14

by J. T. Ellison

  “Baldwin, is there news?”

  “Nothing good. We’ve tracked down the limo driver. He’s dead on a beach in Mazatlán. Throat cut. Think you can finesse it for me? Burke Webb is down in Puerto Vallarta, he can manage it, I’m sure. The Pueblo Bonito Hotel.”

  “Of course. I’ll get on it immediately.” There was the sound of a pen scratching on paper and a few snaps of his fingers. His voice dropped an octave. “How are you? Seriously. Are you holding up?”

  There was no bullshitting Garrett. “As best I can. I can’t imagine that she’s really gone. I have to keep hoping that she’s out there, somewhere. I can handle the thought of her being hurt, wounded, but not dead. I just won’t go there.”

  “Good. Don’t. Something is up here, and I’m not sure what it is. There’s been a rash of strange—”

  There was a loud whooping and the door to Taylor’s office flew open. Marcus stood in the entry, a grin lighting up his face. “We’ve got something.”

  “Garrett, I’ve gotta go. I’ll call you back.” He hung up to Garrett’s protests, ignored the cell when it started ringing immediately after he closed the lid.

  “What is it?”

  “John C. Tune Airport. One of the mechanics just came forward. He didn’t know anything about Taylor being missing, just saw the news reports. Says that yesterday evening, a man and a woman got on a Cessna. Normally, it wouldn’t be a big deal, but he noticed that the woman was out. Completely. The man was carrying her over his shoulder, told one of the other mechanics that she’d gotten drunk. Get this, Baldwin. He says he remembers her wearing something white.”

  “Let’s go. I want to talk to him. Now.”

  Thirty-Two

  Unknown

  Monday, December 22

  3:00 a.m.

  The noise was deafening. It sounded like the buzz from a bumblebee—one three-times normal size. It flitted close to her ear and she swatted at it. She couldn’t lift her arm. Her hand didn’t leave her side. What the hell?

  She opened her eyes a crack. Well, she didn’t think she was dead. Not unless heaven or hell or whatever afterlife place she was going to looked like a warehouse. Maybe she was in purgatory? Naw, she didn’t believe in that. It was either up or down. Lord knows she’d spilled enough blood to be heading south. The thought made her grimace, and a sharp pain shot through her head. She tried opening her eyes again, slowly this time, first the right, letting it focus, then the left. Her head buzzed; it wasn’t a bumblebee but her brain, sending off sound waves at a thousand decibels a pop. Her eyes focused on what looked like a concrete pillar, then slowly, she moved her gaze across the room. Her head pounded but the impression stood. Empty warehouse.

  She tried to stand, barely registering when she couldn’t. Her head began to swim, and darkness enveloped her.

  He sensed the movement, got up and went to the window, looked into the room. She was awake. Good. It was nearly time. He wanted to talk to her, to hear that smoky voice again. But it was taking her so long to get over the stun gun. Maybe the chloroform was a little much, too. He didn’t know how strong she was, how much she was going to fight. She’d actually come to for a moment as she’d been carried toward the plane. He’d felt her muscles tense and slapped a soaked handkerchief across her nose and mouth.

  He’d hoped she’d be awake hours ago. Instead she sat, strapped into the chair, and slept. He thought she might even have dreamed—her eyes moved back and forth under the lids and she moaned softly. Those lips. That moan had done more to him in two seconds than any woman had in two years. She was absolutely delicious. He wanted her. On so many levels.

  As he watched, she moved slightly, then drifted away again. Maybe it wasn’t time, after all. Too bad.

  He made a phone call, let L’Uomo know that she was starting to come to. L’Uomo had warned him to keep his hands off, but he longed to touch her skin again, so warm, so tight.

  There was motion again in the room. Yes, she was fully awake now.

  Standing at the window, he watched her, amazed at her beauty. She tried to shake her head and groaned, to his everlasting delight. Maybe he couldn’t touch, but nothing said he had to be a monk about it. His hand went to the fly on his pants and he reached inside, grasping himself. A woman, incapacitated, tied to a chair…a normal man would feel chivalrous, not wholly aroused and harder than a rock. A few quick strokes was all it took. He closed his eyes in bliss as he came.

