* * * *
Regi adjusted his rearview mirror and tried to ignore his pounding heart. His fingers strangled the steering wheel. He turned to look out his side window at his opponent. Pope’s grin was that of the devil. His stubble gave the lower half of his face a dark stain, his teeth were yellowed and crooked, and his thick black eyebrows cast a shadow over coal-black eyes. But it was Pope’s I’m-gonna-kill-you glare that’d have any sane person running in the opposite direction.
But Regi wouldn’t run. Not this time.
As he experienced that glare for the hundredth time, Regi wondered how he’d got himself into this situation. Although for the first time in years, he was finally doing something that’d get him out of his mess.
According to Pope’s proposal, if Regi won this race, he’d be debt free. If he lost, he’d owe twice as much. Double or nothing. Losing was not an option, and Regi planned on putting everything he had into this race. He’d done some illegal street racing in his teens. But that’d been in beaten-up old cars on a dirt track.
This was very, very different.
The car Carson had given him to drive was worth at least a hundred grand. The Audi R8 was powerfully engineered and took to the road like an animal that was born to run. He’d already taken six laps around the impromptu track in an attempt to familiarize himself with both the lay of the land and the high-powered car. Regi had done the car little justice the first time around. His gearshifts were clunky, and he was so fucking nervous he had trouble breathing, let alone concentrating.
Forcing himself to calm down, he focused on the feel of the engine. By the fourth lap, it was talking to him. He accelerated around the corners and the wheels hugged the asphalt like it was glued down.
When he truly floored the accelerator, pushing the car to its 196-mile-per-hour limit, g-force wobbled his cheeks. The car was built to race, and when he forgot about the reason he was there and the looming ultimatum, he’d once again considered that crashing into Carson was a blessing.
But now, as Pope glared at him from the Porsche 911 Turbo, Regi hated that he’d ever met Carson and his bunch of thugs.
This was his chance to eradicate all the shit from his life forever, and he had every intention of doing it—or he’d die trying.
“Good luck.” Carson’s appearance at the driver’s side window was as sudden as it was unexpected, and Regi jumped.
He swallowed the lump in his throat. “Thank you.”
“Watch out for Pope; he races dirty.”
Regi frowned. He had no idea what that meant, but it didn’t sound good. A woman stepped into the headlights wearing only bikini bottoms and very high heels. She had the biggest tits he’d ever seen and, given that he’d had a year of playing waiter at Carson’s wild parties, that was saying something. Her breasts wobbled when she raised the green flag above her head and he was annoyed at the distraction.
Pope revved the Porsche and the sound jolted Regi out of his trance. In his rearview mirror he saw Carson stand before the hundred-strong crowd and accept a wineglass from another topless woman.
Regi revved his engine, squeezed the steering wheel until his knuckles were white, clamped his teeth, and tried to stare at the billowing flag rather than the woman’s bulging boobs.
She swung the flag down.
He stomped the accelerator and the car catapulted forward. About one second into the race he knew Pope had jumped the start. The yellow Porsche was a full car length in front before he’d even put the R8 into third gear. Regi’s foot was to the floor. He didn’t care about his safety, or about damaging another obscenely priced car.
Winning was all that mattered.
They flew up the warehouse-lined alley that was bathed in temporary floodlights. Litter scattered everywhere in the wake of the Porsche. Regi knew the turn up ahead was a tight one and expected Pope to brake in five hundred or so feet. He’d be ready; it was one of the few chances he’d have to get around his opponent.
Pope’s brake light flared, but he was early—way too early.
“Fuck!” Regi stomped the brake and missed careening into the ass of the yellow car by barely an inch.
The Porsche’s brake light blinked out and the car accelerated ahead. Pope had done that on purpose; he’d expected Regi to crash into him. That’s what Carson meant about racing dirty.
“Fuck you, Pope.” Regi slammed the R8 into third, floored the accelerator, and clamped his teeth as he aimed the Audi at Pope’s rear end. The R8 was designed for this; it responded to every move with efficient deadliness and put Regi right up Pope’s ass again.
