For reasons she couldn’t articulate, learning the answer became imperative. At the plywood side of the cell, she gave the fence wall a hard shake and then climbed it, shoving her fingers through in an effort to reach over the barrier.
No luck. Hopping back to the floor, she stifled a curse. She would just ask Mark when Eaton brought him back. Because Mark would come back. She had to believe it. She rubbed her arms against the chill of doubt that chased that thought. Negative thinking wouldn’t help either of them.
Frustrated and desperate, she rattled her cage door again. Outside, a light winked on and gave her enough brightness to search again for any structural weakness in the cage. The wire fencing wasn’t exactly top-of-the-line security, but she couldn’t make any useful progress where it was strapped to the floor and walls of the container.
At the sound of the door unlocking, she hurried to the front of her cage, hoping for a glimpse of Mark. The door opened and the bare bulb overhead flashed on. She squinted at the flare of light. Despite pressing her cheek close to the cold fencing, all she saw was the smaller of the two men who had alternated guard duty. “Hey!” she called out. “What’s going on?”
He didn’t acknowledge her. She listened to the footsteps. Someone was dragging something. Please, please, please don’t let that be Mark. With a grunt and a curse, the big guard shoved the heavy object or person into Mark’s cell. Her heart sank.
“Is that Mark?” she asked, demanded. “Mark, talk to me.”
The only response was a pained groan.
“What did you do to him?” She shook the door of her cage, slammed her body against it.
The big bald guard suddenly stepped in front of her. “Back up, missy.”
She didn’t have to be told twice. The smell alone had her wishing for a fan. A stench of blood and something hot, like melting wires, hovered around him like a thick fog. “What did you do to him?”
The guard’s hard eyes glittered and he traced the hasp of the lock on the door. He had the key and they both knew it. “Be glad the boss put you off-limits.”
“L-leave ’er…’lone.”
Mark’s words were slurred, but he was alive. The guard’s attention shifted and she watched, horrified, as he hauled Mark out of the cell and pinned him to the wall in front of her.
“You don’t give the orders,” the guard said.
“You either,” Mark retorted.
Charlotte’s breath caught in her chest. He looked dreadful. One side of his face was swollen from jaw to brow bone and blood trailed over the terrain into his beard. They’d replaced his suit with a pair of thin pants like the scrubs she wore. His feet and chest were bare.
“Mark,” she whispered, afraid for him. His appearance didn’t put her off; it made her want to help, to comfort, to soothe. “Oh, Mark.”
His gaze flitted to her and his lips curved into what was probably intended to be a grin. “Hi, Lottie.”
She shook her head. With the damage to his face, he was a caricature of himself. What was she supposed to do now? Priority one was not to blurt out she loved him. That was a declaration and a moment best not shared here.
Better to focus on solutions to the immediate trouble. It looked as if the only thing keeping Mark upright was the guard’s meaty hand. She was livid with Eaton. At the first opportunity, she’d attack the jerk, to hell with the consequences.
Furious and afraid for Mark, she shook the cage door. “You’ve made a huge mistake. Open this door and I’ll kill you myself.” Senseless, likely impossible, but she wanted the chance.
“She’ll do it too,” Mark said. “Fierce.”
The guard muttered something unintelligible and shoved Mark back in his cell. He locked them into the room and the light overhead went dark again. Charlotte pressed her forehead against the side of the cage that bordered his.
“Do you have any water or food?”
“Both,” he grunted, sounding surprised.
“Good.” She’d been trying to figure out how to help him. “Don’t talk, just take care of yourself.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
She heard the wrapper tear as he opened a meal bar, then a short bark of laughter. “What’s so funny?”
“Hard granola bar. Sore teeth.”
His words were still a bit slurred, but she understood. “That’s mean.”
“Uh-huh.”
A moment later, she heard the crinkle of plastic as Mark drank the bottled water. “You should drink more,” she said when he was quiet.
“All gone.”
She felt so bad for him. Worse when she realized he would’ve been dealing with this by himself. She had four more bottles in the corner of her cage, along with three soft oatmeal breakfast bars. “I hate John Eaton.”
A snort came from Mark’s cell.
Now that she was looking for them, she’d noticed the cameras in the office where Mark had been beaten. Clearly they were doing a number on him to make the general miserable. Mark had told her that was Eaton’s strategy, but seeing it play out was dreadful. “We have to do something.”