  “Atlas, you revolting creature.”

  L’Uomo’s voice boomed and Atlas opened his eyes in shock, his hand still wrapped around his rapidly shrinking penis. Oh, God, he’d been caught. He stumbled back against the wall, fumbling his dick back into his pants, all six foot eight inches of him crowding the space where a neat, gray-haired gentleman stood, lips curled in disgust.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I couldn’t help myself.” Atlas bowed his head.

  “Obviously you aren’t capable of handling this situation, Atlas. You are dismissed. Send Dusty in to replace you. Tell him no books, this needs his utmost attention. You may leave now.”

  Atlas turned to the window, giving the woman one last glance. “Beautiful,” he muttered, then left the small observation room.

  L’Uomo stood in the window and watched as Taylor Jackson struggled against her bonds. Beautiful, indeed. But he didn’t need his men distracted by a helpless succubus. Dusty would manage her; he seemed to feel nothing for the opposite sex. Of course, the court-mandated Depo-Provera shots the man took neutered him quite effectively.

  The girl was fighting it now, fully conscious and trying to get untied. He watched, feeling a twitch in his own groin as she struggled. She’d fight the bonds for hours if he let her. Tough girl. He was going to have to talk to her, prevent her from hurting herself. She would have to relieve herself soon, and then they needed to get her fed and watered.

  He admired her spirit. High praise from a man who admired nothing.

  Thirty-Three

  Nashville, Tennessee

  Monday, December 22

  8:00 a.m.

  They’d spent the night working the airport staff for clues. The limo had been found. A bullet hole had shattered the windshield. Taylor’s veil, tucked into the soft leather, was the only material evidence that she’d been in the car. Physical confirmation was under way—fingerprints being lifted, the car gleaned for blood. Anything that might tell the story of what happened before it arrived at the airport. The only concrete information they had was the bullet had come from the interior of the vehicle, not shot in from the outside. It confirmed that there was a struggle.

  They were also looking for the phantom plane. Tracking an aircraft should be easy, especially in the post-9/11 era. But the Cessna seemed to have gone off course, not landing at its destination airport. The pilot had called in less than midway through the flight, telling the Fort Lauderdale private airstrip that he had a sick passenger on board and was turning back to Nashville. Nashville never heard from the plane after he left. There were no reports of planes going down along the Eastern seaboard. It would take hours to trace where the aircraft had landed—the tail number would have to be hand-matched to all incoming flights at all the airports. It would take some time for the FAA controllers to sort through the information.

  It was a smoothly planned operation, designed to let the plane literally fall off the radar.

  Baldwin felt sick to his stomach. He left the small terminal building and stood on the tarmac, staring north. There was a chance that Taylor was alive, hurt, needing him, and the thought made him want to tear out his hair and wrap his hands around the throat of whoever had stolen her from him.

  Fitz sidled up to him, put a hand on his shoulder. Baldwin felt a rush of gratitude, coupled with a nagging sense that while he’d been very busy with his own personal demons at the thought of Taylor’s predicament, he’d conveniently ignored the four people who’d known her and loved her the longest, her team. The realization hit him like a punch to the gut and he t
urned to Fitz.

  “God, man, I’m sorry. I’ve only been thinking about me, about how horrible this situation is for me. I know you love her, too. I’m sorry for being such an asshole.”

  Fitz waved a hand in front of him. “Naw, don’t you go worrying about that. We’re all strung a little too tight right now, but no one’s pissed that you aren’t there mollycoddling us. We’re grown-up. At least, some of us are.” He grinned and nodded his head toward Marcus Wade, standing in plain view right inside the door to the terminal. Marcus was riding the staff at the airport, threatened to arrest them all if they didn’t cooperate with the investigation. He was leaning in, arguing, and the male agent behind the counter was visibly trembling.

  Baldwin gave a tight smile and looked past Marcus. Lincoln was sitting in an orange plastic chair with his laptop perched on his knees, flying through cyberspace, looking for the plane. Baldwin felt certain that if anyone could find the tail number, it would be Lincoln.