Pope made his first mistake, and Regi didn’t miss a beat. He pushed up on Pope’s inside and they took the corner together, side by side. Once they were around the bend, Regi was in front. He floored the accelerator again and shot into the lead.
Regi was flanked with darkened warehouses one side and nothing but black water on the other. It was like looking into space. One wrong move and he’d be in the water. The Porsche was right behind him. He’d put his brights on, but Regi couldn’t afford even a second to adjust his mirrors to deflect the glare. The hum of his tires over the uneven concrete was lost under the pounding of his own heart.
Pope was so close on his tail the Porsche’s headlights disappeared. Regi decided to give Pope a taste of his own medicine. He clutched the steering wheel, tapped the brake, and braced for the impact he knew was coming.
But the squeal of tires ensured it didn’t happen. Pope must’ve known Regi’s intentions, and when he saw the Porsche’s headlights again, he knew he’d backed off. Regi dropped the R8’s gear and revved the engine to max before he pumped it up again. The next corner approached quickly. He readied to take it fast and tight.
He counted down the approach: five, four, three—
Suddenly he was flying through the air. The impact nanoseconds earlier had connected with the R8’s back left corner. The Audi spun twice, clipped something, and the moment it flipped Regi knew he was a dead man.
He didn’t even have time to scream before the car tumbled onto the roof and careened into a concrete barrier. The windshield exploded, and the airbag ballooned in a flash of white.
The ensuing silence was brutal.
A loud buzzing stung his ears, and his chest hurt so badly he could barely breathe. It took him a moment to realize he was upside down. The seatbelt had trapped him in place.
The sound of pounding feet forced him to move. He hadn’t died in the crash, but if he didn’t get out now, Pope would surely kill him. Desperate to escape, he punched the airbag, forcing the air from it. When he had wriggle room, he pressed the buckle and the belt released. He fell in a crumpled heap and howled at the pain in his chest.
Spots blurred his vision, but his brain forced him to keep moving. He shoved the door open and spilled from the car. His head was filled with static and the buzzing in his ears grew louder. Regi crawled from the wreck, and when he glanced sideways, he saw the leather boot about a second too late. It connected with his stomach and barreled him over. If he thought he was in pain before, that was fucking excruciating.
He sucked in air and his lungs burned with each breath.
“Looks like this’s the end of the line for Regi the Rat.” Pope had left the Porsche headlights on and the glare silhouetted his bullish frame. His opponent loomed over Regi, and he knew he had one shot at saving himself. He groaned, imitating intense agony, which wasn’t hard. Regi rolled to his feet, pretending to be wobbly, then, the second Pope was within spitting distance, he balled his fist and with all the strength he could summon plowed it upward into Pope’s chin.
The thug groaned, a tooth went flying, and Pope hit the ground in a full body slam. He didn’t even use his hands to break his fall.
One look was enough for Regi to know that Pope was either out cold or dead.
Chapter Thirteen
It’d been four weeks since Amber forced herself to enter Oliver’s gym. That decision had been one of the best one
s she’d made in her new life. In fact, she’d been progressing so well she’d begun to believe she could truly go through with her mission. It’d been touch-and-go for a while, but the for and against debates in her head were leaning more toward the positive now.
It wasn’t just her mental attitude that’d changed either.
Rock climbing three times a week and skiing every weekend had her body changing too. Her strength was gradually returning to her arms and legs, bringing muscle definition that she hadn’t seen in years. She was eating more and sleeping better. Twice she’d actually slept right through the night.
She’d already motored through two doctor’s transcripts, and, with her mission occupying the forefront of her brain, she decided she was ready to take her plan to the next step.
After making herself a peppermint tea, she settled in for an afternoon of research.
