Long Gone

by Marliss Melton

  “And let you deal with these bastards by yourself?” Connor set his jaw. “I don’t think so. They’re heading toward the highway, by the way.”

  “I can see that.” Gunning through a red light, Drake managed to avoid losing sight of the van completely as he swung down a ramp off Harrelson Blvd. onto Route 17. Gratitude toward his father sat like a fat pill in his throat—necessary for his health, but uncomfortable as hell.

  “Hang back,” his father advised. “Let’s keep the element of surprise here.”

  Drake slowed his speed. It was no easy feat to avoid being seen on the scantily populated, six-lane highway. Hiding behind a semi-truck first then changing lanes to get behind a car, he held back as far as he dared to avoid being glimpsed through the van’s side mirrors.

  “I know how to do this, Dad,” he mocked. “How long has it been since you’ve been on the streets?” He immediately reined in his tongue. Now wasn’t the time to vent his bitterness, especially when his father was lending a helping hand.

  Connor ignored his jibe. “I can’t believe they’re driving on a flat tire,” he commented, as they passed a strip of tire lying on the road. “So, I assume you’ve got a plan?” he asked a minute later.

  Drake tightened his grip on the steering wheel. As usual, he was making this up as he went along. “I just want to get her somewhere safe,” he said.

  “And you don’t want to involve the LE, right?”

  Damn right he didn’t. Local law enforcement would be out of their league and in the way. “The less people involved the better,” Drake said.

  “Okay, so I counted three of them. We should take them down now, while we know what we’re dealing with.”

  “You want me to push them off the road?” Drake balked at the thought. “Skyler could get hurt. They could use her as a hostage.”

  “True.” Connor crossed his arms and frowned. “Plus, I’d like to know where the hell they’re headed.”

  “Next exit,” Drake supplied, as the van gave every indication of exiting the highway.

  He edged into the left lane, making it look like he planned to go straight. At the last second, he horsed across three lanes of traffic and up the ramp just in time to see the van lumber down a long, tree-lined road. The last of the tire was peeling away, and the rim sparked on asphalt.

  Braking at the stop sign, Drake waited for the van to slip around a curve before accelerating after it.

  By the time he got close enough to see it again, it was listing heavily and turning into a marina. Boats, big and small, had been pulled out of the water for maintenance, crowding a large graveled enclosure. The road dead-ended at a building next to a pier accommodating several more boats. This early in the morning the small mechanics operation hadn’t opened its doors yet. Not a soul was in sight.

  “Pull in over there.” Connor pointed as Drake braked to avoid being seen.

  Complying, he nosed the sedan in the shadow of a landed sailboat. “Why is there a marina this far inland?”

  “We’re next to the Intercoastal Waterway.” Drake glanced at Connor for a split second. Clearly, his father as a pilot who’d studied hundreds of maps over the years had a better grasp of the terrain.

  However, the realization that Centurions intended to take Skyler away by boat had Drake shaking off his seatbelt and throwing open his door. He shot out of the car, desperate to stop the thugs from taking her anywhere. Instinct warned him that there wasn’t a moment to lose. He could hear his father following closely behind, whispering for him to slow down, as he crouched his way through the trailered boats.

  The van had backed right up to the pier, adjacent to a huge yacht. Weak sunlight buttered the yacht’s sleek curves as it swayed gently at its moorings.

  From their hiding spot, Drake and Connor watched as the tallest of the three goons carried Skyler from the van while his cronies went to work changing the flat tire.

  Even unconscious, with her hair tinted auburn, she looked like an angel—an angel in pink, plaid pajamas. Drake’s lungs expanded at the sight of her.

  As they approached the yacht, a thick-set gentleman with receding hair stepped out from under the awning on the main deck. His casually chic clothing screamed money, as did his aristocratic accent when he spoke.

  “There you are. Step aboard,” he called out.

  “Holy hell, is that who I think it is?” Connor’s whispered words reflected astonishment.

