Beverly Barton 3 Book Bundle

by Beverly Barton

  But he did not intend to go down without a fight.

  It would take a while before they arrived at the house. He still had time to play one final game with Nic.

  Trotter and his team of agents spread out over the island, searching for any sign of Nic and Everhart. SA Lance Tillman found Nic’s shoes, the ones with the tracking device. Then SA Charlie Durham picked up her clothing.

  “Goddamn son of a bitch made her strip!” Doug cursed. “We’ve got to find her. Go, go!”

  The island plantation house was set on a grassy knoll. So far it was the only structure, other than a dilapidated fishing shack, that they’d found on Tabora. On Doug’s orders, his men surrounded the house.

  A single rifle shot rang out.

  Someone inside the house was firing on them.

  While Doug and a couple of other agents returned fire, three agents moved in from the back, with orders to enter the house and apprehend the suspect. They all knew, without anyone saying it aloud, that Everhart wouldn’t hesitate to kill Nic. If she was still alive.

  Pudge knew he was not going to die. There was always a way to escape. The FBI agents were closing in on him. It was only a matter of time …

  He supposed that on some subconscious level, he had known Nicole wouldn’t surrender herself to him, wouldn’t exchange her life for Mia’s. But his desire for her, his need to have her under his power again had overruled his common sense. He had risked everything for the chance to punish Nicole.

  And at least in that, he had won the game. She would not leave this island alive.

  She had two hours to live. Two hours to wait for death and perhaps in those last moments, to long for death.

  Pudge clutched his rifle to his chest as he maneuvered through the house, careful to stay away from the windows. If he could get to the cellar, he could make his way to the outside through the exterior cellar door, and once outside, he would make a run for his speedboat.

  If these stupid federal agents thought they were going to capture him, then they were fools. They weren’t dealing with some run-of-the-mill criminal mind, but with a genius.

  Doug and his agents separated, two of them making their way around to the back of the house, while Doug and the others guarded the front and sides of the sprawling plantation cottage.

  “Give it up, Everhart,” Doug called out to him. “We have you surrounded.”

  No reply. Just the eerie quiet of the wind blowing softly, the surf rolling in and out, and Doug’s own heavy breathing.

  “Send Nic out first,” Doug ordered. “Then once she’s safe, come outside on the porch, your hands on top of your head.”

  God in heaven, let Nic be alive. If Everhart had killed her, Doug would never be able to live with himself. If he came out of this alive. If Griffin Powell didn’t kill him for allowing Nic to risk her life.

  “Time’s running out,” Doug shouted. “Nobody has to die here today. It’s up to you.”

  Everhart’s answer was succinct and deadly. Repetitive shots, one barely missing Doug’s foot and another hitting SA Murray in the chest, burrowing into his bullet-proof vest and knocking the agent to the ground.

  Pudge had them right where he wanted them. Scared and begging him to surrender. They wanted Nic. Wanted her alive. As long as they believed she was with him, they wouldn’t storm the house. For the time being, he was safe. And little by little, he was making his way to the cellar door.

  Nobody has to die here today. Pudge chuckled to himself as he replayed the agent’s words inside his mind.

  Oh, but you’re so wrong. Even if I don’t manage to kill any of you, someone will die today. Nic will die. And there is no way you can save her.

  He patted his shirt pocket and laughed.

  His laughter filled the room.

  When he was gone, safely on his speedboat and out in the Caribbean Sea, on his way to freedom, they would find the note. He would leave it behind for them, in the cellar. And none of them, not even Griffin Powell who was sure to arrive at any time, would be able to figure out the clues to Nicole’s whereabouts. Not until it was too late.

  His laughter tapered off and he smiled thinking about Griffin’s reaction when they finally discovered Nicole’s body.

  Nicole’s corpse.

  Pudge crept through the dining room, dropping on his haunches when necessary to keep from being seen through the windows.

  Something was wrong!

