Bad Road to Nowhere

by Linda Ladd

  Once they were far enough away, he headed in a crouch-run toward the steps. The man at the bottom of the steps, the one Novak had seen earlier, was now gone. He crossed the sand without being detected and squatted behind some scrub bushes growing along the stairs. The steps led up about ten feet, and then turned at a right angle for fifteen more. At the top, he’d be close to the house. He sat there and listened and waited. Heard nothing. Nobody around. He was good to go.

  The shadows lay deep and dark and concealed him, and he didn’t see any guards as he made the steps, not until he rounded a low white stucco wall that encircled the yard. He ducked down behind it and waited. These guys were the same ones he’d dealt with at Wilson’s compound in Georgia. The better-trained guys who knew what they were doing. More of the Centurion Guards. They hated him and had made no bones about it. They didn’t have much longer to hate him. He could evade being seen until he wanted to engage. That was his plan. Right now, his main objective was to get to the kid, get him out and back into Claire’s safekeeping. Then he could start picking them off, one by one. Emma would be last. All alone and nowhere to go.

  Moments later, he was crouched down underneath Emma Adamson’s new lair. The structure was a typical Bahamian island house with a peaked roof and wide-open verandas on the sides. Pink stucco and a gray metal roof and elaborate, decorative railings along the porches. This one had a wide breezeway down the width of the center. He moved up the nearest staircase. Once at the top, his luck ran out. A big black guy came around the corner of the back veranda, met up with Novak face-to-face, and stopped stock-still in his tracks. Novak did not recognize him. He looked like a new hire, a Bahamian national hired on recently, no way connected to Mariah’s murder. Novak lunged, too quickly for the guy to evade him. He slammed him back against the wall, wrenched him around until his back lay against Novak’s chest. Then he got his right arm around the guy’s neck in a tight blood choke, grabbed his wrist with his left hand, and exerted pressure with his forearm and biceps on both sides of his neck. The guy struggled initially but wasn’t strong enough. With his carotid arteries blocked, he lost consciousness after about eight seconds. Novak lowered him down to the floor and dragged him into the dark shadows of the porch. No need to kill him, as he hadn’t been a part of the raid on Bonne Terre. Then he squatted down again and listened. Nobody. Not a sound. Bedtime in hell.

  The porch was full of shadows, and he stayed hidden inside them. Each window was covered with hurricane shutters, but most were slanted open, and Novak could see into each room as he crept past. Lamps were burning in most of them, but he saw no one and heard no one. He kept going, and then he finally reached Ryan’s bedroom. The kid was asleep, a night-light burning beside the bed, providing a very soft glow. Novak opened the shutters and slipped inside.

  That’s when the guard outside Ryan’s door saw him and yelled out a warning. The guy charged right at Novak, hit him hard and low from behind, knocking him forward on his knees. Novak twisted, trying to get his gun up, but the guy was big and strong, and still dressed in the Shoot Club camouflage. He’d been better trained than most of them, probably spent time in the military. He knew what to do, and they grappled there on the floor as Ryan woke up and screamed and scrambled out of his bed and cowered in the corner.

  Novak finally got the guy where he wanted him and managed to snap his neck. One hard quick jerk, and the guy went slack, crumpled down, not a problem anymore. Novak was up on his feet quickly, but not before Emma Adamson had shown up and grabbed the kid and dragged him out into the hallway. Ryan was fighting her grip on his wrist as hard as he could, and Novak went after them. They had already made it to the breezeway and were out of sight around the far corner when Jose Madero came running through the door at the other end of the hall, his gun out and firing at Novak.

  Novak dove down on the floor but came up quickly onto his knees and fired back. Three quick taps to center mass. Madero went down hard and didn’t move. But Emma was already gone with the boy. He could hear her running down the breezeway, then down the steps, dragging the struggling child with her. It sounded like Ryan was screaming Novak’s name and trying to wrench away from her. She was probably heading for the boat, and she was screaming, too, for the remaining guards to come and kill Novak.

