The Southern Comfort Series Box Set

by Clark O'Neill, Lisa

  Sadie’s heart lurched when he looked her way. The blue eyes staring back held worry, and fear, and underneath it all a hint of accusation. Neither of them would have been in this mess if she hadn’t left him in the first place.

  She knew it, and so did he.

  “Sadie, my lovely, I’m afraid my fine opinion of you may have plummeted. You gave up all of this to live in a rundown shack and screw a bartender. She is screwing him,” he said casually to Rick. “I had some surveillance equipment installed in case she discovered my necklace when I wasn’t there. Caught it all on camera. She’s pretty hot in the sack.”

  No. Sadie’s eyes widened in horror, the atmosphere in the cramped interior a noxious mix of lascivious amusement emanating from Brady and shock and hurt vibrating off Rick. If she hadn’t been mostly immobilized, she would have curled into a ball and wretched. The thought of this… slug watching her and Declan’s most intimate moments was enough to… God. She didn’t know what she wanted to do first. Scrub herself all over with bleach, or kill the bastard where he sat.

  That same bastard had the nerve to wink. “I’m sorry you and I won’t be getting the chance to set the sheets aflame, sweet thing, but if it’s any consolation I’m not that pissed about the necklace anymore. The funds your fiancé – oops! My bad. Your ex-fiancé – has so generously allowed me to move into my offshore account has more than made up for what I could expect to get from the stones in the necklace. Fencing that kind of thing is always unpredictable, at best.” He bathed her in companionable smiles, and Sadie once again longed for disinfectant. And prayed that whatever Kathleen and company were going to do, they’d go ahead and do it soon.

  Then the expression on Brady’s face changed as he stroked some more keys on the laptop. Lips twisted in rage, he snatched up Sadie’s cell phone.

  “Detective, you tell those men to back off, or I aerate your friend’s pretty head.”

  Sadie’s stomach took another nasty dive, but she ignored the threat and focused on what was happening. Brady’s attention was riveted to his computer screen, so Sadie had no idea how he knew what was going on outside. Unless he’d gotten a bulk rate on those tricky little spy cameras down at the Sam’s Club for stalkers, and had one or two mounted somewhere on the car.

  “I don’t really care if Detective Corelli’s brains are leaking out his ears, no one approaches either vehicle again until I’ve given my express permission. Are we clear?” His obsidian eyes flicked Sadie’s way momentarily. “Yes, everyone else is doing fine, and no, you may not speak with any of them. I’ll contact you again when I’m ready to deal. Until then you make sure your compatriots keep a very large perimeter.”

  He clicked off, stared blankly at Sadie, then seemed to shake himself out of his anger. It had been the only true emotion she’d seen in him since this started, but the faint sheen of sweat on his brow suggested he might not be as cool as he appeared.

  Surreptitiously, Sadie tried wiggling the fingers on the hands tied behind her back. If she could just get them to cooperate a little she could work the bindings, which were already loose.

  But whatever thoughts of rebellion she may have harbored turned back to fear when he sat the laptop aside and started unbuttoning his shirt.

  Fear morphed to horror when it was Officer Bainbridge that he turned to.

  “Don’t fret now, sugarplum”, Brady’s words dripped like syrup ladled over something rancid, “I promise he won’t feel a thing.”

  KATHLEEN rubbed at the stiffness in her neck, uncertain if it was due to the accident or the tension. Anthony was still unconscious beside her, and though the wound on his scalp had stopped gushing, the unnatural pallor of his skin had visions of cerebral edema crowding in with her other fears until her head was about to pop. She’d been back and forth with Marshall for the last thirty minutes – he refused to speak with anyone but her – which had given the Beaufort PD plenty of time to get their tactical unit’s snipers into place.

  But it was also thirty minutes in which she’d been able to do nothing for Anthony except wad up her jacket and press it to his head. Not to mention the fact that aside from her one brief conversation with Rick Carlisle she’d been able to get absolutely no concrete verification on Sadie’s status. Or the status of Officer Bainbridge. Kim’s text messages relayed the fact that the crime scene unit hadn’t been able to turn up any evidence of blood near where they’d determined the first shot had been fired, which was a drop of good news in a whole bucket of bad.

