Fresh pain exploded in his head.
His fingers opened.
Her shouted, “Dylan!” sent ice to his veins.
And then her hand was gone.
Everything went dark.
Chapter Thirty-Two
The world was spinning, fuzzy. Chelsea reached for Dylan in the dark, but he was gone.
Outside the truck on the far side, a man…
His face in profile. Heavily lidded eyes, big nose.
She fumbled for the door, pushed it open, and dropped to the uneven ground beneath her. She landed badly on her injured foot but ignored the pain that shot up her leg. She scrambled up the hill on her walking cast and her one high-heeled pump, hands pulling at weeds for leverage. If she could only reach the top, get into the woods, she could run to Donovan and Angel’s place. It couldn’t be that far. She had to get help.
Save Dylan.
She heard movement behind her, but she dared not look. Run. Just run.
A hand clamped down on her calf. She kicked, tried to shake it off, but he grabbed her other leg and yanked. She slipped, landed on her stomach, face in the dirt.
Screamed. Loudly. The sound was shrill and swallowed in the darkness.
“Shut up.” The man’s voice was deep and seemed to reach into her very soul.
Silencing her.
Of all the things that had happened in the last two minutes—in the last week—hearing his voice was the most terrifying. Until now, she’d only thought of Zeke Granger as a vague figure, some disembodied monster with no real substance. Despite having felt his hand on her when he’d pushed her, despite the gunshots that had sailed over her head at the cabin, he’d never felt like a real person.
But that voice. It hadn’t been the voice of a monster or a vision. That voice belonged to a man. A man, created in the image of God, who’d so rebelled against his Creator, so rebelled against all that was good and right and pure, that he was bent on murder. A man sold out to evil.
He dragged her down the hill. Her shirt rode up, and the rocky dirt scratched her belly.
She grabbed at grass, anything, but he was moving too fast. She tried to pull her feet away, but she had no leverage.
When they reached the bottom of the gully, the man dropped her feet and kneeled on her back. The air whooshed from her lungs. He yanked her hands together and held them tightly, one in each hand. Pain lanced through her shoulders.
She heard a zzzt, then cold tape wrapped around her wrists. She turned her head but only saw shoes, the bottoms of blue jeans.
They belonged to a second man who had sold out to evil. But who was he?
One of them grabbed her hair, yanked her torso off the ground.
Her scalp stung. She had no way to defend herself, to protect herself. She was at their mercy. Let them have mercy, Lord. Please.
He shoved a cloth so deep in her mouth that she gagged. He pulled it out a bit, then secured it with tape, all from behind.
Something dark fell over her head, and what little she’d been able to see was blocked. A string tightened around her neck, sealing the bag. The string was uncomfortable but not so tight she couldn’t breathe. Thank God. She pulled in a breath, felt claustrophobic as the fabric was pulled to her face, and blew the air out.
She wouldn’t suffocate. She would survive this.
One of the men took hold of her feet, and she squeezed her eyes shut, preparing to be dragged again. But the second man took her shoulders. They flipped her onto her back, then lifted her and carried her up the hill, toward the road. Where were they taking her? How could she possibly escape?
She was tossed and rolled to her stomach. She was in something… a van or maybe an SUV. Below her, the floor was covered in rough carpeting that rubbed her stomach where her shirt had ridden up. She felt exposed. Powerless, silenced, and blind.
A slam jarred her. Outside, she heard the man’s voice again. “I got it. Go.”
An engine revved. Tires spun. Then, the sound faded. Dylan’s truck? Where was Dylan?
Was he alive?
Was he lying dead on the side of the road?
She had to get out. She had to know. She fought against the bindings on her wrists, but she could do nothing to loosen them.
Another engine revved, and the vehicle she was in lurched. She rolled, bumped into something soft. Soft like…
She felt the slightest touch on her hip. Then a stronger tap, tap, tap. Dylan? It had to be. Thank God. Thank God he was alive. Maybe, together, they could figure a way out of this.