“In time,” Mark said.
“Tell me how to help.” There had to be something more she could do here.
“Can’t.”
Not what she wanted to hear. Beating up Mark seemed to be Eaton’s only goal, anything to make General Riley suffer while he watched. A man like that would want verification that his tactics were effective. “How does Eaton know your dad’s watching?”
“Dunno,” Mark replied. He sounded half-asleep.
Maybe he was conserving his energy to heal while he could. His training would’ve prepared him for this kind of situation. Charlotte knew he wouldn’t cave to the torture anytime soon. Her heart broke for Mark, his father and the whole family. The next time Eaton hauled her in for a face-to-face, he wouldn’t find her so cooperative.
“This is intolerable.” She slumped to the floor and leaned against the barrier between them, wishing her presence offered him the same reassurance that being near him gave her.
“Life sucks sometimes.” Mark’s voice was a bit clearer now. “We’ll get through it.”
Would they? She tugged at the fencing, stretching her fingers through to touch the plywood. The fence panel was looser at the middle and the barrier between their cages didn’t reach the ceiling. Maybe she couldn’t fight back directly, but she could help him recover.
“I have an idea.” She grabbed a bottle of water and one of the soft meal bars. She tried to lift the plywood and slide the water through, but she couldn’t get the barrier quite high enough.
“Not up. Forward,” Mark said.
She heard him move toward the back wall and hurried to follow. Together, using their fingertips through the chain links, they pushed the plywood far enough out of the way for her to pass him an oatmeal bar and another bottle of water.
Her fingers brushed against his and, despite the crisis and his injuries, that familiar combination of awareness and longing zinged up her arm and straight into her heart. She couldn’t suppress the gasp.
“Don’t worry about me, Lottie,” he said, misunderstanding her reaction. He opened the meal bar. The homey scent of oatmeal was a strange counterpoint in their makeshift prison.
“Of course not,” she said, trying to follow his habit of keeping things light. “You’re obviously doing fine.”
“I am,” he whispered, his voice low. “This helps.”
Through the narrow gap, she watched him wolf down the food and guzzle another bottle of water. She took both the wrapper and the empty bottle into her cell to hide that they’d shared resources. “Do you want more to eat?”
“Better not,” he replied.
“What can I do?” she asked again. “There has to be something.”
He reached through the gap and touched her fingers, the closes
t they could come to holding hands with his still handcuffed. “This.” He sighed. “This helps. Knowing I’m not alone.”
She wished she could see his face, but it was too dark again. She almost lifted his hand to her lips, as she had so many times in her imagination. Her mind would always go there with him, whether they were in a dark cell or surrounded by his family at one event or another. “You’re not alone,” she whispered.
“That’s the best part of a SEAL team,” Mark said after a few minutes. “Someone has your back.”
Oh, how she wished she could have his back here. “I’ll help you any way I can,” she said.
“You’ve made that clear.” He turned his head and even in the low light, she caught a bit of that familiar grin. “At this point, I think it’s best if we let things play out.”
“How much can you take?”
“The SEAL training drummed all the quit out of me years ago.”
Not exactly quantifiable. “I’m serious.” She wanted a timeline, something to track or prepare for.
“So am I.” He turned his whole body toward her. “I know you’re scared. I’m sorry.”
For you. For herself too, but seeing him bloodied and exhausted, she was terrified Eaton would kill him. She kept the revelation locked up tight behind her closed lips. How could she convince Eaton to let them go?
“They’re looking for us,” Mark said. “We just have to stay tough. This is a performance,” he said. “An attempt to prove he can best a Navy SEAL, that’s all.”
“Well, it’s not even B movie material.”
He sputtered a small laugh. “Let him have his fifteen minutes of fame.” He raised his hands and bumped into the fencing, as if he’d meant to touch her cheek and forgotten the barrier and restraints. “I can take whatever he dishes out.”
“How?” she blurted the question aloud.
“Training,” he said. “Belief.”
“Hope,” she summarized.
“In a word.” He squeezed her fingers. “Mind over matter. When I get an opening, I’ll jump on it no matter how bad I look right now.”
“We’ll jump on it,” she said.
