“I represent an individual who has…misplaced someone very dear to him. A certain young woman who you might know as Margaret Madeline.”
“And if we knew someone with that name, what’s it to you? And who is the individual?”
If an evil laugh could be bottled and sold, the guy at the gate would make a fortune. “Let’s just say it’s in your best interest to return her and not query about her owner’s identity.”
Rafe froze and saw Connor’s tension. Lawrence actually raised an eyebrow. It wasn’t that they were necessarily reacting to the term of ownership, because that would be a tad hypocritical, being that they intended to own Maddy, body and soul. She belonged to them as much as they belonged to her. Nope, it was the hint that the smart-ass at the gate knew they were Doms. Their identities were never in question. Anybody with access to tax rolls could find that out, and they hadn’t bothered to use a limited company to conceal their names. But it was possible that Wilkes had dug deeper and ferreted out their sexual proclivities, and the asshole was trying to use it against them. He wondered if they might have underestimated the competition after all, before shrugging it off.
“What’s she worth?” Rafe knew Connor was testing the waters and throwing some sand in the other guy’s eyes, but the question grated and he felt his eyes narrow.
A dry chuckle came through the ’com. “I’m done fucking around. Bring her out.”
“And if we don’t?”
A clang of metal signified exasperation, or so Rafe hoped, because a frustrated opponent was easier to push and distract. “Five minutes.”
They listened, but asshole was clearly done talking and the camera on the gate reflected him sauntering away. A good-sized bastard, tall, and he moved well. His features were obscured by a rolled hat and only one side of his face had been clearly visible.
“Ryker, you think?”
Rafe nodded and adjusted his headset. “Likely. Maddy could tell us.”
“It doesn’t matter. She’s not leaving the playroom until we’re sure Ryker is gone.” Connor didn’t define gone. He checked with Benedett and Gagne, and apprised them that they had maybe five minutes to prepare for something unpleasant.
“The authorities might crash this little party,” Lawrence observed.
“I doubt it. Abbott won’t risk any attention and connecting the dots to the last incident with Maddy might alert the feds. So they’ll be coming in soft, quiet at least.”
The minutes ticked down and the screens flickered, then went dark.
“Fuck. There’s the start, then. Damn it. I should have considered they’d hack the system. Lawrence, this floor is yours. Rafe? Take your vest.”
Shrugging into it, he said, “Backyard. On it.”
Loping through the house, he let himself out the French doors before securing them behind him. All that glass wasn’t exactly defensible so he’d have to be on his game. Good thing the only access point was blocked and scaling the fence wasn’t plausible without an army, although losing the cameras was a definite disadvantage. It wasn’t like Connor to have missed that possibility.
He didn’t have long to wait. A strangely quiet war broke out at the front of the house, distinguishable by both spaced and random shots. Guns couldn’t actually be silenced of course, but the sounds weren’t easily identified—if they could wrap this thing up. They’d figured four intruders, maybe five, unless there were others crouched out of sight in the SUVs, or reinforcements waiting in the wings. Gagne didn’t think so, his calm observations filling Rafe’s ear, with Benedett adding a few comments.
The unmistakable drift and coil of a rope snagged his attention and he moved to that section of the fence, wondering how Ryker had known to protect the strands against the concealed razor wire topping the wrought iron, for the line appeared intact. It took some time to get to the area without exposing himself, and when he did there was no evidence anyone had come over the wall. The loamy soil bore no indentations of footprints or anything else, so Rafe skirted it and moved around the house, watching for other signs that an attempt had been made.
A muffled crump sent him diving behind a shrub for cover until his head assimilated the direction the sound came from. Cautiously rising into a crouch, he measured his length amongst some kind of thorny ground cover as the distinct snap of a round smacked into the bush. There wasn’t another, but he dragged himself along on his elbows, stashing the rifle but retaining his Glock. It could have been a stray shot but he needed to get back to the pedestrian gate. He smelled a decoy and cursed himself.