Or maybe Zeke would kill Chelsea, and, thanks to her, he’d kill Dylan, too.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Dylan’s head pounded as he tried to put together what had happened. The car accident that hadn’t been an accident at all. Then, Zeke had yanked open his door, pulled him from the car, and whacked him on the head. With a gun? Something else? It had happened too fast.
The next thing Dylan knew, he’d been lying here and felt something hit him from behind.
With his wrists wrapped in tape, he stretched his fingers until they touched soft flesh.
Chelsea.
Alive. Thank God.
But why?
Zeke had been trying to kill Chelsea since Monday, so why not take her out now? Why go to all the trouble to kidnap them?
He had to want something from her. It could be some perverse desire. Dylan didn’t want to consider it, but he had to let his mind go even to the ugliest places if he was going to get them out of this. So… maybe Zeke planned to kill her eventually but wanted to have fun with her first.
If so, why take Dylan, too?
He couldn’t think of a good reason. His brain hurt, but he had to think, think… Assuming Zeke wasn’t a rapist—and nothing they knew about him suggested he was—why had he kept either of them alive?
Zeke needed something, something only Chelsea could give him. Money? Maybe. Information? Possibly. But what?
They bounced over uneven terrain, and Dylan’s head throbbed. He’d never felt more impotent. More incapable. More incompetent. He’d let himself get complacent, and this is what happened. Except…
How had Zeke found them?
Nobody knew where they were staying.
It didn’t make sense. None of it made sense. And Dylan couldn’t focus on anything.
He screamed in frustration, but the sound came out a grunt against the gag in his mouth.
Beside him, Chelsea shifted, and then her fingers touched his, warm and alive. Thank God. If nothing else, she was alive right now.
He had to get them out of there.
He rolled to his front just to check and didn’t feel the heavy pressure of his gun or the outline of his cell phone. Of course Zeke had taken those. What else…?
The lock-picking kit. He shifted, rolled to his back.
Chelsea slipped away, probably wondering what in the world he was doing.
The car bounced, sending pain through his skull. He tried to ignore it and focused on the pocket. He didn’t feel the kit there.
Except…
He hadn’t returned the pick he’d used to break into Zeke’s house to the kit. He’d shoved it in a pocket. He closed his eyes, tried to remember. The kit had been in his left pocket. The tool had been in his right hand, so it stood to reason it was in the back pocket on his right. He tried to reach the pocket with his fingers, but he couldn’t do it with his hands bound so tightly. He could hardly move them.
In order to get the tool that might be able to free his hands, he’d need to free his hands.
He hated irony.
Think. He closed his eyes, prayed for wisdom.
He couldn’t reach the pick, but maybe Chelsea could, if he could only tell her. Lord, help her understand.
He backed up to her so that their hands were touching. He grabbed her fingers. Held on.
She stilled. Maybe she understood he was trying to tell her something. Or maybe that was wishful thinking.
He let go of
her hands and reached toward her slacks. Hopefully she’d know he wasn’t choosing this moment to cop a feel.
She was still as stone as he touched her slacks. He found the opening to a back pocket and tugged. Then, he stopped. Pulled his hand away. Waited.
She shifted, and then her fingers skittered over his jeans. Any other time, he’d allow himself to enjoy the feel of her touch, but now, all he did was pray she’d find that lock pick.
She shifted toward his head, and he tried to help by moving down.
The car slowed, and she rolled into him, then away as it picked up speed. When the speed normalized, she resumed her search.
The road here was so bumpy, it could hardly be considered a road. Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it was one of the many logging trails that snaked all over the forest around Nutfield. The movement wasn’t helping this operation.
Then she found his pocket. Her hand slid in. A moment later, she pulled it out, shifted again. He felt her fingers searching, touching his back, and he moved to reach her.
She pressed the metal tool into his hands.
Thank you, Father. Now, help me get us out of here.
