by Irene Hannon
Only the glow from the trunk light broke the dense darkness, giving his face an otherworldly aura as he bent forward to move a . . . concrete block?
Before she could verify what she thought she’d seen, he shut the trunk and struck off for the woods, shovel in hand.
In moments he was out of view.
Great.
Lowering the binoculars, she debated her options. She could sit tight and wait for him to come back—but it appeared the action was going to take place elsewhere.
She had to follow him.
At a distance.
As she crept forward, the clouds shifted, bathing the night in moonlight, and she hesitated. This was trickier. She’d have to be very careful to stay in the shadows to avoid being spotted. On the plus side, though, she might be better able to see what Blaine was doing without getting too close.
The sound of a shovel hitting dirt guided her, and when she spotted him through the trees she found another spot to wedge herself into. Training the binoculars on him, she watched him pause to brush aside some debris, then continue excavating.
Within minutes, it became clear he was digging a hole.
A very big, rectangular hole.
Big enough to hold a body.
Her stomach clenched.
Okay. Time to call in the big guns, as Cal had once said. This was getting hairier by the minute. She’d use some pretext to get the cops out here. Say she’d stumbled across someone who was hurt. That should produce a fast response.
And if, by some slim chance, Blaine had come to the woods late at night to dig holes for jollies, she’d pay the consequences for the false alarm. No way was she going to hang around for absolute proof of her suspicions. She didn’t have the stomach for that.
Besides, she’d taken too many risks for one night anyway.
Because if Blaine had killed Olivia and buried her in the woods, he’d kill again if he was discovered.
Sucking in a deep breath, Moira lowered the binoculars.
She was out of here.
Tactical bag in hand, Cal straightened his jacket with a shrug of his shoulders. At least this job hadn’t required ties. Then he followed Connor down the aisle of the private jet, Dev bringing up the rear.
It was good to be home.
William Santel was waiting for them at the bottom of the gangway and shook each of their hands in turn as the co-pilot unloaded their luggage from the compartment on the side of the plane.
“Thank you, gentlemen. I appreciate your professionalism and thoroughness. Once I put myself in your hands, I never worried about my safety for a minute.”
“That’s why we were there.” And why you paid us the big bucks. But Cal left the latter unsaid as he took the man’s hand.
“I hope you’re feeling better soon. I had a similar bout on one of my first visits to Mexico and I never forgot it.” Santel gave Dev a sympathetic smile. “I appreciate your efforts in spite of that impediment.”
“My colleagues picked up the slack and did the bulk of the work. Let’s hope this doesn’t convince them I’m expendable.”
Cal studied him. He must be feeling better if he was starting to joke again.
“I doubt that. I’ll say my good-byes here. And I’ll keep you in mind for future trips.” With a lift of his hand, Santel climbed into the car that had pulled onto the tarmac to greet him.
As the vehicle drove away, the pilot emerged from the plane, holding a BlackBerry. “Did one of you leave this behind? I found it stuck between two seats.”
Cal checked his belt in unison with his colleagues.
The holster was empty.
“Mine’s missing.” Cal retraced his steps to the top of the gangway and took it from the man. “Thanks.”
“No problem.” The pilot disappeared back into the plane.
Cal rejoined his partners, and after collecting their duffel bags they headed toward the small terminal.
“Lucky he spotted that or you’d spend half the day tomorrow tracking it down.” Connor gestured to the device on Cal’s belt.
“Yeah. I guess it fell off when I was trying to find a comfortable position before I zoned out.”
“Wouldn’t surprise me, the way you were sprawled on the seat with your mouth hanging open.”
Cal shot him a dark look. “Why are you so perky, anyway? You didn’t get any more sleep than I did.”
“Secret Service training.”
“How come I’m not buying that?” Cal didn’t attempt to hide his skepticism.
Connor chuckled and pulled open the door to the terminal. “Okay. Try this. I’ve learned to do with less sleep thanks to my on-the-job experience of trying to keep up with the vice president.”
“Better.” Cal followed him into the building and slid the BlackBerry off his belt while Dev made a beeline for the men’s room. “Give me a minute to check messages, since I was obviously out of touch for a couple of hours.”
“No problem. I need to return an email, anyway. And I want to make sure our friend is up to driving before we take off too.” He gestured toward the door where Dev had disappeared after dumping his duffel bag on a chair in the waiting area.
As Connor moved off a few feet, Cal crossed to an upholstered chair and sank down into the plush softness. Nice. Day and night difference from the attached chairs in the main commercial terminal at Lambert, his usual departure point when he travelled. Those were designed for utility and durability, not comfort.
Tapping in his access code, he stifled a yawn and leaned back against the cushions. Wishing he had a little more of Connor’s fortitude.
“You have three messages.”
As the automated voice intoned, he pressed the button to listen to the first voice mail. His sister. Sounded like she just wanted to chat. He pushed the skip button, making a mental note to give her a call tomorrow.
At the message from Moira, however—left an hour ago—he straightened up.
She was tailing Blaine? A probable killer?
