Taylor

by Irish Winters

  The ceiling again? The restraints?

  Shit! Why did I ever think I could trust them?

  “Gracie! Luke! Grandfather!”

  No one answered.

  “Matthew! Damn it, anyone?”

  Silence.

  “Damn you all!” he roared in frustration, but just as quickly knew what had to be done. If he couldn’t loosen the restraints at his wrist, he’d wear the bed out or make it tip over. Taylor pushed forward, backward and forward again. I’m out of here. You can’t go to war without me.

  The heat of anger cleared the fog out of his head. The last thing he remembered was the generous servings of Gracie’s bread pudding ladled thick with rum sauce and a dollop of whipped cream. That’s where things went fuzzy. He’d been drugged.

  He rocked until sweat burned his eyes, then took a deep gulp of air and started again. The leather at his wrists chafed and stung, but sheer determination drove him. Guilt for failing his grandfather and Alex ate him alive. One would die before the blood hunt concluded, and it wasn’t going to be Peter White Hawk. Not now. Not ever.

  Sorry Alex, but he’s my grandfather. Crazy, yes, but you’re just my boss.

  Taylor threw his heart into every creak and groan of the metal bed, sure the screws were loosening somewhere in its sturdy frame. They had to be.

  Damn you Gracie. I trusted you. And Luke. And Matthew. And Granpa!

  Add betrayal to the list of attempted murder, kidnapping, and assault. A family didn’t get any better than this one.

  His shoulder stabbed, but still Taylor pulled and pushed with all the strength he could muster. Night turned into morning. No lovely aroma drifted out of the kitchen. The men were gone, but where the hell was she?

  “Gracie!” He stilled to hear her answer, hoping like hell he was wrong about. Nothing The house felt hollow, and that made him angrier. Just freaking great. They’d all left him behind.

  Backward. Forward. Side to side. Damn! Damn! Damn!

  His wrists ran red with blood, but still the bed refused to give. Taylor rocked for what seemed like hours. The bandage on his chest grew soggy, but nothing mattered except freeing himself from this prison. Maybe then he’d have enough strength to get to a phone and warn—

  Who? Grandfather? Not likely. He had no cell phone. Alex? No. Can’t consign Peter to an ambush. Alex was as effective as a shadow with a laser. No one got away. He might not kill ’em, but he always caught ’em. The boss was grossly capable, just like every last one of The TEAM.

  Damn! Panic climbed up Taylor’s throat. Who should I warn? Alex or Grandfather? Who should I save? Both? But how? Grandfather for sure.

  Again he apologized. Sorry, Boss. I might have to kill you today. Don’t think I won’t.

  He stopped to catch his breath, his blood thrumming under his skin. A million fire ants chewing on him would have been easier to endure than the comfort of the unyielding bed. Tears clouded his vision. He choked.

  Grandfather. Peter. Don’t do this. Stop. Please don’t face Alex. God Almighty, help everyone. They’ll kill each other.

  Exhaustion forced him to rest, to suck in more air to continue the fight. Damned if Gracie’s first words to him didn’t creep in amongst the anger. You are here because your mother loved you.

  Not assault or kidnapping or attempted murder.

  Not stalking or betrayal.

  Taylor had no defense for this kind of sneak attack. Here he lay with deniable plausibility in aces. Peter, if he lived the day, would go to prison for three murders, maybe four if he got the upper hand on Alex, never again to see the light of day. Luke, Matthew, and Gracie would serve time as his accomplices. Only Taylor, the much-loved grandson and nephew, wouldn’t because he’d been restrained against his will most of the time.

  What a stupid plan! Let them go to war without me on their side? Now that I know who I am? No freaking way in hell!

  He threw his whole heart and body into escape, weakened maybe, but damned sure going to die trying to get to his people. His tribe. Real men didn’t sit back while Hell ran over the family they loved. God, no. They bucked up. Strapped on. And showed up. Every damned last time.

  His muscles burned, biceps, delts, pecs, abs, and calves, even the soles of his feet, but time prodded. He pressed forward with the greatest mission of his life—to save his family from themselves.