****
Ryker stepped over the body of the mercenary he’d sent ahead to breach the pedestrian gate. Whoever these guys were who owned the house, and he figured Wilkes had withheld some crucial information, they had defenses no average citizen would have. But then he wasn’t an average citizen either, and the four-hour journey here had hardly been wasted. With whatever input Wilkes had deigned to provide, coupled with a few favors he’d pulled in himself—and wouldn’t Abbott be surprised to know he was far more than a hired gun—Ryker had formulated a pretty solid plan. Faint pops in the distance denoted silenced weapons, although he couldn’t ascertain which ones belonged to his men. But the conflict was continuous and he was pretty sure the focus would remain there, seeing as the walk-through entrance and exit had been extremely well booby trapped and the defenders probably thought it nothing to worry about. Hopefully the rope he’d had placed during the little conversation at the gate had drawn some attention. It was a pity he’d have to leave it, because the new blend of fibers with a steel inlay to guard against being sliced through had cost an arm and a leg.
The floor plan he’d memorized, thanks to hacking the company who’d built this place, indicated only one room he’d hold a hostage, willing or not. Soundproofed. The idea made him hard as he considered who might want a room like that. Besides him. He didn’t mind screaming and begging, but others tended to find it bothersome, and it was sometimes difficult to find a location suitable for his interrogations. And other things.
Moving quickly and quietly through the nicely landscaped yard, he noted how sparse the cover was and picked up his pace. The cameras had apparently been disabled at his command, so Wilkes was still in his good graces, although that might still change. He gained the French doors at the back by the pool without being noticed and didn’t waste time jimmying them, smashing through a pane to work open the lock. Time was of the essence, and he suspected he’d either succeed and retrieve Margaret, or die trying. His money was on succeeding. Then he’d make good use of her…gift, and access Abbott’s holdings. In retrospect it was an excellent thing he hadn’t gutted her, because he hadn’t initially known about her perfect memory or what she knew about Abbott’s business. Wilkes did tend to talk freely when encouraged by certain pharmaceuticals. And he wouldn’t underestimate Margaret again, the scar on his face a cold reminder each and every day.
The house felt empty, but he too could wait patiently, almost without breathing, a skill learned from necessity and honed on some missions so black they’d been redacted. He’d recognized military training by the way the house was defended and reacted accordingly, bringing in extra men who were a cut above the usual hoods Abbott favored. A few tricks and the sacrifice of the merc at the back gate and he was in.
Making his way toward the stairs, a huge hulk of a man stepped out of a room to block his path, what was unmistakably a Ruger dwarfed by his enormous right hand.
“Stand fast, buddy.” The dark features were implacable, and equally dark eyes stared him down.
Ryker froze and slowly lifted his arms to the side, making it clear he held no weapon. It had been a calculated risk not to carry visibly, perhaps giving him time to shift the balance of power, lull the other guy. He decided to open the conversation, straining his ears in an effort to determine if his men were still engaging the defenders at the gate. “I’m here for Margaret, of course.”
A flicker of surprise crossed the other man’s
face. “So you said.”
“Her guardian believes she’s being kept here under duress. For ransom. She got an SOS out.” It sounded far-fetched even to his ears, but the behemoth’s brow furrowed.
“She’s not under duress. Assume the position.”
Ryker clasped his hands behind his head and stepped his feet apart.
“No. On the floor.”
Ah, experienced and cautious. He quickly obeyed. His device would work either way. The other man went down on one knee, opposite to the way Ryker’s face was turned and patted him down, slowing at the left wrist. With a grunt he loosened the small band there and pulled it loose. Ryker held his breath, counting slowly to thirty, refusing to take in a whiff of air even when his opponent toppled over on top of him, an impossibly heavy, dead weight. When he was certain the other man had succumbed, and enough time had passed to mitigate any effects of the poison, he dragged himself free, snagging the Ruger without taking another glance in its owner’s direction.
