Colton's Last Stand

by Karen Whiddon

  Beyond her, he caught sight of yet another person—prisoner? As he went to head that way, pain exploded in the back of his head, and he went down.

  * * *

  When Jake opened his eyes again with a pounding headache, it took a moment for him to realize where he’d ended up. He lay on a cold, cement floor and there were metal bars. A locked cell.

  Hell. Micheline’s basement.

  Gingerly, he felt the back of his head, unsurprised to find a large and painful lump. Obviously, Randall or someone had come up behind him and clubbed him hard enough to knock him out. And now they’d locked him up in a cell, just like all the other poor souls he’d spotted earlier.

  It would be okay, he told himself. Micheline would put a stop to this. She needed him for her little scheme with the Coltons.

  “Hey,” he called out, pushing himself up to his elbows and wincing at the blinding pain in his head. “Where are you? Show yourself.”

  But no one—not Randall or Bart or anyone else—appeared. None of the other prisoners even responded, as if they’d grown used to hearing unanswered pleas for help.

  For the first time, a small prickle of dread went through him. How often did Micheline’s hired men make their rounds? Judging by the condition of the others, not on a regular basis. Jake remembered Fiona saying something about Randall spending the night down here. That could be good or bad, depending on how one looked at it.

  Fiona. He started to groan out loud, but even that small sound made his aching head throb. They’d had a disagreement. She might not be looking for him at all for hours, maybe days.

  His only hope was Micheline, of all people. Even the thought made his head hurt worse.

  * * *

  When her walkie-talkie buzzed, Fiona gritted her teeth and considered tossing the thing into the nearest arrangement of silk flowers. Leigh again, of course. Summoning Fiona once more. Almost as if she might be testing Fiona to see how much she could take before breaking.

  Obediently, Fiona trudged to Leigh’s suite. Knocked on the door, waited for Leigh to tell her to come in and then went inside.

  This time, instead of waiting behind her desk, Leigh stood just a few feet from the door.

  “About time you got here,” she said crossly. “I’m swamped, and I don’t have time to wait for you.”

  Instead of responding that she’d come as soon as she’d been called, Fiona apologized.

  “Here.” Leigh handed her a stack of leaflets. “I’ve got a job for you. There’s going to be a Gathering.”

  “A what?” Juggling the papers, Fiona barely managed to keep from dropping them.

  “A Gathering.” Leigh high-fived the air. “It’s a big deal. Micheline is inviting all of her fans and followers. We’ve been working nonstop making sure the mailers go out. We’re also doing mass emails, but these are for the older folks who might not have access to computers.”

  Intuition tingling, Fiona looked down at one of the fliers and started to read. She looked up at Leigh, hiding her alarm. “Is this...” She licked her lips, her heart racing. “Is this going to be the born-again ceremony? The big one?”

  “It just might be.” Leigh practically sang the words, though her heavily made-up eyes were still cold and calculating. “I’m so excited!”

  Fiona pretended to share in Leigh’s fake joy. Meanwhile, her insides were jumping. She had to find out the actual plan and then not only come up with a way to stop it, but surefire proof that Micheline was the instigator. Once she had, she could call Holden and have a team brought in to carry out the arrests.

  Leigh would be going down, too. The beauty queen might be naive, but so far she’d done nothing but go along with her boss’s unethical, moneymaking schemes. And since she’d appeared to sanction the mass murder—as long as she herself didn’t have to die—Leigh would also be charged.

  But there was more, and like the excellent FBI agent she knew she was, Fiona wanted to find it. The existence of some sort of basement cells, where people were being held prisoner without rights to a trial or hearing, would clinch it. She had to figure out a time and get herself down there.

  “What are you waiting for?” Leigh sniped. “Is there something else you need?”

  “What do you want me to do with these?” Fiona asked, holding up the leaflets.

  “Take them to campus and put them up, pass them out, whatever you have to do in order to get more people to come. College kids love the idea of stuff like this.”