  But she was exhausted from the effort of keeping up the negotiation farce with Marshall. He’d made a few more absurd demands – toying with her – and she’d played along, told him she’d check with the powers that be, see what they could do. Kathleen knew that he was just biding his time and formulating plans. She hoped to God he wasn’t doing worse in the back of that vehicle.

  But until he made a move the snipers had no clear shot and no green light to take him out unless the “negotiations” broke down.

  She knew better than to believe his bullshit for a minute.

  And one call she’d received from Kim – they weren’t communicating via radio because they felt certain Marshall had Officer Bainbridge’s – confirmed that she agreed he wasn’t likely to surrender. For him, it would be like admitting defeat. And as gamesmanship seemed to be an important aspect of his personality profile, he’d do almost anything to avoid ceding victory to the opponent.

  He was a sick bastard, and Kathleen wanted nothing better than to see his ass rotting in a dim, dank cell.

  But that didn’t mean she wasn’t also perfectly prepared to take the bastard out if she had to.

  Her phone rang again, that ringtone she now hated, and Kathleen steeled herself to listen to him, talk to him, pretend to sympathize with whatever crap he decided to throw out. Kim indicated that under his sense of superiority, under his amusement, that she heard a thread of anger which if pulled too hard just might unravel. Unraveling hostage-takers and loaded weapons were a bad combination. So it was therefore Kathleen’s new purpose in life to keep the waters nice and calm. Steady. With that goal in mind she answered the call, asked if there was anything she could do.

  His laugh crawled like ants across her skin.

  “I’m sure there are lots of things you can do, Detective, but negotiate worth shit apparently isn’t one of them. You. Don’t. Like. Me. Although hearing you try to pretend that you’re at the very least neutral’s been good for some laughs.”

  “Anything to get this resolved peacefully.”

  “How diplomatic of you.”

  Kathleen closed her eyes, sucked in a breath, and remembered her objective. “I told you a while back I wouldn’t lie to you, Mr. Marshall, because that’s bad policy on my end. You may not be high on my list of personal favorites just now, but that doesn’t mean I want to see this end badly. I’ve got a personal friend involved, a colleague, but I’ve also got a professional reputation at stake. You understand that if everyone walks away from this, it benefits us both.”

  “So you scratch my back, I scratch yours?”

  “I’d prefer we keep our hands to ourselves, thanks.”

  “Very good, Detective. It’s very good that you don’t try to bullshit me, because that tends to get on my nerves.”

  “Something I’d like to avoid. So let’s talk again about what we can do to resolve this. You’ve got an injured party on your hands, and Detective Corelli’s condition has me worried. It would go a long way toward helping the situation if you would reconsider letting one or both of them get the medical care they so desperately need.”

  She expected his usual bluff and bluster, was surprised when he agreed to let the EMTs take Anthony. Shocked was more like it.

  She wondered what kind of strategy he was working, but was too relieved to examine his motives. She continued talking, relaying his caveats to the cops outside and to the paramedics, making sure everyone followed his rules to the letter in order to get Anthony out of the car.
>
  “Okay, we’re moving, now. I’ve got my free hand up high, just like you asked; my other on the phone. I’m unarmed.” Kathleen had to step from the vehicle herself so that the body-armor-clad EMTs could maneuver Anthony from the grip of wrecked metal that held him, conscious all the while that she herself was virtually defenseless. Not to mention that less than ten feet away, there was a gun aimed at Sadie’s head.

  Her legs were like noodles while she watched them pull the injured detective from the car. But she didn’t dare allow herself to waver in her stance, let alone sink to the ground like she wanted. Marshall might think she was attempting to welsh on their deal. He’d agreed to Anthony getting out, not her. She was to remain right here, at his beck and call.

  Part of the power trip he was taking.

  “Good girl,” Marshall approved, as she watched them rush Anthony past on a gurney. Thank God, was all she could think. One down, three to go. “Now climb back into the car.”

