by Mary Burton
When he glared at her, the stranger moved forward a step, his weapon trained on Carter, his finger on the trigger.
“I won’t ask again!” Riley said.
Carter cuffed his hand.
“Now wrap your arms around the tree and cuff the other hand.”
“What the hell!”
“Do it!”
Carter grunted and, straddling the tree, reached around and cuffed his left hand.
The stranger moved to the spot where his bullets had struck, and unsheathing the knife from his leg holster, he dug both slugs out of the ground and pocketed them. She’d bet serious money the shell casings in the woods would never be found either.
“Who the fuck are you?” Carter demanded.
Riley stared at the stranger, trying hard to get a read on his features hidden under the paint, hat, and the growing shadows.
He leaned forward a fraction as he searched Carter for a second weapon and whispered something to the man she couldn’t hear. Carter’s face paled.
Riley kept her SIG trained on Carter. “Is he clear?”
“Yes. Do you have this?” The stranger’s deep voice sounded calm.
His words electrified her senses and planted the unsteady feeling she knew this guy. “I’m good.”
He motioned Riley out of earshot of Carter. “Keep this between us.”
“You sure? Good publicity for Shield.”
“I was never here.”
“What about Carter?”
“He won’t talk.” Certainty underscored the words. “Right, Carter?”
Carter eyed the stranger as if fearful to take his gaze off him. “Right.”
She wondered what he’d said to Carter.
With a nod the stranger turned and melted into the woods.
“You dumb bitch,” Carter said. His face was pale, either from pain or the stranger’s whispered warning.
Drawing in a steady breath to dilute the adrenaline, she moved toward Cooper and untied his tracking line. “I’m dumb? Who’s the one cuffed to the tree?”
Carter tugged at the cuffs. He spoke in a low, gruff tone. “I’m going to kill you!”
Ignoring Carter, she inspected his leg. It was oozing blood, but his makeshift tourniquet had stopped most of the bleeding. “Where are the other girls you’re running?”
Carter shifted, wincing as his leg rubbed the tree. “I don’t have any damn girls.”
“One’s in the hospital now. Where are the others?”
He rolled his head from side to side. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
She rose, staring at his leg and knotting her brow as if pondering. “That tourniquet ought to do you until the deputies arrive.”
“When are they gonna be here?” He glanced toward the thick woods, which were growing darker by the moment.
“Don’t know,” she lied. “Could be all night. And I hear it’s going to rain.” An owl hooted. “Other than the black bears, the animals should leave you alone as long as you don’t fall asleep.”
The metal cuffs chewed into the bark as he again struggled to get free. “You can’t leave me here!”
“Where are the girls?”
“Fuck you.”
She turned back toward Cooper. “Have a good evening, Mr. Carter. Don’t let the mosquitos bite.”
CHAPTER TWO
Tuesday, September 13, 1:00 a.m.
Cigar smoke. The clink of poker chips. Soft music. Men arguing.
The pungent scent was the first to reach below the medicated haze and tug Vicky toward consciousness. Nose wrinkling, she coughed as smoke puffed across her face.
“Wake up.”
Fatigue weighed heavily, coaxing her back toward the darkness where it was safe, warm, and quiet. It had been weeks since she had slept well. Jax kept her awake working night after night, having her make nice to whoever had money. To sleep on a soft cushion with no one touching her was a luxury. To surrender to the light felt cruel.
“Wake up!”
Sleep’s iron hold loosened as she clung to it. She did not want to wake up. Awake meant a return to the streets and the dimming hope Jax loved her. But to resist tempted Jax’s temper, and nobody wanted him mad. Jax’s other girl, Jo-Jo, was always pushing him, and her back talk had earned her a couple of beatings.
More smoke blew against her face, seeping and slithering up her nostrils, prying her free from the safety and security of the darkness.
She coughed again, stumbling unwillingly toward consciousness as her eyes opened. Grimacing, she raised her hand like a shield as a halfhearted offer came automatically. “You want to party? I like to party.”
“Wake up. Please.” Another voice. Another man.
