by Julie Miller
Together had such a horrible connotation when he said it. “Will you use the ropes in the video?”
“Smith!”
“All right. We’ll tie his hands. But the leg irons stay.”
Tasiya discovered she could smile without feeling anything. “My lips are sealed.”
Marcus pushed a button on the walkie-talkie and answered. “I’m coming, Mr. Fowler. I’ll bring the camera.”
Smith strode around the corner to the communications room. Tasiya faded into the shadows, praying she’d given Bryce enough time to get back to his cell. When she heard the key twist in the lock of the iron door, she didn’t know if he’d been sealed in or if he was in the clear.
But as soon as she heard Marcus Smith treading back toward the breezeway, she picked up her basket and hurried toward Bryce’s cell. Please be there. Please.
“Bryce Martin?” She ran up to the bars and exhaled such a relieved sigh it left her light-headed. “Thank God. Thank God you are safe.”
He stood inside, putting on his chains. As soon as he saw the grass rope on her wrists, he reached through the bars. “What the hell?”
His chains scraped against the bars as he untied her, and Tasiya tried to hush him. “Someone will hear you.”
But there was no stopping Bryce. “What did he do to you? Are you hurt?”
There was a desperation in his fingertips as he touched her cheek, cupped her neck, smoothed her hair. She wiped the taste of Marcus Smith from her mouth with the back of her hand, and Bryce’s thumb was instantly there, brushing across her lips, stamping his care and concern there. Finally Tasiya latched on to his hands to stop his frantic inspection. “I am all right. I have been very successful. Marcus will use the ropes on you tomorrow.”
He shook his head. “I hated what you were doing. Every minute of it. But you’re a damn smart woman.”
With that he palmed the nape of her neck and pulled her in for his kiss. It was wild and frantic, their bodies pressed against the bars, their faces meeting in between. Tasiya linked her hand behind his neck and parted her lips to drink in the deliciously potent taste of him. It was an assurance of lives spared, a prayer for future cautions, a joining of two souls who’d learned more about trust and survival in the past few weeks than they’d known their entire lives.
When Bryce pulled away, they both clung to the bars to catch their breaths. A wry smile softened the harsh lines of his face. “You’ll never go down without a fight, will you?”
The admiration in his eyes filled her with pride. “I have a very good teacher.”
His wry grin quickly faded. “You better get back to your room before someone misses you.”
Tasiya picked up her basket and tucked the rope inside. “Good night, Bryce Martin.”
“Watch your back.”
She glanced over her shoulder. “I cannot see my—”
“Stay safe.” That, she understood.
“I forgot.” She handed him Marcus Smith’s knife from her basket. “You, too.”
Bryce took the knife and reached out for one last touch of her hair. “Damn smart woman.”
BRYCE TOOK HIS TIME tying up the boots Boone Fowler had returned to him while Bristoe and Hodges stood watch outside his cell. Sure, stooping over to work around his leg irons pulled at the scabs just starting to form on his back and put pressure on his cracked rib. But he was more interested in stalling for time.
He didn’t want to appear too eager to become a movie star.
The morning had dawned, red and overcast, with the biting threat of more rain on the wind. Everything inside Bryce’s cell was damp, including the mattress ticking and the green camo jacket he’d buttoned over the khaki shirt that didn’t quite fit. He knew these little amenities had nothing to do with a sudden attack of conscience over a prisoner freezin’ his nuts off in a cell with an open window. They wanted to hide the marks of his abuse. Pretty him up for the camera.
Ha! There wasn’t nothin’ pretty about Bryce Martin and what he was planning to do to the militia.
“Move it, Martin.” Hodges seemed a little out of his element, without his brass knuckles or permission to use Bryce as a punching bag. He paced back and forth in the passageway, checking his watch. “Mr. Fowler wants to get you on tape before the storm hits.”
Bristoe had his rifle looped over his shoulder and looked as if he was taxing every brain cell tying and testing knots in the cord grass rope Tasiya had given Marcus Smith. “You’re sure this’ll hold the big guy?”
