by Joyce Lamb
The boat took off and bumped through some rough waves before leveling off.
The fight drained out of her by slow degrees. She went limp, her wrists awash in her own blood, and closed her eyes.
"What do you remember?" Nick asked.
Ryan winced as he steered with one hand and tried to ad-just his arm in the sling. A doctor had removed the bullet and given him painkillers, but the discomfort was still intense. "The son of a bitch shot me. The next thing I knew I was in the ER. He took her." Please let her still be alive. He glared at the notebook computer on Nick's lap. "What's taking it so long?"
"It has to boot up. You're sure she's still wearing the watch?"
"Yes. I think so." Damn it, he couldn't remember. His head was killing him.
"Okay, here we go," Nick said. He tapped keys, manipulated the button that controlled the mouse. "It's working. Holy shit, there she is." His voice rose with ex-citement.
Ryan strained to see the computer screen, almost driving off the road in the process.
Nick grabbed the dashboard. "Watch where you're going."
Ryan focused on the street, blinking back the moisture that had blurred his vision. "Where is she?"
Nick squinted at the screen, his fingers flying over the key-board. "Let me check the coordinates."
"Come on, damn it. Hurry."
"She's moving. Looks like she's in the Gulf."
"In the Gulf?" Ryan asked. "How can that be?"
"They must be transporting her by boat."
"Nielsen's got an island. Didn't you say he's got an is-land?"
"Yeah, it's private," Nick said. "The feds have been trying to locate it for months."
"That must be where he's taking her," Ryan said. "We need a boat. A fast one."
"We can take mine. It's at the marina." Yanking out his cell phone, Nick flipped it open.
"What are you doing?"
"I'm calling Delilah at the FBI," Nick said. "She can call out the troops, meet us there."
"No, that's too risky. I don't want—"
"We can't take on Nielsen and his henchmen by ourselves, Ryan. We need help."
Meg gauged that half an hour passed before the boat slowed and she heard the hull thump against what she as-sumed was a dock. She didn't move when the compartment door opened and Turner ducked into the area. His cowboy boots clunked hollowly on the wooden floor before he flipped on a light.
Meg blinked against the brightness as he moved, wolf-like, to stand at her feet. Curling his fingers into the front of her shirt, he pulled her, almost gently, to her feet and removed the gag. "How are you at begging, baby?" he asked.
Meg showed no reaction when he grabbed her breast. His grip was strong, bringing tears to her eyes, but she waited. Waited even as a grin spread across his mouth, and his eyes narrowed with desire. "Damn, you're going to be a sweet piece," he said.
He locked his arms around her and drew her flush up against him. Stiffening, Meg almost panicked before she felt his fingers working at the knot in the cord that bound her wrists. "You're going to need your hands for this," he said, his breath hot on her neck.
At the same moment that her hands, slack from lack of cir-culation, fell free, she seized Turner's shoulders and drove a knee into his crotch. He dropped to the floor with a howl and curved his body around the pain. One side of his jacket flopped open, revealing the butt of a gun.
In two scrambling strides, she was on him, her hands inside his jacket. Her fingers closed on the gun, and she yanked it free, triumphant for only an instant before a shadow came at her from the side.
She fumbled with the gun with hands that were numb and clumsy. Too late. Strong hands snatched her around the waist and heaved her against the wall.
She broke the fall to the floor with a hand that bent unnaturally back. Agony shot up her arm and into her shoulder, and the compartment took a slow, sickening spin. Seeing Dillon barreling at her, she raised the gun and jerked the trigger. Nothing happened. Damn it, damn it, damn it. It wasn't cocked.
Dillon grabbed her by the collar and savagely slammed her against the wall. Her back cracked with the impact, and when he let go, she landed hard on her butt, pain zipping up her spine. She held onto the gun by sheer luck. As he bent down to grab her again, she aimed it at his face and cocked it.
His eyes crossed when he focused on the weapon. "Shit."
Meg would have smiled, but her head was spinning, little firecrackers of pain exploding in her back and wrist. She cra-dled her injured wrist in her lap, fighting to recover the wind he had knocked from her. "Back off."