She’d resisted doing this research for two reasons. One was if she knew too much about the bodies in the ice and couldn’t go through with her mission, then she’d be forever haunted with her failure to help Dorothy and the lovers. Somehow, not knowing their full story made it less personal. But after a month of training, both in the gym and on the ski slopes, she was almost certain she could now go through with the crazy quest.
Now she simply had to learn more about them.
There was no turning back.
The second reason she’d resisted the research was because she needed a goal. One month of training, then reassess. That’d been her first goal. Baby steps. Just like when she’d learned to walk again after the coma. Take a few steps and reward yourself. The dangling carrot was a great motivator. Today’s carrot was learning everything she could about the frozen bodies.
Years ago, after she’d woken from the coma, she’d forced herself to read every article she could find on Milton’s death. She’d been desperate for information. Anything that would help her piece together what’d happened and give substance to her missing eight months.
Now, though, she was scanning those reports for a very different reason: she needed to pinpoint the exact location of the helicopter crash. But it seemed that specific detail was an unnecessary waste of precious tabloid space, one they wouldn’t print when they had so much other sensational media fodder.
Multibillionaire and son die in horrific helicopter crash.
Only survivor was Milton’s young girlfriend.
Pilot way off course.
Yes, the tabloids had plenty to work with.
Victoria had spent years using Milton’s wealth to climb the social ladder, so when her ex-husband died under such controversy, she had the ear of social media and the tabloids. She’d helped feed the media frenzy with her never-ending lies about Holly’s relationship with Milton, the much older billionaire. Milton had always said his ex-wife was a heartless bitch, but Holly hadn’t known the depth of her evil until after his death.
The fact that Holly had been willed a chunk of his money upon his death didn’t help. Not when Victoria got nothing.
Holly would do anything to reverse that scenario.
She skipped over one report after another, searching for the exact location of the crash. The closest she could get was that it was somewhere on Whiskey Mountain and that the helicopter had been airborne for approximately thirty-seven minutes after departing the exclusive Miracle Lodge. Other than that, she had nothing.
This was where Mr. Carter Logan came in.
She typed “Carter Logan” into Google. The National Geographic photographer was featured in two headlining stories, the first being Carter’s ordeal in Mexico with the drug runners. The second was his discovery of the plane wreck in the Canadian Rockies.
For Holly, the plane wreck was the direct link to figuring out more about the bodies in the ice. Carter had been in British Columbia to follow the trail of eighteenth-century explorer Alexander Mackenzie. Two weeks into the journey, he’d taken a helicopter ride as far as was permitted and was set down with an experienced mountain guide, Chancy Holden. Their plan was to reach the top of the peak and return within two days. What neither of them expected to find was the wreckage of a plane that’d been missing for nearly forty years.
Carter commented that the plane’s cabin had been remarkably intact. They found one body—that of the Canadian pilot, Buddy Dickinson—but no other bodies were inside. But it was the discovery of a passport belonging to Mr. Frederick Pearce that had captured the world’s interest.
Holly searched for information about Frederick Pearce. According to the first article that appeared, Fred was wanted in relation to the disappearance of the famous actress Angelique Forster. The fact that he was a police officer made Holly put her cup down and shuffle forward on her seat.
Angelique vanished on the morning of May 25, 1980, and her kidnapper had demanded five hundred thousand dollars in exchange for her safe return.
The next day, Angelique’s husband David was apparently instructed to put half a million dollars cash into a suitcase and leave it at a bus stop near Seattle’s famous Pike Place Market.
However, neither Frederick, Angelique, nor the money were ever seen again.
Frederick was consequently accused of Angelique’s kidnapping and murder, and if the tabloids were to be believed he’d been sighted in London, Mexico, and Hawaii.
Frederick’s mother was Dorothy, the elderly woman whose sad image had been flashing across Holly’s mind for weeks. Dorothy had always maintained her son’s innocence.
Holly flicked her television on and fast-forwarded to the footage she’d already watched dozens of times. She paused on the image of Dorothy holding up her son’s photo, and the depth of her grief pooling in her graying eyes tugged at Holly’s heart.