Hodges snatched it out of the kid’s hands and shook it loose. “If Smith says to use it, we use it.” He gestured through the bars. “You ready, Martin?”
Bryce nodded, still refraining from striking up any kind of conversation with his tormentors. They didn’t seem to expect it, and he wasn’t about to offer. Hodges ordered him to the back wall of the cell as he unlocked the door, and Bristoe held him at gunpoint while the older man bound Bryce’s wrists. Once he was secured, Hodges pulled out a folded piece of stationery and his pistol.
He poked the gun into Bryce’s gut, grinning at the grunt of pain that was impossible to hide. “You give me any trouble, big man, and I’ll shoot you where you stand. Got that?”
Bryce nodded.
“Good.” He pushed the paper into Bryce’s hands and shoved him into the passageway. Bryce gritted his teeth around his curse and breathed in deeply to control the waves of pain undulating across his back. “Now you be a good boy and read what Mr. Fowler wrote for you, exactly the way he said it, and we’ll let you come back to your room for some more beauty sleep.”
“Beauty sleep?” Bristoe laughed, pulling the door shut behind them. “That’s a good one.”
Hodges and Bristoe laughed, and Bryce began the long walk outside.
They passed through the familiar twists and turns, past the interrogation room and the communications center, past the blank corridors that led to other prison cells, past the room that housed the generators. Bristoe slipped aside a dead bolt and pushed open a solid iron door that led onto an open, porch-like walkway paved in stone.
Bryce squinted as he saw direct outdoor light for the first time in three weeks. Even with the clouds hanging overhead, the muted sun seemed harsh to eyes that had grown accustomed to functioning in shadows and darkness. This must be the breezeway Tasiya had mentioned—and that screen door at the opposite end would lead into the kitchen, mess hall and militia quarters.
“Wait here.” Hodges tapped him in the gut with the pistol again, and Bryce winced, caught off guard because he’d been too busy searching for Tasiya on the other side of that screen door.
With Bristoe’s gun fixed on Bryce, Hodges hopped down the two steps that led into the courtyard and hurried over to exchange words with Boone Fowler and the short, squatty man behind the camera. Beyond the crumbling stone wall at the far edge of the yard, Bryce could see the golden cord grass whipping back and forth in the wind blown ahead by the coming storm. Somebody at Big Sky had to remember the hours they’d spent cartin’ heavy equipment across these rocky, sand-soaked islands, then clearin’ it all away so they could use ’em for target practice.
Making a cut sign across his neck, Fowler dismissed the hostage being filmed ahead of Bryce. Jacob Powell, of the crazy games and annoying charm, strode into view. Flanked by two militiamen, Powell was doing his own version of creating chaos and making life difficult for the militia. He was talkin’.
Bryce studied the ground and battled the urge to grin.
“I don’t know, I think I got the whole Tom Cruise thing workin’. You know, with the teeth and the hair.” Despite a hoarse voice, Powell was speaking in code as he walked up the steps and passed by, and Bryce was paying attention. “I got it all over Craig O’Riley. He doesn’t have the profile for camera work like I do.” Riley had a broken nose? “And he’s not pullin’ off that Lex Luthor look at all.” Shaved head? “You know, what one gal thinks is sexy—”
“Shut up.”
So, w
ith Bryce temporarily sidelined, Riley Watson had become the guinea pig du jour for torture and neglect. Powell had indicated that he was healthy enough to put up a good fight, but Riley was hurtin’. Bryce would have to keep that in mind if he got a chance—correction, make that when he got the chance to make their rescue happen.
While Powell jabbered on, Bryce communicated the best way he knew how. He lifted his hands and rubbed at his wrists to let Powell know he was onto somethin’ with the cord grass. Then he looked him straight in those clever green eyes and prayed his buddy could still read his silences.
“I’m ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille.” Powell winked, telling Bryce he understood that somethin’ was goin’ down. “Oh, yeah, I’m ready for that.”
“I said shut up.”
“Shutting up now.”
One of the guards poked Powell between the shoulder blades with his rifle, and the three of them disappeared behind the iron door.