A deeply rooted survival instinct chased away the fatigue. Where was she?
She pushed herself up into a sitting position. Pain split and cracked through her skull as if one of Jax’s fists had struck her. Drawing in a breath, she lowered her hand and focused on her surroundings.
The room was bathed in ivories and creams. Gilded trims. Lights glistening in crystal. Every detail in the room screamed expensive. Uptown. Not like the truck stop motels, her normal territory. The truckers she knew. Quick. Easy. But this . . . this was not good. God, where had Jax sent her?
She pressed trembling fingers to her forehead, rooting for her last clear memory. She had been with Jax and Jo-Jo. She and Jo-Jo were surprised when he took them to the diner and bought burgers, extra fries, and large sodas. The girls were so hungry they didn’t think beyond the food. Toward the end of the meal, a guy joined them in the booth. A friend of Jax’s.
Memories reached out, grabbing hold of the present. And then, in a blink, she remembered. The friend’s name was Kevin. He was tall, well dressed, with gold cuff links and buffed nails. Dark-brown hair was cut short and slicked back, emphasizing blue eyes. She remembered thinking he didn’t look like a Kevin.
Jax, looking a little nervous, ordered him coffee as if he were the grand host. As Kevin sipped the dark, bitter brew, he asked her and Jo-Jo questions. What’s your name? Where’re you from? The guy needed conversation. Not all the johns liked to talk, but this one did. Jax quickly grew tired of the questions and cut off her last answer.
“Which one do you want?”
Kevin sat back in the booth, studying her face as he tapped a nervous finger against the table. “She has the right look. How much?”
“Two grand.”
No one had ever paid that kind of money for her before and she expected Kevin to laugh. But he wasn’t put off by the price and handed Jax a handful of crisp one-hundred-dollar bills. “There’s a little more. I’ll need her a few extra hours.”
Vicky shifted, nervous. Men paid that kind of money when they wanted something different, and she worried what that meant.
Jax grinned, his gold tooth winking in the light. “Sure. But I want her back in twenty-four hours.”
“Right.” Kevin’s gaze dropped to his cup of coffee. He offered her another soda, but Jax said she’d had enough. Jax hustled them all out of the booth and the diner. Kevin opened the front door of a sleek black car and waited for her to settle inside. She nestled into the car’s front seat. When he slid behind the wheel she reached for his crotch, but he brushed her hand away.
“I thought you wanted to party,” she said.
“No.”
That unexpected twist revved her fears.
Kevin gripped the steering wheel, but smiled. “Don’t worry. I’m going to get you fixed up. Hair. Nails. A new dress.”
“Okay, sure.” She didn’t argue, fearing he’d tell Jax if she did.
“You’ll like the dress.”
“Sure.”
Later, after her nails and hair were styled, he watched her slip on the yellow dress at his hotel room. The material was soft and silky. As he handed her a glass of champagne, his smile was mild. She started to relax. And then it all went black.
Struggling now to sit, she realized she still wo
re the yellow dress, as well as gold teardrop earrings and silver high-heeled shoes. She wasn’t bleeding, hurting, or sore. What the hell?
“Is she awake?” the old man asked.
“Yes, she’s awake.” The second voice was familiar. Kevin.
“Where am I?” she asked. Her words rumbled in her head, crashing into the sides of her skull. “What did you do to me?”
Kevin shoved his hands in his pockets. “Nothing. You’ve been sleeping.”
“Good, she’s focusing,” the old man said. “It’s important she’s aware.”
Aware of what?
She craned her neck to see a large round mahogany table surrounded by four tufted chairs. Playing cards lay in three neat piles, suggesting two players and a dealer. In the center of the table lay a pile of light-blue and a few brown poker chips, and on top of the chips, a torn sheet of notebook paper. A marker.
“Water,” she said. “My throat is dry.”
Kevin’s smooth fingers pushed a water bottle into her hand, and she drank without thinking. Cool liquid slid down her throat and eased the thirst. The familiar dread of facing a new john returned.
