on in impotent fury. The vehicle moved far enough away that the guy in the passenger window no longer had a shot at him, and Trent turned his attention to the single shooter who had been left behind, no doubt to make sure Trent didn’t follow the van.

  He gauged his chances of reaching the thug’s weapon before Herrera’s man could pull the trigger. He figured about fifty-fifty. Good enough for him. Chloe was in that van and its taillights were diminishing to specks in the distance. Fast.

  Trent leaped, keeping his trajectory extremely low and using every bit of speed his body possessed to close the gap. The guy got off one shot and Trent vaguely registered searing heat in a long line along the back of his right shoulder.

  But then he was on the guy, wrenching the pistol out of the man’s shocked grasp and putting all his momentum behind the elbow he swung at the guy’s face. He was too close to use his fist, but the sharp point of his elbow caught Herrera’s man in the right temple and dropped him like a rock.

  Trent spun and leaped for Chloe’s car. He backed up, running over the downed thug’s legs, and effectively ensuring the bastard wouldn’t give chase. As the man screamed invectively, Trent stepped on the gas, and Chloe’s car peeled out of the parking lot exactly the same way the van had.

  Last he’d seen the van, it had been heading west toward the Pacific Coast Highway. As he sped after it, he searched the glove compartment and door pockets for Chloe’s cell phone. No sign of it. He had no time to stop and call Winston Ops for backup or he’d lose the van, and Chloe, for good. He was on his own. Swearing, he floored the accelerator and used his reflexes to maximum advantage as he swerved in and out of traffic.

  A white van came into sight well ahead of him. Hang on, Chloe. I’m coming, baby.

  * * *

  Chloe was tipped over on her side as the van turned abruptly. It felt like they were going uphill. Heading inland, huh? If only she knew this area better she might have some idea where they were taking her. The hard rectangle of her cell phone was comforting in her pants pocket. As soon as the bad guys left her alone, she’d call for help. Funny, but her first thought was to call Trent and not the police. Had she really come to depend on him that much? Did she trust him with her life over anyone else she might call? Like Don and the FBI? Or even the local police?

  Shocked, she righted herself and tried to catch a glimpse of something out the windshield that would identify where she was. But sitting low on the floor like this, all she could see was the rapidly darkening sky.

  She comforted herself with imagining Trent overpowering the guy Herrera had left behind. Poor schmuck probably hadn’t even known what had hit him when Trent jumped him at superhuman speed. She envisioned Trent jumping into her car to give chase and calling in every law enforcement agency on the west coast and Winston Ops to come rescue her—

  Wait a minute. What was he going to call with? She had her cell phone with her, and he was wearing a wet suit that didn’t have anywhere to store a phone in its form-fitting neoprene. Her heart sank. Trent was on his own, and even he couldn’t take out three armed kidnappers all alone, assuming he even made it past the first guy back in the parking lot.

  The van drove for maybe an hour. The car noises from outside diminished and the roads got bumpier. They must be taking her someplace nice and isolated to torture her and kill her. Were it not for her complete panic at the notion of never seeing Trent again, never getting a chance to thank him for all he’d done for her, never working up the courage to tell him how she felt about him, she might have dozed off in the darkness and monotony of the ride. But as it was, she started working on the hypotheti
cal speech she was going to give him when he hypothetically overcame the massive odds against him and rescued her from this mess. It was better that screaming in terror.

  She was still working on how to properly apologize to him for putting herself in this danger in the first place when the van slowed, stopped, and its ignition turned off.

  The guy in the back of the van opened the double doors and jumped out. All she could see were trees behind him.

  “Out,” Herrera barked at her.

  She rose to her feet, bent over, and made her way to the back. Her legs were so wobbly they barely held her weight. They did collapse when she jumped down to the ground. The first thug grabbed her roughly by the arm and yanked her upright. And then, as if thinking better of having helped her, he gave her a hard shove that nearly knocked her over again.

  She drew up short when a gun barrel appeared under her nose. “Move,” Herrera growled.

  Glancing around frantically, she saw they were surrounded by pine trees and a small cabin was in front of her. Wasn’t there some kind of national forest not too far from Malibu up in the hills? That must be where they’d taken her. Not that knowing where she was would do her any good if Herrera shot her before she could call Trent.

  She stumbled toward the cabin, hoping it had a working restroom. She sneezed when she stepped into the dusty, dark interior. Someone switched on a light behind her and illuminated the filthy room. No one had been in this place for months or maybe years. A thick layer of gray dust covered everything. The furniture was decrepit and broken chairs were stacked in one corner of the main room.

  Herrera spoke in rapid Spanish, ordering both his men to sweep the area outside and then stand guard. Chloe was left alone with him.

  “I’m almost afraid to see it, but is there a working restroom in this place?” she asked her captor.

  He didn’t answer her, but rather moved to a closed door and poked his head inside. He flipped a switch inside the space, and she glimpsed an old-fashioned stand sink below a mirror that had lost much of its chrome finish.