Masters of the Shadowlands 8 - If only

by Sinclair Cherise

  Somerfeld dropped bedding in a corner of the room and went back upstairs.

  Kick. Kick. Kick.

  This time, Somerfeld came down with a full laundry hamper. After tossing the clothing into another corner, he walked into the hall leading to the office.

  Once Somerfeld disappeared, Vance slammed his foot into the post again. This time he felt a slight give in the screws holding the post in place. Or maybe it was his knee fracturing.

  Footsteps. Humming to himself, Somerfeld set a can of paint thinner on the floor and tossed crumpled paper against the walls. He was rigging enough flammables to ensure the building would burn completely. Wonderful.

  The legs approached. Vance closed his eyes.

  Pain burst in his low back; the bastard had kicked him.

  “Wake up, asshole, or I’ll put a bullet in your leg.” The voice was raspy with a New York accent.

  Not worth pretending. Vance groaned and blinked—and got backhanded across the face.

  His head exploded with pain again, and lights danced in front of his eyes. Bad treatment if he had a concussion.

  Hell, he probably wouldn’t live long enough to be diagnosed.

  Meeting Somerfeld’s eyes set off the crazy bastard like Vance had lit a firecracker. “Fucking Fed. I should just—” A pistol barrel jammed against Vance’s cheekbone. “No. No, I want to hear you scream. And burn. Drew would want me to burn everything. Leave nothing behind.”

  Somerfeld stepped back, and Vance released the breath he’d been holding. Looked like he’d live another minute or two. As his vision cleared, Vance stared at the arsonist. What the hell?

  A long blonde wig curled over the man’s shoulders and down his back. He had on a frilly, long-sleeved top—something Sally might wear over her swimming suit. Nothing else was feminine.

  His facial structure was like his twin’s, but thick white scarring ribboned down his face like a waterfall. One eyelid was shriveled, the lower part drooping.

  “How’d you get in here?” Vance slowly sat up.

  “Sailboat.”

  But they’d had two agents fishing not far from the dock.

  The scars twisted the bastard’s smile. “Your watchdogs let us come right up to their boat. All they saw was a pretty brunette in a bikini sailing with her pregnant blonde friend.” After patting his ruffle-covered gut, he pulled the wig off, revealing a shaved skull.

  “Too slow to catch on.” Somerfeld mimicked shooting with his finger—one, two—and blew the smoke from the imaginary barrel.

  Two women? One had been Somerfeld. “You have someone else here?”

  Somerfeld jerked his thumb toward the corner behind Vance.

  Gagged and hog-tied, a young woman lay on her side almost on a flammable pile. Her blank gaze showed she’d gone past terror into resignation. She knew she’d die today.

  “Kouros is at work?” Somerfeld asked.

  The bastard had been all over the house…but he probably hadn’t seen the isolated cabana. “Yeah.”

  “Give me his phone number.”

  Vance hesitated. Should he? Think, Buchanan. But his thoughts turned helpless circles as if lost in a forest.

  Somerfeld turned the pistol toward the girl. “Wanna see her kneecapped?” A sickening hunger showed in his face.

  “No.” God, no. But someone was going to die. Let it be me, not Galen. Not Sally. Could he manage to shout a warning or— “It’s 555-8023.”

  “Good. When he answers, you tell him I’m here.” Somerfeld tossed the phone in the air and caught it. “Oh yeah, indeedy yeah.”

  * * * *

  Sitting on the edge of the bed, Galen cursed as his cell phone rang. Sally was in his lap. Her halter top was down around her waist, and he’d cupped a plump breast in his hand. All was right with his world and about to get better. Poor Vance, having to stay on guard.

  Sally nipped his chin. “You better answer that.”

  “Ayuh.” Shifting her over to sit beside him, he pulled his phone from his pocket and checked the display. The house phone? Maybe Vance had heard from the office. “You do realize I’m busy here,” he said into the phone as he ran his knuckles over the prettiest nipples in the world.

  Sally made a hungry sound.

  “Galen, I can’t join you at the field office. I’m still at home. I got jumped by Somerfeld. ” It was Vance’s voice. Thin and tight with pain and warning. “He has me shackled to the game-room bar, pistol to my head—when he isn’t pouring gasoline around the walls. Got his slave here too. Hog-tied.”

