Miranda was flying again. Drifting through the clouds somewhere way up high. Floating like an angel. A pretty angel with stars in her hair.
No, that couldn’t be her.
Still, she heard music, the singing of sweet voices. And she felt arms tugging at her, pulling her up, up, high above the sky.
Was she really going to heaven?
She hoped so. She had tried to fight the good fight.
A misty image appeared before her, hovering in midair. A glowing translucent shape. But she could have sworn he had flowing black hair and a smiling face.
The brother she’d lost in Maui?
She caught the scent of fresh-cut blossoms. Orchids? No, carnations. Was it a Hawaiian lei? Or funeral flowers?
“Where am I?” she asked the stranger.
He laughed, looking very familiar. “You do not know?”
“Wouldn’t have asked if I did.”
“You have done well. You have grown strong.”
But not strong enough to survive a dynamite blast.
“So it’s my time?” she said, bracing herself for the answer.
He laughed again, shaking his head, and as he did she heard tiny bells chime. “Your time is not nearly up, Miranda. You have much more work to do.”
“More work?” She’d done a good bit already.
He began to move his arms as if he were swimming, and started to fade away. “Before you join the angels, there are more devils for you to fight.”
Oh, really? “Then what am I doing here?”
“But you aren’t here.”
His laughter echoing in her ears, he disappeared. Whatever had been holding her up gave way and she tumbled down. Down, down to the earth like a shooting star.
She felt as if she were reaching warp speed, and just as she braced herself for a crash, she hit the ground with a thud.
Miranda opened her eyes and tasted soot in her mouth. Spitting it out, she lifted her head. It ached like a—she shouldn’t cuss after where she’d just been.
Where had she been? And where was she now?
Pushing herself up, she sat cross-legged on a mound of debris and gazed dizzily around her.
It was coming back to her now. That set with the plane wreck. Looking for Olivia’s daughter behind it. The pyros, the dynamite. Running. The terrible blast, loud as a sonic boom. As horrifying as an atomic bomb.
She turned her head and peered into the light from the massive fire. It was huge. The fake plane wreck looked like a real war zone now. The rubble around it seemed to have tripled.
Behind her the ball of flame that had been the downed jet blazed furiously, high into the night sky.
Where was everybody? Was she—all alone? Like in one of those end-of-the-world movies?
Where was Parker?
She didn’t see him anywhere. She didn’t see anyone.
She struggled to her feet, her head and body crying out in protest. Pain shot through her shoulder blade. Something had pierced her. Awkwardly she reached behind her and managed to pull it out. It was a narrow piece of lumber that had become an arrow in the blast.
She tossed it on the ground. She was probably bleeding, but she couldn’t think about that now. She had to find her team.
“Parker,” she cried as she shuffled through the dirt at her feet.
No answer.
Her hearing seemed to be returning, but maybe it wasn’t all there yet. She turned around in a full circle.
He wasn’t anywhere.
She took in the blazing plane, the foothills, the long row of sound stages at the bottom of the hill below. Across the field she saw the silhouette of city buildings. Not a real city. Another make believe set of some kind.
About fifty feet in front of it, a man was coming toward her. Quickly she took in the features she could make out in the floodlights and the blaze behind them.
Tall thin body. Worn jeans. Black leather vest with no colors. As he got closer, she could see his stringy long straw-colored hair. His nasty beard. The nasty look on a nasty face. And the mean nasty eyes that had locked onto her in the parking lot of The Wet Guillotine.
Draco.
He had a gun in his hand. He raised his arm, pointed it straight at her.
Instincts taking over, she flung herself behind a nearby boulder. It was fake, she knew, and she hoped it would be enough cover.
She patted her side and found the Glock Sloan had provided was still in its holster. This FBI equipment was pretty sturdy stuff. She pulled out her weapon, steadied her aim on the rock and fired.
Her shot missed, but it was enough to make him stop.
She fired again, got closer this time. “Hold it right there, asshole,” she yelled.
Ignoring her, he turned and sprinted back toward the set. Now he was on the run.
She scrambled up and dashed after him. More devils to fight. And Douglas Vaughn, alias Draco, would be the first.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Battling her way up the hill, Miranda ran as hard as she could until at last, she felt pavement beneath her feet.
Pavement.
They’d laid asphalt to create a realistic road for their realistic city. She reached the first set of buildings and suddenly she was on a wide avenue that should have been in Brooklyn. Or somewhere in New York.
Panting, she moved to the sidewalk and studied the rows of brownstones with pretty arched windows. Next to her was a line of pert brick townhouses with well-kept shrubbery planted behind fanciful iron railings. Decorative concrete staircases led to columned-doorways where some heroine would exit on her way to meet some hero.
But where was her bad guy?
She didn’t need to wait long for the answer.
A shot rang out, hitting a wire trash can on the sidewalk beside her. Before she could respond another shot came.
Heart pounding, she ducked behind a concrete stair post just as the bullet hit the window over her head.
Glass shattered onto the street.