  Although he hadn’t actually heard the back door open, he had sensed it, had felt the air rushing into the house, felt the presence of unwanted guests.

  He had not expected them to enter the house, not when they believed he held Nic hostage. Did her life mean that little to them? If so, he had badly misjudged his enemy.

  He had to hurry. Had to make it to the cellar.

  In his peripheral vision, he caught a glimpse of a shadow in the doorway. Pudge pressed himself against the wall, lifted his rifle, aimed and fired. Immediately, the agent returned fire. Pudge dropped to the floor, taking refuge behind the couch.

  Bullets ripped into the soft leather of the Chesterfield sofa as repeated gunfire erupted all around him.

  Lance Tillman motioned to his fellow agent, Charlie Durham, indicating for him to go in the opposite direction and come up behind Everhart through the dining room. Charlie nodded, then slipped away while Lance covered the door leading from the living room into the front foyer.

  Charlie took his time, his movements stealthy, the ability acquired from years of training. He eased into the dining room, edging closer and closer to the door that led into the living room where Rosswalt Everhart was now trapped.

  If the Hunter had Nic with him, using her as a shield, Charlie knew he’d get one shot. One chance to take Everhart out before he killed Nic.

  He managed to make it to the door before Everhart spotted him and opened fire. Charlie dropped and rolled, diving through the doorway and taking refuge behind a heavy wooden desk near the windows.

  As he returned fire, Charlie’s mind registered one single thought: Everhart didn’t have Nic with him.

  How could this be happening? It wasn’t possible that these morons had outwitted him, that they had trapped him between the two of them.

  Pudge’s mind swirled with thoughts, creating hopeless escape scenario after scenario.

  He couldn’t die like this. But he would never surrender, never turn himself over to the FBI. He would kill himself before he let them take him alive.

  His one consolation was that he could savor the last kill in his game. Nicole would die today. He could have killed her quickly, shot her in the head the way he had the others. But a swift death was far too good for her. His obsession with her had, in the end, cost him everything, including his life. He had wanted time with her, time to torture her, to kill her little by little and watch her suffering. But there hadn’t been time for that.

  Pudge’s hands trembled, his finger on the trigger damp with perspiration.

  He didn’t want to die.

  He wanted to escape. Wanted to live. Wanted to …

  There had to be a way. His life couldn’t end like this.

  Think. Just stay calm and think. You’ll be able to figure out a solution.

  He had to kill both agents in order to escape through the cellar.

  How simple. The perfect solution. He smiled.

  All he had to do was kill the agents.

  Feeling confident and invincible, he rose up from behind the sofa, his rifle aimed, ready to do his bidding. He would take out the man in the foyer first, then he would kill the one in the dining room.

  He moved forward, heading straight for the foyer and as he neared the doorway, he began firing.

  Suddenly, return fire startled him. But it was the unexpected sneak attack from the rear that pierced his back with two bullets. He turned and opened fire on the shooter, whose next shot ripped into Pudge’s gut.

  He slumped to the floor, his rifle heavy in his hands.

  That was
n’t supposed to happen. He was smarter than his opponents. He should have been able to kill them both before they shot him.

  He covered his bleeding belly with his hand and stared down at the wound.

  When the two agents moved in on him and one of them knocked the rifle from his loose grip, Pudge looked up at them, moving his gaze from one to the other, and laughed.

  “Where’s Nic?” the younger agent asked.

  Pudge smiled, knowing they would never find her in time to save her.

  The sounds of repeated gunfire inside the house told Doug that his agents were exchanging fire with Everhart. Even though it was his duty to bring suspects in alive if at all possible, he really hoped that in this case the suspect didn’t live to go to trial.

  A few minutes later, SA Durham came out on the porch and hollered, “We’ve got Everhart.”

  When Doug entered the house, the other agents behind him, they found Tillman standing over a man lying on the living room floor in a pool of blood. His eyes were open. Blood and saliva trickled from his mouth. The bastard was still alive, but probably not for long.

