CHAPTER SEVEN
Leo’s jaw ached. Warm blood from his split lip dribbled into his mouth, where it was pooling in a thick puddle of metallic liquid. Soon he’d need to either swallow it or spit it on the floor. He hated to spit, but the circumstances didn’t allow for much in the way of social niceties.
He’d been in the hallway when the lights had gone out—en route to the dressing room to find Sasha, tell her about Bricker, and promise her that lunatic wouldn’t disrupt their wedding. But as he stood in the hall, blinking and waiting for his eyes to adjust to the sudden darkness, two armed banditos had thundered toward him and jumped him.
His bruised and swollen knuckles were a reminder that at least he’d gotten a few good shots in during the attack. But he was outnumbered, unarmed, and taken off guard. It hadn’t taken them long to overpower him and drag him back into the kitchen.
To his surprise, it was empty. He hoped that meant that Hank, the other football watchers, and the staff had headed out the back door and through the organic herb garden. His best guess was that Hank and Manny would have charged through the open-air patio and stormed the ballroom. He assumed that they had both ignored Sasha’s ban on firearms and wished like hell that he’d done the same.
If Hank and the others were in the ballroom, that just left Sasha and her bridesmaids unaccounted for, Leo told himself, while the men tied him to a metal chair, pulling the kitchen twine tight around his wrists and ankles.
While the fat man admired their handiwork, his taller, thinner friend had pulled out a beat up cell phone and placed a call that Leo’s rusty college Spanish did little to help decipher. All he could tell from the obsequious tone was that the man seemed to be speaking to a superior.
But his brain refused to focus on the situation in the kitchen. It kept circling back to Sasha, fixated and worried. He kept telling himself she’d be okay. She had to be.
A third man entered the kitchen. It was clear he was in charge. He squatted in front of the chair and peered into Leo’s face. His eyes were hard and flinty, sunken into his skull and surrounded by deeply tanned, wrinkled skin.
The man had coughed out a humorous laugh and then snapped a close-up of Leo using the thin guy’s phone.
Leo was still blinking from the flash when he heard a scream that unmistakably belonged to Naya coming from the corridor. If Naya was out there, Sasha was almost certainly with her. His throat closed around a hard lump.
The two goons had gone to investigate. And they hadn’t returned.
As the minutes ticked by, the leader became more agitated. And Leo became increasingly hopeful. If anyone could outsmart the armed bandits who had besieged their wedding rehearsal for no evident reason, it was his bride-to-be.
Finally, the leader turned his back to Leo and placed a call on a his battered cell phone.
Leo kept his eyes focused on the floor and strained to hear the leader’s furious, whispered Spanish.
Leo translated silently, wishing Manny were in the kitchen with him. Leo had relied on Manny’s language skills as they’d drunk their way through a small Mexican town during a training exercise. He could certainly use the help, now.
Amid the flurry of rapid Spanish, an English word—“Capitán Bricker”—registered. Leo involuntarily sucked in his breath. He tried to ball his hands into fists, forgetting that he’d been bound tight to the chair with a length of cord. He leaned forward and spat a glob of saliva and blood on the floor.
Bricker was behind this. It wasn’t a surprise, exactly. But he’d been allowing himself to pretend this was a run-of-the mill kidnapping. Not ideal, by any means, but not exactly unheard of for this part of the world. He’d hoped a decent-sized stack of American currency would ultimately resolve the situation to everyone’s satisfaction.
The fact that they were dealing, not with desperate bandits seeking money, but mercenaries hired by a madman meant that the only way out would be ugly and bloody. And possibly, deadly.
Not exactly the wedding of his dreams.
He heard a loud knocking sound from the hallway. The man on the phone reacted quickly. As he ended his call and raced toward the kitchen doors, they swung inward.
Leo lifted his head. What he saw made him feel immeasurably better and, somehow, exceedingly worse.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Sasha and Aroostine burst through the kitchen door like two of Charlie’s angels. Only instead of guns, they were wielding machetes.