The tool wasn’t very sharp, but if he could work it into the tape, maybe he could tear it. He found the wrapping around Chelsea’s wrists and, fumbling his way, rubbed the metal tool against the edge, tried to snag the smooth tape.
He’d been at it less than a minute when the vehicle lurched to a stop.
The engine died. Too soon.
He hid the tool in his fist and touched Chelsea’s hand. Protect her, Father. Please, save us.
A thump, then the rush of cool air filled the space.
Chelsea’s hand was ripped away, and behind him, he felt only chill.
She was gone. In the hands of a monster.
Chapter Thirty-Four
The ground beneath where Chelsea sat cross-legged was hard and rough and chilled. Her arms, bound tightly behind her back, ached from the effort she’d exerted to get that little piece of metal from Dylan’s pocket. It hadn’t felt sharp, but maybe he could do something with it, given enough time.
Would they have enough time? To escape. To live. Please, Lord, please save us. Send a rescuer. Help Dylan get free. Please, get us out of here.
Only the sounds of nature answered. Crickets, a bullfrog in the distance, the rustling of leaves in the slight breeze.
Then, the sound of huffing, and she heard something deposited nearby. Must be Dylan.
Rough hands touched her shoulders, and she jerked away.
“Be still.” The man was so close that she felt his breath on her collarbone. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
His fingers worked, and she focused on not flinching whenever they brushed her skin. A moment later, the tightness from the string around her neck loosened, and the hood was pulled off.
She took in the world around her. They were in a small clearing—maybe twenty feet across—in the forest. A van was parked to her right, lights off. A couple of lanterns lit the edges of the space, and beyond the clearing, the darkness seemed unnaturally thick.
The man, Zeke Granger, was working on getting Dylan’s hood off.
She didn’t understand. Why put the hoods on at all if he was going to let them see his face?
And now, he was removing them, which meant…
He was going to kill them. Obviously.
As if there’d ever been another option.
Her heart raced and she itched to run. A scream rose in her throat, the panic she’d only barely been holding at bay rising, begging for escape. The sound came out a muffled groan.
As soon as Dylan’s hood was yanked off, his gaze found hers.
This man who’d done everything in his power to protect her. Who would die for no reason at all.
His narrowed eyes looked angry. He shook his head. She could almost hear his voice saying Stop that. Don’t give up hope.
But she had given up.
Zeke Granger had killed Mum. Maybe he’d killed Daddy, too. What would keep him from killing her and Dylan? They were bound, powerless. No rescuer was coming.
Zeke crouched in front of her, but her gaze held Dylan’s.
“Look at me.” Zeke pinched her chin, turned her to face him. In the darkness, his eyes were hooded, nearly impossible to make out. His overlarge nose shadowed his too small mouth, but she didn’t miss the smile there. “You’re a hard woman to catch.” He reached for her face, and she flinched. He gave her a stern look, grabbed the tape, and yanked.
The sting was nothing compared to the relief.
“Nobody will hear you if you scream,” he said. “But it will really make me mad. So let’s don’t see what I do when I’m mad. Got it?”
She nodded, and he pulled the rag free of her mouth. She gasped a breath, thankful for the freedom.
“Good girl. Now stay.” He said the words as if she were an obedient puppy and turned toward Dylan.
“How dare you?”
“I dare, princess.” He didn’t even turn to her when he said it. “Here’s the deal. Either of you tries anything, the other one gets punished.” He looked in Dylan’s eyes. “You move, I’ll hurt her, and I’ll make you watch. Got it?”
Slowly, Dylan’s head bobbed down, then up. His eyes never left Zeke’s.
Zeke turned to her again. “You run, and I’ll put a bullet in his head. Understood?”
“He has nothing to do with this,” she said. “Just let him be.”
“You want him to survive, you’ll give me what I want.” Zeke yanked the tape off Dylan’s mouth and pulled out the rag. He tossed both on the ground, then reared back and punched him.
Dylan’s head snapped to the side. He nearly tipped over but managed to right himself. “What was that for?”