  Feeling queasy again, Fiona nodded. “Will do.”

  “Get going,” Leigh ordered, shooing her away with one hand. “We’re short on time.”

  Fiona clutched the papers to her chest and hurried toward the door. Only when she’d gotten in the front seat of her car and locked the doors did she take the time to thoroughly read one.

  This Friday. The date jumped out at her. All of this would be going down in less than a week. Which meant Micheline would have to try and sell off the mythical unborn baby before her followers committed mass suicide.

  It was going to be a busy week. Fiona started the car and drove to a local office supply store. There, one could rent the use of a paper shredder. Fiona paid her money and began rapidly shredding the documents. She kept back three copies, but she didn’t want to take a chance on any of these getting in the hands of a single student.

  Once she’d finished, she drove over to campus, parked and got out. Just in case Micheline had installed a GPS tracker on her car.

  She spent a good half an hour walking around after stopping in the campus bookstore and picking up some fliers advertising a concert by a local band. These she tacked up on bulletin boards and telephone poles. If anyone had followed her to make sure she’d completed her task, unless they stopped and looked at the posters, it would appear she had.

  Then she drove quickly back to the AAG center. Maybe if she could get in unnoticed, now would be the perfect time to check out the basement.

  First, she needed to make sure both Bart and his friend Randall were elsewhere in the center. Walking with purpose, she strode through the common area as if she had an urgent task, looking for them.

  She found them in the dining hall, sitting together and chowing down on hamburgers. Which meant there wouldn’t be a time better than right now.

  Heart pounding, she rushed through the kitchen, out the back door and down the hallway by the laundry room. The first door was locked, but her key fit. After gaining entrance, she made sure to lock it after her, just in case.

  Clattering down the metal steps, she reached for her weapon, which of course she didn’t have. Habit. But she sure did wish she’d found a way to arm herself, at least while down here. Bottom line—she didn’t feel safe. She could fight and she could run, but she had no recourse against a man with a weapon. And she’d seen the side piece Bart carried in a shoulder holster. As for Randall, she doubted he even knew how to use a pistol.

  The second door was also locked. No surprise there. Once again, her key worked. She took a deep breath and yanked it open, stepping inside. Out of reflex, she carefully locked it behind her and pocketed her key.

  Then and only then did she turn and allow herself to process what she saw before her.

  During her time in the FBI, she’d paid many a visit to jails and prisons. This place, with its row of metal cells and strong urine smell, appeared to be an attempt to recreate that, though on a much smaller scale. There was only one long row.

  Underhill had begged not to be taken to the cells. Now she knew exactly what he’d meant.

  The first two cells were clean and empty. In the third, a huddled pile of clothes looked eerily familiar. She hoped—oh, how she hoped—there wasn’t a person underneath.

  As she moved closer, her heart in her throat, she realized exactly who she saw lying in a mess of blood on the concrete floor. Jake.

  She
must have gasped or made some other sound of disbelief, because he raised his head. His face—his handsome face—was now so swollen he was barely recognizable. Swollen, bruised, his split lip combined with blood—so much blood—made him look like something out of a nightmare.

  “Jake.” Her heart broke. How the hell had he gotten in here? And why? “Who did this to you?”

  But he’d lost consciousness and slumped back to the floor. And of course, his cell door was locked.

  She tried her key, even though she guessed it wouldn’t work. It wasn’t even the right size.

  “Jake,” she whispered. “I’m going to go get you some help.”

  A moan from the next cell had her squinting. She took a hesitant step toward the sound, stopping short when she realized Underhill was the next prisoner. He’d been beaten, too, though not as badly nor as recently as Jake. Beyond him, in yet another cell, she saw what appeared to be an extremely emaciated woman.

  Micheline, she thought, battling back a flash of fury. Micheline had done all this. Maybe not personally, but no one in the AAG center acted without her orders.