Sasha was wearing a gorgeous wedding gown. Or, what had once been a gorgeous wedding gown. The skirt appeared to be in tatters and blood dotted the bodice. He hoped it wasn’t her blood.
She flashed him a sheepish smile and then turned to the leader as he pulled his machete from its sheath.
Leo rubbed his wrists against the back of the chair, hoping to feel some slack. The ropes held tight. He’d never felt more useless. Or frightened. His bride-to-be and a government lawyer were about to swordfight a mercenary.
The leader grabbed Aroostine by her long, dark hair.
She immediately brought her spiked high heel down on his instep and threw an elbow to his chin. He released her and stumbled, slashing wildly through the air with the machete.
Leo exhaled in relief. Aroostine clearly had some sort of self-defense training, possibly one of those one-time personal safety classes for women. She was no Sasha, but she hadn’t hesitated.
Beside her, Sasha spun and kicked out. She hit her target squarely with a roundhouse kick and crushed the man’s right knee.
He hobbled backward.
She planted herself and took aim at the left knee. The man bobbed to the right to the best of his ability, but he was hampered by his injury, and Sasha’s foot caught the edge of his knee. She snapped back and took a second shot.
He cried out and crumpled to the hard tile floor, face-down with his hands outstretched as if he were swimming. His machete clattered to the ground.
She grabbed it and headed toward Leo.
Behind her, the leader rolled over and pulled himself up, grimacing in pain and hobbling toward Sasha.
Leo called out a warning, his voice cracking in his dry throat.
Aroostine pounced on the man from behind. She seized his hair in her left hand and forced his head up. She pushed him one-handed toward the wall, spun him around, and pointed her machete at his throat. Her brown eyes dared him to move.
Sasha glanced over her shoulder. Satisfied that Aroostine had the situation well in hand, she knelt by Leo and hacked at his wrist restraints with the machete.
“Hi,” she said in a soft voice, her eyes searching his.
“Hi, yourself. Now, please watch what you’re doing.” He was no stranger to her somewhat deficient knife skills.
She rolled her green eyes and slashed the ropes that bound his ankles with exaggerated care.
As the ropes fell away, he stood and pulled her tight against his chest. He smoothed her hair and then tilted her face up and hungrily kissed her.
“You’re going to hurt your busted lip,” she murmured against his mouth.
“I don’t care.”
Aroostine cleared her throat.
“So, what do you want me to do with this cockroach?”
“Don’t kill him. I think Bricker hired him. We need information.”
Aroostine huffed out an exasperated, but not surprised, sigh.
Sasha shook her head. “I knew it.”
He swallowed around the lump in his throat. Sasha’s sad acceptance that a deranged murderer had sent a band of machete-wielding incompetents to crash their wedding—and, in all likelihood, to slaughter them and their guests—stirred twin storms of rage and tenderness in his chest. Bricker would pay for this.
“Just tie him up. We need to go check on the guests,” he told Aroostine.
“There’s two guys in the supply closet,” Aroostine said as she walked over with a length of kitchen twine.
“And one in the dressing room,” Sasha added.
&nbs
p; Leo cocked his head and stared at the two women. “Are they ... alive?”
Sasha looked offended and rubbed her forehead. “Connelly, really? Of course, they’re alive. They’re just—”
“Incapacitated,” Aroostine offered. “As far as we know, at least. I mean, Sasha’s mom might have busted out another hairpin.”
Sasha choked back something that sounded suspiciously like a laugh.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Sasha entered the ballroom with her machete drawn, afraid of what she might find. Connelly and Aroostine had left their borrowed blades sheathed but pushed the leader of the kidnappers through the doors ahead of them.
As she entered the room, she blinked. The ballroom had light. A noisy generator sat near the wall.
When her eyes adjusted, the first thing she saw was Naya, nestling her head against her boyfriend Carl’s chest.
