Drive: Cougars, Cars and Kink, Book 1

by Teresa Noelle Roberts

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Don’t shoot me. If you shoot me, you’ll never get the information. Maybe, if she thought it often enough, the two men would subliminally understand. Or not. After they shoved her in the back of her own car, duct tape over her mouth and more duct tape binding her wrists behind her back, and, rather confusingly, buckled her in, they’d ignored her. Ignored each other, for that matter. Suzanne kept hoping they’d talk to each other—maybe drop clues as to where they were taking her. Unfortunately, they maintained a stony silence.

  The quiet was enough to make Suzanne want to scream and beat her fists on something just to make some noise. Only she couldn’t scream, thanks to the magic of duct tape, and couldn’t beat her hands on anything, at least not in a satisfactory way, for the same reason. This is not the fun kind of bondage, she thought, and laughed into the duct tape. Clearly she was close to hysteria, her mind wandering to all sorts of crazy places.

  Neil would get those messages, and he’d find her. Somehow. He’d known where she was going. She had to have faith.

  They were driving a fairly straightforward route and weren’t making any effort to hide their direction, which freaked her out a lot. Did that mean it didn’t matter if she knew where they were because she wasn’t going to survive this encounter?

  Maybe that was what they thought, but she was going to get through this. She wasn’t sure how, but she would get the best of whoever was behind this and live to testify against them. She was not going to die this way, killed by idiots looking to steal secrets she didn’t even have.

  First step: don’t panic and, even though she had a cop on her team, don’t sit around waiting to be rescued like the kind of movie character she always wanted to dope-slap. If her kidnappers had used zip ties on her, she’d be in serious trouble; you needed scissors for those, and sharp scissors at that. But duct tape…with duct tape she might have a chance. The flexibility gained from years of yoga extended to her wrists as well.

  Quietly, trying to make her movements as tiny as possible, she began to pick at the ends of the duct tape.

  She might not get far, she admitted to herself, but at least she wasn’t sitting on her ass being a passive victim. She was trying to be self-rescuing.

  The odd thought occurred to her that both her late husband and her new lover would approve of that sentiment. Apparently they had something in common besides a fondness for vintage cars. Figured this would dawn on her at a time it was totally useless, instead of when it might have pulled her out of a bad drop and prevented her from storming out on Neil like an over-dramatic teenager.

  Right. Love is grand and all that, but focus on the damn tape. And once you get your hands free, figure out how if it’s safer to fling yourself from the car than to ride along with people who might be planning to kill you.

  The driver turned off the highway. Made a few turns. Headed down a high-end suburban street, the kind that made the one where she and Frank lived look middle-class. Frank had liked his creature comforts, but he was ostentatious only with the cars. This neighborhood was definitely Conspicuous Consumptionville.

  Suzanne realized with a horrified start that she’d been there before.

  She’d played right into her kidnapper’s hands.

  * * * * *

  Neil and his father burst into the lobby at Mayhew, only to find something that might or might not be a crime scene. At first they tried to brush him off, but he showed his badge.

  “Your friend’s car’s not here,” the Walton cop said, “but the man she had a meeting with has been out sick for a few days. It’s possible she went to his home, since the receptionist said they knew each other.”

  “Ly Vo?” The other cop nodded. “That has to be a mistake. Mr. Vo contacted Ms. Mayhew this afternoon and asked her to meet with him here at seven. She called me right when she got here.” Neil stressed the name, reminding the officer who the missing woman was: not just his friend, but the wife of this company’s founder. He only wished he could tell the whole story, make it clear why he was so frantic. “Are you sure we’re talking about the same man?”

  The cop nodded. “That’s the name. The CEO. I guess everyone’s concerned about him because he’s not the kind to call in sick, and if he has to, he’s calling and Skyping in all the time. This time, not so much. Several people mentioned he and Ms. Mayhew know each other from when her late husband ran the company, so we’re hoping maybe he called to change the meeting to his place. Only all the security cameras for the parking lot are down, which is suspicious.”

