A whimper escaped her and her shoulders slumped. “Promise me,” she whispered. “Promise you won’t kill me. I’ll do anything you ask. I’ll pay you. I would have paid him anyway. I would have let him bleed me dry. Let him rape me. Anything. I just have to be there to raise my son. That’s all I ask.”
My heart thumped so loudly I was afraid she’d hear it, but I kept my voice firm and calm. “I promise, Eleanor. Now please cut me loose and give me the gun.”
She turned and crept closer, trembling. “I don’t have a knife,” she whispered. I was beginning to speak when she added, “Why don’t you just break the ties?”
I jerked my wrists fruitlessly, pain and fear turning to anger. “Do I look like Arnold-Fucking-Schwarzenegger to you? Cut the damn ties! Use some broken glass!”
“No, that would cut both of us,” she argued. “You don’t have to be that strong. Just get on your knees and then smack your wrists hard against your back. The tie will break.”
She obviously wasn’t going to cooperate until I proved her wrong.
Frantically cursing her stupidity under my breath, I dragged myself to my knees. A couple of whacks of my bound hands against my butt sent pain slicing through my wrists.
“It doesn’t fucking work,” I hissed. “Now will you please-”
“Harder! You have to hit them harder.”
“Fuck you!” I reared back and slammed my hands against my ass, too furious to even feel the pain.
The tie snapped, smacking my knuckles against the floor on either side of me.
“Ow! Fuck!” Realization dawned and I straightened slowly, flexing my freed hands and wrists. “Well, fuck me,” I added mildly.
“I told you it would work,” Eleanor said. “I saw it on an episode of ‘Castle’.”
I gaped at her for an instant, caught between the urge to laugh and the burning desire to beat the living shit out of her.
But she still had the gun. With both fingers wrapped around the trigger.
“Okay,” I said in the most soothing tone I could manage. “Now I want you to take your fingers away from the trigger. Nice and slow. Make sure you don’t-”
My sentence ended in a yelp and a flinch as her hands jerked convulsively. The Glock somersaulted through the air, landing with a thud in front of me.
I scooped it up, my heart battering my chest, my panting whistling loud in the country silence.
“I hate guns!” Eleanor covered her face with both dirty hands, shivering violently. “I hate them!”
“It’s okay,” I comforted, trying to calm my breath.
Slow and easy. In. Out. Ocean waves. I’d only get one chance at this. If I missed and he blew up Eleanor’s son…
I shuddered the thought away and concentrated on my breathing. “Where did Jones go?” I asked, holding my voice steady with all my might. “How long has he been gone?”
“I don’t know. I must have fainted when he shot you. When I came to, he was gone. But I thought I heard something just before you woke up. That’s why I was watching the door.”
Of course. She’d been right next to me. I got the dart, but she’d been caught in the aerosolized tranquilizer.
“Maybe he thought we were both dead and left,” she added hopefully.
“Yeah, maybe.”
But if I were him, I’d be back.
When Eleanor collapsed he might have feared a release of poison gas and fled, but he’d check on his handiwork after he was sure the gas had dissipated.
Because he’d want to advertise the full capabilities of the classified weapon that he was about to sell on the black market…
My teeth clenched. Shit, how long should I wait here? What if he’d just jumped in his vehicle and driven away? What if he was negotiating with a buyer right now?
Shit, shit, shit…
The sound of approaching footsteps swishing through the dead grass made my heart punch my chest.
I hissed, “Distract him!” and shoved Eleanor to the other side of the room.
Crouching, I aimed at the doorway but the Glock wouldn’t steady in my hands. Low blood sugar, dammit…
Footsteps on the broken porch.
Thump, thump…
Breathe in. Half out…
Thump…
Eleanor screamed.
The shock of the sudden screech jerked my already-shaking gun off target as Jones stepped into the room, his gaze snapping toward Eleanor. The Glock kicked in my hands.
One. Two.
Missed the heart-shot high and to the left. The bullet slammed into his shoulder.
Missed the head-shot entirely.
No, not entirely. A thin crease of red bloomed on his temple as he staggered back against the wall.
