No One Left To Tell no-2

by Jordan Dane

  With the windshield wipers beating on high, she squinted through the downpour, tightening her grip on the steering wheel. The colorful lights of the city bled through the streaks of rain. Large drops pelted the SUV, making it hard to think.

  She saw St. Sebastian's Church on the left and almost missed her turn. As she pulled into the side parking lot nearest the rectory, she parked the SUV, but kept the engine running. Father Antonio would not recognize the vehicle as hers, so she followed his instruction and flashed the headlights.

  Nothing. She peered through the darkness, looking for any sign of life from the modest living quarters.

  From the corner of her eye, she saw a man in the shadows, waving a hand and jogging up to her car from the right side. Although the hood of the man's coat covered his face, she thought he might be the priest judging by his build and stature. She narrowed her eyes and craned her neck for a better view. But as he drew closer, she saw the cross hanging from his neck and she unlocked the doors.

  Suddenly, a dark shadow eclipsed the streetlamp behind her. A motion caught her eye, reflected in the side mirror. A man crept toward her car, too damned sneaky to be harmless. On pure instinct, she reacted without hesitation. Laying her shoulder into it, she shoved at her door, jamming the heavy hunk of steel into the man like a weapon. With the first strike, he doubled over in pain, his arms attempting to shield his knees. To make her point again, she pulled the door back for a second assault. This time, she used her leg to thrust into him.

  As he fell to the ground, the man cried out, "Shit! Stop that bitch."

  Grappling with her seat belt, she had only an instant to make her next move as the man writhed on the ground. Blindly, she pressed the clasp of her safety belt, then felt for the butt of her gun. But the passenger side door flew open and another man accosted her from the right, knocking the Glock from her hand into the shadows of the floorboard.

  "What the hell?" she cried. Raven kicked and punched, fighting the man in close quarters. "Chicago Police. Back off." Her voice was loud and forceful, but her warning went unheeded.

  A shrill ring broke her concentration. Her cell phone. Christian. It had to be him. Like a cruel taunt, his words of reason repeated in her head. Don't deviate from the plan. The image of Christian spurred her on. She couldn't let up now.

  But as she fought the second man, the delay allowed her first assailant to recover. He lunged through the driver's side door, gripping her neck with a beefy forearm, choking off her air. The distraction didn't daunt her. Still fighting the other guy, she drove a heel into his head as he came in from the passenger side. Connecting with the kick, she caught a glimpse of him falling to the ground with a grunt. But she had a bigger problem. Caught in a headlock, her airway squeezed tight, she wheezed her next breath, quickly losing control. The bastard yanked her from the driver's seat, not letting up on the pressure. Rain pummeled her face, making it hard to see.

  With very little effort, her assailant could snap her neck. She felt her arms and legs tingling, the numbness spreading. Shooting pinpoints of light played havoc with her eyes. Dizziness fogged her senses. Soon, she'd lose consciousness. If that happened, she knew it would be over.

  With all her strength, Raven clenched her fist and stiffened her forearm, ramming her elbow hard into the solar plexus of the man behind her, just as she'd been trained. The first shot barely got the man's attention. The second time, he cursed with the damage she inflicted. His body felt like a brick wall. Her elbow quivered, deadened by pain. On the third punch, he loosened his grip around her neck and stumbled backward.

  It was all the break she needed.

  Raven spun and quickly shifted her hip behind him, then yanked his shoulders back with her right arm. His weight and momentum propelled him to the ground. As he lay stunned, she gripped his collar with her left fist to steady her target. Drawing back the heel of her right hand, she prepared to shatter his nose, driving bone splinters deep into his brain, dealing a deathblow. But a hard metal object shoved against the back of her skull.

  It could be only one thing. She stopped cold.

  A menacing voice captured her attention through the driving rain. His rock-steadiness told her he was in charge.

  "You connect with that next shot and the last thing you'll see is your brains all over Krueger's chest. Personally, I could care less one way or the other. So you take your pick."

