Renegade

by Diana Palmer

  There was only one possible way to handle it. She had to offer to exchange herself for Rory and tell Sam to contact the motion picture company about the ransom. They wouldn't know that Joel was out of the country. If she played her cards right, she could convince them that she was worth more to them than Rory. She'd convince them that her studio would pay handsomely for her release.

  Her company wouldn't pay it, of course, because they wouldn't have any more luck than she'd had trying to find someone with the authority to raise the ransom. But the subterfuge would save Rory.

  She got another drink and sat by the telephone all night, waiting for Sam to call her back. She thought about willingly putting herself into Sam Stanton's hands again. She remembered all too well her fear and pain and anguish when the man had raped her, all those years ago. She was still terrified of him, of his violent temper. He would be uncontrollable when he found out that he couldn't get money from her or her bosses. He would kill her, if she was lucky. The alternative didn't bear thinking about. She had another drink and wondered how things might have been if she hadn't seduced Cash, if she hadn't risked her child, if, if, if...

  The bottom line was Rory's safety. Her little brother was still a child, and she loved him. He deserved to live.

  She poured out the last of the whiskey. "Okay, kid, you can do it," she told herself. She raised her glass in a toast. "To more guts than brains, and going down in a blaze of glory," she murmured.

  When the phone rang, she made her suggestion to Sam in cold blood and with mock

  confidence. He thought about it, talked to someone, and finally agreed, giving her an

  address.

  "Get a cab, and don't call anybody," he threatened. "I can still kill the kid before

  anybody gets to me. You got that?"

  "I've got it, honey," she drawled in her best sarcastic manner.

  "Don't waste time." The line went dead.

  She mentally reviewed all the martial arts she'd learned. As an afterthought, she picked up a balisong knife she'd had for the part she played in the movie. She didn't really know how to use it, but it had a long and lethal blade. If she got a chance, any chance at all, she was going to make Sam Stanton pay for everything he'd done in his miserable life. Cash could read all about this in the tabloids, she thought coldly. And she hoped his conscience tortured him every time he thought of her!

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CASH TOOK A CAB TO TIPPY'S apartment from the airport. He hadn't wanted to spend the time driving all the way from Texas, especially after Tippy's frantic phone call. He didn't know what had happened, but he had a cold, uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach, as if he sensed something terrible was wrong. He had to find out.

  He couldn't get her voice—her tormented voice—out of his mind. It had haunted him ever since he'd spoken to her. In the end, he'd picked up the phone and called her back, just to be sure she was okay. It was her phone. But it wasn't Tippy who answered it.

  What took Cash to New York was the voice that answered the phone when he called her apartment. The voice was a man's, brusque and all business. Cash asked for Tippy, and there was a cold silence.

  He was asked what he wanted. Cash, his blood running cold,

  said he wanted to speak to Tippy Moore. There was another pause, then he was told

  that she wasn't available, to call back the next day, and the line went dead.

  Cash had held the receiver in his hand long after the man hung up. He felt sick all the

  way to his soul. Something had happened to Tippy. Men were in her apartment,

  monitoring phone calls. People in law enforcement. He knew it by the very tone the

  man had used. He'd used it himself in kidnapping cases he'd helped solve.

  He couldn't get to the bottom of this situation by phone. He told everyone he had a

  family emergency, took a leave of absence, left Judd in charge, and got on the next plane

  to Manhattan.

  He'd gone over and over that last call in his mind. Tippy's apartment had been staked out. They were watching for someone, for something. He thought about Tippy's mother and Rory's father and the threats she'd said they made. What if they'd kidnapped Rory? That would certainly explain Tippy's almost hysterical tone. She'd called him for help, and he'd cursed her and hung up on her. He closed his eyes on a wave of pain. If anything had happened to Rory or Tippy because of his refusal to help, he couldn't live with it. But...if Rory was in trouble, why hadn't Tippy answered her own phone?

  He got out of the cab, paid the fare plus a tip, and took two steps at a time getting to the door. He pushed the buzzer. "Yeah? Who is it?" a voice demanded. It was the same voice that had answered the phone earlier in the day. "I'm an old friend of Tippy Moore's," he lied pleasantly. "We work in movies together."

  There was a pause, and a boy's anguished voice. "Let him come up. Please!"

  Rory! Cash ground his teeth together trying not to lose his temper. Rory was there. He hadn't been kidnapped, but he sounded frantic. Something had happened to Tippy. Something bad.

  There was another pause. "All right, come up."

  The door unlocked as he was buzzed in. He went up the stairs like a madman, forcing himself not to behave like one when Tippy's door opened.

  Rory ran past the suited men waiting, and threw himself into Cash's arms, sobbing wildly.

  "What's wrong?" Cash asked softly, holding the boy close.

  "You know the boy?" one of the men asked.

  Cash studied him. The man was familiar. He couldn't remember. . .then it came to him. The man was FBI, an agent he'd worked with many years past.

  "What's going on here?" Cash asked without reacting.