  Backward. Forward. Side to side. Damn! Damn! Damn!

  There was no time to think about himself. Only them. Only Grandfather. Only Luke and Matthew. Only Alex and whoever those two agents standing in Peter’s way. They might be in contact with each other at this very moment. Killing each other.

  God, get me out of here!

  The General pitched in with snarky sound bites from long ago. Again. Do more. Do it better. Try harder, you sissy. Put your back into it. You do have one, don’t you, boy?

  Taylor ignored the worst bully of his life. Out of the early morning shadows, Gracie stood at the door, her silhouette dark against the early sunlight. “What... What are you doing?” she asked groggily.

  What the hell do you think?

  “Untie me!”

  She staggered into the room and fumbled for the restraint, her hair a disheveled mess hanging over her face. “I... can’t.”

  Not this bullshit again. He groaned, the last ounce of his energy saved for the battle ahead.

  The General’s annoying drill persevered. Crybaby. Sissy. Half-breed chicken shit.

  “Stop it, Taylor,” she whispered weakly, still playing at the buckle on his left wrist. “Please stop. You’re making me... dizzy.”

  Then leave me the hell alone.

  He screwed his eyes tight and threw himself into every forward lurch and backward shove. With or without her help, he was history. The bed frame creaked again. Soon, soon. The damned thing would give before he did. It had to. He had a mission—until Gracie dropped to the floor in a whirl of dark hair.

  Where the hell did she go?

  Taylor stopped fighting the bed. He strained to hear, but she didn’t make another sound. Panic overruled common sense. “Damn it, Gracie. Get up. Talk to me!”

  Finally, the bed creaked. She pulled herself up from the floor. A dazed look of bewilderment replaced her usually bright smile. She sagged against the bed rail and fumbled with the restraint. “You’re... bleeding,” she mumbled.

  “Shit. You’re drugged, aren’t you?”

  She played with the belt buckle, but couldn’t get the leather free of the prong. She focused, the tip of her tongue sticking out. Her hair spilled over him and he lost sight of her efforts. With a gurgling growl, she tossed her head back in triumph. “Ha. Got it.”

  With that done, she pitched face forward into his sore shoulder. “I feel fun-n-n-y.”

  Taylor eased her out of his way enough to loosen the restraint on his right wrist. He lowered the side rail. The minute he did, her knees buckled. With one swift swoop, he pulled her off the floor and into the bed. Her head fell onto his chest. Damn, that hurts.

  “Taylor,” she whispered groggily. “I can’t find anybody. I thought... you left me, too.”

  He smoothed her hair away from her face and snuggled her under his arm. “Sorry. I thought you’d gone with Peter, but they drugged you too, huh?”

  Heavy breathing answered. Gracie was out for the count. Now that he was free from his restraints, dizziness swarmed him. He leaned back against the sweat-soaked pillow, taking her with him in an easy armful. She pressed her face into his neck, and the warmth of her breath comforted him. The frantic feelings calmed, but he didn’t have time for this.

  Damn that Luke and Matthew. They knew she’d slow him down. That’s why they’d drugged her, too. It worked. There was no way he’d leave her, not like they’d left him. The jerks.

  He jostled her gently. “We’ve got to get moving. Wake up.”

  “Ah, huh,” she mumbled, but she didn’t move, so he jostled her until she opened her eyes.

  She stared without comprehend
ing. “Umm, what am I doing... in here?”

  He ran a hand over the top of her head and kissed her cheek. “We’ve been drugged, sweetheart, and left behind. Come on. Let’s go. We have things to do.”

  “That wasn’t very nice.” She shifted to the edge of the bed, but he didn’t let her go. The woman was on her way back to the floor

  “Steady,” he said as they both placed their bare feet to the floor. “Where are your keys?”

  She ran a hand through her hair and Taylor stopped to watch, hypnotized at the waves of ebony silk cascading through her fingers and over her shoulders. She still had that half-witted look in her eyes, and he couldn’t resist. He tucked her under his arm so she wouldn’t fall.

  “Come on. Let’s find our shoes, your keys and your car.”

  “Okay,” she said simply, still pressed to his side and hanging on tight.

