by Zara Chase
They looked focused yet calm in their cargo pants and sleeveless vests—attire that made them look like millions of others guys on a Florida weekday morning. The only difference was the miniarsenal of weapons, and perhaps the combat boots that were a bit hot and heavy for the climate.
Her eyes burned into one handsome profile after the other, loving them all, grateful to them for wanting to help her when they didn’t need to, especially after they’d had everything they could possibly want from her. Weren’t men supposed to go cool when they’d got their collective ends away?
“Okay, babe,” Troy said. “You know what to do while we’re gone.” She nodded, but he spelt it out anyway. “Keep all the doors locked. If anyone knocks, don’t answer, and if you have any concerns at all, ring one of us straight away.”
“Our phones will probably be on vibrate,” Adam said. “We can’t afford to have them going off if we’re trying to keep out of sight, but we’ll check them regularly.”
They all turned toward the television when the talking head, a little breathlessly, announced breaking news.
We’ve just heard that the body of Miami business man Salvador Gonzalez has been found in a Mexican back street. He had been beaten and shot.
All three guys reached out to touch Porcha. The news flashed pictures of a dirty back street in Mexico, “experts” pontificated, hinting at his connection to the drug cartels, but Porcha barely heard the words.
“Well, now it’s official,” she said, wondering why she didn’t feel anything at all. Sal had robbed her of the essence that made her the person she was, but he’d still been her husband, and she’d loved him once. In some respects, she always would.
“Says so on the news, so it must be true,” Beck said, but there was sympathy rather than flippancy in his tone.
“The king is dead, long live the king,” muttered Adam.
Porcha fixed him with a gaze. “What do you mean?”
“If this was about Woollard wanting to take over Sal’s drugs business,” Troy said, “he had to let the world, or more specifically, Sal’s rivals, know that he was in control.”
“I’m surprised he waited so long for Sal’s body to be discovered,” Beck said. “I would imagine the sharks are already circling.”
“You gonna be all right, babe?” Troy asked, slipping an arm round her shoulders. “Want one of us to stay with you?”
“No.” She expelled a deep sigh. “I’ll be fine. You guys go and finish this thing.”
“Keep that little gun of yours close by, just in case,” Beck added. “Not that we anticipate any trouble this end, but it’s best to be prepared.”
“Do you need to go already?” Porcha had never been a needy person, but she had a bad feeling about this and was suddenly afraid to let them go. “There’s over an hour yet before I’m supposed to be at that mall.”
“We need to set ourselves up there,” Troy said. “If Woollard thinks you’re gonna be there, he’ll be early as well.”
“Oh, I see.” She wrapped her arms round Troy’s neck and kissed his lips, repeating the process with the other two. “Stay safe, all of you,” she said censoriously. “And get back here as soon as you can.”
“Count on it,” Adam said.
“Whilst you’re gone, I shall amuse myself by dreaming up a few games that I might like to try out on you all later.” She fluttered her lashes at them in a deliberate effort to lighten the mood. “Am I allowed to make suggestions or will that get me punished?”
The guys were laughing as they headed for the door that led to the stairway to the garage.
“Lock the door and shoot the bolts after us,” Troy said. “We’ll honk the horn when we come back so you know it’s us and can let us back in.”
“Who else would it be?”
“That’s what worries me,” she thought she heard Troy mutter.
Porcha listened to their truck roar into life, heard the garage door open and close, and locked herself in upstairs as instructed. She slipped her little gun into the back of her jeans and wondered what she was supposed to do with herself now. The house seemed very large and very empty without the guys. She wandered into the kitchen, but there was nothing for her to do there. They were meticulously neat and tidy and never ate without clearing up immediately afterwards. Military discipline, she supposed.
She gravitated toward the living room, stared out at the water, but couldn’t settle. In the study—Troy’s territory—she glanced at all the various screens, with no idea what half of them were for. She ran her finger down the spines of hundreds of books, all well read. But reading was out of the question, as was watching television. The discovery of Sal’s body was everywhere, and she didn’t want to hear what they were saying about him.
Too on edge to settle to anything, Porcha continued her restless prowl round the house with no idea what she was looking for. She invaded each of their bedrooms in turn, able to identify which room belonged to whom because each guy expressed his personality in the few possessions he kept in his space. Apart from obsessive neatness, the one thing that all had in common was that they didn’t carry any emotional baggage. No pictures of wives, girlfriends, parents, siblings. No old letters, greetings cards, or sentimental knickknacks. It was as though they were ready to take off and not come back at any given time.
That knowledge depressed Porcha and also told her all she needed to know about her relationship with the guys. She was a temporary distraction, nothing more than that, and once Woollard was taken care of, she’d be expected to move on.
“Get real, Porcha,” she said aloud. “You’ve always known that. Make the most of it whilst it lasts and then let them go without making a fuss.”
Back in the living room again, she slumped in a chair and flicked through a magazine with no idea as to its subject matter. It could have been Mercenaries’ Weekly for all she knew, or cared. It probably was. She glanced at her watch for what had to be the thousandth time since they’d left, and sighed. They had to have been gone for more than two hours, surely?