  Fitz gripped Baldwin’s shoulder once more, then smiled. “I’m calling Price, giving him an update. Anything you’d like to relay?”

  “Just tell him to be prepared for an all-out onslaught the moment we find anything. I know the purse strings are tight at Metro. I’ll be putting some of my own capital into this investigation if need be. I don’t expect him to cover my parts. Let him know that.”

  “Price won’t hear of that, Baldwin, you know that. He feels like you’re part of this team, even if you are FBI.” He flipped open his phone and left Baldwin on the freezing tarmac.

  He’d almost left the Bureau, and was more than thankful that his boss, Garrett Woods, hadn’t let him go. It would have been difficult to manage the response to this incident with Taylor, the dead chauffeur, everything, if he didn’t have the Bureau as backup.

  He still wanted to go out on his own, have a consulting firm that was free from the constraints of the government. Hire a couple of private investigators, do the work he wanted to do….

  The thought shook him. A private investigator. He and Taylor had obviously been stalked. Someone knew every detail of the wedding plans, right down to the limousine company. He wondered if there was an unscrupulous member of the P.I. community who might have been on their tail. No sane P.I. would stalk a cop and an FBI agent. That was something that needed to be looked into.

  His phone had four new messages, all from Garrett Woods, all wanting Baldwin’s attention for a matter outside the scope of the search for Taylor. Baldwin exercised a tiny bit of filial rebellion and chose not to address the phone calls just yet. Woods would tell him if it was vital that they speak immediately. In the meantime, he needed to stay completely focused on Taylor.

  Thirty-Four

  Unknown

  Monday, December 22

  1:00 p.m.

  Two men sat at a table in a corner of a quiet neighborhood restaurant. One had come in through the front, the other through the back. They hadn’t met in person in many years.

  One was known in many circles. His employees called him L’Uomo, quite simply, the Man. Gray-haired, cultivated, dapper, he gave all the appearances of being a successful businessman.

  The other gentleman had a face that was easily recognizable everywhere he went, which is why he rarely went anywhere anymore. But L’Uomo had summoned him. Threatened, actually, with a widely disseminated contract hit if he didn’t show his face. After the debacle earlier this year, he’d had no choice. It was either surface or be hunted and killed.

  And he’d already died once.

  They sat facing one another, the dapper man politely dabbing his mouth with a starched linen napkin between bites. His lips were moist from sipping a vintage red, his everyday wine, a 1985 Châteauneuf-du-Pape. He ate with gusto but delicately, carefully relishing each morsel of food.

  His guest didn’t drink or eat. Fear coiled in his stomach, making digestion impossible. So he watched, picking at his plate of salade niçoise, wondering why he’d bothered to order anything. French wasn’t his preferred choice of fare, but he hadn’t had a say in which restaurant they dined in. It was foolish enough for them to be seen together.

  L’Uomo enjoyed his meal thoroughly, wading through the three courses and finishing with a cheese plate. Wiping his mouth carefully, he politely belched in gastronomic appreciation and finally looked his dining companion in the eye.

  “So. Lazarus returns from the dead at last. I was wondering when you were going to surface. You’re like a bad penny. Never know where you might turn up.”

  “That’s not entirely fair,” he protested. “You were the reason I needed to disappear. And putting out a hit on me was rather impolite, don’t you think?”

  L’Uomo flicked a hand in annoyance. “Yes, yes, I’m the source of all your ills. The contract was necessary. You’re sitting here with me now, aren’t you? Just business. You know that. There has been a development. We need you to have a heart-to-heart with someone. Resolve this situation for me and I’ll consider the debt even. You can disappear again, with my assurances that you won’t be hunted by my people any longer.”

  A nice offer, one worth careful consideration. Of course, nothing about L’Uomo was ever that simple. “Who?”

  “You’ll see soon enough. Are you finished?” L’Uomo looked with derision at the pathetically full plate. He had no tolerance for weakness. “No appetite?”

  “No, I guess I don’t. Shall we go, then? I’m not comfortable being here. I’d like to get this over with.”

