Zeke crossed his arms.
“The dent was enough evidence to get a warrant. You didn’t like me touching your stuff? Think about all those cops swarming the place. They’ve probably already accessed your financial records. They’re digging through your laptop, looking for evidence. Probably joking about all the porn sites in your cache.”
Zeke’s still-as-a-statue posture sent a chill down her back.
Dylan seemed unaffected. “Whether you get what you’re looking for from us or not, whether you kill us or not, you’re going down. The question is, for what?”
Zeke still didn’t move.
A tiny surge of hope pumped in her veins. Maybe Dylan could talk their way out of this.
“All they know right now is that your car hit Maeve Hamilton’s,” Dylan said. “They’ll be able to match the paint left on her car with your SUV’s make and model. The car was pretty smashed up, so they missed it the first time, but now that they know what to look for”—he shrugged—“no problem. But what does that prove?”
Dylan paused, and Zeke took a step forward. Mouth slightly open. Fully engaged in the tale.
“A hit-and-run. A hit-and-run with a fatality, which isn’t nothing. But you could argue it was an accident and you panicked. I mean, it isn’t first-degree murder. If you let us go, turn yourself in, and agree to testify against Laura, you’ll be able to negotiate a sweet deal.” Dylan glanced at Chelsea. “When I was a cop, that used to tick me off. We’d work our tails off to catch a guy, and then the prosecutors would let him plea to a lesser charge just to avoid going to court. Frustrating.” He sent her a wink, then turned back to Zeke. “What other evidence will they have? The money you’ve been paid so far, but that’ll only corroborate your story when you testify against Laura. You can claim you were only meant to send Maeve Hamilton a message, not kill her. That it was an accident. You’ll send your high-and-mighty cousin to prison, and you’ll walk away scot-free.”
Still, Zeke said nothing.
Lord, please let him listen. Please let him believe Dylan and let us go. It seemed their only way out of this.
“And those shots today?”
Zeke’s expression shifted. His head tilted to the side, and his lips pressed together.
Dylan shrugged. “Nobody died. I mean, yeah, one of your bullets hit Dougie, but he’ll recover. He’s—”
“What are you talking about?” Zeke sounded genuinely confused.
Dylan blinked twice. “On Mt. Coventry?” But his voice had lost its confidence.
“I didn’t…” Zeke stormed toward Dylan and crouched in front of him. “You’re just making this up as you go along.”
“That wasn’t you on the mountain today?”
“I was here all day, planning.” His gaze roamed the clearing.
But if Zeke hadn’t shot at Dougie, who had?
Surely not Laura.
Chelsea still couldn’t believe her mother’s best friend had tried to have her killed. Had succeeded in killing Mum. All this to ensure the factory moved? Why? If she’d needed money, Mum surely would have given it to her. It was insane.
Did Laura even know how to shoot a gun? Chelsea tried to picture the sixty-something woman, with her business clothes and her sensible leather shoes, trekking through the woods carrying a rifle over her shoulder.
The image wouldn’t come.
Dylan seemed to be scrambling, too. “Huh. If it wasn’t you—”
“Stop talking.” Zeke’s voice was a low growl. “It’s too late for any of that. I’m just gonna do this, collect my money, and get outta here. Find a nice beach somewhere and live comfortably for the rest of my life.”
“The problem is the money,” Dylan said. “You know Laura is tapped out, right? She hasn’t got a penny to her name. Her credit cards have been suspended due to lack of payment. I’m not sure how you think she’s going to pay you.”
“She’s loaded.” Zeke smirked. “Which proves you have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I searched her office yesterday. She’s broke.”
Zeke laughed. “She’s paid me plenty, and this last job”—his cold gaze turned to Chelsea, and she shuddered—“will set me up for life.”
“Even if you’re right…”
Dylan’s voice drew the man’s gaze back to him, and Chelsea breathed a prayer of relief. It felt like the longer they talked, the less chance Zeke would kill them. Wishful thinking? Possibly, but she held the wish dearly.