When she finished drinking, Kevin took the bottle. She looked up into Kevin’s dark, now-worried eyes. Stubble darkened his chin. His loosened red tie dangled against a white rumpled shirt with sleeves rolled up to his elbows. How long had she been out?
This didn’t make sense. “What happened to me?”
A smile tipped the edges of Kevin’s lips. “Like I said, you’ve been sleeping.”
They might not have hurt her yet, but that didn’t mean shit. Get the hell out of here.
The warning voice echoed in her head. She moistened her lips. “Jax is gonna be mad if I don’t call him. I’m supposed to call him every hour.”
As if she’d not spoken, the old man said, “It’s time. I won and winner chooses life or death.”
“He’ll hurt me if I don’t call,” Vicky said. “He’s got a bad temper. I’ll do whatever you want, but just let me check in with Jax.”
“You and I could play another hand,” Kevin said. “Double or nothing?”
“No.” Impatience sharpened the word. “This was the last hand. You lost. Now I choose . . . death.”
Death. The word jacked up her heart rate. Vicky pushed herself up on wobbly legs. “I need to get out of here. I’m going to be sick.” Not true, but if they thought she’d barf on their floor, they might let her rush out of here. She took a step and her legs shook. Running was impossible. Walking a stretch.
The old man had a face pale as milk, but his eyes were black as coal. “Kevin, pay up now or I shoot you. You know how the game is played. We all agreed to the terms before the first card was dealt.”
“I know. I know,” he stammered.
The old man raised a gun and laid it on the table. A white shirt billowed over a thinning chest. “Do this or I’ll kill everyone you love first. Your wife, Jennifer. Your brother, Nate, who just got out of jail. Then you die.”
Hearing the names of his family robbed Kevin of words. And then, “Why does she have to die? I’ll talk to her. She’ll be quiet.”
The old man rubbed his thumb against his clenched fist. “I thought you were ready for the game. I thought you wanted the high stakes.”
He picked up a single chip and turned it over. “I do. I did. I thought . . .”
“That you’d win. Everyone thinks they’ll win.” He leaned back in his chair, gently turning a poker chip over. A thick cigar dangled from his other hand, the smoke trailing from the glowing tip. Trimmed nails and a gold signet ring caught the light.
Vicky’s attention was so focused on the old man at the table, she didn’t see Kevin approach. When she noticed his fine leather shoes standing beside her, she pivoted to run. Too quickly. Dizziness. She fell to her knees.
Kevin’s trembling hands moved quickly, wrapping a thin strap of leather around her neck. He twisted. Tightened.
She coughed and grabbed the leather. “Kevin. Don’t.”
“I’m sorry, Vicky,” he whispered close to her ear. “But I agreed. Winner chooses.”
“Please.” Her windpipe closed.
“Forgive me.”
Her hands groped at the cord, and when she couldn’t wedge her fingers under it, she reached for his wrists. She scratched and pulled but didn’t have the strength to loosen the binding.
She gagged. Coughed. Thrashed.
Kevin hesitated, the cord slackened, and she drew in a desperate breath as she caught his reflection in the mirror. “Please,” she said with the last wisp of air from her lungs.
His eyes were a swirl of regret and sorrow. “I have to do this.” He leaned closer, nestling his lips close to her ears. “Don’t fight, and the end will come faster.”
The old man rose and moved toward them. More smoke coiled like a serpent as he raised the cigar to his mouth. His eyes danced with fascination and triumph. She thought this might be how he got off. Watching women suffer did it for some. But he wasn’t hard and he made no move to touch himself. What kind of game was this?
The question must have reflected in her gaze as she looked at him. He smiled. “You were his stake in the poker game. His Lady Luck.” His voice sounded as if it were rubbed raw with sandpaper. “We don’t play for money. Too boring. We play for life and death.”
Kevin tightened his grip quickly this time, cutting off her oxygen. Her vision blurred. She blinked, realizing she was going to die.
“I’m sorry,” Kevin whispered. “It was a sure bet.”