  The man named Krueger blinked twice, clearly unsure whether the man with the gun meant what he said. She, on the other hand, knew the ruthless scumbag meant every word. Deliberating her choices, she held firm to Krueger, a stubborn streak influencing her bravado. Raven knew she had little to think about. Attempting to recover, she drew cold air into her lungs. Her chest heaved with the effort, her throat raw. The chilling rain seeped under her open coat and through to her skin. Strands of hair stuck to her face.

  It was over.

  Raven loosened her grip and raised her hands high. Still kneeling, she waited for the next instruction, hoping the man holding her at gunpoint wouldn't shoot her dead on the spot. As long as she was alive, she had hope.

  "Stay on your knees." The man standing behind her laughed—a low, threatening sound. "After all, you're practically at a church. Try saying a prayer if you think it'll help."

  Cupping his hand under her chin, he yanked her head back and stroked her neck with his icy, wet fingers. With the gun still to her ear, he whispered, "Seeing you so submissive, it's a real turn-on. Every woman should know her place."

  And to Krueger lying on the wet asphalt, he changed his tone and ordered, "Get up, before she kicks your ass again."

  Krueger raised up on his elbows and drew the back of his hand over his mouth—the look in his eyes downright lethal. In a slow and deliberate manner, he stood, never taking his eyes off her.

  "I think you really pissed him off." His vulgar laugh grated her nerves.

  Raven's eyes darted to the left then right, looking for her next opportunity to strike back. But the man didn't give her a chance.

  "Tie her up."

  Her hands were yanked behind her. She felt her wrists being bound, the sound of duct tape tearing off the roll.

  And to make matters worse, her phone erupted a second time, calling attention to her only lifeline. It must be Christian again. An arm reached from behind her and tugged at the phone on her belt. The man's hand palmed her in a vile manner, retrieving her badge.

  "She's got an empty holster. Where's her gun?"

  Another voice yelled, "Check the car, the floorboard on the passenger side. I seen it fall."

  She shut her eyes tight for an instant, then asked, "What's this all about?" No answer. She tried again. "You have my badge. You know I'm a police officer with the Chicago PD."

  "Oh, believe me, I know exactly who you are, Detective Mackenzie."

  A hand shoved her to the ground, and her feet were restrained in duct tape. She was going nowhere, trussed like a pig going to slaughter. Unceremoniously, she was jerked to her feet by the collar of her coat. Strong hands grasped both of her elbows. She teetered on her feet, unable to move. The man whose voice she'd come to recognize stepped around to face her.

  Gray dead eyes.

  "You." She couldn't hide her reaction. "Logan McBride."

  "At your service." He looked surprised but eventually smiled, touching a finger to his forehead in a mock salute. His looks didn't improve with the gesture. "Now, let's not keep Father Antonio waiting."

  "If you've hurt him—" Her threat fell hollow.

  And by the look on McBride's face, he wasn't intimidated in the slightest. A grimace twisted his expression.

  "I've heard enough from you, Mackenzie. You've got a big mouth, just like your daddy."

  He cut a piece of duct tape from the roll with a sharp knife. She watched him make the slice and wondered if this blade had slit Mickey Blair's throat. Jerking her head back, he stuck the tape across her mouth, shutting her up for good.

  "Take her SUV and fol
low us to the location we talked about. Get going." In an instant, she heard Christian's car start up and screech away. "Let's get out of here," he ordered.

  Hoisted from the ground, she was thrown over a man's shoulder. Bile rose hot from her belly. She dangled helplessly, her arms and legs useless. But she still had her mind. She could think.

  Where was Father Antonio? Since McBride had his cross, she assumed the priest was being held or already dead. The injustice toward the innocent cleric enraged her. And another thing twisted her gut, ever since the break-in at her home. McBride had more to do with her father's past than Christian's. What was McBride's connection to Mickey Blair? Instinct told her McBride had killed the man, but for what reason? None of this made sense.

  Thrown into the back of a dark-colored and win-dowless utility van, she heard the doors slam shut. Cocooned in darkness. As the engine rumbled and the vehicle lurched forward, a sense of foreboding seized her heart.

  Something else was very wrong.

  None of these men had made an effort to hide his face. Hell, McBride downright flaunted his ugly mug, not caring much how she recognized him. He even used Krueger's name without regard for secrecy. Raven felt certain they had no intention of letting her go. No doubt in her mind.