  Neil’s heart stopped for a second, then started up again double-time. “She was saying they pride themselves on their security here. There was screaming on the phone.”

  “I’d really like to believe it was just some weird background noise that we’ll figure when we analyze it. But if you guys are Boston PD I’m sure you can tell the difference. Hard to believe a kidnapping happening in this town, but that’s probably what we’re looking at.” He met first Joe’s eyes, then Neil’s. “Plus, I got a call from Bellwood, so I know about that incident. Not all the details, but that Bellwood’s sending out detectives to join us.”

  Neil nodded. “You should check out Ly Vo’s house.” And I’ll check out where the software’s telling me to go. P.S. Frank Mayhew was murdered by Iranian spies, the FBI knows Suzanne’s disappeared, and someone from their Boston bureau will be in touch with your office, but I’m not at liberty to tell you that.

  Soon, Neil and his father were leaving Mayhew, Neil frantically Googling for a home address for Ly Vo to see if what the tracking software hinted matched his suspicions.

  It did.

  “The good news,” Neil said, sounding more blithe than he felt, “is Suzanne has tracking software on her phone.”

  His father sputtered, “And you didn’t tell them? Why?”

  “I hoped they’d have a lead and we wouldn’t have to use it. She knows it’s on there, so it’s legal, but it was bound to lead to awkward questions and I didn’t want to hang around explaining myself when we can go get her. Walton’s still clueless, and the FBI isn’t here yet, so it’s up to us.”

  Which translated to infiltrating someone else’s case.

  Sometimes you had to do what you had to do. He was a cop, and his father had been a cop, to protect the innocent. This time protecting the innocent might involve bending a few laws. Maybe in potentially career-ending ways, depending on who he pissed off with this maneuver, but why quibble about details when Suzanne was in danger?

  “Come on, then,” his father said. “Tell me where to go. I’ll phone in an anonymous tip once you figure out where she’s likely to be. They can do the arresting.”

  “And I’ll get her out of there.”

  Neil hoped it worked: the part about someone getting her out, at least.

  It would be satisfying to be the hero for Suzanne, but it didn’t matter, in the long run, who rescued her as long as someone did.

  All he cared about was Suzanne’s safety.

  * * * * *

  Suzanne had been right about where they were headed. They’d be there in about five minutes if she remembered correctly. And she’d made almost no progress with the damn tape.

  Shit.

  Maybe it would help that her kidnapper had once poured her drinks in this same over-the-top suburban wannabe mansion, that she’d created his beautiful kitchen for him.

  Or maybe not.

  She’d been kidnapped on the behest of her husband’s successor at Mayhew and, she’d always thought, the closest thing Frank had to an actual friend—not just a colleague or a fellow car aficionado, but a friend. Her friend too, or at least friendly acquaintance, she’d thought. It sickened her to realize she’d basically set up her own kidnapping because for all her paranoia she hadn’t been paranoid enough, had listened to her own suburban instincts instead of to Neil’s.


  White-haired Boy yanked Suzanne from the car and shoved her forward. She cursed behind the damnable duct tape as she stumbled, but caught herself before she fell. Thank goodness for small mercies, and for having really worked on those balance exercises in yoga; a stumble with bound hands could easily turn into a face plant and she had enough troubles without breaking her nose. To her surprise, Craggyface caught her arm, far more gently than she’d expected from someone who’d had a gun pressed into her back before and probably would again.

  “Don’t damage her,” he barked at the younger man. His voice was as gruff as his face. He had a slight accent, Eastern European, she thought. “That is not part of the plan.”

  “Not yet,” White-haired Boy said. His almost colorless eyes gleamed in a creepy way. From those few words, his English sounded almost too perfect. Suzanne suspected he too was speaking a second language, but had forced out all traces of an accent. His voice was startlingly affectless, flat.

