The girl smiled—Pearl recognized that polite look on the girl’s face—and carried away a tray with a single empty glass on it toward where she figured the kitchen was. Shackelford watched the girl’s butt move, and she waited an appropriate amount of time before darting a quick look, seeing Shackelford’s head descending the stairs and disappearing.
Now she was moving too, following, trotting barefoot across the carpet, stopping at the set of stairs and seeing Shackelford arrive at the lower level and cross to the left. She followed quickly, happy to be on carpet because it made her silent.
Blanket gathered higher up her waist so it wouldn’t drag and make that swishing fabric sound, soon she made it to the bottom of the stairs. Just across from her, Shackelford was paused at a doorway that looked out of place in this tropical architecture mansion. It was steel, set in a steel frame, with a modern-looking access panel on the right-hand side. No passcode necessary; Shackelford lowered his face, and it read his eyeballs, she figured, because a light flashed, then the door slid open. Shackelford passed through and into a secret room.
In there, she saw what she came for. Computers. At least three that she could see. All of them just waiting for her to come send off an email.
The door closed again. What was that—about four or five seconds? Would that be enough to slip inside the next time it opened?
* * *
For twenty-five minutes she squatted by a potted palm, hiding in wait for Shackelford to exit from the secret room. She’d examined the wall-mounted access panel and determined it was no jet ski ignition, no simple doorknob. There was nothing she could do about getting around it. And sure, she might have been better off leaving here and maybe slipping upstairs, searching the rest of the house; maybe there was a computer in one of the upstairs rooms. But she figured the more she moved around, the more likely she was to be caught. There were definitely computers just beyond this door.
The whole time she’d been sequestered underneath the palm fronds waiting for her chance, not a single person had passed by. But it was getting shaky, because maybe somebody would be outside looking for her on the beach or around the property in the grassy garden area, or inside her cottage. And when she couldn’t be located, an alarm would sound. So far so good though. In fact, she might just—
The sudden sound of the modern door whisking open made her jump, and she clapped a hand over her mouth before she made an accidental peep.
Shackelford briskly exited, walking toward the bottom of the stairs that led to the foyer. Without a second thought, she stood, hand still over mouth, shuffled three sideways steps, rolled her back around the door’s edge, going through the doorway face first. It closed behind her.
This could have been terrible. She could be face to face now with a dozen Rottweilers, or maybe security guards with their guns drawn. Or worse, maybe even Julian there, looking to take his hand to her tender bottom.
But she was alone.
Immediately to her left were the three computer workstations she’d spied from the stairway when she came down here. Ahead of her was a three-step walk-down to some sort of command center. A dozen more computers, fancy ones with maps displayed on them like they were tracking armies or something. There was a big LCD display against one wall that had to be almost one hundred inches across. Right now it showed a map, but she didn’t know the terrain. There was chatter on radios, beeps and blips, something was going on.
It didn’t matter, because there was only one thing going on she cared about.
And now she was quick-stepping to the closest workstation, plopping down on a very comfortable hydraulic work chair. It hissed under her weight, and her fingers were already typing. This was too easy. She had a browser window up in no time; going to her Gmail, she typed in her password. Aha, look at this shit, a ton of emails from Marly, from her mother, from all her friends. Where are you? Where are you, let us know you’re okay, we’re so worried, baby...
I’m going to let you know exactly how okay I am but also exactly how not okay I am...
She picked Marly’s most recent, hit reply, began typing.
There were footsteps now from the lower level, and a cold shiver shot up her back, making her scalp tingle. She typed faster, afraid to see who was coming.
Marly you’re not going to believe it Julian Mann kidnapped me I am somewhere in the tropics this is not a joke I’m on an island in the Caribbean and he’s holding me prisoner you have to send help I don’t know where I am but they refer to this as the Caribbean house so tell the FBI I’m in Julian Mann’s Carib—
“Hey!” a very deep and masculine voice said in a short mean guttural bark. Her chin snapped up and her fingers paused.