  His boots were easy to locate. His uncles left them under the bed where they probably thought he’d not be able to get at. Gracie’s were beside the kitchen table. They took a minute to put them on. He snagged her purse off the kitchen counter and handed it to her. In her very amicable state, she dropped her butt to the floor and searched it, her nose all but inside the purse. “Oh, look. Found my sunglasses.”

  “Keys, Gracie. Just need your keys.”

  “I’m lookin’.” She flipped a handful of hair out of her way. “Keys-z-z-z. Where are you, Mr. Key-z-z-z?”

  Taylor leaned against the counter, waiting. Any minute now.

  “Found ’em,” she sang out, lifting them over her head as she sagged against the counter behind her. “Here. You want ’em?”

  “Yeah.” He reached for them, but she pulled them under her chin.

  “No,” she said, her lips turned up in a pout. “Not ‘til... you know.”

  God, we don’t have time for this. Taylor dropped to his knees. Whatever his uncles gave her, it made her cute and sexy and really annoying. “Not until what?”

  She stuck that bottom lip out. “Not ‘til you kiss me. Like you mean it. Like you did before.”

  That he could do. He rolled to his butt beside her and slid one hand around her neck, intending to get it done so they could get moving again. He planted a quick, chaste kiss in the middle of her forehead. “Like this?”

  The pout again. Those dewy eyes. She shook her head. “No, Taylor. Like before. Come on. I just want a kiss. A real one.”

  Enough said. Gracie was beyond wasted, but if one wet kiss would get her moving...

  He ducked his face into the silky curtain of all those tangles. She closed her eyes and puckered her lips. So damned adorable. Feminine. Innocent. The kiss that began as a means to an end morphed into everything. He ran the tip of his tongue over the seam of her lips, tasting and insisting she open up. When her lips separated, he cupped her cheek and took her mouth by storm. Cinnamon honey. Hot and sweet. One hundred percent Gracie.

  She moaned, both of her hands on his head, pulling him in. God, the fire. She’d started an out of control burn that roared up his spine and into his ears.

  More.

  His hand at her cheek slid down her neck to her shoulder, the pads of his fingers drunk with the softness of her skin. The delicate bump of her collarbone.

  More.

  She arched her back, pushing her body into his, and damn. One more moan from her throat and he’d have to have her. Take her. Right damned now.

  It had to stop, this falling for her feminine wiles every time he got too close to the flame that was Gracie.

  “I’m sorry,” he murmured into her open mouth. “I really want to do this, but we have to go save Peter.”

  She huffed in his face, her hands still holding his head in place. Her eyes opened. The cutest cross-eyed woman looked up at him. “Oh, yeah. Peter.”

  Taylor swallowed hard, picked the keys off the floor and Gracie along with them. He pulled her into his side again, needing to get her on her feet and out the door before she keeled over. The woman was seriously teetering to the right. Like he could walk any better? He adjusted his zipper and gave it his best shot.

  Before long, they were in her car and headed for the freeway. He drove. Gracie promptly leaned back in the passenger seat for another nap, but she didn’t sleep long.

  “They drugged me,” she said softly.

  “Me, too.”

  She didn’t answer, just stared out the window.

  “Luke and Matthew must’ve thought you’d help me,” he offered.

  “They were right. At first I just wanted to keep you safe and out of Peter’s way, but now that I’ve gotten to know you again,” she reached for his hand, “you’re everything I knew you were. Taylor. You’re bleeding. Oh, my gosh, we need to stop. There’s a rest area ahead. Pull over.”

  His heart skipped a beat. There it was again, that no-nonsense tone in her voice. Gracie Fox was back in charge. “Yes, ma’am. Until we get there, I have a couple questions. How can you be certain these reporters actually did the crime? I mean, what if Grandfather killed the wrong people? Think about it, Gracie. The court followed a trail of evidence during the trial. They followed legal procedure. They didn’t just lock up three guys for nothing.”

  “Sometimes they do.”

  “Okay, then prove it. What evidence does Grandfather have the state didn’t? And what about the woman reporter? She didn’t physically participate in the crime, did she?”