  “Fine. I have a little present to show you. Perhaps then you’ll understand the seriousness of the situation. The limo will pick you up in thirty minutes. Do try to eat.”

  L’Uomo stood and quitted the room, smiling benevolently at each patron as he walked out.

  His companion uttered a single word at his old friend’s back.

  “Bastard.”

  Thirty-Five

  Unknown

  Monday, December 22

  1:30 p.m.

  Taylor shifted in the wooden chair. Her arms were tied tightly at the wrist to the back legs, arching her back and straining her shoulders. She could bend her wrists up toward the ceiling, a mistake on her captor’s part. She used her long, dexterous fingers to work on the knots.

  She was wishing for a blanket—the room was freezing and they’d stripped her down to her panties and bra—when she realized she wasn’t alone anymore. Her fingers stopped; she closed her eyes, feigning sleep. A scent drifted to her nose—cedar, lime, a touch of mint. A man’s scent.

  “I know you’re awake. I’ve been watching you. Industrious little thing, aren’t you?”

  Taylor opened her eyes. A middle-height gentleman stood before her. His gray worsted wool suit was a chalk pinstripe Saville Row, the knot in his burgundy tie just so, a crisp white shirt with platinum cuff links in the French cuffs. Dad had a suit like that once. The thought nearly undid her. He was wearing a ski mask. Incongruous, the terrorist chic and the British finery.

  “Fuck. You.”

  The man laughed. “Oh, aren’t you the little lady? I should wash that filthy mouth out with soap.”

  “What do you want?”

  “There, a much more important statement. Say please, and I’ll tell you.”

  Taylor stared coolly. Never.

  The man stared back at her, blue eyes burning behind the mask, then arranged his lips in an unpleasant grin. “Good. You’re a strong one. That’s what I’ve heard. I have a business proposition for you.”

  “Untie me first.”

  “So you can escape? Not a chance. Not yet. I’ll let you go when the time is right. When I know you’re going to cooperate. And cooperate you will, Lieutenant. Trust me on that.”

  “I seriously doubt it.”

  The man traced a finger along Taylor’s jawline, slowly working his way to her collarbone. “There are ways.”

  Taylor jerked her head away and the man laughed. “I love how feisty you are. You will cooperate, and I will make sure you get out o
f here unscathed. Fight, put up a fuss, and I’ll have you killed. That’s all. Now. You have a situation back home that I can help with.”

  “This is about the Snow White case?”

  The man turned and raised an eyebrow. “That peon of a killer? Hardly. You’re closer to him than you think, Lieutenant. But no, this has nothing to do with him. This is about family. And honor. Things you pretend to respect.”

  He took a few steps backward, toward the door, as if a bit of distance would give him better perspective on his prisoner. He crossed his arms across his chest and stared her down.

  “I don’t pretend to respect my family. I have no feelings for them at all. You’ve obviously misunderstood the situation,” she said.

  “Hmm.” The man put his arms behind his back and cocked his head like a spaniel puppy trying to identify a new noise. “No feelings for your family? Maybe not your parents—that bitch of a mother of yours, that traitorous father—no. I can see you having a bit too much integrity to care for them.” He bit out the word integrity, making it sound sordid and misplaced. Taylor shifted uncomfortably.

  “No, I mean your chosen family. Your compadres. Your comrades in arms, so to speak. Those men who hold you in such high esteem. Loyalty is a precious commodity, Lieutenant. But it should never be taken for granted. No, I think you have a great deal of feeling for those people, the ones you choose to share your life with. I’d hate to see something happen to any one of them.”

  Taylor rocked back in the chair, nearly tipping over in her vehemence. “You bastard! You steal me away and threaten my life, threaten my friends. Who the hell do you think you are?”

  He crossed to Taylor in a flash, grabbed a handful of her dirty hair and yanked her head back, exposing her delicate throat. A small knife flashed in her peripheral vision and pressed hard against her carotid, a cold and rigid reminder of how precarious the situation really was. It took every ounce of her being not to flail and struggle. That’s what he wanted. To put her in this vulnerable position. He caressed her scar with the point of the knife, and she felt nauseous.