  “Where’s Nic?” Doug asked.

  “She’s not in the house,” Tillman replied.

  “I want every room searched again,” Doug ordered. “And if there’s a basement, I want it gone over thoroughly, every Goddamn inch.”

  Doug walked over to Everhart, bent down on one knee, and grasped him by the throat. The Hunter gurgled, choking on his own blood.

  “Where’s Nic?”

  Everhart grinned, then patted his chest pocket.

  The son of a bitch died that way. With a grin on his face and his eyes wide open.

  The water surrounded Nic. Under her, around her, over her. Everhart had submerged her. Buried her alive in a watery grave. She blinked beneath the scuba mask covering her face.

  Why had he strapped the oxygen to her back before lowering her into the water?

  Because he didn’t want to kill her quickly.

  He wanted her to die little by little from sheer terror, knowing that her oxygen supply would eventually run out and she would drown.

  “They’re coming for us,” he’d told her. “But they won’t find you. Maybe not ever. But certainly not before it’s too late. You have two hours to live, Nicole, and then I’ll see you in hell.”

  Nic’s feet touched the bottom of the well. He had tied her ankles with rope, but the knot had been loose so she’d been able to work her feet free. Looking up, she could see daylight at the top. She spread her arms out and up until her hands touched the edges of the well’s rock wall.

  She clawed at the wall, trying to find something to grasp. Nothing. Then she lifted her leg and tried to find a foothold. There wasn’t one.

  She was trapped. With no way out.

  Griff came ashore on Tabora Island, along with Luke Sentell and Josh Friedman, thirty-five minutes after Doug Trotter’s agents had stormed the plantation house. When the three of them arrived at the house, they found Doug sitting on the porch, his shoulders slumped, his head bowed.

  “Where is she?” Griff shouted.

  Trotter lifted his head, then motioned for Griff to come to him.

  Griff took the porch steps two at a time. When he approached Trotter, the SAC held up his hand. Griff noticed a small sheet of paper clasped between his forefinger and thumb.

  “What’s that?” Griff asked.

  “The only clues we have to help us find Nic. Everhart left this in his shirt pocket.”

  Griff reached down, grabbed Trotter by the lapels of his jacket, and jerked him to his feet. They stood there and stared at each other.

  “Are you telling me she’s not here?”

  “She’s here on the island somewhere,” Trotter said. “But Everhart hid her before we got here.”

  “What do you mean, he ‘hid her’?”

  “Take a look at the note.”

  Griff released Trotter. “Where’s Everhart?”

  “Dead. In a shootout with my men.”

  Griff snatched the note out of Trotter’s hand.

  There, in a barely legible scrawl, were the clues that could save Nic’s life.

  Water, water everywhere. Two hours until she dies.

  Beneath the words, a line of oval shapes repeated over and over again. Were they part of the clue?

  Griff crushed the paper in his fist.

  “I’ve got every man out searching the island,” Trotter said. “We’ll find her.”

  Don’t look at your watch again. There’s no point. The last time she had checked the lighted digital face of her waterproof watch, not more than five minutes ago, she’d had an hour of oxygen left.

  One hour to live.

  After Greg killed himself, Nic had wondered what his last thoughts had been. What did a person think right before dying? If a person knew in advance that they had only two hours to live, how would they spend those final two hours?

  How would she?

  Griff’s face appeared in her thoughts. Strong, ruggedly handsome. Ice-blue eyes. Hair so blond it was almost white. He was smiling at her, holding out his arms, asking her to come to him.

  She went into his embrace, loving the feel of him holding her.

  She felt his warm breath on her ear, felt his lips against her neck.

  Don’t ever let me go, Griff.

  While Trotter and his agents scoured the island, keeping in touch with Griff and Luke by cell phone, Griff studied Everhart’s cryptic clue.