What was she thinking!
Stomach clenching, he stood and jabbed at the button to play the third message that had been left twenty minutes ago, pacing as he listened.
She’d followed Blaine to his neighbor’s property by car, then continued the surveillance on foot. Leaving her exposed. Vulnerable.
And she’d never called back with the promised update.
“What’s up?” Connor slipped his own BlackBerry on his belt as he walked closer. Across the room, Dev pushed through the door and joined the group.
Cal gave them both a fast download, dialing Moira’s number as he spoke. It rang once. Twice. Three times. Rolled to voice mail.
His gut twisted.
“She’s not answering.” He shoved the BlackBerry onto his belt. “I need to get out there. I’m halfway to the property already from here. Dev, if you drop Connor at home, I can take the Taurus.”
“If there’s any trouble, it’s not a one-man job. I’m in.” Connor snagged his bag and strode toward the parking lot.
“Me too.” Dev grimaced as he picked up his own duffel, clearly still experiencing the aftereffects of his bout with Montezuma’s revenge. “But if you want to drive, I won’t argue.”
Without waiting for a response, he, too, started for the exit.
Cal’s throat tightened as he fell in behind them. This kind of unified front was one of the reasons he was glad the three of them had hooked up to form Phoenix—not to mention the skill set each of them brought to the table.
But he hoped the strong tactical expertise in their tool bag wouldn’t be needed tonight.
22
Balancing a shovelful of dirt, Ken froze as the mechanical strains of “Für Elise” shattered the stillness of the dark woods.
A phone was ringing—and it wasn’t his.
Someone was nearby.
Watching him.
Tossing the shovel aside, he ducked into the shadows of the dense woods and took off at a run toward the Beethoven melody as
it came to an abrupt halt.
But he didn’t need the music anymore. The crashing sound of the interloper scrambling to escape through the brush guided his steps.
He increased his speed, pulse pounding, fear clawing at his throat. That phone didn’t belong to a couple of underage kids seeking a secluded spot to drink beer or smoke pot. Not with a classical ring tone. Besides, kids would have been more interested in socializing than in stealth.
Someone was spying on him.
Someone who’d already seen too much.
Someone he had to stop.
Up ahead, he caught sight of a shadowy wraith weaving in and out of the trees, heading back toward the road. Moving more quickly than him.
Panic swelling, he pushed himself harder.
And then, out of the blue, the heavens smiled on him.
The figure stumbled. Went down on one knee. Lurched upright.
It was only a brief falter. But those precious seconds gave him the advantage he needed.
Yet as he closed the gap between them, a sickening realization seared itself across his brain.
Tonight’s mission had just gotten a lot more complicated.
Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!
The rebuke drumming in her mind, Moira scrambled to her feet, adrenaline surging. How could she have forgotten to turn off her cell? And why hadn’t she paid more attention to her footing instead of trying to snag the phone from her pocket? The damage had already been done the instant it rang. Now she’d lost her lead.
And Blaine was hot on her heels.
A sob caught in her throat as she stumbled toward the gravel road. It would offer fewer impediments to her progress than the thicket, and she didn’t have to worry about the crunch of gravel underfoot giving her away anymore. If she could get to her car and lock the doors, she might be able to drive away before he could smash a window and stop her.
But her throbbing ankle was protesting with every step. Slowing her down. Giving him an advantage.
She could hear him gaining on her.
Pushing herself forward as fast as she could, she caught a glimpse of her car. Almost there. In another fifteen seconds she’d—
Something slammed into her legs.
She went down in a hard belly flop, her hands skidding on the gravel, her cheek burning as it slid over the loose stones.
Gasping, she tried to force her lungs to kick back in.
They refused to cooperate.
And then Blaine’s weight was on her. Fingers closed over her neck, squeezing hard. Harder.
Her vision blurred.
No! She fought against the waves of blackness. I’m not going to let him win!
Mustering every ounce of her energy, she writhed beneath him. Trying to throw him off.
But he didn’t budge. Didn’t say a word. All he did was breathe. She could hear the harsh intake of air. She knew it was his; her own supply of oxygen had been shut off.
The world began to fade, and blackness pulled her down again, deeper and deeper as she clawed at the relentless hands that had an iron grip on her throat.
This wasn’t how she’d expected her simple little surveillance gig to end.
But as her consciousness ebbed, as her limbs stopped cooperating, she had one consoling thought.
This time, Blaine wouldn’t get away with it.
Because unlike Olivia Lange, she had people in her life who cared—and who’d make certain justice was done.
You’re killing her.
As the warning echoed in Ken’s mind, he loosened his grip on the reporter’s throat. He hadn’t seen her face, but he knew it was her—the woman who was bent on destroying everything he’d worked so hard to build.
But choking someone to death . . . he couldn’t do that. Morphine was a far better alternative. Gentler and more humane.
Except he hadn’t brought any with him.
So what was he supposed to do with her?