Thank God the remote was falling from his useless left hand…
He grabbed for his gun, his face twisting in fury and pain.
I fired again. He fell.
Eleanor was screaming in earnest, a high chilling note that pierced the din of gunshots like an icy needle.
Now Potato-nose didn’t have a nose at all, just a shattered bleeding hole. The remains of his head thudded against the gore-spattered wall over and over, matching the rhythm of my trigger finger.
I sucked in a breath and stopped firing. Lowered the gun slowly.
Violent shudders rocked me. A sound seeped through my ringing deafness. Eleanor vomiting.
I let her get on with it.
Crawling over to the body felt like traversing the continent. I inchwormed my way painfully over dirt and broken glass, fighting tremors that threatened to drop me on my face. Beside the corpse, I reached out a shaking hand, holding my breath while I nudged the remote away from the fallen hand. Then I flopped onto my butt and brought my bound ankles down hard across his splayed-out leg.
Nothing.
Again.
Then once more. My trembling muscles could barely lift my own legs.
When the tie snapped at last I sprawled on my back panting, heedless of the debris under me.
God, just let me lie here. Fall asleep and never wake up…
My eyelids dipped and I shook my head vigorously. What kind of fucked-up sicko murders a man and then falls asleep with her feet propped on his bullet-ridden corpse?
A sleep-deprived one, the remains of my rational mind reminded me.
I shook my head again and rolled over to creep onto my knees, still clutching my Glock. A rapid search of the body netted the trank pistol as well as his Glock. Juggling the guns awkwardly, I ejected the trank gun’s magazine and let out a sigh of relief. Still only one dart missing. I replaced the magazine and holstered the pistol at my waist, then dragged myself unsteadily to my feet.
Eleanor pushed herself back from the mess of vomit in front of her, both hands braced on the floor. She looked up slowly and went still when her gaze settled on the pistols still in each of my hands.
“I suppose you’ll kill me now,” she said in a bleak voice.
“No.” The word came out in a croak. I pushed my Glock into my ankle holster and the other into the back of my jeans, and cleared my throat. “Get the remote. Let’s go save your son.”
Chapter 46
Eleanor let out a whimper and scrambled over to snatch up the remote from the filthy floor.
I flung out a restraining hand, my pulse accelerating all over again. “Be careful! Don’t touch any buttons.”
“How stupid do you think I am?” she snarled, and carefully picked the device up.
I chose not to answer that question; just jerked my head toward the door. “Have you got a phone?” I asked instead.
“No. It’s in my purse in my car.” She made for the door.
I fell to my knees again beside the corpse and rifled its pockets. A set of car keys in his jacket pocket. Nothing but loose change in his front jeans pockets. Dammit, he had to have a phone…
I hauled him over onto what remained of his face, my abused body protesting the exertion with creaks and crackles.
&
nbsp; Thank God, a big tablet-type phone in his back pocket.
My heart sank when I pulled it out. The screen was shattered. He must have fallen on it.
Clinging to hope, I pressed the power button but nothing happened.
Too exhausted to even swear, I dragged myself to my feet and headed for the door. When I stumbled outside, blinking in the brightness, my trembling knees nearly dropped me down the dilapidated stairs.
Get it together.
I straightened my shoulders, every bruised muscle screaming its protest. I managed a more-or-less straight path to the car, where Eleanor was ransacking the glove compartment.
“Get your phone,” I snapped.
“This is his vehicle. My car is in Silverside,” she snapped back without ceasing her frantic search. “Dammit, dammit, where are his keys?”
“Here.” I held them up and slid into the driver’s seat.
Eleanor let out a cry that might have been fear or triumph and dove into the passenger seat.
I stepped on the gas. “Where is he holding your son?” I demanded.
“Nowhere. He just p-pushed him out of the car in Silverside. He c-could be anywhere…” She gulped. “Some horrid p-pedophile might have him by now! What if-”
“No, he’ll be fine; it’s a small town and people look out for each other,” I comforted. It didn’t seem tactful to mention that a pedophile would get a hell of a surprise if he abducted a kid with a bomb strapped to him.
