She tried harder. Apparently Anita, aka Kelly, was involved in all this, too, though not on the criminals' side. She must be a good guy.
So why had the bad guys taken Peter and Marshall? Were Peter and Marshall good guys or bad guys?
More importantly, what about me?
Not now, she told herself. Focus.
Her black boot kicked something that scurried, and she didn't even wince. It was odd to expect to react and then feel nothing. She just kept moving and found a set of stairs leading upward. She took them, and when she reached the door at the top, she pushed it open slowly, peering around it into a dimly lit hall. Sun filtered by a dirt-streaked window at the far end gave enough light to make her blink. Seeing no one, she stepped into the hall and started along it, pausing near each and every door to listen.
She heard only silence.
Then she came to another set of stairs and crept up to the first landing, around it and up farther, but when her head reached above the floor of level three, she ducked quickly.
Someone was standing in front of one of the doors up there.
She pulled a mirror out of her jacket pocket, placed it on the floor above her, facing the man, adjusted it until she could see him, left it there, and settled in for the wait.
Patience, she told herself, was as important as stealth or skill or smarts. And it only came with experience.
I must have been at this awhile, then...whatever this is.
Time ticked past. And she found herself marking escape routes. The stairs that continued up. The window at the far end of this hall, just like the one below. Probably within jumping distance of the ground if you didn’t mind a busted ankle. And the stairs back down again. That was about it, not counting any escape route inside the apartment itself. Number 307, she noted. And the guy standing outside the door was armed, smoking, and flipping through a flesh magazine so old the pages were swollen.
Good. Take a good look, she thought.
She decided to hell with patience and crept up the stairs, making not so much as a sound. When she got to the top, she moved into the hall, in the opposite direction from where he was standing, and ducked into a door well. She had to press herself flat to do it, but hell, it was shadowy. He wouldn't see her.
Then she dug a coin from her pocket and tossed it toward the stairs. It flew perfectly, heading down a whole flight before hitting and pinging and bouncing the rest of the way down.
The guy's head came up fast. He dropped his magazine, lifted his gun, and started down the hall toward her. She pressed flatter, almost melding into the wood at her back.
He didn't see her. He moved down the stairs rapidly.
Kira pushed off from the wall and ran, her feet landing like cat's paws, until she reached room 307. There was no time to hesitate or think it over. In a moment, the guard dog would be back. She twisted to the side, drew her knee to her chin and kicked the door open, then burst into the room, gun pointed.
Marshall wasn't there. Instead it was Peter, standing in the room surrounded by the other men. She lifted the weapon, had the drop on all of them. "Don't even move. Not one of you."
Peter looked shocked as he searched her face. And then she said, "Come on, Peter, I'm taking you out of here."
His brows went up. "You're...rescuing me?"
"No time to explain, come on." She gripped his arm and tugged him with her as she backed toward the door. "Where are they holding Marshall?" she asked, glancing quickly behind her, and still not seeing the guard back in his place.
"Marshall... is one of them,” he said. “He's in on this.”
She frowned at him, shaking her head slowly. "That doesn't make sense." It made as much sense, she knew, as anything else did right now. But if Marshall was a bad guy, then didn't that mean she was, too?
She pressed her fingertips to her forehead, images burning in her mind. Marshall, touching her, kissing her, undressing her....
"Are you all right, Kira?" Peter asked.
"Watch behind us," she snapped. "There's a guard."
"He's coming!"
She spun around, but there was no one there. And then Peter was pressing a cold gun barrel to the back of her neck. "My hero," he whispered. "It's kind of cute, actually, that you don't even know which side you're on. Tell me, Kira, just how far were you willing to go to get me? All the way to the actual vows? To the wedding night? How many times would you have let me have you before you sprung your trap?"
"I don't know what the hell you're talking about." She stood motionless and stiff.
He reached to her hand and took the .44, then slid its mate from the holster at her hip, and the bowie knife from its sheath on the other hip. "Don't you?"