  "That's need-to-know. You don't."

  "Can't he have coffee with me?" Rory asked quickly. "He's a good friend of Tippy's!" "Do you know where she is?" the suited man asked suspiciously. "She's at work, I guess," Cash lied glibly. "Isn't she?" he prompted Rory. The boy's eyes were haunted, but he wasn't allowed to answer. "Sure. She's at work. You got five minutes, then you're out of here," the older man told Cash. "We're waiting for a call."

  Cash followed Rory into the kitchen and turned on the taps to disguise his voice. He turned to Rory with cold eyes. "Spill it. Quick," he told the boy. "Sam kidnapped me for ransom," Rory said under his breath. 'Tippy didn't have the

  money, so she traded herself for me." His voice choked. "She told Sam to ask her company for the ransom. She can't pay it. She's got no money coming in at all until they release the movie."

  Cash's heart stopped. "They'll kill her," he said involuntarily. "She knows that. She kissed me goodbye when they let me go, and she told me she knew what she was doing, that it didn't matter about her." Rory swallowed, hard. "Since she lost the baby, she doesn't care about anything. She told me to come home and don't think about her. She said if they killed her it would just stop the pain... Cash!" he exclaimed when the man's big hands caught his arms bruisingly hard. Cash let him go with a mumbled apology. 'The tabloids said she did the dangerous stunt on purpose!" Cash bit off. "That's a lie. The assistant director swore it was safe," Rory muttered. "When Mr. Harper found out what the man did, he fired him. But it was too late by then...." Cash's eyes closed on visions of horror. Every harsh word he'd said to Tippy came back to haunt him. She was going to die. It was his fault. She'd called him to save Rory and he'd insulted her and hung up on her. She hadn't had any other way to save the boy except to trade herself for him, and to the one man on earth she had real reason to fear. "Snap out of it, Cash!" Rory said suddenly, shaking him. "We've got to save her!"

  Cash's face was like paste. He was dragging in breath after strained breath, trying not to think of what she might be going through even now. "Cash!" Rory persisted, looking more adult than the adult beside him. Cash let out a long breath. "It's all right," he said quietly. "I'll take care of it." "I don't think those guys know what they're doing," Rory said worriedly. 'They're just

  sitting
around waiting for the phone to ring, but I don't think Sam's crazy enough to call here. He was going to call Tippy's film company. But Joel Harper is out of the country on location and can't be reached, and there's nobody else with the authority to pay any ransom without his consent. The kidnappers will kill her. I know they will."

  "How did Stanton get you?" Cash asked quickly, because the men in the other room were suddenly quiet.

  "He told my friend next door that he wanted me to come down. I thought it was you." Rory looked away. "Sam's got a cousin who lives on the lower east side, not too far from here. His father runs a little bar. He's in some gang or other, and he has mob connections."

  "What's his name?" Cash asked.

  "Alvaro something. Montes, I think. The bar's called 'La Corrida,' over somewhere near 2nd Street."

  Cash looked toward the doorway, where the suited men were looking at them suspiciously. One was dark and only a little older than Cash himself. The other one was taller, grayer, and in his fifties. He had a face like cold steel.

  "That's your five minutes," the taller one told Cash. "You look familiar," he added.

  Cash grinned. "Maybe you've seen me in a movie. Did you ever watch The Dancer? I played the waiter..."

  The man looked disgusted. "I don't watch musicals."

  Cash glanced down at Rory with caution in his whole look. "When your sister gets back, we'll have that game of chess I promised you," he said evasively. "You aren't staying by yourself, are you?"

  "No, he isn't. He'll be safe with us," the older man said coldly.

  Cash pulled out a business card and handed it to Rory. "I run a small business nearby," he told the men with a smile, "sort of

  between movies. The boy can call me if he ever needs a place to stay, while

  Tippy's on location."

  The suspicious looks grew more suspicious. "Let me see that card," the shorter

  one said.

  Rory glanced at Cash, who took it back and showed it to the men. It read, Home

  Away From Home, Smith's Hideaway, Brooklyn, N.Y. There was also a phone

  number. "This you— Smith?" he asked Cash.

  "That's me. Easy name to remember," he added with a pleasant grin, and thanked his

  lucky stars he'd thought to bring those old business cards with him. The man handed it back to Rory. "He'll be in touch if he needs you," he said curtly to Cash. "Now beat it." 'Take care of yourself, Rory," Cash said, and he nodded slowly, as if to tell the boy that everything was going to be okay. Rory nodded back, but he didn't believe it. He had no idea how Cash would go about rescuing her all alone. This was far from a routine job.

  CASH WAS THINKING THE SAME thing as he left the apartment, and he already had his cell phone out. He punched in a speed dial number on the special cell phone he kept for emergencies.

  "Peter?" he asked when a voice answered. "It's Grier. Fine, you? I need a little help."

  "Such as?" came the reply.

  "About ten ounces of C-4, a K-bar, some rope, a .45 auto, a couple of flash-bangs, and transportation to Brooklyn." There was a burst of laughter. "Sure, no problem, I'll just waltz down to the local market and pick it all up. Where are you?"