  Drake took a closer look, recognition exploding in his mind. “Ashton Jameson,” he breathed, recalling that the man had once been Skyler’s fiancé. Connor had worked like hell to implicate him in racketeering, but there’d been a frustrating scarcity of evidence.

  Clearly Jameson wanted to punish Skyler for betraying him. The tall man carried his victim on board, and Jameson gloated down at her. “Bring her in,” he said, turning toward the expansive-looking cabin. Drake’s gut knotted as they disappeared behind sliding glass doors.

  “What do you want to do?” Connor asked.

  Drake eyed him in surprise. Was his father really asking him to call the shots? “We wait for the three stooges to leave,” he decided. “Then we go after her.”

  Connor nodded. “Okay.”

  Drake narrowed his eyes. “That’s it? You’re not going to pull rank or call in the U.S. Marshals?”

  Connor avoided eye contact. “I don’t think they’d get here in time, do you?”

  Drake didn’t want to think about Jameson’s immediate plans. “No.” He looked back at the yacht. Every muscle in his body spurred him to rescue Skyler now.

  At last, the tall man reemerged, stuffing money into his rear pocket. Stepping off the yacht, he hurried back to his accomplices who were tightening the lug nuts on their spare. Drake counted the seconds until the van finally drove off.

  As it disappeared, Jameson emerged from the cabin long enough to shout up at the pilot house. “Take us home, boys.”

  “Shit,” Drake muttered as two lanky men in uniform sprang into view on the uppermost deck.

  With an “Aye, aye, sir,” they descended the myriad steps to prepare the yacht for launch. Jameson ducked back into the cabin, shutting the glass door behind him.

  “Three against two,” Connor muttered. “You know, if you maim or kill anyone, you can kiss your career good-bye.”

  Drake rolled his eyes in disgust. “We’re not going to kill anyone. Just trust me and follow my lead.”

  With an overblown gesture, Connor signaled for Drake to lead the way.

  Together they crossed the gravel yard toward the pier. The deckhands took note of their approach, glanced at each other, and stopped untying the yacht from its moorings.

  “Morning,” Drake called, stepping up to the Julius Caesar with outward confidence. Of course, Jameson would give his boat such a pompous-ass name. “I hope I’m not late.”

  The men frowned at him. “Late for what?” one of them demanded.

  Drake shot him a look of feigned exasperation. “Mr. Jameson didn’t tell you? Must have slipped his mind. I’m Tom Keane,” he introduced himself, “with U.S.A. Yacht Sales.” He fished a business card from his wallet. “He asked me to stop by this morning and appraise the value of his yacht.” Traversing the gang plank he handed one of the deckhands his card. “He thinks he might trade this baby in for one of my newer models.”

  The older man looked at the younger. “Did the boss say anything to you about this?”

  The youth shrugged. “No, Skipper, but he gets a new boat every year, don’t he?”

  “Yes, he does, and he buys them from me,” Drake smoothly inserted. “I’m sure it just slipped his mind. He did say he was busy lately. How about I take a quick look around, then you can fetch Mr. Jameson when I’m ready to assess the cabin. I brought my mechanic with me.” He jerked his thumb toward his father, who sent the men a nod.

  “Why don’t you show my mechanic the engine room,” Drake suggested to the junior deckhand. “That way, I can get started up here and it’l
l go faster.”

  “I’ll go get the boss,” the older man decided, backing toward the cabin.

  “Sure, if you don’t mind disturbing him,” Drake said easily. “He must be pretty distracted to have forgotten our appointment.”

  The skipper backtracked toward Drake and jerked his head at his underling. “Go ahead and show him. What do you wanna look at first?” he asked Drake.

  “How about the pilot room? I’ll start up there and work my way down,” Drake suggested. “A boat’s only as good as her engine and pilot rooms, wouldn’t you say?”

  The skipper didn’t say anything. Gesturing for Drake to precede him to the upper decks, he remained a safe distance behind him until they reached the pilot room. There he went straight to the phone by the wheel and picked it up, turning his back to Drake for the first time. “What did you say your name was again?” Clearly, he’d changed his mind about alerting Jameson.