He was running his hands down her body now, feeling for hidden weapons. He found none. Then he nodded, and two of his thugs came forward, one gripping each of her arms. "Bring her," Peter said.
They started forward and Kira kicked one in the shins. The next thing she knew they’d each grabbed a leg as well, and carried her that way, while she tried to wrestle free.
They carried her up another flight of stairs, into a room on the fourth floor, where the first thing she saw was Marshall. And the sight of him wrenched a whimper from her. He was shirtless, his face bruised and bloody, his arms and legs bound to the straight-back chair in which he sat.
He lifted his head when they came in, and his eyes met hers. She felt the connection, felt the concern, but knew those eyes betrayed nothing to anyone else.
"Get the jacket off her," Peter said.
And the men did as he commanded, slinging her jacket to the floor.
"Shirt, too."
They peeled the tank over her head, but they had to let go of her arms to do so, and it gave her an opportunity. She elbowed one in the ribcage and punched the other in the jaw before they had her anchored again. She was wearing the white demi bra that had been on underneath her wedding gown. She hadn't had time to change, hadn't even thought about it.
"Here." Peter tossed them a rope. "Bind her hands at the wrists, then sling them over that beam right there. Keep her from breaking your jaw, at least."
She twisted and resisted as they grabbed her wrists, but her attention was caught by Marshall, who shouted, “Leave her the hell alone. She doesn't know anything."
Peter smiled. "Maybe not. But you do."
Her hands were quickly bound and one of the men slung the rope over a visible beam in the ceiling, where most of the plaster had long since crumbled. They pulled it until her arms were up high, and kept pulling until she was standing on tiptoe. When her weight pulled against the rope, the slip knot tightened, and then they anchored the rope there, so she was suspended on tiptoe.
"Boots," Peter said.
The two thugs bent, each toward one leg, and she pulled up her knees and kicked them so hard they both went down. Shaking his head in anger, Peter lifted a blade and walked calmly over to Marshall. He put the blade to Marshall's throat. Kira could see the sweat on his skin, the corded muscles in his neck, the pulse pounding there, and she went instantly still.
"You give Beau and Krausner any more trouble,” Peter said slowly,” and you’ll watch your wedding planner bleed out on the floor while you hang there helpless to save him. Do you understand?"
She nodded rapidly.
He said their names. He’s gonna kill us.
He looked at the two men, who were dragging themselves to their feet, and repeated his order. "Boots."
They got up and came to her, and she let them take off her black boots. They tipped them upside down in case anything was hidden inside, then tossed them into the corner with her coat
Peter handed the knife to one of the men. “Hold the blade on him, Beau.” Beau quickly took position, holding the knife to Marshall's throat. Then Peter came to her and ran his hands slowly over her hips, up and down her thigh and shin, then repeated the process on the other side.
"Go on, fight me," he told her. "I'd love to give Beau an excuse to slit your lover's j
ugular vein." She jerked her gaze from Marshall’s to Peter’s. “Did you think I didn’t know about the two of you?”
“I don’t really care what you know.” She tried to act tough, but she was hanging there in a demi-bra and leggings and every man in the room was eyeing her with a predatory hunger. Except for Marshall. He was looking protective and furious. Peter put his hands on her bra cups, squeezing, feeling for hidden weapons. When he found none, he smiled and squeezed harder. Marshall lunged toward them, his chair coming up off the floor, but Krausner decked him, knocking him onto his side on the floor, chair and all, while Beau just stood there with the knife. Slow on the uptake, that one.
She gritted her teeth, but didn't cry out.
Peter lowered his hands. "Can't blame me for being careful, Kira." He walked over to Marshall, bent over him and righted the chair.
"So, Agent Waters, are you ready to tell me exactly what evidence your friends in the Drug Enforcement Administration have on me, or shall I just tell the boys to make use of Kira in whatever way they like until you're ready to talk?"