  One of her men showed up on the breezeway seconds later and let loose a barrage of fire at Novak. The bullets missed him, but not by much. Novak fired back. The other guy went down, one bullet in his forehead. A second guy came out right behind him, and Novak shot him twice through the chest. He ran on and saw Emma and Ryan on the ground below, heading around the house for the beach. He stepped over the balcony rail, dropped down, and landed on both feet a couple of yards behind them. Emma heard him hit the ground, jerked around and froze stock-still. Then she pulled her little son up in front of her and held a knife against his throat, the sharp point pressing into the skin just over his jugular vein.

  Novak stopped dead still. He kept his AR rifle up and aimed straight at her face. She was not much bigger than Ryan. But she was angry and desperate and he knew she would cut her son’s throat to save herself. He could not play this wrong. Not with Ryan’s life at stake. “What’re you going to do now, Emma? Kill Ryan? That it? You gonna cut your own son’s throat?”

  “Just stay where you are. Don’t move. I mean it, Novak. Don’t move, or this knife just might slip. I’m taking him down to that boat and we are leaving. If you try to stop us, I’ll kill him. I will. I’d rather he was dead than let him be with you.”

  Novak kept his weapon aimed at her face. “Let him go, and I won’t kill you.”

  “Oh, I know you’re not gonna kill me. I’m that poor little defenseless abused woman, just trying to protect herself and her child from her mean husband. No way would you ever kill me. You’re way too honorable. You showed me that the night you threatened to take down Barrett if he hurt me. Now back up and stay there and let me pass.”

  “Well, I will kill you, lady.”

  Claire Morgan’s voice floated out of the shadows and startled them both. She stepped out into the dim light thrown off by the veranda lamps, arms extended with her Glock 19 beaded firmly on Emma’s forehead. Novak knew Claire could hit anything that she aimed at. She was that good of a shot.

  “Put the boy down, Emma. We got you cold. My friend Claire has got a good shot at your head. She’ll blow your brains out. She won’t hesitate. Neither will I.”

  A moment passed and then a tense silence, and Novak kept his eyes on the blade at Ryan’s throat. When the knife moved, the sharp point drawing blood on the boy’s skin, Ryan cried out. Novak pulled his trigger. His bullet flew true and hit Emma just where he aimed, dead center in her face. She went down hard on her back and lay unmoving, the knife still clutched inside her hand. Ryan ran sobbing to Novak, and Novak pushed the kid behind him, swiveling around to look for the beach guards who’d be rushing them any time now.

  “It’s okay now, Ryan. I got you. I got you.” Novak hugged the boy in tight and kept murmuring quiet words, but he was looking down toward the beach and the armed guards who would come running any moment.

  “Relax, Novak,” said Claire. “The two beach guys are down. I clubbed one of them in the back of the head with my flashlight. He’s not dead, but he’s not going anywhere for a while. Neither is the other one. Got him, too.”

  Novak shook his head. “Do you ever listen to anything anybody says?”

  “No. Lucky for you.”

  Novak holstered his gun and shifted the boy in his arms. Ryan was crying hard, terrified, hiding his face in Novak’s shoulder. He patted the kid’s back and kept telling him that everything was all right. God, Emma would have killed him, her own son, in the blink of an eye. Novak knew it. She was a born psychopath. A beautiful, fragile little monster. She would have done whatever it took to save herself.

  “You should of stayed put, Morgan. Black would kill me if anything happened to you.”

  “I don’t take orders from you, N
ovak. Remember that. You can thank me now, any time. I’m just standing here waiting.”

  “Thanks, Claire. I owe you.”

  “You’re welcome.” She glanced around. “Do we have to stick around and explain all this to the Bahamian authorities? That ought to be fun. You got somebody you can call and bail us out of jail.”

  “Nobody’s gonna find them for days. Not unless we call it in anonymously.”

  “Well, we can’t just take off and leave them here.”

  “Some of the guards are still alive. The Bahamians. I doubt if they knew who we were. They’ll report it.”