  Christ. “Vance—”

  He heard his partner give a low, painful grunt.

  “God fucking dammit.” Galen stood, anchoring the phone to his ear. “Vance.”

  “You killed my twin, asshole.” The grating whine of the unfamiliar voice sounded like a tile saw. “So I’m gonna kill your partner. I’m going to burn him.”

  Galen took two steps toward the door and stopped. Don’t charge your ass into the kill zone. Need more information. “You’re at my house?”

  Somerfeld’s voice had been controlled…barely. Now his laugh went over the edge into insanity.

  Close enough to hear, Sally turned white.

  “Buchanan’s got oh, about five more minutes before I leave and toss a match behind me. Yeah, by the time you get here, your good buddy will be black and crisp. And dead.”

  The phone went silent.

  Galen’s mind went blank as fear rushed through him, permeating every cell. God, Vance. No. And then his brain kicked in.

  Sally had pulled her own phone out and tapped 91. Holding it up, she waited for his nod before punching in the final 1. A second later, she was talking fast. “I need the fire department and the police. An FBI agent is being held hostage by an arsonist.”

  She had a good head in a crisis, Galen noted as he carefully cracked the door of the cabana. He heard her give Vance’s name and the house address as he checked outside. He saw only the thick growth of lakeshore plants.

  Vance had provided the essential facts. One crazy man. Armed. In the game room. Two hostages. Vance wouldn’t be of any help. Gasoline. And less than five minutes? He punched in the number for the ones on the lake.

  No answer. His jaw tightened over the grief. He’d known those men.

  The lakeshore road took time to drive. The agents on the road stakeout wouldn’t make it in five minutes.

  Think, Kouros.

  Somerfeld thought Galen was at the field office in Tampa.

  “No, sorry, but I can’t remain on the phone,” Sally said to the emergency dispatcher and swiped the display to hang up her cell. “What now?”

  “My weapons are in the office. Can’t get to them—can’t cross the dining room without being spotted. Windows are locked. Vance can’t help.” Galen rubbed his face, thinking bitterly of the handcuffs in his pocket. Wishing for anything else. Pepper spray even. “Give Somerfeld time to react, and he’ll light the place up. I need a diversion.”

  “Well, that’s me.” Her fingers fumbled as she retied her halter top.

  “No.”

  “We don’t have a choice.” She ran to the cupboard, pulled out her collar, and buckled it around her neck. “He’s obviously into slaves. He won’t shoot me.”

  “Then he’ll have three hostages.”

  “It’ll buy us a minute or two—and, um”—she gave him a half-guilty look—“I messed with the wiring. If I can flip on the switch in the game room, I can make it sound as if someone is trapped upstairs. Another woman.”

  He stared. A software prankster. Yes, she could do that. And he couldn’t let her. “No.”

  “Galen, yes,” she whispered.

  She made sense. By God, she made sense, and Galen wanted to shake her for it. He wanted to shove her in a safe room somewhere, lock the door, and let her out once it was all over.

  But look at her. Facing him. Arms folded over her chest. Willing to die. He loved her more than life, and the thought of seeing her die… “I ca
n’t.” Memories of Ursula. Beaten to death. With each beat of his heart, more ice spread into his bloodstream. “I can’t risk you.”

  Her stubborn little chin lowered as sympathy filled her eyes. “I’m not your wife.” She hugged him, intending comfort, but he could feel her shivering. “If I go in, there’s a chance. If I don’t, Vance and that woman will die.”

  “You might die.” He lifted her chin and saw both terror and resolve combined. She knew. She was willing to take the chance.

  “God didn’t promise us safety. Just a chance to live. To love.” She put her palm on his cheek and whispered in his ear, “You know better than to bind someone too tightly. Loosen the restraints, Sir.”

  His mouth tasted of bitterness and sorrow, of ash and doom. To lose both Sally and Vance was his own version of hell. But she had the right to decide. He forced out the words. “All right.”

  She pulled in a breath and gave him a firm nod, despite the way her fingers trembled against his face.

  For himself, he took a quick kiss, her lips as sweet as anything he’d ever tasted. “If you die on me, I swear—” He couldn’t think of anything nasty enough.