  What the hell did “water, water everywhere” mean?

  The obvious was the fact the island was surrounded by the sea. And if he took the quote at face value, how did the rest of it go? “Water, water, everywhere, but not a drop to drink.”

  Could Nic be somewhere near the water and yet unable to drink any of it because it was saltwater?

  Griff tromped across the porch, then back again, repeating the trek as he kept thinking.

  There was no time to put dozens of bureau minds at work trying to decode the clues. And there was no point in calling Sanders. There was no time for that, either.

  Two hours until she dies. Two hours from when? From when she and Everhart first arrived on the island? If so, it might already be too late. Or from the time Trotter and his agents stormed the island? That had been—how long? Well over an hour ago.

  Tick, tick, tick.

  Time was running out.

  Griff sat down on the porch steps, pulled the crumpled note from his pocket, smoothed it out, and looked at it again.

  Everhart’s clues usually involved time and place. And a clue about the woman herself. But since they all knew Nic was the woman, then only time and place were involved.

  Time: two hours.

  Place: Water, water everywhere.

  “She’s in the water.” Griff shot to his feet.

  “What?” Luke asked.

  “Nic. He put her in water.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “No, I’m not sure of anything, but it’s the only thing that makes sense. He submerged her in water. It’s all around here. ‘Water, water everywhere.’”

  Griff walked into the yard and gazed past the dunes and the sandy beach, off into the distance. “He’d have to find a way to keep her alive underwater for two hours.”

  “Scuba gear,” Luke said.

  “Yeah, scuba gear!” Griff shouted. “He put her underwater, with enough oxygen for two hours.” He stopped, balled his hands into fists, and moaned. “We’ve already wasted too much time. We’ll never find her—no, damn it, I won’t give up.”

  “I’ll call Trotter and tell him to get his men into the ocean, just offshore. Everhart could have tied her hands and feet and dumped her just offshore in some shallow water.”

  “If he did that, she’ll soon float out to sea.”

  Luke gripped Griff’s shoulder. “We’ll find her before that happens.”

  “Yeah, we’ll find her.”

  Nic could not stop herself from looking at her w
atch. Ten minutes. Ten minutes of oxygen left. And then …

  She would never go home again, back to her house in Woodbridge. She’d never go back to Griffin’s Rest. Never wake up in Griffin’s arms again.

  Oh, Griff … Griff …

  Don’t mourn for me too long. Don’t build a fortress around yourself and withdraw from life.

  If I could wish one thing for you, it would be that you’ll find happiness again.

  You deserve to be loved. You should get married and have children and live to be a very old man.

  And from time to time, remember me. Remember how much I loved you.

  “We’ve searched everywhere we possibly can. We’ve gone into the ocean and found nothing.” Josh Friedman, wearing only his wet pants, came up to Griff. “Doug has called in backup. We’ll have divers out here in an hour. And they’re sending in search and rescue crews and—”

  “Nic doesn’t have an hour,” Griff said.

  “Yeah, I know. I know.” Josh swallowed. “I’m sorry. I—” He turned around and walked away.

  The murderous rage inside Griff threatened to overtake him. He hadn’t felt such uncontrollable anger since he had left Amara. And he had not known this type of pain, not ever, not even in the four years York had held him captive.

  If he lost Nic, he lost everything.

  Nothing mattered. Only Nic.

  He slid his hand into his pants pocket and pulled out Everhart’s note. As he took one final look at the only hope they had of finding Nic before it was too late, tears pooled in his eyes. When he closed his eyes, several teardrops fell on his hand. He sucked in a deep breath. He blinked several times, then, when his vision cleared, he reread the clues. And that’s when he noticed that one of his teardrops had landed in the center of one of the oval shapes at the bottom of the note.

  “Water, water everywhere.”

  Water inside the oval. Inside the circle. The odd marks beneath the clues were circles.

  Water everywhere inside a circle. Inside a ring. Inside a round bowl.