He took the stairs two at a time and turned toward the room he believed Margaret was being held in—was hiding in, because she wasn’t here under duress. Passing through a large bedroom, an enormous bed dominating the space, he stopped and took his bearings, seeing the panel with an accompanying keypad set in the far wall. He could bet on at least one man inside with Margaret, and hefted the pistol, scrutinizing the keypad. Too many permutations to figure out, and there was probably a preset knock for the occupants to open it to anyone without the combination. There had been nothing about a key pad in the plans, so it was an add-on, but he should have planned for any contingency. There were plenty of gadgets that would have cracked that lock, and Ryker gritted his teeth with frustration.
Crossing to the dresser, he took a taper and a handful of tissues and, using the lighter set beside the rest of the candles, set the wick alight. That room was soundproofed, so he had no idea if any hint of smoke would penetrate, but it was all he had. He twisted the tissues into a tight spiral and lit the loose end, and a quick, smoky flame ensued. He chose a side of the panel that didn’t appear to be as closely fitted and waved the substitute torch in front of it, blowing industriously.
****
Maddy had heard the expression about time creeping, or something like that. Her days alone in her executive rental had certainly passed slowly, and she’d soon become a night owl again, the times at Vantage her only real exposure to others. But this was excruciating. There was no clock in the playroom, although there was an egg timer and she knew what that was for. Torture. Holding off an orgasm while watching those tiny grains of sand pass through a narrow opening to fill the other end. A five-minute egg timer, and that would feel like forever.
No, this felt like forever. Maybe half an hour had passed since Rafe and Connor had left her in here with Anann and Hannibal. Both dressed in black, almost identical in height, although Connor was broader across the chest, their boots had struck solidly on the floor as they exited. Like a death knell. But she wasn’t going to think like that. She’d watched the Dobermans check out the room, exploring every crevice, sniffing at all the furniture before returning to sit at her feet where she perched on the spanking bench. They had stared up at her as though waiting for the next exciting event of the day, making her feel obliged to entertain them.
Knowing she was going to pay for her choice later, she nevertheless sorted through the impact toys, choosing a solid leather quirt, the very feel of it making her bottom tingle. Anann and Hannibal bounced on their toes, tongues lolling out in anticipation, and she tossed it into a corner. That game palled quickly for her, although not for the dogs, who scuffled amiably over the quirt. They brought it back separately, then together, sharp white teeth pinching the ends, over and over until her arm tired.
A check of the fridge turned up some bottled water and she found a shallow bowl, wondering what nefarious use her Doms made of it, and gave the animals a drink. She then spread a blanket out on the floor, taking a pillow for her head, and curled up with them. Their smooth, velvety coats over tightly muscled bodies soothed her as she stroked their pelts while time passed. Slowly. They preened with pleasure beneath her hands and she resolved to make sure they were given tons of attention in the future.
It didn’t help not being able to hear a darn thing except for the occasional pant from the dogs, and her own breathing, not to mention the intermittent rush of blood in her temples. It’s going to be fine. The litany settled her a little, and she kept repeating it, all the while staring at the door until her eyes burned. Then she added a new chant. Please let them be safe.
Surely it had been an hour. How long did these things take? The last time she figured Abbott had followed some paper trail she hadn’t been able to avoid, all the way to her refuge, and sent Ryker in. Would they spend a lot of time surveilling this time around? It was making her insane, not knowing. Maybe handing over control wasn’t something she was cut out for, after all. And she couldn’t be with Rafe and Connor unless she did. It took all her willpower to avoid pacing and upsetting the dogs. Not that they weren’t aware of her increasing emotional upheaval, their gentle nudges and quiet whimpers acknowledging her angst.