  “Gee, do I hafta?” She glanced around, noting Kim’s bright head behind a cruiser across the lot. Farther back, the clustered figures of the men in her family watched tensely. It was too far to make out Declan’s expression. But she didn’t need to see his face to know.

  “Sassy,” Marshall chuckled again, while she lowered herself back onto the bloody seat. A shudder passed through her when she thought of all that leaking from Anthony. But she pushed it aside, refocused, noting one of the “paramedics” – a cop – had left her with her own body armor. Kathleen tried to be inconspicuous about pulling the vest on. They’d determined Marshall must have a camera mounted somewhere, but its range didn’t seem to include her car’s interior. Still, she thought it better safe than deadly sorry.

  “You ladies sure have been entertaining,” he told her.

  “We aim to please.” Kathleen noted the small receiver that had been left along with the body armor and fitted it into her ear in order to simplify communications.

  “I gave you Corelli, Detective, so what are you going to do to please me?”

  “What would you like me to do, Mr. Marshall?”

  “I lost my brother today.”

  Kathleen swallowed at the thought of exactly how that had taken place. “I’m sorry for your loss, and I understand that you must be grieving.”

  “Grief does funny things to people. Sometimes they just lose their heads.”

  Kathleen wondered if this was some attempt to excuse or explain away the kidnapping. Maybe making a case for temporary insanity?

  “You’re right about that, Mr. Marshall. And you have to know that the DA would be willing to take your emotional distress into account. You let the others walk away, turn yourself in, that’s going to put you in a better light.”

  It was like he didn’t even hear her. “How’s your brother?” he asked instead.

  Kathleen’s mouth went dry, her stomach cramped up. “I have two brothers, Mr. Marshall.”

  “I’m aware of that fact, Detective. But only one of them shot my brother today, so don’t pretend ignorance.”

  Shit, she didn’t know what to say. This conversation was headed in a bad direction. And while she wanted to leave Declan out of this, wanted to keep him as far from Marshall’s thoughts as humanly possible, she couldn’t afford to dodge the question, knew better than to lie. “Declan is… recuperating,” she finally answered.

  “But he’s expected to make a full recovery?”

  She saw the caution signs, knew the road was slippery, but had no choice but to travel down it. “The doctor gave him a good prognosis.”

  “I’m sure you’re very relieved.”

  “My family is thankful, yes.”

  “How would you feel,” Marshall asked, and the words slithered out, uncoiling, “if I offered you another of my friends here?”

  The pavement crumbled a bit more beneath her feet and Kathleen fought to hold onto her balance. “Are you saying that you’re willing to release another hostage?”

  “Yes, that’s what I’m saying.”

  “I’d feel grateful,” she told him honestly. “And suspicious.”

  “And here I thought all cops were stupid. That’s very good, Detective. Truthful again, which should earn you some points. Should, but it’s not going to. I have three words for you, Detective Murphy: quid pro quo. I’m willing to give you Mr. Carlisle here, because I find him irritating and he’s no longer of any use. But I’ll need something in return. Quid pro quo, Detective. I lost my brother, so you can give me yours.”

  The words were a landslide that knocked her off her feet. “You know I can’t do that.” Even if she were crazy enough to hand Declan over to a madman, there was no way in hell the Beaufort PD would ever agree to that kind of exchange. Outside of Hollywood, it simply wasn’t done.

  “That’s too bad,” Marshall said, “for Mr. Carlisle’s sake. Because if your brother isn’t here within the next ten minutes, I’m afraid poor Richard is as good as dead.”

  CHAPTER FORTY

  SADIE concentrated fiercely on getting her clumsy fingers to move, tugging at the cord that bound her wrists. Her muscles were still sluggish, her limbs heavy, almost numb, but the drug had loosened its grip on her nervous system just enough to make some movement possible. She thought she understood at least part of Brady’s game plan, and she’d be damned if she just lay here – ineffectual, helpless – while he tore the people she loved into psychological pieces and blithely walked away.