He obeyed, raising his hands palms out. "Easy, easy," he said.
Turner groaned as he got to his knees.
"Tell him to be still," Meg said, scrunching up one shoulder to stop the sweat running down the side of her neck. She was soaked with it.
"Stay where you are, man," Dillon said.
Turner lurched to his feet on the other side of the room.
Meg leaned her head back against the wall to catch her breath. "Tell him."
"Don't do anything stupid, Turner," Dillon said. "The lady's got your gun."
"Fuck me," Turner said.
"We're both screwed if you don't behave," Dillon said.
Meg braced an elbow on the wall behind her and used it to help her get to her feet. Her legs were weak, as if she had just ridden a bicycle up a steep hill. Pain was bursting in her side and back. The son of a bitch had probably busted some ribs when he'd thrown her into the wall. She shoved the weakness back. "Get your hands up."
Dillon obeyed as sweat tracked his scar to the corner of his mouth.
"Where are we?" Meg asked.
"Island in the Gulf."
"Slater Nielsen lives on the island?"
"He owns it." Dillon shot a nervous glance at Turner, who was dancing from one foot to the other in agitation. "Be still, you idiot. You're making her nervous."
"What happened to my friend?" Meg asked.
Dillon gave her a baffled look. "Turner shot him."
She bit back the grief that surged to the surface, forced herself to focus. "The woman you kidnapped. Her name is Dayle. Where is she?"
Dillon wet his lips. "I had orders."
"Is she dead?"
"Listen, lady, the boss told us to get rid of her," Dillon said.
"Give me a straight fucking answer. Is she dead?"
He swallowed. "Yes."
She took a moment to absorb that, tempted to pull the trigger and find solace in vengeance. Both men watched her in trepidation.
Gesturing with the gun, she said, "Turn around."
Dillon hesitated.
"Slowly. Any fast move I'll consider a threat. I'm not kidding. I have nothing to lose."
"All right, all right," he said. "Just take it easy."
He lunged for the gun.
She jerked back from him in shock and felt his hands clamp around hers. They both hit the wall, and the gun went off. His body twitched once before he dragged her to the floor under him. Squirming violently, feeling the warm rush of blood, she was mindless to anything but getting out from under him. Blood was everywhere. On him. On her. She pushed at his chest but couldn't budge it. She saw his eyes open and staring.
Her body arched like a bow, and she screamed. Kept screaming even as Turner pulled Dillon's body off. He tried to grasp her arm to pull her up, but she hit him in the face. He reeled back, then came at her again. Raising the gun over his head, he swung it down at her.
A blinding flash of pain at her temple lit up the inside of her head. The light went out.
"How close are we?" Ryan shouted over the roar of the speedboat's engine. Visibility in the dark was minimum, but a moon that was almost full provided some relief. The wind against his face was cold, but his shoulder was on fire. His stomach burned hotter, however, with fear for Meg.
"Maybe a mile," Nick shouted back. He was standing next to Ryan, hunched over the computer balanced near the boat's controls. "Keep heading
west."
Ryan gritted his teeth as the boat plowed through a large
wave, jarring his shoulder.
"Are you sure you're up for this?" Nick asked. "If he touches her, I'll kill him." "Jesus, Ryan, don't say that."
"I'm saying it because I'd go through you or anyone else to do it, so don't get in my way."
Chapter 29
Margot paced the bedroom. Slater had told her to go to bed, as if his brutes were not about to deliver her sister for one ex-press purpose. To die.
She paused in her pacing as nausea rolled through her. When the sickness passed, she sat on the edge of the bed, a fist curled against her stomach, aware of the pink satin comforter that wrinkled under her. She hated everything about this room. Its pinkness was a joke. She had only wanted what she had not had as a child—pretty, girl things. Dolls and dollhouses, frilly dresses and real china tea sets.
The door slammed inward as if it had been kicked in, and she jolted to her feet. Turner Scott stood there, staring at her in shock. Her sister hung limp as a rag doll in his arms, her head fallen back over his forearm, one arm dangling. She was covered with blood.