  “I won’t.” She kissed the side of his jaw. “And if you get hurt, Sir, I’m going to kick your ass.” As she slid out the door, Sally mouthed, I love you, one second before she ran up the dirt path toward the house.

  He closed his eyes for a moment, praying he’d see her again so he could give the words back. Praying the brother of his heart would survive.

  Then he called the stakeout on the road. “Somerfeld is here. Hostage situation. Place is set to burn.” Without waiting for an answer, he set his phone to silent, leaving the connection open. If they arrived in time, they’d have an idea of what was going down.

  After grabbing a hammer from the toolbox, Galen followed Sally up the path.

  * * * *

  Don’t look scared. Look lover-like. Happy.

  As Sally stepped through the back door, she tried to call out.

  Voice didn’t work. Slow breath.

  She saw Galen run across the patio and step to one side of the door. Out of sight. Didn’t it just figure that he wouldn’t have his weapon? What kind of an FBI agent did his carpentry unarmed?

  Slow breath. She cleared her throat and reminded herself to smile. I’m a happy, horny girl. “Oh Vaaance. Are you home, sweetheart?” She walked across the kitchen, unable to hear anything but the pounding of her heart. It took an eternity to get to the dining room.

  Would Somerfeld just shoot her? Her insides cringed as if trying to flee the impact of a bullet. No. We’re going to save Vance. “Hoooney, I want to do a scene. You promised to spank me for being bad, Master.”

  She walked into the game room and saw Vance.

  Arms restrained behind his back, he sat, one shoulder propping him up against the wall. His ankles were fastened to a post with heavy iron cuffs. Blood ran down the side of his face, and his eyes were glassy.

  “Vance.” Where was Somerfeld?

  At a sound, she spun. He was right behind her.

  The man slapped her across the face, knocking her backward. Pain exploded in her cheek. Tears filled her eyes and blurred her vision as she stared at him. Dear God.

  His skull was shaved. One eye was bigger than the other because of the scars running past it and down that side of his face to distort his mouth. The girlie swimsuit cover-up he wore was bizarrely wrong.

  As the pistol pointed at her, he smiled. His muddy hazel eyes lingered on her breasts, making her skin crawl. “I didn’t hear a car. Where’d you come from, slut?”

  Her face still burned with pain. She swallowed. “The lake. In a canoe.”

  He grunted his acceptance of her answer. “Sit over there.” And motioned with his pistol toward Vance.

  She ran across the room toward her Dom…and toward the light switch. Can’t kneel—need to stay on my feet. Need to be mobile. Get to the door. “Oh, look at you, Master.” As she spun and glared at Somerfeld, she edged two steps toward the door to the foyer. “What did you do to him? Who are you anyway?”

  The scarring—and insanity—twisted his smile to something horrible. “I’m the man who’s going to listen to you burn, slut. To your flesh crisping and your screams.”

  The ghastly rush of fear turned her body cold. No. Move. She backed up farther toward the door. “But why? I don’t even know you!” Another step. Almost there.

  He motioned with the black barrel of his pistol, and her mouth went dry. He’d shoot her. “Get over there,” he said.

  “No. I don’t want to.” All her years of defiance served her well, and the words came out without her forcing them.

  Even as he aimed the pistol at her, she backed into the wall. The light switches poked her shoulder, and she nudged the far one up. “Okay, okay, I’m moving.” She hurried back toward Vance.

  “Too late.” He turned the pistol and shot Vance.

  * * * *

  Moving through the kitchen, Galen heard the gunshot followed by Sally’s high scream, “Noooooo!”

  Vance. He’d shot Vance. Galen’s throat tightened as he stopped just inside the dining room door. He’d have to cross that area to reach the game room. Do the diversion, Sally. Do it.

  All he could hear was sobbing…and the splashing sound of gasoline.

  Fuck.

  He’d give her one minute and charge, no matter what.

  A second later, he realized the cursing he heard was from Vance. The son of a bitch was alive.

  His vision blurred for a second.

  * * * *

  “Jesus, fuck.” Vance gritted the words out over the searing pain in his thigh. Nice hole in the outside muscle. Bleeding like a river but not spurting. Hadn’t hit an artery or even the bone. Hurt like hell.