  That was Drake’s cue to bring the man to his knees. He did so with a well-executed chop to the neck.

  Even then, the skipper put up a good fight, forcing Drake to render him unconscious with a sleeper hold. Once the man went limp, he bound his hands behind his back using the phone cord and gagged him with a rag.

  That done, he hurried down the steps in search of his father, trying all the while not to dwell on what might be happening to Skyler, who’d been alone with Jameson all this time.

  Chapter Four

  A throbbing pain brought Skyler’s hand up to her temple. She cracked her eyes open only to squeeze them shut again as nausea rose up and the pounding intensified. Dear God. Why was she lying on her back in so much discomfort?

  The memories came flooding back—how she had foolishly opened the door to a stranger, been overpowered, and forced to breathe chloroform vapors. She jerked upright, only to be yanked back by something biting into her right wrist.

  Rolling her head upon a pillow, she peered up at the handcuff chaining her wrist to a brass headboard. Her eyes flew wide as she took in the odd dimensions of an unfamiliar bedroom. The built-in cabinetry and rounded window drove home the realization that she’d been stowed aboard a boat.

  One of her father’s favorite methods of disposing of problematic people was taking them out to sea—and never bringing them back.

  Yanking on the handcuff, she tried desperately to slip her hand through, only the cuff had been cinched too tightly. She fell back onto the leopard-patterned coverlet, defeated.

  There was no denying the truth. They had found her.

  A barb of terror lanced her chest and nausea roiled in her again. With a moan of misery, she leaned over the edge of the bed just in time to keep from retching on herself.

  She felt better with an empty stomach, but before she could gather her thoughts to devise a means of escape, footsteps sounded outside the door. The knob turned and the door swung inward. The familiar visage of the man stepping into the room brought a gasp of recognition to her lips as he shut and locked the door behind him.

  Ashton Jameson, her one-time fiancé and a dedicated Centurion.

  The blood drained from Skyler’s face as he drew closer, smirking. Dressed in khaki shorts and a yellow Bermuda shirt, he looked like he might have been vacationing in the Gulf for the summer tan on his broad face.

  “I see you’re finally awake,” he drawled in his Charleston, old-money accent as he surveyed her critically. Sniffing the air, he peered around the bed and spotted the stain on the rug. “My mother was right,” he said with distaste. “Not only are you a bitch, you’re not even housebroken.” Laughing at his clever metaphor, he circled the bed to stand on the opposite side.

  The terror she’d suffered moments before receded. While she knew that she was dealing with a monster, she knew this monster. Ashton might be cruel, but he was also lethargic and dull. At least with him, she stood some small chance of escaping.

  A quick inventory of every object near at hand showed nothing she could use for a weapon. She would have to rely on herself, then. Grabbing the brass headboard, she pulled herself into a sitting position, every muscle in her body braced for his attack.

  But rather than jump on her, he sat on the edge of the mattress, causing it to dip and her to roll toward him. He stretched out a hand. The moist pads of his fingers grazed her cheek as he slid them from her cheek to her left breast, squeezing it hard. Repulsed, she forced herself to hold his snake-like gaze. A show of fear would only goad him.

  “All those weeks when you belonged to me,” he muttered, breathing hard, “you kept your thighs together like a Vestal virgin. Turns out you were sleeping with your federal agent, weren’t you?”

  Reaching for the waistband of her pajama pants, he tried yanking them down over her hips, but Skyler resisted, and his efforts got him nowhere. “You can’t stop me from taking what’s rightfully mine,” he threatened, leaning over her.

  Seizing her chance, Skyler jabbed her free thumb into his right eye and jackknifed her legs at the same instant, making brutal contact with his groin. WITSEC’s mandatory course in self-defense paid off. With a bellow of agony, Jameson reared back and toppled off the bed.

  With grim satisfaction, she watched him curl into a ball on the floor, one hand over his groin, the other over his right eye. But her victory, she knew, was only temporary.

  “You bitch!” he screamed. “You fucking bitch! I swear you’ll regret that move.”