Just hit send, Pearl, just hit send... but now she was frozen.
“Hey, how’s it going?” she said as innocently as she could. Her eyes turned to see a man, a military-looking guy who stood over six feet tall, wearing a button-down shirt but with muscles that stretched it out to its tightest constraints. He wore tight slacks with pockets all over them, and combat boots. He was a man in his fifties, a grim and serious face under a graying no-nonsense haircut.
He said, “What do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m paying the electric bill. You don’t want them to shut off all your computers and shit,” she said and gave him a seriously disdainful look then darted her eyes quickly back to the keyboard. She grabbed the mouse, ran the cursor to hover over send.
But it was too late. The guy that was made of muscle and dressed like a nerd programmer covered the distance between them in a split second. His hand locked around her throat like an iron manacle. He hoisted her out of the chair, blanket shroud flapping, pushing her back, and the whole thing toppled underneath her, keyboard flying, chair collapsing.
Her index finger clicked a thousand times furiously on the mouse, but her hand was in the air, nowhere near the desk anymore and she knew it was futile, the mouse’s signal not reaching the computer. She clutched it to her chest, and the man got over top of her, pinned her to the floor. He said, “What are you doing here?”
She couldn’t answer; his hand gripped her throat. His grip relaxed, and she said in a hoarse choked voice, “I’m supposed to be here...”
“Who are you?”
“Julian’s girlfriend,” she said, actually liking how that sounded.
“You’re not supposed to be in here.” The unsureness in his voice joined a loosening of the grip he had on her throat. The guy knew if this was Julian’s girl he would be in trouble for what he’d done.
“I can be anywhere I want,” she said, her voice still tight and hoarse and haughty. “This is my home.”
“Not this room,” he said. “Mr. Mann knows that.”
“Let me up.”
The guy wasn’t completely convinced, but now he whisked open the blanket (she figured to make sure she carried no weapons before he let her go). All he saw was her mostly naked body, and he looked up and down and frowned. “You’re in a bikini,” he said.
“I was swimming. Waiting for Julian to get back.”
He frowned again, still uncertain about this strange redheaded girl he’d found. As soon as she felt his grip lessen again, she took advantage. She swiped his hand away, said, “What is wrong with you? Why would you grab me like that?”
He wasn’t intimidated. He said, “What’s your name?”
“Pearl,” she answered. Bad move, she realized too late. Instant recognition widened the man’s eyes. Bad name! Bad name! That was the name of the girl who was all the trouble.
He made to grab her again, managed to get a hold on either side of the blanket around her neck, but she kicked backward and tucked her chin down. The blanket came over the back of her head and she flopped toward the desk, crashing her forearms on it, whipped the mouse around... and clicked send!
When the guy locked his arms around her and squeezed her in an iron bear hug, she’d been trying to laugh.
Chapter Thirteen
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nbsp; Cheek flat against a bench, the sound of her own coughing brought her back to consciousness. The tendons of her neck ached, and her eyes were sensitive to light.
“Ow,” she muttered through sticking lips, and tried to look around the room. Arms folded behind her back, she was face down on a long, wide bench with her feet drawn up, heels to her ass. What the heck?
The room she was in looked much like the command center she’d stumbled into. Wait! The one where she’d sent off to Marly an email saying where she was.
Victory was hers.
She arched her back to lift her chin up off the bench, get a look around her environment. A modern-looking sort of facility, this one with stone walls painted a morbid pale green. It reminded her of a hospital, or perhaps a prison—
Which would make sense, because she’d been hogtied with handcuffs and manacles around her ankles. The cool weight of the chains slunk against her lower back just above her bikini bottom.