  “Okay, then let’s just get the heck outta here before they come to.” Truth be told, Novak was glad as hell that she’d showed up when she had. Her appearance had rattled Emma enough for her to make a mistake. Now the night was still and quiet again. Nothing doing but gentle waves whispering their way in to shore. Calm. Peaceful. No alarms. No guards running at them. That didn’t matter to Novak. Emma Adamson was dead.

  Claire led the way back down the beach to the boat, and he waded out and lifted the boy inside. Ryan was still trembling, more sniffling now than full-out bawling. But he was glad the evil woman who was his mother was dead. Novak was sure of it. Claire waded out to him and Novak boosted her up over the side and then climbed in himself. The boy wanted him to hold him so Novak climbed up to the pilot’s chair with him and held him on his lap while he fired up the motors and got the lights up. They idled back away from the mangroves and then took off out over the breakers. Claire sat in the copilot’s seat right beside him. After a while, he handed the boy over to her, and she snuggled him against her and held him tightly as they skimmed over the dark and restless ocean toward the glow on the horizon that heralded the city of Miami.

  Now it was over. Ryan Adamson was safe. Claire was safe. Emma was burning in hell where she was supposed to be, along with the worst of her men. The only one who wasn’t okay was Mariah. Novak would blame himself for her death forever. He should never have left them alone in the house that night. Even for the length of time it took to tie down the boat. He’d never get over making that deadly miscalculation. He wouldn’t let himself.

  But for now, his fight was done. He was tired. His adrenaline was waning and washing him out. He had a headache. He wanted to go home. But first, he had to make sure that Claire got safely back to Nick Black, and then he had to take Ryan home. He had to notify the kid’s paternal grandparents and leave him in their care, where Ryan could live a normal life like any other kid his age. That was the best thing for him, and that’s what he was going to get.

  Then Novak was going home to Bonne Terre, and he was going to sail the Sweet Sarah out into the Gulf again. He was going to get stinking drunk out there. He was going to try to forget the way Mariah looked on the floor by his front door, lying dead in that torn and bloody nightgown, her beautiful green eyes staring at him, glazed in death.

  After that, who knew what the hell he’d do. But down deep, he guessed he did know what he’d do. He would come back to the plantation, get sober, and meet up with Claire Morgan, and they would investigate their next case together. They would help somebody else who was in trouble with no way out, somebody weak and helpless and desperate and preyed upon by something evil. That’s what he’d do. That’s what he always did. But he would never forget what had happened to Mariah when she was under his protection and he had failed her. Never in a million years. He would never let himself forget. He’d burn her image deep into the fabric of his soul, alongside the beloved images of his wife and his two children, and they would all haunt his dreams forever. Until the day he died and could finally be with them again.

  Be sure not to miss Linda Ladd’s

  GONE BLACK

  A VENGEFUL PLOT

  His wife is dead, and he knows exactly who’s to blame.

  Nothing will bring her back, but exacting justice is the

  next best thing—at least for a grieving Mafioso . . .

  A VANQUISHED LOVE

  Claire Morgan’s life is finally coming together. The newly minted

  private investigator is about to marry the man of her dreams,

  psychiatrist Nicholas Black, and embark on an Italian honeymoon.

  But dreams have a funny way of vanishing into thin air . . .

  A VALIANT PURSUIT

  Claire assumed Black was dead when his plane exploded in

  Europe, but a disturbing call reveals he’s being held captive by a

  sworn enemy. Now, the would-be bride and a covert coterie must

  find and free him—before death’s black veil ensnares them all . . .

  A Lyrical Underground e-book on sale now.

  Read on for a special excerpt!

  Chapter One

  July 4

  Just before two o’clock in the afternoon, Claire Morgan sat inside her cabin at Lake of the Ozarks in Missouri, staring at her nearly unrecognizable reflection in the bedroom mirror. Today was her wedding day, which in itself was pretty damn hard to believe. It also was Independence Day, which put a bit of an ironic twist to the whole thing, for sure, and if one really thought it through. Looking at herself, she couldn’t believe it was really her. Almost a year ago, Claire had downloaded a photograph of a bride off the Internet and emailed it to her friend, Nancy, where she worked down in Lafourche Parish in Louisiana. The wedding gown in the picture had been exactly the way Claire wanted her own gown to look when she walked down the aisle and married Nicholas Black.