  HALF AN HOUR LATER, Cash climbed into the car two blocks away and shook hands with his prote'ge', Peter Stone. The younger man was a professional mercenary these days. He'd been in Micah Steele's group, but was now working security with Bojo, another former member of the group, in the Middle Eastern nation of Qawi, for Sheikh Philippe Sabon. Peter was in the country visiting relatives, between assignments.

  "Imagine you, working as a hick police chief," Peter chuckled.

  "Imagine you, fighting international terrorists," Cash shot back.

  Peter shrugged. "We do what we can." He became serious. "What's up?"

  "A friend of mine has been snatched for ransom. I'm going to get her back."

  "Her?" Peter echoed. "You, caring enough for a woman to rescue her? She must be something special."

  "She is," Cash managed curtly. He averted his eyes. "She traded herself for her kid brother. She told the kidnappers they could get the ransom from her film company, but she knew they wouldn't pay it. There's nobody in the country who can negotiate a payment. She knew that, too."

  "Gutsy lady," Peter said solemnly. "Gutsy. And she'll be dead if I don't do something. The man who snatched her is the worst kind of scum."

  "Don Kincaid is in town," Peter told him. "And I can get in touch with Ed Bonner if

  I need to. He used to be Marcus Car-rera's local boss, back before Carrera

  reformed..."

  "I'll only ask Carrera as a last ditch option," Cash told him. "He counts favors."

  "I know what you mean," Peter said wryly. "I still owe him one, and I'm sweating

  bullets wondering what he'll ask for."

  "Maybe it will only be for some exotic fabric," Cash chuckled.

  "Don't ever joke about his quilting habit," Peter said at once. "There's a guy in the

  hospital who's sorry he ever brought it up!" "We have a lawman in Texas who quilts and

  knows Carrera," Cash told him. "He was on a quilting show on TV. There's a guy in my

  department who used to work for him until he made a cute remark about men making

  quilts. But he's okay now," Cash added. "In fact, his new front teeth look real

  natural."

  Peter chuckled, and turned the car into an alley. "Where do we go from here?" "To a

  little bar called 'La Corrida.'" "I know it!" Peter exclaimed. 'The guy who runs it,

  Alvaro Montes, is from Spain. His father was a bullfighter. Died in the ring, just the

  way he wanted to." "Is he a scalawag?"

  "Not him," Peter said easily. "But he's got some shady relatives. Including his no-

  account son," he added coldly. "There's a guy who needs an attitude adjustment."

  "Funny you should mention him," Cash told him. 'That's who we're after."

  "Do tell!" Peter grinned. "Let's go see Papa Montes. Maybe he can tell us where his

  boy would hold a hostage if he had one." "Listen, I'm in no mood for a barroom

  brawl..." "It won't be like that," Peter assured him. "You'll see."

  THEY WENT INTO THE SMALL, badly lit bar. A tall man with gray sprinkled black curly hair looked up from the counter as they walked in. The bar was empty, except for one old man at a corner table.

  "Peter," the owner greeted him with a warm smile. "I didn't know you were back in town!"

  "Just for a few days, Viejo," he told the older man and grinned. "This is my friend, Grier."

  The bar's owner hesitated. His eyes narrowed as he looked at Cash. "I know of you," he said quietly.

  "Most people do," Peter replied easily. "A friend of his has been kidnapped."

  "And you come here, to see me." The older man closed his eyes and sighed heavily. "No need to ask why, of course. It is that cousin, that man from the South, who comes here to make trouble for us. Last time it was gunrunning. Is it something that bad?"

  "I'm afraid so, maybe worse," Peter replied. "I think you know where he would go if he had a hostage."

  "A hostage." The old man closed his eyes. "Yes, yes, I know where he would go," he added slowly. "To a warehouse where I keep my spirits and good wine," he said coldly, "a few blocks from here." He gave Peter the address. "You will try not to involve my son in this?"

  "Your son is already involved," Cash said without apology. "And if anything has happened to the woman, he will regret it."

  The older man winced. "I have been a good father," he said heavily. "I have done everything I could to teach him right from wrong, to separate him from friends who were on the wrong side of the law. But once he left home, I lost control, you see. Do you have children?" he asked Cash.

  "No," Cash said in a tone that didn't invite comment. "Will your son have anyone else with him, besides the cousin?" The man shook his head. "His brother is an attorney. Perhaps a fo
rtunate thing. My other son has never given me heartache. He was always a good boy." "I've worked in law enforcement long enough to know that children go wrong even when their parents do everything right. It's a matter of individuals, not upbringing, for the most part," Cash said.

  "Gracias," the bar owner replied quietly.

  "See you, Viejo," Peter said. "Thanks."

  The older man only nodded. He looked very sad.

  "He is a good man," Peter told Cash when they were in the car again. "He

  sacrificed to bring up those boys. Their mother died when the youngest was born. She