Chapter 8
The words Drug Enforcement Administration were still ricocheting through Kira's brain when Peter turned his attention to her again. "Let's start with something simple, while your partner thinks about his options," he said.
She tried not to let her confusion show on her face, but her gaze shot to Marshall's all the same. Her partner?
Peter clasped her chin in his hand and turned her head until her eyes locked with his. "How did you find your way here?"
She let her eyes roam his face and wondered what she’d ever seen in him. He had pale, cold eyes, and a sharply angled jawline that suggested a mean streak.
“How did you find this place?” he asked again.
“How do you think I found it? By throwing darts at a map? I followed you."
He lowered his head, shaking it slowly, then he turned away from her and nodded at one of his men.
The thug drove a fist into Marshall's stomach so hard Kira grunted in pain along with him. He doubled over as much as the ropes holding him would allow, head down, mouth open. She thought he was going to vomit, but he didn't.
"Wrong answer. Would you like to try again, or are you going to let us kill him?"
Lifting her chin, she met his eyes. "You're not gonna kill him until he tells you what you want to know."
"Wrong, darling. We can get the same information from you."
She smiled slowly. "You think so? Well, you'd better have someone fill me in first, because I don't know jack."
"Lies. Your memory has returned, otherwise you wouldn’t be here, dressed like that, guns and knives lining your clothes."
"I found my things in the attic while searching for something in my past that would be a good enough excuse not to marry you. And then, even though I knew it was over, I still came here to try to rescue you from the bad guys. I didn't realize you were the biggest piece of shit in the sewer."
He backhanded her. Her head snapped sideways, and pain rang through her skull like bells in a bell tower. But instead of making her cry or cower, the strike energized her. A flood of adrenaline in the form of courage shot through her entire body, and it was fueled by anger.
She touched the corner of her lip with the tip of her tongue, tasted blood, looked up at Peter and smiled. “You’re gonna regret that.”
Peter held her gaze and couldn’t hide the quick widening of his pupils, or the sudden flare of his nostrils. He was afraid of her.
He turned away fast, but she’d already seen the truth.
"She did not follow us here. You two go outside, search the area. Someone led her back here, and I suspect it was Duke. If you find him out there, kill him."
The two rushed to obey.
That left Peter and just one henchman in the room with her and Marshall.
I like those odds.
Peter said, "You, watch them.”
“Where you going, boss?”
“We're clearly going to need something a little more potent than our fists to make these two talk. Besides, my knuckles are getting sore." He turned to Kira. "I'll be back, darling. Maybe with a set of cables and a car battery."
"I can hardly wait. Promise I get to go first?"
He glared at her before slamming out of the room. His thug didn’t wait two seconds before he took a careful look around the room, gave a nod, and stepped into the hall. Apparently to watch them from there. Thank God for idiots.
Kira released her breath all at once, then focused on Marshall. He looked like hell. Face all cut and bruising, lip bleeding—that was just the damage that showed. "Are you all right?" she asked.
He lifted his head, met her eyes, nodded once. "Good call, pretending you still don't remember anything. It probably kept me alive."
She looked right into his eyes, kind of got lost in them. "I wasn't pretending. I really don't remember anything. I mean I do, but I don’t. It’s all there, but it’s like a library of data just exploded in my brain. Pages everywhere, and I don’t know what goes with what."
He stared at her as if her words were not quite translating in his brain. "But your hair—your clothes—"
"I found a photo among my things in a trunk in the attic. I thought if I put the clothes on, did my hair the old way, maybe it would shake something loose. Help me remember."
"But you charged those guys. You fought and you shot as if you knew how."
"Yeah. I know. All that surprised me as much as anyone, I guarantee you that much. It wasn't like I thought about it first, I just did it. It was as if instinct took over.”
He looked her up and down. “And the attitude?”
She licked her lips and thought about that. “It’s like the old Kira just takes over my motor functions, speaks through my mouth, moves through my body. But she doesn’t feel like me, yet.”