A quick scan of the room confirmed that the rest of the bridesmaids were there, too. Her sisters-in-law and brothers formed a tight cluster around her parents. Every adult McCandless was holding at least one child or baby. Her father balanced two of her nephews on his lap, and her niece Daniella had her arms thrown around Valentina’s neck.
She met her father’s eyes.
“We’re all okay,” he mouthed.
She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding
Hank rushed to them. “Are you three unharmed?”
“We’re fine,” Connelly said. He jerked a thumb toward the leader. “This guy seems to be in charge. And he’s working for Bricker.”
Anger lit Hank’s eyes, and he shifted his gaze to Aroostine. “Do you feel comfortable interrogating him with me? My Spanish is pretty good, but I’d sure like to have a Justice Department lawyer present to cover my ass.”
Aroostine bit her lower lip. “I don’t know whether U.S. law will apply, but I guess it’s better to try to follow procedure.”
She grabbed one of the leader’s elbows. Hank passed his gun to Connelly butt first and took hold of the man’s other arm. They hustled him out of the room, while he protested in a pain-filled voice, limping and shuffling on his damaged legs.
Sasha let her gaze sweep across the overturned tables, smashed glasses, and half-eaten dinners that littered the ballroom. Despite the mess, all of her guests seemed to be fine—shaken, yes, but not hurt.
The same could not be said for their would-be captors. To a man, they were battered and bloodied. Some worse than others. The young boy who’d guarded them in the dressing room sat upright and pale, gripping the arms of a chair while Bodhi worked a needle and thread through a long, angry gash in his face.
“I’ll be right back. I want to check in with Bodhi,” she said to Connelly, stretching onto her toes to kiss the side of his neck.
“Okay. I’m going to talk to Manny. We need to coordinate with the local authorities to get these guys out of here,” he answered. “But hurry back. I miss you already.”
Ordinarily, she would roll her eyes at the sappy line, but, at this moment, she knew exactly what Connelly was feeling.
After everything that had happened, she wanted nothing more than to maintain constant physical contact with him. Preferably, curled up in bed under a fluffy white comforter listening to the waves crash against the beach while his heart beat out a soft rhythm under her cheek.
How many more nightmares do we have to live through together before we can enjoy a perfectly ordinarily life?
Before she realized what she was doing, she’d flung herself at him and wrapped her arms around his neck, smothering his mouth in a kiss.
“Hold this,” he mumbled to Manny, who had just walked over, and thrust Hank’s gun in his hands.
Then he lifted Sasha in his arms, dipped his head, and kissed her back, hard, until she had to pull back to catch her breath.
She pressed her hands against his chest and craned her neck to look up into his eyes.
“I love you.”
“I know,” he said.
“I don’t want to lose you.”
He took her face in his hands and drilled his eyes into hers. “Listen to me. Nobody’s losing anybody. We’re getting married, and then I’m going to ravage you. And after our honeymoon, I’m going to hunt down Jeffrey Bricker like the rabid dog he is. Understand?” His voice was fierce.
“Wrong. We’re going to hunt down Bricker. Together, Connelly. We’re in this together—we’re in everything together.”
His lips parted, but before he could speak, she covered them in another long kiss.
Manny cleared his throat beside them.
They ignored him.
He coughed into his fist. Again.
Finally, Connelly pulled away and met his eyes over Sasha’s head. “Can we help you?”
“Come on, man. You’ll have time for that after we clean up this mess.”
Sasha’s skin grew warm, and a flush worked its way up her neck and cheeks.
Connelly smoothed her hair.
“He’s right,” she said. “Let’s just get through the next few hours.”
He nodded.
She walked over to Bodhi on shaky legs.
Bodhi was stitching the gash on the teenager’s face.
“What happened to him?” she asked.
Bodhi concentrated on his needlework. Marisole, who appeared to be functioning as his assistant, answered.