  She'd have to use her brain and fight like hell if she hoped to make it out alive.

  CHAPTER 15

  The van finally came to a stop. In the dark, Raven listened for sounds of her captors as she wrestled with the duct tape binding her wrists. The damned tape hadn't budged the whole trip. She wrenched her jaw again, hoping to open her mouth, but nothing.

  The intensity of the rain dwindled to a faint tapping on the outside of the vehicle. Tensing her muscles, she rolled to face the door, prepared to kick it open. With her legs bound, she had no idea what she'd do next. But by the sound of things, more of McBride's men had gathered outside. She wouldn't stand a chance.

  As the van door opened, she stared into the grim faces of three men, then heaved a sigh. She had to be patient, pick her spot.

  "Look what Logan gift-wrapped for us." One man laughed, his bristly face twisted to a sneer. "Prime hunting stock."

  She wanted to respond, but her instincts warned her to play it smart. A hand gripped her ankle and tugged her effortlessly to the rear of the van. As she cleared the darkened interior, a man grabbed the edge of the tape covering her mouth and jerked it free, with no regard for her skin underneath.

  "Hey, watch it." So much for playing it smart. She moved her jaw and lips, making sure everything still worked before she mouthed off again. "Aren't you afraid I'll scream?"

  "Counting on it." His offhand remark sent chills along her skin.

  To regain control of her emotions, she focused on her surroundings, ignoring the manhandling of her body. Hoisted over a man's shoulder, she hung upside down. Strands of hair blocked her view. She craned her neck to see anything that would help. And adding insult to injury, the bastard carrying her stroked her ass like he'd discovered Aladdin's magic lamp.

  "You cut me out of this duct tape, and I'll show you my idea of foreplay."

  The man laughed and gave her one final squeeze from his meaty hand. "Not on your life, sweetheart."

  As far as she could see, shabby red brick buildings extended into the darkness, with only a small section of them illuminated by the headlights of the van and Christian's SUV. One of the delivery bays was open. Voices echoed inside. From the belly of the largest structure, several flashlights cut through the darkness. They cast an eerie glow, elongating the shadows of McBride's men. No electricity told her the buildings had been abandoned long ago.

  None of this place looked familiar. The only signs of life were the vehicles parked in front. And she had a suspicion they'd be pulled into the old building, out of sight. When that happened, not a trace of her would be left behind. The decayed warehouse would swallow her whole.

  Now she would know firsthand what Mickey had experienced.

  Once inside, the stale smell of mildew stifled her breath. It was difficult enough to breathe upside down. Sparingly, she sampled the air as if it were toxic. But the sound of McBride's voice made her stomach lurch.

  "Fresh meat for the slaughter." He grabbed her hair and gave it a tug, straining the muscles of her neck. "But first, I propose a little reunion."

  Enlisting the aid of one of the hangar crew, Fiona found a phone in the office. Behind a closed door, she gripped the receiver and stared at the buttons. Her chair creaked as she shifted her weight, her nerves getting the better of her.

  Months had turned into years and the years spun into decades—and still she'd resisted making contact with Nicholas Charboneau. Now her pulse raced in anticipation of hearing his voice again, so soon after she'd seen him in Versailles. He had instigated that encounter, a complete surprise. This time, she would be reaching out to him, asking for a favor.

  Her focus drifted in and out as her trembling fingers hovered near the numbers. But she must swallow her pride. Much more was at stake. Slowly, she punched in the number she had committed to memory long ago. She'd locked it away in her heart.

  Nicholas answered on the third ring. "Yes?"

  Fiona felt certain he had caller ID and would screen his calls. But the number would only show Dunhill Aviation—and that might pique his interest. For an instant, she weighed the consequences of her actions and considered the risk. Once she spoke, he'd know she was Stateside. What other torturous games would he launch against her?

  "Nicky. It's Fiona."

  Dead silence—as cold as the stern glare from his violet eyes.

  "You've come home." A long moment ticked by. "Why have you called?"

  No games. No feigned cordiality. His tone scared her. He held the advantage. All she could do was—

  "I need your help," she pleaded.