As we neared my farm I braked.
Eleanor tensed, easing her two-handed grip on the remote to clutch it in her left hand instead. Her right dropped down beside her. “What are you doing?” she demanded.
“Going in to my place to phone the police-” The words strangled in my throat as she lunged to press a wickedly-glittering shard of glass against my cheek. “Keep driving,” she growled.
I drew a shallow breath. “Eleanor, I know you’re not a killer-”
“No, but I’ll cut you. I’ll stab your eye out…” The threat ended in a sob, but her hand didn’t waver.
A sidelong glance at her set face convinced me she meant it. I cautiously got back on the gas.
Trying for my calmest voice, I said, “Eleanor, if your son has a bomb attached to him, we need the police and a bomb squad. They’ll be able to disarm the bomb safely. You and I can’t do that.”
“No police. Jones told my son he’d kill me if he went to the police. If Logan sees a police officer he’ll run away. And if he runs he might set off the bomb…” She gulped back a sob. “You just keep driving. I have to find him myself. He won’t come to anybody else.”
“But, Eleanor, the town needs to be evacuated. The parade’s on this morning and there will be a huge crowd-”
“Nobody matters but Logan!” The glass pressed harder, a thin slash of pain. “You remember that! Nobody!”
Christ, she was ‘way over the edge.
Then again, I didn’t know what it was like to have a bomb strapped to my child.
But I knew what it was like to have my dearest friends threatened. They’d all be down at the parade. Lola, Eddy, Kane and Hellhound, too, if they decided to fulfill their commitments to the parade while they waited for me to return. My heart thudded harder. Tom. Oh God, and Cory and Charlene and Jackson and Emily. And Jack and her kids, too…
I fought panic.
Keep a calm front. She’d react to my fear…
“Okay. Okay, we’ll find Logan,” I agreed, holding my voice level. “Tell me what he looks like. And what do you know about the bomb?”
“No tricks.” The glass quivered against my cheek. “No tricks or I’ll cut you.”
“I promise I won’t try to trick you.” When she didn’t ease up the pressure, I added, “Eleanor, if I didn’t want to help you I would have shot you dead and walked away. You need to believe I’m trying to help you and Logan. Tell me about him.”
“You don’t get to know about him!” The glass pressed even more fiercely. “He’s none of your concern! You stay away from him, leave him alone!”
My pulse pounded in my temples and I slowed the car, afraid I’d hit a bump in the road and get blinded by accident.
“Eleanor.” My calm tone was badly ravelled at the edges. “You’re not thinking this through. Two of us can find him faster than you can alone. You think you’re protecting him, but you might end up causing his death if we can’t find him fast enough.”
In the silence that followed I barely breathed.
Then she said matter-of-factly, “You’re right. Keep your hands on the steering wheel where I can see them. And remember I can reach over and slash you faster than you can draw your gun.” She took the glass away from my face and perched on the edge of her seat, staring out the windshield as if it would make us go faster. “He’s seven years old, about four feet tall, short blond hair and blue eyes. He’s wearing blue jeans and a blue jacket and…” Her voice wavered. “…carrying a Spiderman backpack. That’s where the bomb is.”
“It’s just in a backpack?” Relief washed over me. “It’s not attached to him?”
“No.” Eleanor hunched her shoulders miserably. “But it’s his favourite backpack. He even sleeps with it. He’d never put it down, even for an instant. And he doesn’t know there’s a bomb in it.”
I braked and turned onto the highway, accelerating considerably past the speed limit.
“What do you know about the bomb?”
“N-nothing.” Silent tears tracked down her cheeks. “It’s a gray lump about the size of a baseball…”
Shit. Plastic explosive. More than enough to kill Logan. But at least there wouldn’t be any shrapnel ripping through the crowd…
“…with a timer on it. And it’s in a box full of nails and screws,” Eleanor finished.
Oh, God.
And a seven-year-old boy would naturally be attracted to a parade.
Sick horror crawled up the back of my throat, and I gulped and stepped harder on the accelerator.