“You won’t get your money,” Dylan finished. “The police are on to Laura. How do you think I knew? Detective Cote told me. They’ll freeze all her assets, make it impossible—”
“She would have told me,” Zeke said. “She would’ve—”
“Right. She’s going to tell you she can’t pay you before you do the thing she’s paying you to do. Because she might be guilty of conspiracy to commit murder, but she’s far too moral to swindle you out of cash.” He shook his head. “Use your brain, Zeke. You seem much smarter—”
Zeke’s fist to Dylan’s head cut off the words. This time, Dylan couldn’t keep his balance. He landed on his side.
“No more out of you.” Zeke nodded to Chelsea. “You, on the other hand, are going to need to start talking.”
She looked to Dylan, hoping for help, guidance.
He was struggling to sit back up, but without the use of his hands, it wasn’t working.
Zeke crouched in front of her. “Where is the evidence your mother collected?”
Her mind scrambled… The evidence? The box in the drawer. The empty box.
“I don’t—”
Dylan shouted, “Don’t tell him, Chelsea.”
What? Why would he say that?
Zeke lurched to his feet and kicked Dylan in the side.
Dylan’s breath rushed out, and he gasped.
“You. Shut. Up.” Zeke set the knife on the ground a few feet out of reach, grabbed Dylan’s feet, and turned him so he was facing Chelsea. “Got a good look?”
“I’ll shut up.” Dylan’s words were rasped. “I won’t say another word.”
Zeke snatched up the knife and kneeled in front of Chelsea.
She closed her eyes. She couldn’t look at the knife or the man wielding it.
“You said if we tried to run. I didn’t… I’ll shut up. Please don’t.” Dylan’s words came out fast, panicked.
“Where is it?” Zeke’s voice was low, and his breath blew across her face. She could feel the heat of him.
She didn’t know. Had no idea. But Dylan… What did he want her to say?
If Zeke thought she knew where the evidence was, would it keep him from killing them?
“Open your eyes, princess.”
She needed a glimpse of Dylan, a clue as to what to do next. But Zeke’s face was all she could focus on. Everything else was grayed out, distant. Irrelevant.
The tip of the blade pressed into her collarbone.
“Don’t make me hurt you. Just tell me where it is.”
“And then you’ll kill me.”
“I don’t have to kill you.” The knife point pressed harder, and she felt a trickle of blood slide down to her chest. “I can leave you here, bound. Maybe someone’ll find you. By the time they do, I’ll be long gone. There’s no reason anybody has to die.”
Could she believe that? Was it possible he might let them live?
She thought of her mother, whose body was lying in a coffin beside Daddy’s.
Zeke wasn’t afraid to kill.
And he had nothing to gain by leaving them alive.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Dylan worked the pick furiously against the tape around his wrists. He had to get free. Now. But the pick wasn’t sharp enough, the tape not weak enough. Dylan wasn’t strong enough. Or clever enough. Another girl he loved would die while he lay impotent, doing nothing.
He needed to focus.
Lord, help. I need Your strength.
He kept his eyes trained on Zeke and
Chelsea. Zeke was kneeling in front of her now, demanding that she tell him where the evidence was. A gun was shoved in his waistband at the small of his back. If only it would accidentally fire and blow his backside off.
“Come on, princess.” The man’s voice was low, almost a purr. “Just tell me where it is.”
“I don’t know. I haven’t seen it.” She’d explained about the empty box repeatedly, but Zeke wouldn’t believe her because of what Dylan had said. The last thing they needed was for Zeke to believe they were of no value.
Zeke hadn’t glanced Dylan’s way in a minute or more. Dylan, the impotent protector who’d done nothing of value, was no threat to him.
He worked the pick with his fingertips. Finally, he found a snag in the tape, shoved the thin piece of metal beneath it, and pulled.
The fiber snapped. He hoped, anyway. Hoped the file hadn’t just lost its grip.
Feet away, Zeke slid the knife from Chelsea’s collarbone to the soft hollow at the base of her throat. One quick jab, and she’d be dead.
Please, Lord.
