Deadly Games

by Cate Noble

  Rocco waited while the woman made the announcement. Within moments, her phone rang. He moved closer, eager to hear where Gena was.

  “Thank you for letting me know.” The woman hung up before addressing Rocco. “That was one of the ER nurses. She said Gena took off a little while ago. Said she was going to make arrangements for her friend who died from burns.”

  Damn it! Rocco never should have let her out of his sight. “Call her back and ask if she knows how Gena left. By car? Taxi?”

  The woman rolled her eyes but did as he asked. A few moments later she told Rocco, “She said Gena insisted she was okay to drive herself.”

  Rocco thanked the woman and raced out of the hospital. When he reached his rental car he punched Gena’s home address into the GPS unit.

  The good news was she didn’t have that much of a head start. Fifteen, twenty minutes. And if she had caught a glimpse of herself in one of her car’s mirrors, he’d bet she’d gone home to clean up before going anywhere.

  Hopefully, he’d cut her off there. No harm, no foul.

  If not … he didn’t know what in the hell he was going to do.

  Chapter Ten

  The numbing cocoon of ice that had started to crack at the news of Lupe’s death had shattered when Gena had turned and found Rocco Taylor standing there.

  For a brief moment, she had thought she’d lost her mind, had thought she’d conjured Rocco from thin air. The Rocco she’d loved and believed in. The Rocco she’d thought could do no wrong, could heal any hurt.

  Then he’d spoken and explained his presence.

  The pain of her present had collided with the grief from her past, slicing her open. What he’d said—

  That Lupe had died instead of Gena. That those men had been after her.

  Gena had been desperate to get away from Rocco then, needing to process his explanation in solitude.

  But she’d no sooner crossed the lobby floor, having left Rocco cooling his heels outside, than a woman she recognized from the shelter had pulled her aside. Pilar.

  “I heard about Lupe,” Pilar had whispered through tears. “She … was my friend.”

  “I’m so—” The unfinished condolence stuck in Gena’s throat.It’s my fault.

  “Here.” Pilar thrust a battered shoebox into Gena’s hands.

  “What’s this?” Gena held out the box, uncertain.

  “Lupe called it her hope chest. Hope for a better future, I think. It’s things she saved: letters, photos, money.” Pilar’s voice broke on a sob. “The police came to search her belongings. But Lupe kept this hidden.”

  “And you want me to turn it over to them?”

  “No! Can you see it gets to her abuela? We promised each other.”

  Lupe’s grandmother. “But how can I find her abuela?” Gena asked.

  “Read her letters.” Pilar looked down the hall just then and grew pale. “Border Patrol! Please, I must go! If they find me here—”

  Don’t ask. “Follow me,” Gena said. “We can leave through the emergency room.”

  Gena had left her battered Toyota parked in the back lot. Thankfully, she kept a spare ignition and apartment key in one of those hidden magnetic boxes. Without it she wouldn’t have been able to follow Lupe’s ambulance to the hospital last night.

  But once outside, Pilar had refused Gena’s offer of a ride. “I left a friend waiting at the bus stop. It is enough that you will take care of this.”

  Lupe’s box.

  Fighting tears, Gena had climbed into her car and given in to the urge to flee, to drive and never stop. But in the close confines, away from the antiseptic hospital scents, the smell of smoke clinging to her hair and clothes gagged her. Before she did anything, she had to get cleaned up.

  Now she was pulling up in front of her apartment. A neighbor was out front washing her car while talking on her cell phone, oblivious to her three children fighting over the water hose.

  The normalcy made Gena ache. She picked up Lupe’s box on the passenger seat and placed it in her lap, staring at it for several seconds before actually getting around to lifting off the lid.

  A photograph taken two weeks ago at Lupe’s birthday party lay on top. Lupe had asked Gena to help hold the cake up for the picture. Then Lupe had laughingly removed all the candles except one. “To celebrate my beautiful cake. It is my first one.”