Showtime.
At Hodges’s nod, Fowler looked across the uneven paving stones and inspected Bryce. The militia leader scanned him from head to toe, no doubt checking to see if he could play the part of a meek convert to Fowler’s ideology.
But Bryce’s effort to maintain a blank, downcast expression got sidetracked by the sound of Tasiya’s voice. “I must return to the kitchen to wash up the breakfast dishes. Enjoy your coffee.”
A door had opened up in the hall just on the other side of the screen. Bryce could see her backing into the hallway. She’d gone back to her jeans, which did as fine a job showing off her long, lean legs as any other damn thing she wore. A familiar longing tripped through his veins, suffusing him with the need to move, to go to her and wrap himself around her and shield her from the hellish games of this place.
She spared Bryce a quick glance through the screen, just enough to let him know she knew he was there, but not long enough for anyone else to pick up the connection. She made a motion with her hand down at her side—signin’ somethin’ maybe—but Bryce didn’t catch it. And then she had company and there was no chance to repeat the message.
“I only wanted to see that you kept your word,” she said through the open door. “Thank you.”
“Anything for you, sugar.” Marcus Smith materialized in the doorway, holding a mug of coffee. He stared down at the top of Tasiya’s cowed head with a sick smile that heated Bryce’s blood from the tender need to protect to the surprisingly violent desire to put that leering bastard out of commission.
“I must go.”
Smith picked up a strand of Tasiya’s hair and rubbed it between his fingers, holdin’ on tight enough that she had to turn her head to keep it from pullin’ at her scalp when she tried to leave. “Don’t run off on my account, sugar. I think you and I have more to discuss.”
“Later. I promise. I have to go.” By the time she pried her hair loose and tried to move away, Bryce’s toes were curlin’ inside his boots, anxious to get to her and run interference.
That son of a bitch. Though Tasiya politely excused herself, Smith moved out right behind her. Bryce’s hands fisted around Fowler’s letter. A vein pounded in his jaw. Why the hell didn’t somebody stop him?
With an all-important message to send on videotape, Bryce couldn’t risk taking down Bristoe and the two guards who stood between him and the door. But his fists weren’t the only weapon he possessed. “Should he be doin’ that?”
The fact that he’d spoken startled Bristoe into answerin’. “What?”
Bryce nodded toward the screen door. “Him and that girl.”
The kid wasn’t slick enough to let it go. “Who? Smith?”
He said the name loud enough that Marcus stopped and turned. Thankfully, Tasiya trotted straight on out of sight, into the kitchen where she could grab a meat cleaver to keep Smith’s hands off her. He hoped.
But Marcus wasn’t near the fool Steve Bristoe was. His icy blue eyes met Bryce’s through the screen. A silent message was exchanged between them. Boundaries were challenged. Paybacks were set.
Smith took a drink of coffee, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Sweet on the little lady, are ya, big guy?”
Bryce didn’t answer the taunt. His attention had been drawn to something more worth his time. That’s what Tasiya had tried to tell him with her hand signals. A C and a 4. He’d taught her a list of items to look for in their nightly searches. And his gutsy lady had delivered.
Inside Smith’s quarters were rows upon rows of boxes, all marked with distinct military signage. The security chief bunked in the munitions room, complete with shells, ammo clips, rifles—and two neatly marked boxes of C-4. Plastique explosive.
As if sensing the open door was an invitation for Bryce to challenge him, Smith pushed it shut and locked it with a key. Then he walked right up to the screen and dangled the key like a golden apple in front of Bryce. “Don’t get any ideas, hick. About anything. Or anybody.”
Then he stuffed the key into his pocket and turned to follow Tasiya. Bryce’s need to stomp Smith’s sorry hide poured adrenaline into his muscles and deepened his breathing. He strained against the rope at his wrists. But he had to bide his time. He didn’t have the upper hand. Yet. He’d only make things worse for Tasiya if he tried to help her now and got incapacitated or killed. If he was gone, she’d have no one. No hope of escape. No future.