“She does to me,” he said, and his eyes said more. His eyes said he’d missed the old Kira and was glad to see her again. “You’re gonna be okay.”
"I know I am.”
He didn’t look worried. He looked happy. And then he snapped out of it, and checked out the room. But his eyes kept coming back to hers, like they were irresistibly drawn there, over and over. “How about the weapons?” he asked. “Were they in the same trunks in the attic?"
"Yeah." She tore her gaze from his, looked around the room at her discarded clothes, and smiled slowly. "Yeah. And some of them are still in here with us."
He sent her a questioning look, and she nodded toward her boots, still lying in the corner where Peter had tossed them. Then he smiled, too. "That switchblade I bought you in Cairo is still in the boot?"
She blinked. “You bought it for me?”
“Yeah. It used to be one of your most prized possessions. You don’t remember?”
“I knew it was special to me.” She stretched out one leg as far as she could, but her toes came short of the boot.
"I can get over there, chair and all," Marshall said.
"Yeah, and make so much noise, that dumbass outside will hear you and come running. Just gimme a second." She looked up, then carefully clasped the rope in her hands, pushed off with her toes, and began to swing. It was a pathetically small arc at first, but she swung farther with each repetition until finally, she managed to grab the boot between her feet. She swung back toward Marshall and tossed the boot to him.
It landed right at his feet with a small thud.
She let her swinging subside and balanced on her toes once more.
Marshall stood the boot upright with his own feet, then let it stand on its own as he began to move his chair, making as little noise as possible. His hands were tied behind him. He had to maneuver them to where the boot was. He went slowly, but inch by painstaking inch, he managed to turn his chair around.
"Your left hand is four inches above the boot," Kira told him. “The upper has kind of lopped over.”
"Okay, got it." He pushed with his feet tipping the chair
back onto two legs.
"Almost," she said. "Another inch. Be careful or you’ll go all the way over, and they’re sure as hell gonna hear it if you do.”
He tipped further. The chair teetered. He was going to tip over!
But he didn't. His fingertips found the edge of the boot, then ran along the inside. He located the hidden pocket and pulled out the blade. It was about six inches long, folded, and had a jade hasp engraved with hieroglyphics. He touched the emerald button. The blade popped open as he lowered his chair to the floor again.
"Now," she told him, "don't try to free your wrist. You'll never be able to do it." She eyed the knots, the ropes. "Looks like he looped your wrists then wrapped the rope around the back of the chair, and then back to your wrists. If you can cut that rope near the chair….”
He twisted his wrist in an impossible angle, found the rope with the blade and began to saw. Kira held her breath as he dragged the blade back and forth, and strands curled away. Finally, it gave. He dropped the knife, then fumbled with the rope, tugging until his hands were free.
"Hurry, Marshall, they'll be back."
He nodded, picked up the blade, and made quick work of slicing through the ropes wrapped around his ankles. Then he come to her, reaching up above her. He had to stand very close to reach the rope that was looped over the beam. Very close. His body was pressed to hers as he slid the razor-edge over the rope. She felt the give when it was fully severed and lowered her feet to the floor. God, it was a relief not to be on tiptoe. She quickly freed her wrists, then rolled her shoulders a few times. It didn’t bring much relief.
She ran her hands down the outsides of her arms, rubbed her wrists where the rope had left angry red ridges, then looked up to see Marshall staring at her, and was reminded that she was damn near naked. He, she thought, hadn't forgotten it for a minute. "So you're not a wedding consultant.”
That drew his eyes up to hers. "No."
"Peter said DEA."
"Yeah."
"He called me your partner. Just what kind of partners are we?"
His eyes grew darker, she thought, before he averted them. And there might be a little more color in his cheeks than had been there before. "We'll have time to talk about all that later." Turning, he snatched her clothes from the corner, the tank top, the jacket. "Get dressed," he said, handing them to her. "And make it quick."
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