The phone rang, sounding unnaturally loud in the otherwise-quiet house, making her start violently. They hadn’t said anything about not answering the phone. Besides, it could be them checking on her. She grabbed the receiver.
“Hello.”
“Is that Ms. Ballantine?”
Porcha’s heart rate increased at the sound of the unfamiliar female voice. Phone calls from strangers almost always spelt trouble. “Who wants to know?”
“This is Tampa General Hospital, ICU.”
Hospital? “Yes,” she said cautiously.
“This is Ms. Ballantine?”
“Yes, it is.” And how the hell did a hospital know where to find her? “What can I do for you?”
“We have a Mr. Ganelli here—”
Porcha gasped. “Georgio?”
“Yes, he’s had a heart attack, I’m afraid. We didn’t know who to call, but he kept saying your name, and we found your number in his pocketbook.”
“How bad is he?”
“He’s stable but mostly unconscious, and I’m afraid the prognosis isn’t good.” The nurse paused when Porcha didn’t speak. “We thought you might like to know.”
“I’ll be right there.”
Porcha hung up, frantic with worry. Her first thought was how to get to the hospital. There were two flashy cars in the garage that Beck lavished tender loving care on, and she knew how to open the garage door. The guys wouldn’t be happy, but she’d ring them and leave a message so they’d know where to find her.
“Slow down, Porcha, and think this through,” she said aloud. “There’s no rush. Georgio isn’t going anywhere. Why does this feel so contrived?”
Common sense kicked in as soon as her panic subsided. Even if Georgio did have her name in his pocketbook, which, given how cautious he was, was extremely unlikely, he wouldn’t have had this telephone number as well. Her heart thumped against her rib cage. Someone knew where she was and was trying to get
her to leave the house. Panic trickled down her spine.
How? How had they found her?
She picked up the phone again and dialed Troy. It went straight to message divert. Damn! She left a brief account of what had happened. Then she went into the study and picked up the secure line Troy had used to call Georgio, dialing his number from memory. Something told her Georgio was alive and well and giving his staff merry hell in his downtown Tampa offices. She sure as hell hoped so, anyway.
Before she could place the call, a miniexplosion rocked the building and the front door flew in. Porcha froze for a moment. Hell, what to do? She glanced round the living room, all out of options. If she went into the yard she’d finish up backed against the water. Porcha was petrified of water and couldn’t take that chance. If she went upstairs they’d simply follow her up there. There was only one thing for it. She’d just have to fight it out.
Feeling icily calm, Porcha ran into the study, crouched behind the desk and aimed her gun at the four armed men who charged up the stairs.
Chapter Fifteen
“He ain’t coming,” Adam said into the wrist microphone that, Secret Service–like, kept him in communication with the others.
“I think you’re right,” Troy agreed.
They’d been here for almost an hour now watching ordinary people going about their business. The time for Porcha’s rendezvous had been twenty minutes ago, and no one was lying in wait for her. They knew that for a fact. One or all of them had eyeballed every person and vehicle that had entered the small strip mall in the last hour, and nothing had triggered their suspicions. They’d visited all the business premises, too, both front and back, and found nothing untoward.
“There’s a woman with no mirrors in her house at four o’clock,” Beck said.
Troy chuckled as he saw an overweight woman wearing a skirt that revealed way too much thigh waddling in his direction. Leave it to Beck to liven up a dreary stakeout.
“Let’s give it another quarter of an hour and then meet back at the truck,” Troy said.
He pulled his phone from his pocket and checked his messages, keeping half an eye on the mall, convinced now that they were wasting their time. His heart rate increased when he saw one missed call from his home number. He listened to Porcha’s message, black ice trickling through his veins when he heard what she had to say. Why the hell hadn’t he taken the call? It wasn’t like he’d exactly had his hands full when he felt it vibrate in his pocket.
Panic was briefly replaced by relief when she said Georgio’s illness had to be a hoax and she didn’t plan to leave the house. She was pretty damned smart. Most women would have hit the ground running and asked questions only when it was too late. Then Troy realized what the message actually meant, and panic came crashing in on him again with twice its previous velocity.
Someone knew where she was.
“Back to the truck now!”
Troy yelled the order to the others, running in that direction and hitting the button on his phone that would connect him with home. It rang and rang without being answered, which is when he knew why he’d felt so uneasy about this entire setup. They’d been second-guessed the whole way, and as soon as they were out of the house, Woollard had moved in on Porcha. Or bloody soon would. If she didn’t dash out in response to the bogus hospital call, they’d find a way to get in. Their home was a fortress, and the average person would never get past first base if they tried to break in. Woollard, as Sal Gonzalez’s right-hand man, had to be anything but average.
Adam and Beck joined him at a run, not the slightest bit out of breath. All that training paid off when it counted most. Beck took one look at Troy’s face, slid behind the wheel of the truck, and gunned the motor.
“What’s happened?” Adam asked.
Troy filled them in.
“Shit!” Beck floored the accelerator. “We need to get to her before anyone else does.”
“When I get my hands on Woollard, he’s a fucking dead man,” Adam said.
“You’ll be right in line behind me.” Troy’s jaw ached as he ground his teeth with impotent rage.