  A low rumble of laughter ridiculed her. He wasn't going to make this easy. Fighting back tears, she tightened her lips and choked down a sob. Her Nicky had grown so cold.

  "After all these years, Fiona? You know any help from me comes with a price. Are you willing to pay it?"

  By his tone, she knew he flaunted his superior position, presuming she'd never yield to him.

  "For God's sake, haven't we both paid that price?" Her question rhetorical, she didn't wait for his sarcasm. "What do you want, Nicky? I'll do whatever you ask. Just stop this vendetta of yours."

  Silence. Only the sound of his breathing filled the emptiness.

  She needed him to understand. "You've won. But this killing must stop. You don't know what you're doing." She regretted her poor choice of words the instant she'd said it. And desperation seeped into her voice. It couldn't be helped.

  The face of her son flashed in Fiona's mind. She knew Christian. If Detective Mackenzie was in danger, he'd protect her, without regard for his own safety. Damn it! All those years ago, her cowardly actions and poor judgment had come full circle. And it might cost the life of her only child. She'd have gladly taken the retribution upon herself, being the guilty one. But Christian deserved none of it. He'd already suffered too much for her sins.

  "Oh? Then enlighten me, my dear," he taunted, still the cagey player. "What exactly am I doing?"

  Even now, her instincts stopped her from blurting out the truth. Nicholas would never find out from her that Christian was his son. She'd have to find another way to get him to listen to reason.

  "If death is all that will appease you, then I am offering myself." Closing her eyes, she filled her lungs and let her breath out slowly, allowing fear to wash over her. She swallowed hard, then spelled it out for him. "Kill me. It's what you really want, isn't it? Tell me where I can meet you."

  Once again, he fell silent. Startled for a moment, she thought he'd hung up the phone. Fiona tightened her grip on the receiver and listened for any sound at all. As she opened her mouth to speak, he broke the stalemate.

  "It's out of my hands, Fie. We'll both have to live with the aftermath."

 
His words stabbed her heart. No! It couldn't be over. Her mind wouldn't accept such finality.

  "Nicky, please—"

  A dial tone mocked her. He ended the call, bitterness in his voice.

  It was too late.

  Nicholas stared blankly into the crackling fire, his eyes mesmerized by the only light in the room. The flames cast eerie shadows along the stone hearth and into the cavernous study. Sitting amidst his fine collection of books and artifacts and rare paintings, he'd come to the realization that none of it meant a thing. Echoing in his mind, Fiona's frightened voice bedeviled his dubious sense of morality.

  His gaze drifted toward the crystal snifter in his hand, its contents a fine family blend of Cognac. Slowly, he swirled the amber liquid along the inside of the glass and watched it coat the rainbow prisms with its ambrosia.

  If he placed a call to Jasmine now, he might endanger her, placing his bodyguard at risk with the sound of a cell phone that might give her position away. Most probably, her phone would be switched off altogether.

  Trust. It all came down to trust.

  His soft chuckle invaded the silence. Trust? Irony was a self-inflicted wound, its own brand of torment. Was he truly trying to convince himself that he trusted Jasmine—trusted anyone at all?

  "You arrogant fool," he chastised himself. The sound of his voice echoed in the hollow space of his heart. He tossed back the fine Cognac. His throat burned with its honey.

  His grand scheme had lost its luster. Nicholas had seen Mickey Blair as a loose end, one that needed his attention. Fiona would never have taken care of the man on her own. Even now, Nicholas wasn't sure why he had stepped in the middle. Was he protecting her, or in his arrogance, did he want to be the only one who knew her secret?

  None of that mattered now. He had set this whole fiasco in motion. Now he would live or die with the aftermath.

  It looked like a dead end. Bad choice of words. The beam from a flashlight was her only guide through the long, dark corridor. One man carried her and another walked beside Logan McBride. Three savage men. Raven would soon find out what McBride meant about a reunion. Her stomach twisted into a knot of fear, her mind filling with the horror of rape or some other brand of torture. She steeled herself for any outcome. No matter what they did to her body, she vowed to come out of this alive. She had to believe that. Giving up wasn't in her nature.