“He came to just as Naya came back into the room. He was enraged and thrashing around. He saw the blood on her dress and must have thought—well, I don’t know what he thought—but he tried to lunge at her, shouting and cursing. Mon dieu, he made so much noise that one of his compadres came rushing in from the dining room with his machete drawn. We heard him coming, and Maisy and I stretched a length of ribbon across the doorway, right about ankle-height.”
“You tripped him?”
“Yes, he went flying right into his friend and sliced his cheek wide open.”
“Ouch,” Sasha said. She was surprised to feel genuine sympathy for the kid.
Perhaps because he really was just a kid. Or perhaps because the entire operation had been doomed from the start. How could such a poorly organized group have thought they would take over an entire resort? Let alone this resort. Surely Bricker would have realized that Sasha and Connelly’s guest list would include more than the usual number of law enforcement professionals and hand-to-hand combat experts.
“Yes, I’m sure it hurt a great deal. We all worked together to subdue the man. Your mother got his sword from him and we held them both in the dressing room until Charlotte came to tell us that the ballroom had been secured and it was safe to come join everyone here.”
“About that—how exactly did the guests overpower the men?”
Bodhi tilted the kid’s head back and examined his handiwork, then he turned and answered Sasha’s question in a calm, dispassionate voice.
“Shortly after the lights went out, three men stormed through the French doors. Your Krav Maga instructor and his father were on their feet immediately. Larry moves pretty fast for an old guy. He caned the closest bandit and disarmed him.”
She should have known that Daniel and Larry Steinfeld would spring into action. Larry might be a card-carrying member of AARP, but he’d learned Krav Maga while serving in the Israeli army and claimed to have taught Daniel everything he knew.
“That sounds about right.”
“Yeah. Then I guess all the noise drew Hank and Manny’s attention because they came running in through the logia, guns drawn. It was hard to see in the dark, but it didn’t seem to take long for these guys to take control of the room.”
She blinked. Hank and Manny had been armed? They’d ignored her one request. And good thing they had, she admonished herself.
Bodhi continued, “Charlotte got to work lighting candles and sconces, and one of the waiters remembered there was a generator in the closet. So, once we had light, I started assessing physical conditions. Then Marisole and the ladies brought this guy a
nd his friend in.” He nodded toward the young man and then searched Sasha’s face. “Speaking of which, are you okay?”
“Superficial wounds only,” she assured him. “But I almost forgot, there are two guys in the supply closet in the hallway. They could probably use some medical care. And Hank and Aroostine are off somewhere interrogating the leader. He might have a broken kneecap—or two.”
Bodhi raised an eyebrow and gathered his supplies. “You certainly know how to throw a party,” he said over his shoulder, as he and Marisole headed out to the hallway.
She shrugged off the remark and made her way across the room to Father Alexander, who was crouched on the floor and had his head bent in conversation with three bandaged and bitter wedding crashers. His warm eyes were serious. His Spanish carried an urgent note.
Two of the men seemed unable to meet his gaze and had fixed their eyes on a point on the floor. The third was wringing his rough, tanned hands together and openly crying. His tears left tracks down his dirty cheeks.
Father Alexander must have sensed Sasha approach. He raised his eyes to hers and spoke in a quiet voice. “I’m glad to see you’re unharmed. I’ll be with you in a moment.”
She stood, slightly apart from the group as he returned his attention to the cluster of men before him. He spoke for another minute or two in a kind voice that nonetheless conveyed deep disappointment and sadness.
As he stood, the crying man reached for his sleeve and said in heavily-accented English, “Forgive me, Padre, for I have sinned.”
Father Alexander patted his hand and whispered something that Sasha couldn’t hear. A wave of relief crossed the man’s shadowed face. And then he began to cry harder.
The former priest joined Sasha near the corner of the room and examined her face closely. “Are you okay?”
The concern in his voice almost unlocked a well of tears that she’d managed to clamp down on so far.
She swallowed and nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
A Marriage of True Minds: A Sasha McCandless Novella Page 5