Was the creep’s aim that bad? Or was he trying to rattle her?
Where was he? There were old-fashioned street lamps burning along the lane, but the shadows were too thick to make out shapes far away. She couldn’t see him anywhere.
Then she spotted movement behind a tree at the end of the avenue. She took aim and fired in that direction.
Nothing.
No grunt or sound of a gun being dropped.
She had almost come out of her hiding place to check if he was still there, when a crack sounded and another bullet whizzed past her head.
Ducking again, she spotted him taking cover behind a blue sedan parked next to the tree.
Okay, buster. Now your fate is sealed. But she had to draw him out into the open first.
“What’s the matter, Draco?” she sneered. “Afraid of a girl?”
His evil sounding cackle echoed down the street. “You mean a nosy bitch who can’t mind her own business? Why don’t you come out and see if I’m afraid?”
Okay. He was behind the car’s rear bumper. The car was parked along the cross street running perpendicular to the road she was on. No vehicle on her street. There wasn’t any good way to get close to him and stay under cover.
She glanced up at the columned entrance to the brownstone and wondered what was behind it. If the door was fake, it might not even open.
But she couldn’t stay here.
Only one way to find out. She rose, bolted up the steps, and reached for the door handle. As it flung open, relief pulsed through her.
She stepped through just as another bullet whizzed behind her.
She’d been right. There wasn’t much behind the façade of brownstones. Just short walls supported by beams and a grassy area. From the rear, the row of city buildings was just a bunch of big empty boxes.
She was on a wooden platform about two feet off the ground. She jumped off it and took in her surroundings.
Building material was scattered everywhere. Crates and carpenter horse
s and spare lumber. Good places for cover. Across a patch of grass was a wall of corrugated metal. The back of another set.
She crouched and moved along in the shadows of the wall, making her way to where she’d seen Draco.
Suddenly another shot rang out over her head. Not from behind her. From up ahead somewhere. She ducked behind a crate and returned fire.
Daring to peek over the top of the box, she peered into the darkness. Where had he gone now? And how could he fire from that angle? He must be behind the metal wall, at the end of that building. How did he get there?
That was right. He’d been a set builder for the studio for a decade. He must know every crook and cranny of this place. Not good.
She had to get him out into the open.
“Hey, Draco,” she called. “We came to visit you at your house earlier, but you weren’t home. Did Marie tip you off that we were coming?”
His laugh bounced off the metal siding. “Didn’t have to. Crow saw her get in a van with a Fed.”
So that was how he knew they were coming. Looked like Draco was the one running the show and Crow took orders from him.
“Crow,” she called. “The creep who did the bank bombing?”
“That’s my guy.”
“You scared Olivia out of her wits. There was no need for that. You got your money.”
“It was an added touch.”
From the wreckage scene, another firecracker sang through the air and burst into flames overhead.
“I suppose Crow’s responsible for that explosion back there.”
“Beautiful, isn’t it? A real work of art. And now they’re all dead. Your whole team is gone. All except you. But I’ll fix that in a minute.”
That’s why Draco had been heading toward the blast. He’d been looking for anyone who was alive so he could finish them off.
Miranda sucked in a breath, feeling suddenly dizzy.
Were all of them gone? Wesson? Sloan—? Parker? No. That wasn’t true. It couldn’t be true. Becker and Holloway weren’t even at the plane wreck scene. What had happened to them? Fear clawed at her gut. Tears welled up in her eyes.
He’s trying to shake you, she told herself sternly. Snap out of it. Keep your head. She couldn’t let this bastard get to her.
She crept along the far wall in the shadows, getting closer to the sound of Draco’s voice. If she could just get him in her sights, she could take him down.
And then she heard the sound of running feet. Where was he going now?
She couldn’t let him get away. It was a risk, but she had to take it. She burst from her hiding place and scrambled across the grass. Next to the corrugated wall she found a hub cap. Picking it up, she used it for a shield as she rushed to the end of the building.
She peeked around the corner.
There was a gap between the structures that spilled out into a new set.
Still hunched behind the shield, she hurried through it.
Chapter Fifty-Nine
She was on another New York street.
Old brick structures yawned on every side like they’d been here for a century. But this neighborhood wasn’t neat and tidy like the brownstones. Destruction had visited this place. Fire escapes dangled from the buildings. Broken windows hung from their frames.
There was rubble all over the street. Bits of wood, broken bricks. On a corner under a street lamp sat a busted up old Buick with its rear window smashed in. Across the street lay an overturned truck.
It was a disaster scene. Some movie about a big monster on the attack in the city or the end of the world.
Was it the end of her world? It just might be. It was definitely another trap.
And then she heard the footsteps again.
Her hub cap shield hiding most of her, she hurried across the street and ducked behind the Buick. Her breath coming in snatches, she listened as Draco hunted her. He stopped. She heard the click of his gun as he reloaded.
She had a few rounds left, but she was tired of this Hide-and-Seek game. She could set a trap, too.
Picking up a chunk of brick at her feet, she tossed it over the car’s trunk so it landed right in front of the tire.