In the end, he could do nothing but pray that Tasiya knew how to use that meat cleaver.
“Your turn, big man.” Hodges motioned him down the stairs and Bryce fell into step in front of Bristoe’s gun.
This had better work. For Tasiya’s sake as much as anyone else’s on the team.
After a few preliminary instructions from Fowler, Bryce faced the camera. He ignored the two guns pointed at him, positioned his hands on the paper and started to read. “The Montana Militia for a Free America has never forgotten the beliefs set down in the Declaration of Independence. But our government has…”
Ponderosa, Montana
“WHAT DO THE THREE FINGERS mean? Is he pointing to something?”
“The other hostages all wore chains. Why is Sarge different?”
“Has he ever said that many words all at once?”
“He’s telling us something.” Trevor Blackhaw hit the pause button and stared at the image recorded from that afternoon’s special news report.
Bryce Martin, an immovable rock of a man, with a deceptive package of brains inside all that brawn, stared back from the plasma-screen TV suspended from the ceiling. He looked a little more battered than usual—from the swollen cut on his cheek to the distinct ligature marks beneath the crude rope that bound his wrists.
Every available member of Big Sky Bounty Hunters had gathered in the command center secretly located beneath the ranch lodge that served as their headquarters building. Their boss, Cameron Murphy, sat at the head of the conference table, with the portable oxygen tank that he still carried to appease his wife’s concerns but rarely used anymore, on the floor beside him. “What do we know, people?” he demanded, expecting some answers.
Anthony Lombardi leaned back in his chair, drumming his fingers against the table. “I can’t get a fix on any landmarks besides the stone wall behind him. There’s no topography to look at. With the sun covered up like that, it’s hard to get a fix on the time of day. Pretty windy there, though.”
Owen Cook had his laptop open, clicking through information the average computer hacker could never gain access to. “I plotted the cloud movement over the six minutes he’s on camera. They’re moving at storm speed. According to U.S. Navy weather reports, the only storms of that size in the past week have been over the eastern seaboard. That fits in with the general area of their capture.”
“Assuming this video was made in the last week,” Murphy noted.
“It’s recent.” Interrogation was Trevor’s area of expertise. “They’ve been missing three weeks. It takes a while to coerce a hostage, especially a hardhead like Sarge, into saying what
you want him to. Fowler needed time to either force him to submit or find the bargaining chip that would make the hostage turn.”
Michael Clark looked up from the observations he’d jotted on his notepad. “Sergeant Martin doesn’t believe a word he’s saying. You can see it in his eyes, and that succinct articulation doesn’t come naturally to him. The three fingers are definitely a clue. Looks like a trident to me. Could be the number three. Third? Triple?”
“So we can place him somewhere on the eastern seaboard,” Murphy summarized. Timing was critical. According to the first few minutes of the hostage video, a prisoner would be killed every day that the United Nations didn’t withdraw its plans to invade Lukinburg and overthrow King Aleksandr’s corrupt rule. They had fewer than twelve hours until day two and the next murder. “That narrows it down to a couple thousand square miles. Please tell me we can do better than that.”
Trevor nodded. “You’d think of any of the prisoners, they’d have Sarge locked down tight. That rope has to mean something. Can you blow up that part of the picture?”
Cook typed and clicked on his computer, magnifying the braided rope around Bryce’s wrists. “Coming up…now.”
To a man they groaned and cursed and shook their heads.
“I recognize that from basic training.”
“Cord grass.”
“Devil’s Fork Island.”
Bingo.
Murphy braced his hands at the edge of the table and stood. “Get that FBI botanist on the horn and verify the species of grass and its exact location. There are several islands in that area. Call Major Hayes with Special Forces at Ft. Bragg and get us some backup. He owes me one. Take whatever you need and get yourselves booked on a flight out of here tonight. I want Boone Fowler back in a Montana prison.”
As he snapped orders, his men went to work.
He stopped Trevor with a hand on his arm. “I’m not in any condition to travel yet.” It was evident how much he hated to say it, but, “I’d only slow us down. I want you to take lead on this.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And Trev?”