  Her last one, too. Gena’s eyes overran with tears.

  Maybe Gena hadn’t really known Lupe. Not as best friends did. Or even long-standing casual friends, for that matter. But there still had been a number of important parallels in their lives. They’d known the same fears and heartaches. That they’d fought the same torments gave them a bond.

  Just beneath the pictures, wrapped in plastic, were three of the blue frosting roses Lupe had pried off her cake and air-dried. She had mentioned she was going to send them to her abuela.

  The next layer revealed another photo, this one of an old woman holding a broom, standing in a dirt-patch of a yard and surrounded by chickens. But it was the smile that drew Gena in. And the kindly dark eyes that were so like Lupe’s.

  Lupe had loved her abuela. And somewhere in Mexico an old woman waited for a granddaughter’s next phone call, next letter. How long would she have to wait? How many sleepless nights would pass?

  And when would the fear set in? Not knowing was always worse than the knowing.

  Gena closed the lid on the box, her mind made up. Lupe’s grandmother needed to know what had happened. And Gena needed to get out of town. Screw Rocco and the Agency. She didn’t want a safe house or protection. No one had offered those to Lupe.

  Leaving the box in the car, Gena hurried inside, suddenly frantic to head out. She ignored the pain of the myriad small injuries, showering and washing her hair in record time even though hampered by her sprained wrist.

  After pulling on jeans and a T-shirt, she tossed clothes and toiletries into a small suitcase. The extent of her logistical problems sank in as she packed.

  Her purse had been lost in the fire along with her cell phone and wallet. That meant no debit or credit cards. And no driver’s license.

  She pulled the metal file box out of her closet and dug out her passport and birth certificate. She had a little cash, less than two hundred dollars, which she crammed into her pocket.

  Her credit cards would take days to replace. And any type of request along those lines would leave a trail that could easily be followed.

  She could make it short term without credit cards, could swing by the bank where she knew the tellers for more cash on her way out of town. But there was no surviving without a driver’s license. She was going to have to visit the DMV for a replacement.

  And ultimately crossing into Mexico was going to be risky. If Rocco was right about their connection being uncovered after all these years, then whoever was after him had damn good contacts. Dangerous contacts.

  Gena glanced at the clock on the nightstand. Twenty minutes had passed since she’d left the hospital. Had Rocco discovered her ruse yet?

  Another memory from the past surfaced. Once in desperation, she’d prayed Rocco would come for her … to rescue her.

  He hadn’t. She’d survived.

  And she would survive this time, too. The same way she’d survived every other crisis in her life: alone. She closed her suitcase. Right now, she just needed to get away.

  A knock sounded at her front door. Gena froze, knowing who it was. Would Rocco go away if she didn’t answer?

  The knock repeated. Part of her wanted to open the door and tell him flat out that she wanted nothing to do with him or the Agency.

  Another part wanted to lash out, to make him feel the pain she’d suffered. Did he even realize what she’d been through?

  Moving closer, she peered out the peephole. It wasn’t Rocco, but the man on the other side was vaguely familiar. Tall. Dark. Hispanic. More wiry than muscle-bound. She’d seen him somewhere before.

  It took her several seconds
before she realized where. It had been years ago. During her previous life as an Agency wife. No doubt this man worked with Rocco. Had been sent to collect her.

  She jerked open the door. “Tell Rocco I’m not going anywhere with him.”

  Instead of answering her, the man forced her backward and closed the door behind both of them.

  “Who are you?” she demanded.

  He didn’t reply.

  Alarm morphed into fear. Gena turned to run but he grabbed her arm. She kicked him, hard, her foot connecting with his right thigh as he blocked the blow from its intended target.

  “Let me go!” she cried.

  He did. Suddenly. She stumbled to the side, but as she tried to make a second break for it, he grabbed her arm again, spinning her in a semicircle before snapping her back against his side.

  It was then that she saw the knife in his hand. She went still.

  The man continued to hold her pinned with one arm, leaving the other hand free to flourish the blade in her face.