  Because this was psychological warfare. At which he obviously excelled. Sadie thought of how he’d played her and Declan off each other, and realized that more than anything else it was the mental torment that gave Brady pleasure. His brother had been the enforcer – she would bet money that he was the one who’d done most of their killing before now – while Brady was the mastermind behind their schemes. The one who got pleasure not from the actual kill, but from toying with the victims beforehand. The fun for him was catching, tormenting, simply because he could.

  Given the limitations of the situation, Brady had been forced to alter his plan’s parameters. He would no longer be able to do away with her and Rick in the manner he’d planned. And since he had to realize that killing them now would also bring certain death upon his head, he’d taunt, torture, and antagonize everyone involved by making the situation as untenable as he possibly could.

  They wouldn’t exchange Declan for Rick. Even though her heart had skipped in panic when she’d first heard the request, Sadie knew that there was no way Kathleen would ever give that idea the go-ahead. And Brady had to know that, as well. She wasn’t entirely sure what he had planned for her and Rick, but thought she understood how he intended to escape.

  And if she couldn’t get her bindings undone, find some way to stop him, admitted there was a damn good chance he might succeed.

  He caught her watching him fuss with the final details of his appearance. The uniform was snug at the waist, but otherwise a good fit. How fortuitous that he and the young man he’d killed were approximately the same size. Brady smirked, his face a swollen mask of bruises and drying blood. He was virtually unrecognizable.

  Which was what the bastard intended.

  “How do I look?”

  Something close to hatred swelled through Sadie in a wave. On top of all the misery, the death, that had been wrought from his hand, his smug expression was simply too much.

  But when he picked up his gun, turned it on Rick, sick panic superseded hatred.

  “Any last words?” Brady asked ironically, because not only was Rick gagged but he was now drugged as well. Completely and totally helpless. Unless Sadie could free herself from her restraints.

  Please, she thought, moving her hands a little bit faster. The vague slickness of what must be blood began to stream from her numb fingers. The rope slipped, gave just enough that she could work one hand through the opening.

  Her cell phone trilled, Brady brought it lazily to his ear and snapped out a demanding “Well?”

  She
didn’t need to hear the other end of the conversation to know that Kathleen was attempting to stall for time. To buy Rick a reprieve, work out a compromise that didn’t include Declan, do everything within her power to forestall what Sadie feared might be inevitable. Brady had made his demand so unreasonable to begin with because he had no intention of holding up his end.

  “I’m afraid that’s not acceptable,” he said into the phone as he positioned his weapon. He aimed it first at Rick’s head, shifted it to his chest. “The deal was for your brother, Detective, or Mr. Carlisle’s heart will be… permanently broken.”

  Please, Sadie thought again as Rick’s heavy eyelids fluttered. She wondered if he’d heard the threat, suspected he was about to die.

  Guilt was an arrow through her own heart as she continued to fight the bindings.

  “Uh-huh, let me think about that… I’m afraid I have to say no. Goodbye, Detective. It’s a shame we couldn’t do business.”

  Brady sat the phone down, the connection still open, and turned toward her with a wink.

  And Sadie’s heart was the one that shattered when the gun inevitably went off.

  “WHAT’S happening? What the hell’s happening?” Declan’s voice rose right along with his concern as he noticed the subtle but unmistakable shift in the atmosphere around them. The uniformed cops pushed the gathered crowd further back, while across the parking lot Kim and several others were huddled in a strategizing knot, their furtive hand gestures radiating tension. His gaze flicked toward the snipers positioned on the hospital’s rooftop, noted the readiness with which they focused their sites on the two vehicles. Something was going down.

  And he was sitting here like a lump in this damn wheelchair.

  “Rogan, I don’t care what wiles you have to use, but tell Kim to get me over there. Now.”

  “Now son,” his dad tried to calm him as he started to rise, the hand he placed on Dec’s shoulder heavy with the fear he felt for his family. And when the first gunshot sounded, that pressure combined with Declan’s start of surprise, to throw him off balance. He pitched sideways over the edge of the chair, landed hard on his fractured ribs. Starbursts of pain flashed just as chaos rained down, people screaming, running, the cops yelling to “stay calm!” while their black-clad SWAT counterparts swarmed the wrecked cars like ants on a Sunday picnic.