  And, oh man alive, wow and yes siree, Nancy had nailed the thing. Claire now looked exactly like the woman featured in that photo. So much so that it was slightly unnerving, even to her. Eerie, even. Fortunately, however, Claire’s hair was no longer blue black from her last undercover assignment that had required her to become a brunette overnight. It had returned to her natural blond shade again and was fairly long, too. Now that Claire was teensy-weensy buttoned-up in the big and fancy wedding gown, though, it all was a bit of a trial. The dress was on the elaborate side, big-time, and one that had a high-necked and long-sleeved bodice, all made of lace, and two petticoats, and say, about twenty-five yards of white silk taffeta in the skirt alone, and lots of other stuff that Claire had never even heard of, like peau de soie, whatever the hell that was, and tulle, not to mention rose point lace, but, of course, the dress had to have all of that stuff.

  It was a good thing Nancy knew about fabrics and the like, because all Claire knew was that most of it was scratchy and cumbersome and annoying. The things she did for Black, wow, and he better like it after all this trouble, that’s all that she had to say. But she did look like the aforementioned picture, even down to her makeup, and pretty much put together like in the photo. So voilà, she was not Claire Morgan anymore. Okay, she didn’t much like the girly transformation, not at all, but Black sure as hell would. Yep, he was gonna freak out big-time when he got a load of her all dressed up in all this fancy wedding getup all right. He probably wouldn’t even know it was her. Neither would anybody else who knew her.

  Claire laughed out loud, just visualizing the expression on his handsome face when he saw her in this frilly bunch of crap with its intricate lace and pearls and all kinds of other fluff. Yes sir, the groom’s shocked expression was gonna be the highlight of Claire’s whole wedding day for sure. That and the second-best part, getting off the heavy-as-an-elephant dress that had to weigh a ton and the ridiculous amount of makeup slathered all over her face.

  Yep, the rest of the wedding ceremony was gonna pretty much suck big-time, which was the way she always had felt about the sappy and syrupy and overly sentimental kinda weddings that Black was such a sucker for. That would be the kind with its seventy layers of cake with the itsy-bitsy bride and groom on top, icy spiked punch, a zillion flowers sitting around everywhere, high heels that made you walk funny, and fluffy stuff to the max, but alas, all the fancyschmancy agony had to be endured. But just for one day. Claire had her limits.

  Truth be t
old, she would’ve preferred to just elope, find a Justice of the Peace in some tiny hamlet somewhere, tie the binding nuptial knot, and be done with the thing in one fell swoop and not a damn scrap of lace or stupid pearl in sight. But no, no, no way, Black had to have his traditional ceremony with oodles of everything and about a thousand candles, and all his old army buddies standing up with him, and all her law enforcement buddies dressed alike and standing with her. Oh, well. The pictures would look good. Of which, Black would probably order about six thousand.

  But being the sweet and accommodating woman she was, on this occasion, anyway, she agreed to the ridiculous showy show of all shows, but now all she really wanted was to just hurry up and get it over with, already. Thank goodness, they were finally, finally, ready for the big moment to commence. Most of all, she was tired of making the wedding decisions without Black around, since he’d flown off to Italy, all excited and smiley, to make his no doubt over-the-top honeymoon arrangements.

  Thank God, she had her good friends, Laurie and Nancy, to take all the wedding preparations into their extremely capable hands, both of whom had enough nuptial zeal and energy necessary to make wedding bells peal with joy and everybody sing out best wishes, happy, happy, and more happy. They had taken care of everything and had magically turned her front yard and little lakeside dock into a wonderland of white lattice, twinkling lights, tall white tapers, and greenery-draped arches, with about $50,000 worth of fireworks set to go off as soon as night fell over her cove on the lake. That last extravaganza donated by Black, of course. He did so like to light up the sky when he was feeling chipper. All of which Claire could do without, of course, but which she also thought looked very pretty but had the feel of some sugary chick flick. Maybe the kind with a happy ending. But alas, the things she did to make Black go all dimply, what was a gal to do.