  She pulled out her cell phone, intending to call Holden. No signal. Of course. But she could still use the camera. Photographic evidence would go a long way. She snapped pictures of everything—the setup, the cells and the prisoners themselves. Twice she tried to text them, but with no signal, they wouldn’t go through.

  Jake still hadn’t moved, though she thought she could see his chest rise and fall as he breathed. “Please stay alive,” she murmured and spun around to go.

  Hands shaking, she unlocked the first door, barely remembering to lock it again before rushing up the stairs. She fumbled with the key and dropped it. Telling herself to breathe, to stay calm, she bent over and picked it up. As she straightened, the dead bolt turned and someone on the other side shoved the door open, right into her. Unprepared, she stumbled backward and grabbed for the handrail, barely stopping herself from falling down the stairs.

  Bart came slamming through the door, expression hard. The instant he saw Fiona, he pulled his pistol. “Keep your hands where I can see them,” he ordered.

  The irony of the situation wasn’t lost on her. But she was too worried about Jake to care a whole hell of a lot what Bart thought. “Go get Micheline,” she demanded. “Or Leigh. Or both of them. Right now.”

  His upper lip curled in a sneer. “I don’t take orders from you. And with you sneaking around in places where you don’t belong, you don’t have a lot of bargaining power.”

  “I don’t care.” With a pistol pointed at her, she didn’t want to make any sudden moves. Especially since she didn’t know what kind of training Bart might have had.

  “Does Micheline know Jake is in here?” she asked, softening her tone somewhat. “He’s been badly beaten. He needs to get immediate medical care.”

  “You don’t say,” Bart drawled. “I’ll get right on that.” He gestured with his gun. “Now you, move back down the stairs. Keep your hands where I can see them at all times.”

  Would he shoot her? For the first time, she wondered if Bart and Randall were running their own little shop of horrors down here without Micheline’s blessing.

  Somehow, knowing what she did about Micheline, she doubted that. “You can’t hurt me,” she said, infusing her voice with way more confidence than she felt. “Micheline needs me too much to lose me.”

  “Does she now?” Judging from his snide smirk, he doubted that.

  “Call her and see.” Fiona decided to brazen this out. “Call her right now. I’ve had just about enough of this. Jake is hurt and—”

  Moving so swiftly she didn’t have time to react, he shoved her hard, sending her tumbling down the metal stairs. It happened so fast, a split second in which one moment she’d been whole and the next, her entire body screamed with pain.

  She’d broken her ankle, she thought, though since she could still move her legs, she hadn’t broken her neck. Though she could have. Or her back. Bart had pushed her, knowing full well she’d be badly hurt, maybe even paralyzed, and he hadn’t cared.

  Calling on her own inner strength, she grabbed the handrail at the bottom of the stairs and hauled herself to her feet. Excruciating pain sliced through her when she tried to put her weight on her right ankle, which meant definitely broken.

  “You tried to kill me.” She didn’t have to feign disbelief. “What the actual hell?”

  “No,” he drawled, coming about halfway down, his weapon still aimed at her. “If I wanted to kill you, I would just shoot. But...” He took another step, bringing him closer. “I know Micheline will likely want you alive, just like your boyfriend. Though she won’t give a rat’s ass what kind of condition either of you are in.”

  “But she will,” she informed him. “She needs the baby I’m carrying to leverage what influence she has.”

  “Baby?” Momentarily fazed, he eyed her. “Right.”

  “I’m serious,” she protested.

  He ignored her. One more step, then another, until only a matter of feet separated them. He waved the gun in a way that made her consider snatching it away from him. If she’d been able to stand on both her feet, she might have tried. As it was, all she could do was glare at him and hope he didn’t pistol-whip her.

  “She won’t care if I have some...” He licked his lips, pupils darkening. “Fun.”