Until either Angelique or Frederick were found, Dorothy would never be able to prove her son’s innocence.
Holly knew exactly what it was like to be blamed for another person’s death. She was the one who’d convinced Milton to bring his son along on that fateful trip—Milton’s ex-wife had never let her forget it. It was ridiculous, really. No one could’ve predicted that helicopter crash.
But it didn’t stop the accusations that cut so deep she could barely breathe.
Holly cast Victoria’s callous blame from her mind and googled Angelique Forster.
Angelique’s rise to fame started at eight, when she’d starred in a series of Fluffo advertisements in the 1950s. Curious, Amber googled Fluffo and discovered it was once a popular vegetable shortening. After those commercials, Angelique changed her name to Angel Forster and went on to star in a variety of sitcoms before she landed her most prominent role. Unfortunately, halfway through the production of Smokey and the Bandit II, she was kidnapped and never seen again.
Holly scanned the internet for pictures of Angel. The actress had an evocative beauty about her. An elegance that radiated from within. Yet Holly couldn’t help but notice the sadness in her eyes. She had the feeling Angel had upheld an appearance that her life was amazing, yet harbored a deep secret that was rotting her core. There were many photos of Angel, although very few had her smiling. As Holly enlarged one photo after the next, it cemented her conviction that it was indeed Angel’s body she’d seen in the icy grave.
Her mind skipped to the frozen couple. Their embrace was nothing short of loving. She was curled up in his lap, leaning into him, and his arm was around her back so his hand rested on her hip. His other hand was on her waist, hugging her tight.
They were not kidnapper and victim—they were lovers.
Holly just had to prove it.
Two hours into her research, she found an article that slotted another piece of the puzzle into place. In January 1979, police were called to the home of David and Angel Forster after neighbors reported a disturbance. Angel was treated for facial bruising after she’d supposedly fallen down a set of stairs.
The attending police officer was Frederick Pearce.
Holly searched for more information, and one particular photo had hit the
papers like a firestorm. She gasped at the image of Angel with a hideously swollen black eye. Holly was no expert, but she’d bet a million dollars Angel didn’t get her black eye from falling down steps.
She was reminded of a similar photo she’d seen of herself. It was during one of her searches to piece together the missing eight months of her life. The photo was in a newspaper and had been taken just after she’d been rescued off the mountain. A broken eye socket was the reason for the mammoth bruise surrounding her left eye.
Fortunately for her, Holly had absolutely no recollection of that injury, or the subsequent pain it would’ve produced.
Frederick’s mother had always proclaimed her son’s innocence, and she’d referenced that particular photo often, proffering it as evidence that it was David who’d killed Angelique and disposed of her body, and not her son. Holly turned to the television and stared into Dorothy’s eyes. “You may be right,” she said to the still screen.
A scenario began to form in her mind. Angel had been in an abusive relationship with David. Being famous probably made it difficult for her to reveal this ugly secret. When Frederick Pearce had come to her home on the night of the incident, she may’ve confided in the handsome young police officer. Together, they hatched a plan to pretend to kidnap Angel so she could escape her very public life. They escaped with the money and somehow made it to Canada, but three weeks later their plane crashed.
They survived, only to fall into that crevice and freeze to death.
Holly’s heart ached for them. They’d escaped one horror to fall into another.
Her heart also ached for Dorothy, that poor mother who never knew what happened to her son. Fred’s father had died six years ago, never knowing either. Holly didn’t want Dorothy to go to her grave with the same sadness.
While Dorothy was distraught over her son’s disappearance and the endless cruel accusations, it appeared that both David and Angel’s parents reveled in her misery. Every year on the anniversary of the disappearance they’d pop up in the media, pleading for someone, anyone with information, to come forward. By the looks of their abundant photos, they seemed to enjoy the annual attention. For more than thirty years, both sets of parents had worked together to host an annual ball that marked the date of Angel’s disappearance.
Extreme Limit Page 9