“Oh, great,” she murmured, at least managing to get her lips fully unstuck. With a little difficulty, she managed to shimmy herself onto her side. Across the room was an identical bench, and kitty corner to that (if she were to arch her back and look further up from where she lay) was a floor-to-ceiling Plexiglas wall. Behind the clear barrier a familiar man sat on a bench like hers. But he was imprisoned inside that rectangular cube made of the glass. Hunched over with forearms draped on knees, his head hung down in the pose of the defeated. His white dress shirt was open at the neck, the armpits stained, sleeves rolled up and dirtied. His pants were drab olive with a red stripe. His oily hair had fallen forward from its combed-back rake, his cheeks furred with a graying beard, but she recognized the man anyway. The general prince. The one from Something-stan or wherever.
She called out, “Hey!”
The man’s chin tilted her way, showing his morose and beaten expression. One eye looked puffy as though he’d been punched, and his formerly arrogant features were sunken, his forehead seamed with lines of worry. He licked his lips before he spoke. From behind the barrier, his voice was muffled—she had to read his lips to understand what he’d said. “You’re awake.”
But now she realized, with her arms and legs behind her back, which was arched as she lay sideways on the bench, she must look a ridiculous sight. He’d see an ample-bosomed young redhead wearing nothing but the skimpiest of bikinis forced into an embarrassing position. But then again, look where he was. Julian had confined him. Probably off somewhere fucking the man’s wife. The princess’s knees up to her ears as she cheated on her husband with the world’s most arrogant man. She said, “Where are we?”
He frowned. “On the island.”
Good news indeed. There was a chance he could’ve said in the African house. The Italian house. The Australian house. Any one of the other homes Julian had—that she hadn’t identified in her missive for help. If she was still in the Caribbean house, help must be on its way. Now it was just a matter of time.
The prince wrung his hands, then eased his butt forward on the seat and rose. His wrists were manacled, and a chain ran down between his ankles. He said, “Can you tell me what’s happening?”
She said, “Who, me? Me tell you what’s happening?”
“To my country.”
“What country? I can’t even remember where you’re from.”
There was a clack from across the room, the door opening. Shackelford and the one who’d choked her unconscious came strolling in. The prince scooted back and plopped himself to sit, proving to his captors he was being a good little prisoner. But she wouldn’t be a good little prisoner.
“Get these fucking things off me, Shackelford,” she spat over her shoulder despite the indignity of her pose.
It made Shackelford smile, and he came down to squat at the side of the bench so they were face to face. The big man who’d choked her stood near the Plexiglas wall with his thick forearms folded across his muscular chest.
Shackelford said, “I don’t know why you keep doing this to yourself. And it’s you that’s doing it, though you try to blame me. You don’t know how lucky you’ve got it. If it were up to me, if Julian had let me, I’d have put two bullets in that pretty little skull and called it a day.” He tapped two fingers against the back of her head for emphasis. “Done it right there on the patio at that hotel in Dominica. Then we wouldn’t be in this mess at all. Look how little trouble your friend Marly has been for me.”
Oh, shit. Oh shit, shit, shit. Marly. He killed her. The email would never be received. It was a waste of time. But could she believe Shackelford? “Did you hurt Marly?”
“Pearl, baby,” he said smoothly. “There’s little chance you’re going to get anything more from me. You’ve bitten the hand that feeds you far too many times, and you might act stupid—”
“I’m not stupid.”
“Exactly—you’re not stupid. You’re way smarter than I give you credit for. And tenacious. It’s up to Julian now, and for that you’re lucky. If it were up to me, you wouldn’t ever be waking up again.”
That chilled her stomach, but all she could think about was Marly. What had Shackelford done to her? If he killed her, did he hurt her first? Was it quick? Or was he lying? It was low to say that to her. “You’re such a fucking animal,” she whimpered, hurting in her heart but not wanting to show it. “Please just let me out of these chains so I can sit up.”
Shackelford made like he would answer, then lifted his head up as if he heard something. He held up a single finger, said, “Ah, the big man’s here now. It’s up to him what happens to you.”
* * *
The moment he’d stepped off the plane, Shackelford was there with the news. Pearl had done it again.