"Oh my God," Margot breathed.
Turner carried Meg into the room, his gaze fixed on Margot's face. "What the fuck?"
"What did you do to her?" Margot demanded.
"I didn't do shit to her," he said, dropping Meg on the pink satin comforter. She didn't react to the rough handling.
"Is she breathing?" Gingerly touching her fingers to Meg's throat, Margot felt a strong but erratic pulse. Then her gaze fell on the raw skin circling both of her sister's wrists. She'd been tied up. Margot whirled, ready to take a swing at Turner, but he had retreated to the door.
"Who is she?" he asked.
"She's an innocent woman," Margot said. "You brought an innocent woman here to die."
"If she's related to you, she's hardly innocent."
"That's warped and you know it."
"The bitch killed Dillon. If Slater hadn't wanted her so bad, she'd already be dead." He walked out, slamming the door behind him.
Behind her, Meg stirred, a low moan escaping her lips.
The sight of the blood brought Margot's nausea storming back, and she put a hand on the bedpost to steady herself. When she had her stomach under control, she bent over her sister and tried to locate the source of the blood. It took her several moments to realize it wasn't Meg's.
Her knees weak with relief, she went into the bathroom and wet a towel. Then, sitting on the edge of the bed, she wiped blood from Meg's face. At her temple, she discovered a nasty bump. "Oh, baby, this is not good," she said.
Meg's eyes fluttered open, and she stared up at the ceiling, disoriented.
Margot touched a knuckle to her sister's cheek. "Hey." Meg's gaze shifted to her, and Margot tried to give her a re-assuring smile. "You're okay. Everything's okay."
A long moment passed before Margot realized that the stare Meg had fixed on her was vacant. "Meg?"
"They're both dead."
Margot flinched, and the knot in her stomach tightened. "Who?"
"Dayle and Ryan." Meg braced herself on her elbows.
"They killed Dayle and Ryan," she said. A shudder shook her, and she sagged back to the bed. Rolling her head away from Margot, she curled her fingers around the corner of the pillow. "They're gone."
Margot was back in Beau's house, stumbling around with his blood on her hands, so racked by grief she could barely walk. The grief she had felt then was just as intense as what she felt now, but another emotion accompanied it. This one had teeth. Vengeance.
"We're going to get even," Margot said, leaving the bed. She paced to the foot of it and back again. "I don't know how, but we're going to rip his fucking heart out. That bastard."
Meg's eyes slid closed. "It won't matter."
Margot leaned over her sister. "Did you hear what I said? We're going to make him pay." Her voice rose. "Are you lis-tening, damn it?"
Meg didn't move.
"Don't do this to me." Margot glared into her sister's pale face. "I want you to get up. Get up right now."
Nothing. Not even a twitch.
Margot went to the dresser and found a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. Her fingers were clumsy as she put a cigarette between trembling lips and lit it. "You're next, you know," she said in a shaking voice. "He's going to put a gun to your head and make me watch while he pulls the trigger. He might even torture you a little first. It's all about payback. Is that what you want? Is it? Answer me, damn you." She put the cig-arette out. "Damn it, I'm not going to let you give up. You're all my kid has going for it."
Grasping Meg by the shoulders, she hauled her into a sit-ting position. Then, locking her hands under Meg's arms, Margot half-carried, half-dragged her across the room and into the bathroom.
"You're not broken," Margot said as she maneuvered her sister into the shower stall. Pinning her against the wall, she grasped Meg's cheeks with one hand. "Do you hear me? I re-fuse to let you retreat this way. Catatonic will not cut it, Meg." She waited for a response but got none.
"Goddamn it." She fumbled with the cold water.
When the water struck her, Meg jerked. But Margot held her and directed the water onto her. She felt her sister begin to shudder, felt her own shaking. Felt everything start to come apart inside her. First, Beau. Then, Holly. And now . . . when would it end? When would it be over? Would her child ultimately become a victim as well?