Beck did a smooth overtaking maneuver to get past an old lady hogging the middle of the road and took the next left exit on two wheels. It was at times like this that Beck’s pride and joy, his Dodge truck, came into its own. He’d spent hours tinkering with it, and it could now outrun just about anything else, especially with Beck behind the wheel.
Never had its qualities been in greater need.
“What’s the holdup?” Troy asked Beck, who was already doing twice the speed limit.
Beck slammed his foot down a little harder.
“I can’t believe we fucked this up so comprehensively,” Adam fumed.
Unfortunately, Troy could.
* * * *
Porcha knew there were four of them. She could see their feet from beneath the desk, could hear them talking in Spanish, making no attempt to keep quiet. Well, why would they after they’d made such a racket getting in here? They knew she was alone and didn’t feel threatened, which was their first mistake. Porcha, far from being afraid, felt deadly calm. She even found time to wonder why Woollard had sent Mexicans to do his dirty work. She’d thought he’d come himself for this one. Perhaps he’d gone to make sure the guys got held up. Whatever. She probably wouldn’t be able to fight all four of these thugs, but she’d sure as hell get one or two of them before they got her. They probably had orders to take her alive, whereas she had no compunction about lessening their joint life expectancy.
What to do? They were tearing through the living quarters, throwing things aside, breaking things, turning furniture over, simply because they could. It was only a matter of time before they found her in here. There was no place to run, and she had an urgent desire to protect the guys’ rooms. She absolutely didn’t want them ransacked. She didn’t want them polluting the playroom, either.
As one of them stuck his head round the office door, she stood up and smiled at him, keeping her gun out of sight.
“Looking for me?” she asked.
He blinked in surprise, and then a slow, satisfied smile spread across his face as his gaze travelled the length of her body.
“Found her,” he shouted to the others. “Come on then, love,” he said. “The boss wants a word with you.”
“Certainly.”
She offered him her sweetest, most innocent smile. He responded with a smile of his own, just like men always did when she smiled at them. He’d lowered his gun, still grinning and smacking his lips. His expression was almost comical when she raised her own weapon and he realized what she intended to do. Before he had a chance to do anything to defend himself, she placed two neat shots clean through the centre of his heart.
He crumpled to the floor with a look of abject shock on his face, just as his buddies crowded round her. Before she could get any more shots off, one of them knocked the gun from her hand and twisted her arm up her back. Big mistake, buster! She slumped against him, waiting for him to loosen his grip and relax his guard. The moment he did so, she used the same technique she’d practised on Beck, utilizing his own body weight to throw him over her shoulder.
He landed on the desk so heavily that the wood cracked, as did the man’s arm. He cried out, swearing prolifically in Spanish. Porcha wished she’d dumped him down harder, at the same time glad that Troy’s precious monitors merely wobbled on the broken desk but didn’t slide off it. Why that should matter at a time when she was fighting, at the very least for her freedom, she couldn’t have said, but such was the disjointed nature of the thoughts that spiralled through her mind.
By now, the two other guys were taking her more seriously. She, a helpless female, had killed one man and injured another. That wouldn’t go down well with Woollard. He hated sloppy workmanship.
“Come on, love,” said the guy who was obviously their leader. “We have orders not to kill you, but no one said anything about not hurting you.”
Po
rcha was beaten. Any slim hope that the guys might have picked up her message faded as she reluctantly moved toward them. It was either that or have them forcibly remove her, and the thought of them pawing her made her skin crawl. As she forced her feet forward, the phone rang. She automatically reached for it, but the boss man placed his hand over it before she could pick it up.
“I don’t think so.”
Porcha shrugged. “I guess they’ll have to call back,” she said, her attitude so matter-of-fact that she could see her captors didn’t quite know what to make of her.
The guy with the broken arm struggled to his feet, holding his useless limb beneath the elbow, howling and grousing, his eyes shooting daggers at Porcha.
“What shall we do about him?” one of them asked, pointing to the dead man.
“Let’s leave him for her friends to dispose of.” The boss spat on their dead colleague. “Stupid fuck shouldn’t have flirted with the girl. He got what he deserved.”
Thoughts of being at Woollard’s mercy resurrected Porcha’s fighting spirit. After the joy of being with her trio of lovers, she absolutely would not submit to a prig like Woollard. Whilst the one of the remaining able-bodied guys helped his injured buddy, Porcha assessed her options. The boss grasped Porcha’s arm firmly, and she allowed herself to be dragged toward the front door. Her opportunity came when the boss eased his grip on her whilst he checked to see if the coast was clear. The other guy had to hold his buddy up since he was in some distress. Big men did cry, it seemed. She vaguely wondered where Woollard had found them. They didn’t look familiar. Must have come back from Mexico with him, she supposed.
As soon as the grip on her arm was released completely, Porcha spun in a circle, hoping to catch the boss’s throat in a scissor action between her legs. Unfortunately, the space was too confined, and she had to make do with bringing her knee up into his groin. It was her final chance to break free, and she put all her pent-up anger behind the move. Boss man howled, a combination of surprise and pain, instinctively doubling over to protect his now-damaged goods.