  He smiled, perfect white teeth sliding slowly into view as his lips parted. “That’s better.” He spoke with a Hispanic accent that was different from what she heard locally. “Come along peacefully and you will not be harmed.”

  Too late, she realized her memory had played her for a fool. Whoever this bastard was, he wasn’t with the Agency. Most likely, he worked for whoever was after Rocco. And chances were he was one of the men responsible for the fire. For Lupe’s death.

  Gena tried to remain calm. Tried to sort through her best course of action while the knife blade brushed along her cheek.

  “What do you want?” she managed to ask.

  “You’ll find out soon.” The man shifted his grip, pressing his fingers into the fleshy part of her upper arm in a quick show of strength. “Now, we are going to walk out of here together, like old friends. If you see someone and give any indication of trouble, I’ll shoot them. Comprende? It’s up to you to protect them.”

  So he had a gun, too? She recalled her neighbor outside, scrubbing her car, with her children.

  The man squeezed harder, causing her to cry out in pain. “Comprende?”

  Gena nodded. “I … I need to use the bathroom.”

  “Too bad.” The man tugged her toward the door.

  “But my suitcase.”

  He ignored her. Dropping his grip to her injured wrist, he tugged her out the door.

  Gena bit her lip against the sharp pain but didn’t complain. Better to keep her good arm free.

  As it turned out, no one was outside. Had the man purposely waited until her neighbor had gone in before approaching Gena’s door?

  “Head for that black truck,” he said.

  Walking slow only caused him to yank her arm. She winced and kept pace.

  When they reached his vehicle, he forced her around to the driver’s side. “Open it.”

  She did.

  “Climb in,” he ordered.

  The man kept his grip on her wrist as he forced her to slide ahead of him across the bench seat.

  He started the engine, but instead of pulling away from the curb, he reached past her, his hand brushing her left knee as he opened the glove box.

  Gena’s stomach sank as he removed a pair of handcuffs. “Those aren’t necessary,” she said. Once he cuffed her, it was going to be even more difficult to get away.

  “That’s not your call.” He shoved the glove box closed.

  “Gena!”

  She turned as Rocco’s voice called out.

  Swearing, her captor grabbed her shoulder and shoved her down onto the seat. The sound of a gun being fired, at close range, was deafening. She screamed as the man fired two more shots out the truck’s back window.

  Rocco. Is he hurt?

  “Stay down!” The man dropped the car into gear and spun away, tires squealing.

  The handcuffs slid off his lap and fell onto the floorboard before disappearing under the seat as the vehicle made a sharp turn. Gena hoped the man didn’t notice.

  He was on his phone now, shouting. “I thought you were watching him! Ah, shit! He’s following me! I need some backup and fast. Head north on Route twenty-one!”

  Relief flooded through Gena. Rocco was alive. Was coming after her.

  The man took another corner sharply, hitting the curb before accelerating. The truck fishtailed, careening to the left. Gena bounced sideways and slammed into the door.

  Go! she thought.

  Wrenching the door handle back, Gena threw herself out of the vehicle. The man grabbed for her, catching her shirt, but couldn’t hold on.

  She fell from the truck. The ground walloped her, stealing her breath with a wicked punch. She tried to tuck and roll, but control was beyond her. She heard gunfire and waited for the bullet to tear into her body.

  Car tires squealed as she slammed to a stop against a tree. Get up! Got to get up! Gotta move!

  Her hands, scraped raw by the pavement, stung as she pushed to her feet. Dizzy, she fell back to the ground.

  “Gena!”

  She heard Rocco’s voice and tried again to get up.

  “I’ve got you, sweetheart.” His arms closed around her, lifting her and holding her close.

  He was safe. She was safe. But Lupe was dead….

  “Why are they doing this?” She no longer fought the urge to cry, to scream.

  Rocco carried her to his car and placed her on the passenger seat. She grabbed his collar. “Answer me!”