  She’d been more scared of Craggyface at first, still had a healthy amount of respect for his still-unseen gun, but the younger man had just risen in her threat assessment. Craggyface seemed a guy doing a job, but the kid sounded like a well-controlled psycho.

  “Move,” White-haired Psycho Boy barked, yanking at her arm to guide her.

  I know where I’m going, she thought. It’s a monster of a house, but Ly Vo will be waiting for me in his office.

  Sadly, she had no way to convey that, not with duct tape over her mouth. Still, she forced herself to go into the faux-Tudor monstrosity with her head high, as if her fashion statement didn’t involve duct tape and a gun poking at her left kidney, not to mention, choking on terror.

  One thing about being married to Frank: she’d gotten really good at pretending everything was fine when it wasn’t. Who knew it would come in handy under such dramatic circumstances?

  She’d been right, though it was hardly a great victory. The thugs guided her through a familiar big open plan living room-dining room that opened onto a state-of-the-art kitchen she’d designed to amuse Ly’s mother when she visited, and down a wide hallway toward a room she’d seen while visiting or working on the kitchen but had never had a reason to spend much time in: Ly Vo’s home office.

  She’d always suspected this was the room that suited his actual tastes best. It was grand and a bit Downton Abbey, but lived-in, comfortable, and most of the books that lined the walls looked like they’d been read many times. Ly Vo was behind a desk—not the steel-and-wood computer station where he actually worked, but the grand mahogany faux-antique that went with the Ye Olde Manor’s Library décor of the room. He usually looked imposing behind the vast desk, despite being a slight man, but he was slouched as if he were too exhausted to stay upright. Crime doesn’t come naturally to him; I’ve seen him on a release day when I know damn well he hasn’t slept for thirty-hours and he looked better than this. Unlike much of the geek elite, Ly tended to be a sharp dresser. Today, though, he wore a rumpled MIT T-shirt that looked like it had been slept in for more than one night. His hair stuck out in all directions, not in some artful avant-garde style but like he hadn’t washed or combed it.

  He managed a smile for her when she was shoved in the door, and she thought it was genuine, if strained. “Forgive me if I don’t stand,” he said, “but I’m a little tied up right now.” He gave a cool, but angry nod to the two thugs, like a hero in an old spy thriller, in a precarious situation but still bantering. Suzanne couldn’t see Craggyface, but White-haired Boy did a double take. “This is what I get for hiring someone straight out of college,” Ly added, glaring at White-haired Boy. “It’s easy to get good references when you’re an intern. You’re not around long enough for people to figure out you’re a terrorist psycho as well as a decent mechanical engineer.”

  And then she saw the dark ropes that attached Ly to his chair.

  Shit. She might have been able to make Ly Vo see reason if he’d been the one masterminding this mess. But if he was a victim too…

  Well, at least she had one of the smartest men in the country on her side.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The two thugs left, slamming the door. She heard the lock clicking into place.

  Ly sighed. “I’m so sorry about this, Suzanne. I tried to tell them you wouldn’t know anything, that if Frank hadn’t shared the last bits of the plan with me and the rest of the management team, he wouldn’t have told you. That you were a decorator, not a robotics engineer, and if he had mentioned anything in passing, you wouldn’t remember the details. No offense.”

  “None taken. I wouldn’t have, any more than you or Frank would remember what tile colors are fashionable this year.”

  “They didn’t believe me and I was too much of a coward not to set up the meeting when they pointed a gun at my head. I figured the security at Mayhew would be too good for anything to actually happen there. Olek—he’s the kid who was the insider at Mayhew—must have either bribed someone or just disabled the cameras. I’m so sorry.”

  He could be lying, she told herself furiously. Maybe the ropes and the story were an elaborate setup so she’d trust him.

  But she didn’t think so. She’d seen Ly Vo trying to lie about much less important things. He was possibly the worst liar in the world, always flushing and stuttering when he tried. In the end, it was one of the reasons she’d liked him. Frank could lie about just about anything.