She heard him stop again. Then start up. She caught a glimpse of his narrow face and stringy straw-colored hair in the car’s broken side mirror.
He was crouched down, weapon drawn, getting nearer to her than he had before. Crunch crunch crunch. The sound of his boots on the rubble in the street was getting louder. Closer he came. Closer.
She waited, waited, until she saw his shadow on the pavement near the rear tire.
Now.
With a loud warrior cry, she leapt from her hiding place. He spun toward her. But before he could angle his gun at her heart, she grabbed his wrist, wrenched his arm up.
The gun fired into the air.
She turned away from him, yanked his captured arm down again, raised her own, and with all her might jammed her elbow into his ugly face.
His gun rattled to the pavement. She bent to pick it up, but before she could his fist hurtled toward her face.
She tried to duck. Didn’t get low enough. He clipped her on the chin, knocking her over onto the car.
He jumped onto her, grasping for her wrists.
Wrong move, buster. He was dangling the family jewels in an open spot.
She jerked up her knee and planted it right in the soft spot.
His eyes bulged and he let out a low primal growl of agony as his dirty hair swung into her open mouth. She spat out the nasty strands, delighted to see the look of pain on his face.
She pushed him off her, going for his gun again.
Before she could get to it, he snatched up her hub cap shield and swung it at her head. She ducked, pivoted, threw a hard punch straight into his gut.
He let out a cry, but caught himself against a stair rail along the nearby building. He recovered fast, used the railing to propel himself forward.
His fists were like lightning, the punches coming at her like an aircraft propeller. She ducked. She blocked. She punched back. She held her own.
Until his arm flew back and he smacked her across the temple, making her head spin.
Seeing stars, she tumbled to the ground.
Had she passed out for a second? She couldn’t tell.
But she was on her back and the ugly man was on top of her, pointing his gun in her face.
No. Not again.
She’d practiced hard. Hadn’t Parker said her fighting skills were better than ever? But Parker might be dead. And in a minute, she might be, too.
Her only chance now was to distract this SOB.
As if she were the one on top, she glared at him. “Who are you working for, Draco? You’re not smart enough to pull this off on your own.”
“I’m not smart enough? Look who’s talking.” He wagged the gun’s barrel in her face. “Miranda Steele. Such a great detective. Ha. You have no idea what you’ve gotten into this time.”
His arrogance sickened her. What was he talking about? “I know you’ve kidnapped a child. And I know you’re going to prison for it.”
He laughed again. “We’ve been watching you since you got here. The bombing in the bank was to get your computer nerd here. This wasn’t about the kid. It was never about her. It was about you. You and your ace detective husband and your team. By the end of tonight, you’ll all be gone.”
Fighting back the terror of his words, Miranda gritted her teeth. She couldn’t let his mind games get to her. She’d come here for one reason. And one reason only. She was going to do her job.
“Where is she?”
“Who?”
“The child you took. Imogen Wesson. What did you do with her?”
He snorted out a smirk. “You know what happened to her. She was blown to bits with the rest of your team.”
“Your note said she’d be at the plane wreck scene.”
“That’s right. She was there in the middle of it when Crow’s work of art went
off.”
“No. She wasn’t there.”
He looked as stunned as if she had punched him in the face. “What?”
“Imogen wasn’t there. Was she supposed to be?”
Draco’s surprise seemed genuine. Was he telling the truth? Had that been his plan? To hide the little girl under those beams and blow her up with everyone else?
What had happened to her?
Suddenly she heard a muffled cough and the sound of shuffling. A child?
She twisted her head toward the sound and caught the sight of a pair of boots scrambling out of a dark alleyway nearby.
Above her Draco tensed. He was watching whoever that was with sheer hatred in his eyes.
She was about to snatch his wrists and pull the gun away from her face, when he stood and got off of her.
Apparently the man in the boots was more important than she was. But he turned to give her a hard kick in the ribs.
She rolled over, groaning, nearly passing out again from the pain.
“I’ll deal with you in a minute.”
Then she heard him running away.
Biting down the stabbing sensation in her ribs, she got to her knees, found her weapon on the pavement, and hurried after him.
Chapter Sixty
She turned a corner and found herself running down a grassy hill on the studio side of the New York set.
Under the floodlights she could make out two figures poised near the white archway of the wedding scene, smoky air drifting all around them.
A man with black flowing hair dressed in jeans and a black leather jacket stood pointing a weapon at Draco.
Miranda squinted at the man. Could it be—?
She remembered the photo Becker had found of the good-looking young man who was Imogen’s father, Olivia’s ex. As she neared the scene, she got a better look at him.
Yes. It was Axel.
He had aged since that photo was taken, but his features were unmistakable.
So Wesson was right. He had been mixed up in this, after all. But he must have done something wrong. Draco was holding his gun on him, too.
Standoff.
“I knew this was too much for you to handle, Axle,” she heard Draco say in a voice as unnerving as his phone messages.
The Stolen Girl Page 22