He closed his eyes. He had to concentrate, and watching wasn’t helping. He kept working the pick, broke the next fiber, and the next. He was getting there.
“You want me to beat it out of you?” Zeke asked. “Or maybe I can work it out of you a different way.”
Dylan opened his eyes. Zeke had dropped the knife. He had one hand on the back of Chelsea’s head, holding her in place. The other slid from her shoulder and down her front. He pressed his lips to Chelsea’s. She tried to turn, but she couldn’t get away.
Dylan clamped his mouth shut so hard, he bit his tongue and drew blood. The last thing he needed was to draw Zeke’s attention to him. Please help. Please…
He worked the pick, made the cut longer, pulled at his wrists to try to lengthen the tear. No deal. He worked the pick more, eyes closed. He had to concentrate, tried not to think about the aching ribs—broken or bruised, thanks to Zeke’s well-placed kick. Tried not to think about the pounding head. Tried not to think about what Zeke was doing to Chelsea. Maybe he couldn’t take Zeke down in a fight, but he could distract him long enough for Chelsea to get away.
Please, let her run.
He worked the pick, lengthened the tear, pulled at his wrists.
Heard Chelsea gasp.
Opened his eyes to see Zeke’s fingers pressing into the flesh on her shoulders. Hurting her. “Just tell me where the evidence is, princess, and it’ll stop.”
Tears streamed down her face.
Zeke punched her, hard.
Her head snapped to the side. She would have fallen over, but Zeke grabbed her, held her in place.
Dylan squeezed his eyes closed. Concentrate. He worked the pick. Lengthened the tear. Pulled at his wrists.
The tape gave way, the sound too loud in the quiet night.
He needed a distraction.
He opened his eyes. Forced them to stay open as Zeke slid his hands up Chelsea’s thighs.
Zeke said, “I can’t decide if I’d rather hurt you or have fun with you.”
Chelsea’s gaze found Dylan’s. He mouthed noise. And then opened his mouth as if he were screaming.
“Get your filthy hands off me,” she said.
That wasn’t going to do it.
Zeke laughed, and Dylan pulled his wrists. The tear lengthened, but the laugh died too fast.
“Or what?” Zeke’s hands slid around her hips toward her back. “At this point, I’m kind of hoping you won’t tell me where it is, yet. I think I can—”
“Stop it.” Chelsea wiggled, tried to get away. “I said, stop it!”
Zeke didn’t stop.
Chelsea screamed.
Dylan yanked his wrists, and the tape tore.
She continued to scream.
Zeke’s hands continued to roam.
It took another few—long—seconds before Dylan could dislodge the sticky tape from his wrists. Finally, he got them free. He lurched to his feet, injuries screaming a protest, and aimed at Zeke. If he could just get that gun…
Zeke heard, turned.
Dylan barreled into him, and they toppled.
“Chelsea, run!”
Chapter Thirty-Six
The instant Zeke was pushed off her, Chelsea rolled to her knees and stood.
The two men fought at her feet, Dylan on top, Zeke beneath but throwing punches that elicited grunts.
“Run!” Dylan shouted again.
She couldn’t leave him. Maybe she could help. She put all her weight on her broken foot and kicked Zeke with the other. Pain shot up her toes.
Zeke seemed unaffected as he reached toward her leg. She scrambled away.
He punched Dylan in the side, and Dylan groaned.
She put her weight on her good foot this time and kicked Zeke in the head again with the plastic cast, but with arms bound, she couldn’t get enough force into it.
Zeke reached again, snagged her pant leg and yanked. Her shoe came out from under her, and she landed on her backside. She ignored the pain as she scrambled away.
“Please.” Dylan’s voice was weaker.
She was useless and Dylan was fading.
She couldn’t leave.
But she had to. With her hands bound, she could do nothing to defend herself, nothing to help Dylan.
She searched the ground, seeking the gun she’d seen in Zeke’s waistband, but it must not have fallen out. She spied the knife where Zeke had left it and lurched toward it. She turned, found it with her fingers behind her back, and pulled it into her grasp.