“I don’t like people going through my stuff.”
Dylan’s eyebrows rose, but he said nothing.
“My landlady called. I don’t know anybody named Bobby.”
“Cute kitty,” Dylan said. “Friendly, like his owner.”
A phone trilled in the darkness, a shocking sound. Because she’d felt removed from the world, from real life, from safety and normalcy.
Wherever they were, it wasn’t so far from civilization that there was no phone service. Which made sense. They hadn’t been in the car very long. Less than thirty minutes, maybe only twenty. They were probably still in Nutfield, though the developed part of town was so small, the surrounding forest so thick, that the realization didn’t give her much hope.
Zeke snatched the cell. “What?” The single word was nearly a shout.
He waited, and Chelsea looked at Dylan.
He whispered, “When you get the chance, run.” The words were barely audible.
“He said he’d—”
“Our only chance is if you get away and get help.”
“He’ll kill you.”
“He won’t. He needs us alive. Otherwise, he’d have already killed us. Trust me.”
She didn’t, though. Because Dylan would do anything to make sure she was safe.
Tears filled his eyes. “Please, Chelsea. I can’t watch him hurt you.”
But Dylan would have her hear the sound of a gunshot while she ran to safety? She couldn’t tolerate that, either.
But the look in his eyes…
“Please.”
Zeke shouted, “Hey! No talking!” He stomped across the clearing and aimed a kick at Dylan’s side.
The sound of a boot connecting with flesh followed by Dylan’s oomph sent acid into Chelsea’s stomach.
Into the phone, Zeke said, “We’ve been over this. I know what I have to do.” He swiped the call closed and then shoved it in his pocket, muttering an epithet only acceptable when speaking to a female dog.
“Is that any way to talk to your cousin?” Dylan asked.
Zeke spun and glared at him.
Dylan said, “Laura Blanchette.”
What? No! It couldn’t be. Chelsea prayed Zeke would set Dylan straigh
t.
Zeke’s eyes squinted.
“She’s your second cousin, right?” Dylan said. “Or is it first cousin once removed?” He glanced at Chelsea. “I never can remember how that works.”
Zeke seemed too stunned to move.
“After all you’ve done for her, too,” Dylan said. “Taking Maeve Hamilton out. Trying—and failing, but you did try—to kill Chelsea twice. Now kidnapping.”
“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” Zeke said.
“Whatever she’s paying you, Chelsea can pay you more.”
Chelsea found her voice, squeaked out a “Yes. Doesn’t matter how much. I’ll gladly—”
“Chelsea.” Dylan shot her a look, shook his head.
Telling her to be quiet. She could do that.
“Right,” Zeke said. “The princess is going to give me money, and we’ll all just pretend none of this ever happened.” He stalked to the van and yanked open the passenger door, adding over his shoulder, “You must think I’m an idiot.”
“Whether Chelsea and I tell what happened here is irrelevant,” Dylan said.
Zeke backed out of the van and slammed the door. When he stepped into the lantern light, something glinted at his side.
A knife. She gasped. It was a very scary-looking knife.
Zeke stood in front of them and lifted it, studying it. “You like? It’s my hunting knife. I’ve cut through thick hide with this thing.” He crouched in front of her, pressed the tip of the blade against her neck. She stilled, afraid to swallow or breathe. “I don’t think your pretty pale English skin will be any trouble.”
Dylan’s low “Back off” only made Zeke smile. The man’s gaze cut to Dylan, and his teeth gleamed in the dim light.
“It’s bad enough to hurt a woman,” Dylan said, “but only the most degenerate monster enjoys it.”
Zeke stood, glared at Dylan. “You know nothing about me.”
Dylan shrugged. “Not nothing.”
Zeke paced across the clearing. He seemed… unsure. Maybe Dylan was getting to him.
“We know far more about you than you’d like to think. For instance, we know about the dent in your little SUV. Is that a Subaru? I’ve heard they’re nice cars.”
Legacy Reclaimed Page 22