  Gently he loosened her fingers. “We’ll talk in a minute. I promise.”

  “I don’t want promises!” But he’d already shut her door.

  “How badly are you hurt?” he asked as he started the engine moments later.

  “I’m fine! Just take me home!”

  “We both know you’re not anywhere close to fine.” He reached for her seat belt and tugged it across her lap, snapped it in place. “For now we need to get out of here before our friend in the black truck returns. So hold on!”

  Chapter Eleven

  Thailand, Uncertain Location

  October 4, Unknown Time

  Madison Kohlmeyer pretended she was still out cold.

  The whispers she heard confirmed someone was nearby. The ever-present nausea burned the back of her throat. She fought it by trying to think of other things.

  So where was she now? Had they moved her again while she’d been passed out? The lack of the telltale foggy headache seemed to support the notion she had not been drugged again. But then her captors seemed to save the drugs for the longer trips, when she was transported in boxes or wrapped in rugs. And truthfully, having woken up in both those scenarios, she’d just as soon be heavily sedated.

  In the beginning, she had welcomed the periods of drug-induced unconsciousness, the relief it brought her from the overwhelming fear. She’d been certain the stern-looking Asian men who’d forced her car off a deserted stretch of road in Virginia five days ago had been bent on killing her.

  They’d pulled her from her car and shoved her to her knees before encircling her. There had been six of them and each one had kept his compact submachine gun pointed at her. They had shouted orders in what she thought was a Thai dialect, as if expecting her to understand. She hadn’t.

  The guy with the light-colored snake slithering around his shoulders had leaned down and touched her hair. “Blond,” he’d said in perfect English.

  She’d cringed, frightened of snakes, frightened of him and his friends. The man had laughed and pointed to his snake. “Blond.”

  They’d bound her hands and ankles and stuffed her in the trunk of one of their vehicles, with the snake. They hadn’t bothered with a gag. She’d assumed because they’d wanted to hear her screams.

  At some point, they had opened the trunk long enough to reclaim the snake and to sedate her.

  When she’d next come to, she had been both bound and gagged, but had been lying atop a pile of coarse straw in what appeared to be a wooden box. After giving her a
nother dose of whatever drug they were using, they had covered her with more straw. She’d listened as they’d nailed the lid in place.

  A coffin.

  They were going to bury her alive and leave her alone to die in the dark. Even as the thought had tried to take hold inside her, the drug’s power had pulled her down into a dark nothingness. But just before she’d succumbed, something had moved in the straw beside her.

  The snake? A rat? Or just her mind serving up one more nightmare?

  She later realized the coffin had actually been a shipping crate. She’d recalled sounds, loud engines, like planes taking off. When they’d next opened the crate it had been to give her water and food. Evidently they weren’t looking to kill her. At least not right away.

  The gag had been left off after that and for what turned out to be a very long and uncomfortable trip. The realization that they had taken her out of the United States had been terrifying. She thought she’d been kidnapped for some sex-slavery ring.

  A drinking straw was poked between her lips at periodic intervals. She drank—even after she figured out the water was laced with drugs.

  She’d woken up in this warehouse yesterday. The three men watching her now were different from the ones who had abducted her. First thing, they’d cut away her clothes and taken photographs. Then they’d dumped buckets of cold water on her, to clean her and revive her.

  One of the men had given her an oversized plaid shirt to wear. She had instinctively turned away, seeking a modicum of privacy while getting dressed, only to have the shirt snatched away.

  She had begged for its return, finally breaking down into hysterical sobs. While language continued to be a barrier, her captors communicated with hand signals, facial expressions, body gestures, and pain. They had openly mocked her by rubbing their fists in their eyes while shouting, “Wah! Wah!”

  Then the men had circled her. She hadn’t been raped or sexually assaulted, but she feared that was about to change.

  Instead the men had pinched and slapped her. Bullied her. She’d been dragged into an adjacent room where a pock-faced man had pressed a cell phone to her ear.