On the bottom step of the airstairs, he’d stood with hands turning to fists, forearms flexing and bulging. And, he swore to God, his cock was flexing too. He could feel it thickening, bulging against the constraint of his pants. Pearl begged for discipline. How could he be so lucky to have her fall into his lap like this? The most willful girl, the one with the prettiest little smile, the snarkiest quips. It was shameful the things she must endure now, but the girl brought it on herself.
His shoes clopped over the stone floor entrance of the secret command center. A computer had been knocked over, an office chair as well; papers were scattered on the floor. They’d told him Pearl used a computer. Sent out word she was being held captive. A fire burned inside him. A rolling ball just above his stomach and below his heart.
Down the steps, he strode into the circular array of workstations, the large ceiling-mounted LCD screens printed with maps of the Black Sea and surrounding crucial territories. A doorway to the holding cells remained open, and beyond he could see his pale Pearl hogtied face down on a bench, wearing one of the perfect bikinis he’d selected for her. All her ample curves were on display, her soft white flesh laced with the thinnest of blue spandex. She was posed the way he most liked to see her. She’d been handcuffed with her wrists behind her back and enjoined with her ankles bent up to touch her ass. His cock surged further. But now he was entering the room, taking command. “What’s this?” he asked.
Pearl said, “This son of a bitch—”
He clapped his hands once. A loud sharp snap echoed off the concrete walls. She jumped and clamped her mouth shut.
He faced Shackelford and raised an eyebrow.
“She was up to no good again.”
“She found this room?”
“She did. We have no more options.”
He said, “What does she know?”
Pearl said, “I don’t know anything, you idiots!”
Now he snapped his fingers and pointed at her. She rolled her eyes. That awful look on her face had him cracking his knuckles.
He said to Mitch, the liaison from Army Special Forces, “Bring me the torture table.”
The man nodded, turned on his heel, and left to retrieve what he’d been told. Pearl arched her back to watch what the man would do, and w
hen she returned her gaze to Julian, she was horrified. “Torture table?”
Shackelford said, “I told you she was a snoop. You should’ve let me kill her back in Dominica.”
Julian said, “We’ll find out what she knows.”
Pearl said, “I told you I don’t know anything. What... what did you do with Marly?”
“It’s like you haven’t learned a thing,” he said to her, showing her a genuine look of disappointment. He’d offered her everything. Sure, she had to be a prisoner here, but she’d been given every amenity. Three-star equivalent kitchen preparing meals for her; whatever she’d like to drink she would’ve been served. All she had to do was ask. A comfortable bed; a beach on which to lounge and explore; and yes, she wasn’t allowed electronic devices, but if she’d asked for any book or magazine, he would’ve had it promptly delivered. All she had to do was ask. But not Pearl.
“You’ve brought this on yourself,” he said grimly.
“Please,” she pleaded, and that exquisite look on her face, one of genuine apology, swelled his heart against his ribs. That was the expression she should always hold. That was where he wanted her to be. But the only way it had any meaning was with context. In order for her to be sorry, she had to be bad first.
He adjusted his pants, feeling his erection straining against the summer fabric, wanting to dip a hand in his pants and lift it upright—but he held it in check down his pant leg, squeezing it against the material by flexing the muscles of his thigh.
“Get her on a chair,” he said.
Mitch wheeled in a stainless steel workstation—waist-high with a tabletop, drawers, and a front-side cabinet filled with devious toys.
Shackelford disappeared while he perused the items on the stainless tabletop. Mitch stepped back and folded his arms. Pearl looked over her shoulder, left and right, but couldn’t see what he did.
There were voices now from behind, more of the men from the CIA and Armed Forces joining Shackelford in the command center. Then there was the clacking and squeaking of small metal wheels on the floor—a leather office chair as it was pushed into the holding cell. Pearl looked down her left shoulder to see Shackelford coming in, pushing the chair by its seat back with four more men joining him.
His Captive Page 12