When Anann sat, then coiled to her feet, Hannibal was close behind, mirroring the bitch’s movements. Maddy jumped up, wincing at the pins and needles in her legs. She strained to hear what they’d heard, but couldn’t make anything out, the silence a smothering weight. The dogs were intent on the door, and Maddy inched closer, two bundles of tense protection framing every step. A very, very faint odor of smoke reached her, so slight she nearly discounted it and wrote it off to her overtaxed imagination, except for the dogs who snuffled against the panel.
Terror stole her ability to breathe and twisted her belly while her heart pounded out of her chest. The place was on fire and that had to mean Ryker had breached the defenses, and her men and their team were either dead or hurting someplace. The idea of dying in a conflagration, being burned alive or suffocating on toxic smoke hovered on the edges of her consciousness, but heartbreak superseded it. She’d promised not to leave this room unless either Connor or Rafe came to get her, but once again she was on her own and had to make her own decisions. And the first order of the day was to find her Doms, even if it was to lay eyes on them for one last time. A sob erupted from her tight throat, and she reached for the key pad.
****
Connor cleared his weapon and safed it, cautiously checking his perimeter before calling in the rest of the team. Gagne and Benedett were in the process of re-securing the gates, having ensured the intruders were accounted for, laid out and out of sight from anyone driving by for any reason. Lawrence would be patrolling the bottom floor. With no easy egress to the second story, they’d accepted the very small risk that someone would scale the wall and get into the house through an upper window, but the first level was different. Connor had instantly gone to Plan B, without cameras, and refused to acknowledge the concern he might have been outmaneuvered, knowing it would undermine his efficiency. They had to go with what they had, and Maddy was safe in the playroom. Nothing outside of explosives would breach that door.
They had three bodies to deal with, and Maddy would need to identify Ryker, but she could do that from a pic. He took his first easy breath since the assault had started, and shook a little with the adrenaline. It had escalated fast, from that initial soft-pedal approach, to the random potshots of the assailants. In the end they weren’t a match for his team, but live fire still got the juices flowing, and while Lawrence monitored the police radio, the risk of even silenced gunfire being reported had been a significant one. The firing range he and Rafe set up on their acreage had probably explained away anything people had heard, and he was grateful for any small mercy. It would make disposal far easier.
“Connor.” Rafe’s voice was low and full of an emotion Connor hadn’t heard from his friend in…never.
“Here.”
“The pedestrian gate’s been breached. The guy’s dea
d, but who’s to say he was the only one?”
“Get inside. Find Lawrence.”
“Already moving.”
Checking in with Gagne and Benedett to ensure they were still on top of things and nothing had changed, Connor took off at a dead run, winding through some strategically placed traps, to gain the front door. Careless of the noise—and of a possible ambush—he burst through the back door, standing open, he hoped, in Rafe’s stead. He crunched through glass and halted, getting his movements under control.
“In here.” His buddy’s voice was a harsh whisper in his ear.
Here was near the foot of the stairs, where big, burly Lawrence was a welter of limbs and barrel torso, his face pressed into the hardwood floor. Connor had the bizarre thought that Lawrence was as rough-hewn and tough as the planks beneath him before he accepted the fact someone had entered the house and gotten the better of their giant.
“Is he…”
“Out cold. Couldn’t find a pulse at first and it’s not looking good.”
Connor quietly asked if Gagne was copying, the other man the only one with training past basic first aid, and was told he was on the way. Between him and Rafe they got Lawrence into the recovery position, and Rafe hauled the narrow rug that ran the length of the hall over him, nothing else within reach to act as a blanket.
“Clear the upstairs,” he whispered, torn between staying with Lawrence and accompanying Rafe. It was only a guess that there was only one person inside, because Lawrence could withstand an army.
With a nod, Rafe slowly climbed the staircase, silently, his weapon held at the ready while Connor again checked Lawrence. He thought the big man was breathing a little better. A scratch at the front door drew him across the foyer, and he risked a quick look through the peephole, Gagne’s foreshortened body the only thing in sight. The other man pushed past him as soon as the door was open, fumbling with a pouch secured around his waist.
The Death of You Page 16