Resting one hand on the ground, Blaine leveraged himself to his feet and looked down at her crumpled form, forcing the left side of his brain to engage. If the cops were on her side, if they believed her story, they’d be here, not her. Maybe she was working an investigative angle. Hoping to break a story that would earn her another Pulitzer prize nomination.
Not going to happen.
A few feet ahead of her, on the drive, her silver cell glinted in the moonlight. Thank goodness it had rung and alerted him to her presence. But if it was equipped with GPS, as most were these days, it could also lead the authorities to her when someone reported her missing—as someone would. Her father, at the very least. She’d told him they had a good relationship. Like the one he’d had with his own father.
It was wrong to cause a father worry—but he couldn’t have the police swarming all over the place.
With one more glance at her motionless body, he strode over to the phone and smashed the heel of his work boot onto it. Once. Twice. Three times. After a final grinding motion, he picked up the mangled piece of equipment and tucked it in his pocket. Later, he’d lob it into the lake.
Behind him, the reporter moaned and stirred slightly, and he moved back beside her. Who should he deal with first, Olivia or Moira? The hole was half dug out back. Olivia could wait, however; she wasn’t going anywhere. Moira, on the other hand, could cause trouble. But what was he going to do with her?
His hands started to shake as his brain shut down.
One thing at a time, Ken. Concentration is the key to success. Always remember that.
His father’s voice from long ago echoed in his mind, and he took a deep breath. Another. His racing pulse slowed. His mind began to clear.
Better.
Okay. It made more sense to focus on this new complication first. Think through his options. The cabin would be the perfect place to do that. He’d always liked sitting in the rustic kitchen, where life seemed simpler and more straightforward. Yes. A few quiet minutes there would help him put his thoughts in order, make some plans.
Dropping down to one knee, he turned Moira Harrison over, hefted her up, and staggered back to his feet.
Funny. She felt a lot like Olivia had in his arms.
And even though he intended to think this through, he was pretty certain she was going to have to meet a similar end—even if nightmares plagued him for the rest of his days.
Because the welfare of God’s children had to come first.
She was being carried.
The jostling, plus the grunt of exertion, clued Moira in to her situation as consciousness seeped back.
Ignoring the burning sensation on her cheek, the pain in her throat, and the ache in her ankle, she peeked out from under her eyelashes.
Blaine was carrying her—and they weren’t outside anymore. She could see walls.
Were they in the neighbor’s cabin?
And how long had she been out?
Not long, most likely. She doubted he’d have let her lay out there while he finished his other task. He must have scooped her up at once and was now bringing her inside.
A door banged shut, as if he’d kicked it closed behind him. Then he laid her on the floor, turned away, and disappeared into the adjacent room.
She felt for the car keys in her pocket. Still there.
Thank you, God!
She worked them out and gripped the autolock device in her fingers. With him in the other room, this could be her best chance to escape.
Perhaps her only one.
Sitting up as quietly as she could, she waited for a wave of dizziness to pass. Rose. Crept toward the door. Eased it open.
It squeaked.
Loudly.
At the muttered oath behind her, she yanked the handle back and took off, praying the adrenaline spurt would give her the speed she needed to beat him to the car, despite her injured ankle.
But she didn’t make it past the porch.
As she started down the two wooden steps, fingers gripped her arm and yanked her back.
So s
he did the next best thing.
She screamed.
An instant later, a hand was clamped over her mouth.
She bit it.
Another oath sounded behind her—but Blaine didn’t loosen his grip. Instead, he towed her back inside, her heels dragging across the wooden floor of the porch.
Although she fought him as best she could, the man was far stronger than she was, his grip around her midsection like a vise.
After he kicked the door shut behind them again, he let her squirm and struggle as he sucked in air. And the more she thrashed about, the more he tightened his grip—like a choke collar on a dog, except this pressure was aimed at her rib cage.
“You might as well stop trying to get away.” He wheezed out the words. “It’s not going to happen.” To prove that point, he squeezed harder.
Moaning against the fingers covering her mouth, she quieted. Trying to squirm free wasn’t working. She’d have to come up with another plan.
Slowly he loosened his grip around her middle, allowing her rib cage to expand enough to let her breathe as he muttered, “Why couldn’t you have minded your own business? All you’ve done is cause problems.”
He propelled her forward, and she stumbled toward the back of the cabin. Toward the kitchen, as it turned out.
Flipping on the light switch with one hand, he kept a firm grip on her arm with the other. After shoving her toward a chair, he pushed her down.
“I need to think.”
He stared down at her for several moments, then began to pace.
She eyed the back door. It appeared to be secured with a simple slider bolt. If she could push it back and yank open the knob in one smooth motion, maybe he wouldn’t . . .
“Don’t even consider it.”
She jerked her head back to him. He was watching her from across the room. As far as she could tell, he wasn’t armed. A well-placed kick might slow him down enough—
As if reading her mind, he yanked open a drawer beside the sink and pulled out a roll of hemp twine.
When she realized his intent, she stood and prepared to bolt.
He was beside her in two long strides. “Sit down.”
Instead, she kneed him in the groin and took off for the back door as he doubled over.