  Even better than she’d realized, as it turned out.

  She nodded. It was about all she could do.

  “I can’t move much,” he said, “but if you come over here and sit on the floor I might be able to get the tape off your mouth. That should make you more comfortable, at least.” He lowered his voice. “And then we can brainstorm and see if we can work out a way to convince these Ukrainian lunatics we can’t help them.”

  It was possible Suzanne had been in less comfortable positions than kneeling behind an oversized desk chair with her face pressed on someone’s bound hands so he could try to peel tape off her mouth by feel. But she couldn’t think of any. The blowjob half off the bed might have been more awkward, but at least it had been fun. This was just odd. She and Ly had rarely touched in the years they’d known each other. He’d hugged her at Frank’s funeral, quick and hard and somehow sincere, but theirs had been a friendship with strict parameters, a friendship that existed because he worked with her husband, not because they had any connection of their own. And now he was groping her. Well, groping her face, anyway.

  Focusing on the weirdness of it helped her not focus on the fact she’d been kidnapped and Ly was a prisoner in his own house.

  It seemed to take forever, but he got a grip on the edge of the tape. Then he ripped.

  “Fuck, that hurts!” She thought she’d been prepared for the sting, but it was beyond what she expected, less like pulling off a bandage than ripping off several layers of skin.

  “Could have been worse. You could have a goatee. I screamed like a little girl.” He managed a smile. His lips were looking chapped and rough, she noticed now, like hers felt and his goatee, usually impeccably groomed, looked like he hadn’t fussed over it lately.

  Her mouth, she thought ridiculously, would be too tender to wear lipstick for days, let alone to enjoy one of Neil’s rough, possessive kisses.

  Assuming she survived, that is.

  On second thought, she’d happily endure painful kisses because it meant she was alive and in good enough shape to be kissed, not dead or in a hospital bed with a tube helping her breathe.

  “I got the edge of the tape loose on my wrists, but I couldn’t get very far with it. Think you can manage?”

  He laughed, a dry, bitter sound that scraped along her skin. “Not sure, but it beats sitting around waiting to see if I’ll be shot, which is how I’ve spent the last two days. And when I get frustrated, you can have a go at my ropes.”

  �
�I tried to call my friend, who’s a cop, when they grabbed me,” she whispered. “Not sure if he’ll figure it out, but if anyone can, he will. And he has the number for someone at the FBI.” She had to believe that. Had to believe Neil would come for her, or make sure someone would.

  She wished she could have called the FBI too. But her phone was long gone.

  “I’m an atheist,” Ly said, “but for that I’ll pray just in case. Anything to get away from these Ukrainian lunatics.”

  “They’re Ukrainians?” she whispered.

  “From some would-be separate region.”

  She shrugged, even though she knew Ly couldn’t see her. “Great. Terrorists I know nothing about. I haven’t even tried to make sense of the civil war in the Ukraine.”

  A bitter snort. “I don’t think they’ve made sense of it either. Lots of passion and cobbled-together rhetoric, not much of a plan. Somewhere along the line, someone in their group got a hint that Mayhew was developing technology that might be useful to their cause. I’m not sure they even know we were working on advanced drones. And now here we are, about to be shot by Dumb and Dumber.”

  “Wasn’t the FBI watching you? I mean Frank…”

  “Was murdered. I know. That’s why I’ve been staying away from you. I was under some surveillance, but after so many months, I think the FBI figured I didn’t need constant protection. They were looking for professionals, anyway, not one of my own engineers asking me to swing by the lab when we were both working late and hitting me over the head. No one knew about these bozos. I mean, seriously, I’m not sure anyone official knew there was even a separatist group in this region, let alone that they had members in the US. I think we may have the whole cell here, those two and another two or three who don’t really speak English who are patrolling outside. Alexy, the older guy, seems to be the brains of the operation, but I suspect he put it together from bits of spy movies.”