“How much time was on the timer?” I demanded.
“I d-don’t know!”
Terror gripped me. It could explode any minute and there was nothing I could do. I should have stopped the car and called it in from my house. Even if she cut me. I could live with only one eye, but if my friends were torn apart in a bomb blast because I was a coward, I’d…
Stop it.
I couldn’t change it now. Just drive as fast as possible and don’t get in an accident. Stay focused.
“How did this happen?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady and gentle.
“It’s all my f-fault. I was so n-naive…” Her shoulders shook with quiet sobs. “I…” She threw me a glance, white lines of strain around her mouth. “I h-hated you. I thought N-Nick…” She choked on the name but recovered.
She stiffened her spine and spoke calmly even though tears still rolled down her cheeks. “I thought Nick was innocent and that you had caused all this. While he was still alive I did everything I could within the legal system. When he d…” She swallowed. “When he was killed, I…”
Her head drooped. “I was obsessed,” she went on quietly. “I found the photo of you between the pages of one of his paperback books, months after the police had finished searching everything. I knew I should turn it in as evidence, but instead I put on gloves so my fingerprints wouldn’t be on it, and made copies…”
She straightened suddenly and turned to me with an imploring expression. “Don’t you see? I had to know. I had to.” Her momentary burst of energy vanished and she slumped back into the seat. Her voice came out in a monotone. “I hired a private investigator to find you. He couldn’t for weeks. Then, finally, he reported you had returned home.”
“The bearded guy in the silver SUV,” I interjected.
She gave me a startled glance. “Yes. You noticed him? He was supposed to be discreet. I paid him a great deal of money.”
“Maybe you should ask for a refund.”
She slumped aga
in. “It doesn’t matter. Anyway, one of the charities I support is for troubled youth. I asked one of the young men to set up a meeting for me. I disguised myself with a beard and fake piercings…”
I nearly drove off the road. “The skinny bearded guy with the piercings was you?”
“Yes.” Her shoulders rose and fell. “I suppose you saw me at that dreadful bar Saturday morning, and again outside your office yesterday. I thought I was so smart.”
I nearly protested that Eddy’s was a far cry from dreadful, but I managed to bite my tongue as she continued, “So in my new male persona I hired a cocky young man-”
“Drake Mallard,” I put in.
This time she didn’t look surprised. “I didn’t know his name. But he swore he could easily do what I asked. He would kidnap you and I would question you in that abandoned house, hidden in the darkness while wearing my disguise. I had recorded my questions and altered my voice so it couldn’t be recognized. Nobody was supposed to get hurt.”
I successfully resisted the urge to pound my forehead against the steering wheel. “Surely your P.I. found my phone number. Why didn’t you just call me and ask your questions?”
Eleanor shot me a contemptuous look. “You would have lied to me. I had to have you at my mercy. To know you were telling the truth…” Her voice wavered and I thought she’d break down again, but instead she swallowed and went on, “But I waited in that horrid house for hours and the kidnapper never came. Instead, he absconded with the deposit I’d given him. So I hired another.”
“Norman Perkins.”
She sighed. “I feel like such a fool. You knew everything all along.” I didn’t enlighten her with the truth, and she added, “Of course he took my money and ran, too. So I tried again. That’s when I discovered how truly foolish I had been.”
We were only a couple of miles out of town.
Keep her talking. As long as she was talking, she wasn’t threatening to blind me with broken glass, and I wasn’t thinking about explosions and blood and death…
“Jones turned on you,” I prompted.
“Yes. He seemed so much more… professional than the others. He promised to do the job and took my deposit. I told him everything I knew about you. We fixed a date and time, and he said we should meet in Silverside beforehand to work out the last details.” Her bitter laugh twisted my heart. “Little did I know that he’d beaten my young friend until he divulged my true identity.” She gulped, fresh tears tracking down her cheeks. “He’s in the hospital. Profoundly brain-damaged and not expected to live. I’ll never forgive myself for that.”
Spy Away Home (The Never Say Spy Series Book 10) Page 34