  Horrified, she realized what he meant. He planned to rape her. “Not in this lifetime,” she snarled, catching him by surprise. “I promise I will fight you,” she said, letting him see the steely resolve in her eyes. “And you might be bigger than me and stronger than me, but I will hurt you. In more ways than one.” She bared her teeth in a savage smile. “In fact, you’re probably going to end up having to kill me before I’ll let you lay one hand on me.”

  He took an inadvertent step back before he caught himself. “Move,” he ordered. “There’s a cell down there calling your name.”

  By now the pain had become so intense perspiration broke out on her forehead. She could barely hobble on one leg.

  “The cell,” he repeated. “Now.”

  Since she didn’t have a choice, she did as he said. Once she’d made it inside, he slammed the door shut and locked her in. “Slide me your phone,” he said.

  “No.” She stuck out her chin. “There’s no service here anyway.”

  “Slide. Me. Your. Phone.” He gestured toward Jake. “If you don’t, I’ll make sure and hurt your boyfriend even more than he already is.”

  Judging by the anticipation in his face, he actually hoped she’d refuse. Disgusted, she reached into her pocket, pulled out her phone and slid it across the floor to the edge of the bars.

  “Thank you.” Pocketing it, he smiled. “Enjoy your stay,” he said, mocking her. And then he turned and clomped back up the stairs, slamming and locking the door. Now alone, she sank down to the floor and removed her shoe. Her ankle had swollen and turned black and blue. Examining the rest of her aching body, she took a quick inventory. She had various other cuts, scrapes and bruises, all caused by her fall, but as far as she could tell nothing else appeared to be broken.

  On the other side of her, separated by a low metal partition, Jake moaned. Her stomach twisted, even as her own throbbing pain made her nauseous. Bart had pushed her down the stairs, but who knew what he or Randall had done to Jake.

  Her only hope—oh, the bitter irony—was that Bart would contact Leigh or Micheline and they would order her to be freed, along with Jake. Jake needed medical treatment immediately. Her broken ankle wasn’t life-threatening. Whatever they’d done to Jake might be.

  Hours passed, how many she had no idea. She’d relied on her phone for checking the time, so didn’t even own a watch. The throbbing in her ankle seemed to intensify by the minute, and no matter how she shifted her position, she couldn’t seem to lessen the pain. No more
sounds came from Jake’s cell, which worried her. She even tried calling his name several times, but he never responded.

  Damn. If anything had happened to him, she’d bear full responsibility. She should have urged him to get out, to go back to his ranch, to stay safe. But she’d let the attraction blazing between them distract her. Now, she hoped neither of them had to pay the consequences of her foolishness.

  Foolishness. Was it, though? They hadn’t known each other very long, but she couldn’t imagine going through another day without him in it. He had to be all right. He had to be. She refused to accept any other outcome.

  Finally, she managed to doze, though the slightest movement brought stabbing pain and she’d wake, perspiring and disoriented. Though she’d seen others locked up here, the absolute silence wore on her as heavily as some kind of sensory deprivation torture. She, who’d never been the slightest bit claustrophobic, began to feel acutely aware of the size of her small cell.

  She understood what they—the AAG, Micheline or just Bart and Randall—had going here. A prison of sorts, where offenders were locked up without legal representation or access to a fair trial. Inhuman and cruel treatment, including beatings and starvation, denying medical care and who knew what else.

  There was no telling how much time had passed when Fiona heard the clunk-click sound of the dead bolt unlocking. She tried to push herself to her feet, but her swollen ankle screamed in protest, so she abandoned that idea. She couldn’t even manage to get to her knees.

  Bart came through the door, followed by Micheline. Fiona’s intense relief at seeing Micheline faded at the furious expression on the older woman’s face. Micheline moved forwarded, holding something in her hand, brandishing it like a weapon. As she stopped outside Fiona’s cell, Fiona realized Micheline held her cell phone, the one Bart had taken from her right before locking her up.

  At least, Fiona thought, the phone was a burner. She kept nothing stored on it, with the exception of Holden’s number.