  As she waited for Jameson’s inevitable recovery, remorse plunged through her. She and Drake had come so close to being reunited. So close. Now she would never again know the joy of feeling his arms around her.

  **

  Flying down the steps to the main deck, Drake drew up short to see his father leaning against the door to the engine room, catching his breath. His left eye was already beginning to blacken and his upper lip was cut and bleeding.

  “So, I’m a little out of practice,” Connor admitted, returning Drake’s astonished stare with a belligerent look. “The kid was a martial arts expert.”

  “Uh-huh.” Drake looked around. “What did you do with him?”

  Connor held up a set of keys. “Locked him in the engine room.” He gestured toward the sliding glass doors. “I can hear a struggle near the front of the boat,” he added more gravely.

  His words tore at Drake, causing him to wheel toward the glass doors, intent on getting to Skyler now.

  His father leapt in front of him. “Slow down, there, hotshot. Your silver tongue might have gotten you this far, but Jameson is probably armed and not averse to killing us on sight. We need to catch him off guard.”

  “Luckily, he’s not expecting us,” Drake retorted. Retrieving his pistol, he checked to see that his clip was full. His muscles quivered with rage. “You might have to keep me from killing the SOB.”

  Connor produced his own pistol from under his shirttail. “That sounds like something I would say.”

  Drake narrowed his eyes at him. “Don’t kid yourself. You and I are nothing alike.”

  Connor’s smile faded. “You’re probably right, son. Come on.” He gestured toward the cabin’s entrance. “Let’s get Jameson.”

  **

  Ashton was recovering faster than Skyler had bargained for. As he pushed himself off the floor, still huffing with pain, she twisted onto her knees to face the headboard. Though it was bolted to the wall and tugging on it wasn’t going to free her, still, she had to try.

  A glance over her shoulder showed him crawling closer. Blood dribbled down one side of his face. His right eye was a pulpy red mess; his left eye burned with hatred. Oh, God.

  Gone was his intention to rape her—she could tell that at once. His next words confirmed it.

  “Now you’ve asked for it. I was going to end this quickly and painlessly, but not now. Oh, no. I’m going to drag it out for days. You’ll be begging for mercy by the time I’m through cutting you to pieces.”

  The words came as no surprise. She’d known of the mob’s torturous techniques since
she’d read her mother’s journals. Her only hope was to lose consciousness early on and never wake up again.

  He lunged suddenly, making a grab for her ankles, but a quick heel-strike to his face foiled that intention. The delicate bone in his nose cracked. Jameson howled in rage and lunged again. Manacling both ankles at once, he yanked her knees out from under her.

  Skyler’s temple plowed into the brass bar, so hard that her head rang. She willed oblivion to overtake her, but with a painful tug on her hair, Jameson kept her conscious.

  His weight pressed her hard against the mattress. He fumbled for a moment in his pocket. The sound of a jackknife springing open made her blood freeze. “I think I’ll feed your flesh to the sharks.”

  The cold bite of a blade against her ear made her blood roar. Squeezing her eyes shut, she envisioned Drake to give her courage.

  A deafening crash had her eyes flying open. Ashton sprang off the bed, allowing her to crane her neck in time to see two men surge through the door that now listed on torn hinges. Pointing their guns at Ashton’s heaving chest, they shouted, “FBI! Get down on the ground!”

  Thank God! Boneless with relief, Skyler watched Ashton point his switchblade at her rescuers and back away, blubbering threats. The younger of the two men kicked the blade from his hand while the larger tackled Ashton to the floor, grappling him into submission in seconds.

  Then the first man pivoted toward the bed.

  “Skyler.”

  She blinked to clear her vision as he joined her on the mattress, his gaze skimming over her for evidence of harm.

  “Drake?” She caught his face in her free hand so she could be certain. His features, faded from memory after four long years, were suddenly, dearly familiar. “Is it really you?”

  “It’s me, baby.” His chocolate brown eyes reflected a tangle of emotions ranging from delight to fury upon finding her chained to the bed.