"Do you think this is what I wanted?" she asked on a hitching breath. "All I ever wanted was for someone to treat me right." She clamped her eyes shut against the tears. Damn it, she couldn't afford to cry. "Before Beau, Slater was the only one in my whole pathetic life who tried to make me happy. I didn't want to see that it was bad because I desper-ately wanted for it to be real. God, I was a stupid, stupid kid."
Opening her eyes, she looked at Meg, whose teeth had begun to chatter. Sorrow tore through her. "I can't get through this without you," Margot said. "Are you hearing me? I can't get through this without you."
It took her a moment to realize that Meg had focused on her. Easing her weight back, Margot was suddenly self-conscious as Meg leaned her head against the tile. Margot touched her sister's hair, tried to offer comfort, but Meg lifted her shoulder against the contact. She pushed weakly at her until Margot released her.
Covering her face with trembling hands, Meg slid down the wall. At Margot's feet, she rested her forehead on her knees and took several deep, gasping breaths.
Margot shut off the water. Silence filled the bathroom, marred only by the trickle of water down the drain. She reached out to touch her sister but paused with her fingers an inch above her shoulder. Her throat tightened, and she pulled her hand back. "I'm sorry. I know it doesn't help."
When Meg raised her head, her eyes were dry. The dull pain in them seemed to Margot far worse than hysteria, far more volatile.
"What are we going to do to make him pay?" Meg asked.
"It's the partner of Turner Scott," Ryan said, nudging the dead man's arm with the toe of his shoe. He and Nick had stum-bled over the body tossed onto the beach a few paces from where they had slogged through shallow water to shore. They'd left the boat, dark and silent, anchored several yards out.
"Shot in the chest," Nick said.
Ryan choked back the need to be sick and lowered his head.
"You all right?" Nick asked.
"Damn it."
"Want to rest a minute?"
Ryan clenched his jaw against the terror that they would come across Meg's body disposed in a similar manner. His stomach heaved, and he threw up in the weeds.
"Let's rest," Nick said.
"No! I'm fine."
"Ryan, you're about to collapse."
"I'm fine," he repeated, and took a deep breath. "Let's find the house."
But Nick was pivoting away from the path leading inland. "What's that?" he said, pointing. "Out there on the water."
Ryan
squinted against the dark. "Lights."
"A shitload of lights. It's got to be the feds."
"Excellent. Let's go."
"Hell, no. We're waiting for them," Nick said.
"I'm not waiting," Ryan wheezed. "Meg doesn't have time for this."
"I'll coldcock you if I have to, pal. We don't even have a decent weapon."
Ryan jerked his chin at the stun gun Nick clutched in one hand. "What do you call that?"
"I sure as hell don't call it decent."
"Keep it handy anyway," Ryan said, plowing into the underbrush.
Nick, whose only other choice was to abandon his friend, followed.
Chapter30
After the shower, Margot forced Meg to stand still for an in-ventory of her injuries. Myriad bruises and welts flared in red, black and blue along her arms, legs and back, and Margot worried about cracked ribs and internal injuries.
"How's your wrist feel?" Margot asked as she removed Meg's watch and examined where its silver band had made shallow cuts in her flesh. "Do you think it's broken?"
Meg focused on the watch in Margot's hand. "That's yours."
Margot frowned as she flipped it over in her hand. She'd never seen it before. "No, it's not." Setting it aside, she went back to her examination. The knot on her sister's head trou-bled her more than anything, and she could tell it hurt like a son of a bitch every time Meg moved her head.
As Meg secured her robe, Margot told her to sit on the bed while she fetched aspirin and water from the bathroom. "You probably have a concussion," she said, handing them over.
Meg swallowed the pills and didn't respond.
Margot looked into her twin's shell-shocked eyes and felt hatred for Slater, ugly and potent, slide through her stomach. It was bad enough what he'd done to Beau. But this . . . "The bastard won't know what hit him," Margot said.
>
Meg left the bed in favor of the window. It was dark outside, the grounds illuminated by several spotlights. A healthy wind blew through the trees that dotted the yard, and she watched them bend, snap straight, then bend again as another gust struck them.
Taking jeans and a green polo shirt from the closet, Margot dropped them on the bed. "Why don't you get dressed?"
Meg nodded but didn't move.