“They’re all sure,” the old man said. His hand trembled slightly as he stared at the glowing tip of the cigar. “Everyone thinks Lady Luck will give them the winning hand. Amateurs. Lady Luck screws us all in the end. Best we can do is squeeze the luck out of her as long as we can.”
“I’m sorry.” Kevin’s fingers twisted the rope tighter.
She couldn’t pull in any air. All her mother’s warnings replayed alongside her father’s predictions that she’d die young.
“Don’t be sorry,” the old man said. “You’re doing her a favor. They’re never the same after they’ve been on the streets.”
With a determined grunt, Kevin yanked the strap deeper into her skin, crushing her windpipe. She arched back, her hands clawing at his arms. Veins in her neck bulged as her heart pounded in her chest, and her lungs hungry for oxygen burned.
She would have begged, pleaded, or traded her body or her soul to live. But Kevin’s reflection in the mirror told her words would have no effect.
The old man reached for her hand and took it in a weak grip. Frustration burned in his eyes. As her vision blurred, she realized he wanted to be the one doing the killing, but he couldn’t. Age or illness had robbed him of the ability.
The old man kissed her softly on the back of her hand. And more to himself, he said, “You look like my Lady Luck.”
She was dying because she looked like someone else?
Vicky’s world dimmed and her eyes closed. As her body slackened toward the ground, Kevin wept. One of his tears dripped on her cheek. And the abyss swallowed her.
Clay Bowman stood outside the small brick rancher, taking note of Riley Tatum’s police cruiser parked in her driveway. The house was dark, but there was enough light from the sliver of moon to tell him something about the woman who had spent the better part of the day tracking in the woods. The lawn was cut and shrubs trimmed, but the three flowerpots clustered on the side of the house were an empty testament to a failed gardening attempt. He never imagined her tending flowers or a vegetable garden. Domesticity wasn’t her style.
A second car in the driveway had him wondering if that car was hers or if she lived with someone. When he conjured up her image, he always pictured her single, but a woman like her didn’t stay alone long. When he had spoken to her in the woods, she’d looked at him as if she recognized him, but the situation hadn’t allowed room for the past. Not that it mattered. He’d had a chance to love he
r once and had tossed it away.
Yesterday’s mission was to track her in the woods. Keep her safe. And he had done it, glad he was there for the takedown, which had sent a thrill of much-needed adrenaline through his body. Retirement, as it turned out, didn’t suit him. Lazy days on the front porch, fixing up the old house, savoring sunsets—all sounded good when he was part of the FBI’s Hostage Rescue Team hoofing it through the woods, carrying a one-hundred-pound pack, and chasing fugitives. When he’d turned in his badge, he thought he was done with the cops-and-robbers shit.
But three weeks of downtime was his limit. When Shield Security had offered him the job, he took it on the spot.
He was back in the game. So what the hell was he doing standing outside Riley’s house like a crazed stalker?
As he turned to leave, a light clicked on in the house and he drew back toward the shadows. He checked his watch: 3:00 a.m. A silhouette of a woman passed in front of a window, and he recognized her long, lean frame.
She moved into the kitchen, dressed in a running top and jogging shorts. She switched on the coffeepot and threaded her fingers through her long dark hair, arching back slightly as she knotted it all into a ponytail. Minutes later she was sipping coffee, leaning against the counter and staring into the night. He took another step back.
Bowman had first met Riley five years ago. It had been six months after his wife died and he was training a group of police officers in search-and-rescue techniques at Quantico. Riley was one of his best students, and he noticed her the first day of class. He also caught her stealing glances at him. Several times she asked questions about the training, and it took effort for him to keep his gaze off the rise and swell of her breasts under the regulation T-shirt.
But they kept their distance until her last night at the school. She showed up at his motel room. Kissed him. And they fell into bed, pulling off clothes and going at it as if possessed. He drove into her, savoring the feel of her. She was so passionate.
He still remembered when he woke up, Riley nestled by his side, feeling happy for the first time since Karen’s diagnosis. However, on the heels of this happiness was guilt. He felt disloyal to a dead wife who had loved him unconditionally.