  Beside him, Sally dropped like a rag doll, her knees impacting the hardwood floor with a nasty thump.

  Vance twisted to try to help. Couldn’t.

  Somerfeld’s laughter sounded like the rough whine of a chainsaw. Out of control and revoltingly gleeful as he watched Vance bleed. He grinned at Sally. “See what you made me do, slut?”

  “Wake up, Mommy.” The imp’s whisper held no reason, no knowledge as she rocked back and forth on her knees, arms limp at her sides. Her gaze had fixed on the blood creeping across the floor, dark red against the light wood. “Mommy. Wake up. Wake up.”

  “Crazier’n’ me now. Oh yeah, indeedy yeah.” Somerfeld licked his lips. “Nice tits. Could use a new slut.”

  Unable to help himself, Vance growled.

  “Like her, huh?” Somerfeld nudged him with a foot. “Tell you what, I’ll play the recording of your screaming when I fuck her.” He rubbed his groin, cock half-erect. “Be sure you’re not forgotten.”

  Vance’s gut twisted with his revulsion. No. It wouldn’t happen. He couldn’t let that happen.

  Humming again, Somerfeld picked up the half-full can of gasoline. Pistol in one hand, he carelessly splashed the liquid against the walls, splattering everything in the area.

  “Sally,” Vance said quietly. His partner must have sent her in here for a reason. If she needed to do something, she’d better be about it, or Galen would end up with a bullet in his gut.

  She didn’t even look at him.

  Vance lowered his voice to that of command. “Sally.”

  BLOOD EVERYWHERE. “WAKE up, Mommy.” Dripping down the windshield, on her face, her clothes. On Mommy. “No no no.” She tried to turn, to get to her mother, but her arm wouldn’t move. She pulled and yanked. Pain tore through her. Nothing moved except the pouring blood. Red, so very red against the snow outside the car. “Mommy.”

  “Sally. Look at me.” The steel in the dark male voice sliced through her nightmare and pulled at her. Her body obeyed, not under her control at all. Turned her away from the red, turned her toward the sound.

  “That’s a girl. Eyes on me. Now.”

  Her head lifted, her gaze met blue fire, and the anger—and lov
e—in Vance’s eyes burned away the past. My Vance. Her skin felt clammy, and cold sweat ran down her face. What…happened?

  As the stench of gasoline hit her, she was suddenly, completely in the present. Somerfeld. Burning. Vance had been shot.

  He was bleeding. Shocked, she pressed her hands to the horrible wound. He groaned. How long had she been…elsewhere?

  God, she was supposed to create the diversion.

  “Ready to go. Indeedy yeah.” Somerfeld tossed the container aside.

  Get it together, Sally. The receiver for the voice-activated program was very sensitive. She didn’t have to talk loudly. Sally tried to speak. A horrible sound emerged. Get the tone right, girl. A long breath. She turned to Ellis, holding up her hands in a pleading position. “Please, please, please, don’t hurt me. I’m sorry I brought her here.”

  The dickwad stared at her. “You talking to me, slut?”

  Vance stared at her. “Brought who?” he whispered. His face was pale, jaw tight from pain.

  I love you, my Vance. Her hand closed over his. Please, please, please, let this work.

  A high scream came from upstairs. “Master, help me. Master.” Another long wail.

  “Fuck!” Somerfeld ran up three steps, turned to glare at her, and pointed the pistol at Vance. “You leave, slut, and I’ll shoot his balls off. You’ll hear him scream no matter how far you run.” He dashed up the stairs toward the sound of the woman sobbing.

  “Run,” Vance gritted out. “Whoever that is up there, Sally, I want you to run.”

  He didn’t recognize the voice? Of course, Gabi had been pretty drunk the night they’d made the recording. “Not leaving without you, dummy.”

  “Goddamn it.” He lifted his uninjured leg and kicked the post, grunting at the impact. On his other leg, the jeans were drenched with blood.

  She pushed her hands down on the wound, holding it as he slammed his boot into the post, over and over. Hurry, Galen.

  Yelling came from upstairs as Somerfeld searched for the illusive woman. Screw you, bastard. She spotted a mallet in the pile of construction tools.

  Yes! She grabbed it and hit the post holding Vance as hard as she could. But it made so much—too much—noise.