She got to her feet and bolted into the forest. Prickly branches snagged her slacks. Uneven ground sent pain through her injured foot. Beyond the lantern light, the night was dark, and she rushed blindly, barely avoiding trees and bushes in her path.
Behind her, the sounds of the fight faded.
She ducked behind a thick tree trunk, lungs screaming. She held the knife, blade up, between her bound hands. The blade was long enough that it kept jabbing into her back as she worked it. She ignored the pain, tried to saw at the tape, but she couldn’t get leverage. The knife kept slipping, slicing her hands. How had Dylan done this with that little sliver of metal?
She heard a grunt from the clearing. She had to hurry. Her hands were wet—sweaty or bloody or both—and the knife slipped free.
She turned to where it lay uselessly beside the tree roots. She crouched, managed to snag it again, and attacked the tape. All she did was cut herself.
This wasn’t working. She tried to shove the knife into the ground behind her, handle down. It kept slipping. Slicing skin. Then she got it good and stuck. She had no idea on what and didn’t care. She tilted, legs protesting the long crouch, and moved her wrists to either side of the still blade. She thought maybe she was close. Yes, she could feel the pressure on the tape. Please, please…
The blade slid through the binding and sliced into her back. The cut smarted, the least of her worries. She worked the tape off her hands.
Brought them to the front. They tingled, stung from the bloody cuts. She snatched the knife from its spot—it had been wedged into a tight space between two roots and held in place by the tree trunk. Thank you, Lord.
A frustrated roar came from the clearing. “Come back or I’ll kill him. Right now!” Apparently, Zeke had gotten free of Dylan. “I swear, I’ll shoot him in the head.”
Please, God. Please…
What should she do? She had no idea where she was and couldn’t run far with her broken foot. Escape didn’t seem possible, even if she could leave Dylan. Which she couldn’t. If she made any noise, Zeke would find her and kill her. If she stayed hidden, he’d kill Dylan.
And then look for her.
Maybe Zeke would give up, get in the van and drive away.
The half-moon offered a little light. She crept around the thick tree trunk. She could just make out the glow of the lanterns in the clearing. Dylan was on the ground, facedown. Not moving.
Zeke stood over him, gun aimed at Dylan’s head. “Chelsea, his blood will be on your hands. I will kill him, and then I’ll hunt you down and kill you, too. He’ll get a bullet to the head, but you…” He aimed the gun into the woods as he spoke. “You’re going to pay for this.”
She longed to run, run far away and never look back, but she couldn’t. Wouldn’t.
She crept in a wide circle around the clearing. While she moved, she studied the ground. She couldn’t imagine stabbing a man. But maybe…
This was the Granite State. Surely she’d be able to find a decently sized rock. Once she started looking, she saw rocks everywhere, all either too big or too small.
She prayed the Lord would highlight the perfect one as she continued on her path.
“You’re running out of time!” Zeke screamed.
He was panicking. If only he’d leave Dylan alone and run into the woods—preferably in the opposite direction from where she was. He wasn’t moving, though.
When she was on the far side of the van from the clearing, she crept forward until she reached it. She peeked in, saw the keys dangling from the keyhole.
If she could immobilize Zeke, if she could get Dylan in the van, they could escape.
Too many ifs.
“That’s it, princess. He’s gonna die right now.”
While he yelled, she made her way to the rear of the vehicle, just out of the circle of light. Something glinted off the ground at her feet.
A rock about the size of a softball. She shifted the knife into her left hand and grabbed the rock with her right. It felt cold and deadly.
She peeked around the van. Zeke crouched, pressed the gun against Dylan’s head.
Dylan didn’t even flinch.
Please, God. Don’t let him be dead.
Show me what to do. Help me.
Deep in the forest, something moved. An animal of some kind.
Zeke stood and faced that direction, away from her, and aimed the gun at the sound.
Chelsea bolted through the clearing, rock raised high.
An instant before she reached Zeke, he turned.
She brought the rock down. He blocked with his arm, and the rock skimmed his ear.
Legacy Reclaimed Page 23