  “No. She didn’t,” Gracie agreed, “but she was the waitress at Manny’s that morning. She provided the drinks and the privacy. She protected her two boyfriends instead of the little girl they assaulted. For hours, Taylor. This was no one time thing. Those guys held Mary for four—” Gracie bit her lip and looked away, her hand scrubbing her chin.

  Taylor reached for her. “How do you know all this? How can you be so sure?”

  “Because someone contacted Peter at the hospital the first night. His story was completely different from the police version in the papers.”

  “But that doesn’t mean anything. What if he’s the one who really did it? What if—”

  “No. That’s not possible.”

  “But how do you know? What makes you—”

  “Because he’s my uncle. Howard Swain is my mother’s brother. He was there that morning because he delivers bottled water. He’s the one who found Mary stuffed in a men’s restroom stall. He called the ambulance. That’s why.”

  Holy shit. You could’ve knocked Taylor over with a feather. “Why didn’t he come forward to testify?”

  “Because the police threatened him before they let him leave that ugly bar. And worse.”

  “Worse? What’s worse than a man not having guts enough to testify for an injured little girl?”

  “Worse is...” Her voice caught. “Worse is...”

  He glanced sideways at her. “They threatened you, didn’t they?”

  She sniffed. “They had my school picture, Taylor. They told Uncle Howard they’d do the same thing to me if he ever said one word. You have to understand. We all thought the truth would come out during the trial. We believed that’s what lawyers wanted. Truth. Justice. None of us could’ve known how wrong we were.”

  Bastards! Those police officers and detectives threatened to assault a twelve-year-old? They’d wanted to hurt Gracie? A free-spirited girl who’d only ever tried to help others? His fists clenched. Those dirty cops screwed Peter from the get go. If he’d forced Howard to come forward with the truth, he’d have put Gracie in danger. Would it have made a difference? Probably not as badly hurt as she’d been, but still...

  Taylor’s blood pressure spiked. He had to get to his grandfather if only to make sure the real assholes paid. With their freaking lives.

  Once again Gracie’s lower lip was tucked under her top teeth in worry. When she sniffed, her nose wrinkled. Her dark eyes were focused on the road ahead. They brimmed with unshed tears.

  His stupid heart stuttered. Was it devotion to a dying woman’s wishes that he saw etched on
her face, or was it—to him? “Gracie?”

  She glanced at him. “Yes?”

  “Luke was right. I’d kill anyone who tried to hurt you.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “Open up,” Alex ordered.

  Mark Houston had accompanied him to the Quantico brig. Izza and Steven snapped to attention. Mark nodded when they offered up their chairs, but Alex wasn’t about to sit in the hall. Hell, no. He might look the part of a businessman in his charcoal gray business suit and light gray dress shirt, but he never had a problem getting his hands dirty. Today was no different.

  Harley and Gabe had been sent south to Peter White Hawk’s place along the Mattaponi River to locate Taylor. Alex expected a Sit Rep from them soon, and it better damned well be good.

  He’d tracked down Howard Swain, a man smitten with guilt for not having the guts to come forward with the truth that most likely would have gotten him or his family killed. Alex didn’t blame him. The poor guy stood to lose either way. Once Swain contacted Peter White Hawk and told him the truth, the die was cast. Mary could no longer be helped, but Peter would have his revenge. The failure of the court system only delayed it by fifteen years.

  Izza unlocked Webster’s cell door, the dumb ass. He’d wanted this meeting, but did he really think having Alex on his side of the bars meant safety? Guess again. Felt more like a showdown.

  Alex entered the cell, removed a single brown folder from his briefcase and dropped it to the table. Without looking at Webster, he sat on the edge of the nearest chair. Mark took the seat to his side.

  Webster stood on the other side of the room facing him, relaxed with his arms and ankles crossed, an arrogant tilt to his chin. He winked at Mark like they were buddies, then took the chair facing Alex, directly in the line of fire.

  “You have something to say to me?” Alex asked curtly.

  “Yes. There are a few things we need to discuss. Our contract for one. I believe it needs to be amended.” Webster folded his hands in front of him like some college preppie, ready to impress the world.