She heard the brief hesitation before he agreed. No matter the compliments about her being fierce, he must see her, an artist without any survival skills to speak of, like a millstone around his neck.
If she proved herself valuable here, in this pressure cooker, would he look at her differently once they were rescued? See her as an equal rather than someone he needed to shield, even from his own life choices? It was a ridiculous twist of logic to think if he could believe them out of this ordeal, she might employ the same tactic and believe him into an integral part of her personal life when they were free.
And still her hopelessly romantic heart insisted that anything was possible.
CHAPTER 6
Mark’s head weighed a ton as he came around. Resting his cheek on his raised arm, he instantly regretted this latest return to consciousness. It wasn’t a nightmare; he was still in Eaton’s office, his body serving as a heavy bag for Muscle and the guard Mark had labeled Quick-Punch Kid. The two had strung him up by his wrists to a loop mounted to the ceiling and had worked him over until he’d passed out.
For hours on end.
For the first time in his life, Mark wished for painkillers. A lowering admission, but there it was. Thankfully Eaton’s cameras couldn’t expose his weak thoughts.
Two things kept him going: Charlotte needed him to keep breathing; he was going to have fun retaliating when the opportunity came; and his dad was surely watching.
Whoops. That was three things.
The more motivation, the better. Eaton didn’t want him dead, which he found interesting. He wanted him weak. Mark supposed it was okay to lose these skirmishes as long as he eventually won the war. And he would. Strange thoughts flitted through his head as he hung there waiting for the next round. Eaton must be afraid of the reputation and strength of Navy SEALs. Mark smiled, making a mental note to keep that fear fresh in Eaton’s mind.
All the way up to the moment when he killed the man.
“Is that a grin of the damned?” Eaton asked.
Mark hadn’t heard the door open. Oh, right. One of his ears was full of blood from a punch or a cut. He shook his head, trying to clear it. “No,” Mark managed. He focused on the smell of the ocean somewhere outside this pocket of hell.
Eaton carried a white paper bag to his desk and sat down. He opened a rugged laptop computer and then the bag. The savory aroma of a Philly cheesesteak sandwich filled the room. That scent would linger in the humid air. Mark’s stomach growled. Eaton’s bark of laughter was low and mean.
“Tell me about Miss Hanover,” he said.
“No.” It had been the first question every time for the last two days. Eaton wanted to know what Charlotte meant to Mark and the Rileys. He asked about her family, her career, her artwork and where she’d studied.
Mark had been grateful he didn’t have too many details about Charlotte’s recent choices to blot from his mind when Muscle and Quick-Punch Kid pummeled him during the interrogations. On the flip side, a piece of Mark that resided dangerously close to his heart had other questions about Charlotte.
Would she have let him kiss her behind the gallery? Was every kindness she’d shown him since the kidnapping rooted in concern as a family friend? Would she ever forgive him for this fiasco? Would they ever enjoy champagne on a sunset sail?
Mark struggled to catch his breath, a significant challenge when hanging like a side of beef on a hook. Eaton asked another question about Charlotte.
“I will kill you,” Mark replied, the words lacking in volume, but full of conviction.
Eaton approached, carrying a chunk of his sandwich. The savory aroma taunted Mark. It took all his willpower not to beg for a bite. “Tell me about Charlotte and I’ll give you my sandwich.”
Mark didn’t want to think about the condition of the sandwich he’d receive if he played along. “Not hungry.”
“You would be if she stopped feeding you from her stash.”
Mark wasn’t surprised Eaton had cameras in the cage room. The man enjoyed his live surveillance feeds the way most people enjoyed chocolate. Mark was more curious about why Eaton allowed Charlotte to help him. The man had a reason for everything he did.
“I don’t condone torture,” Eaton said, gesturing with the sandwich, sending that aroma floating around Mark’s face. “Always my preference to strike first and let the vultures clean up the mess.”
The beef and peppers and mushrooms made his mouth water. Proper nourishment would go a long way about now. Where had he even come up with fresh hot takeout? From what Charlotte had said, based on the little she’d seen and heard, Mark was sure they were on an undeveloped island. Maybe he kept a chef chained to the stove on that boat.
“Tell me about Charlotte,” Eaton ordered.
“No.”
Eaton threw the sandwich to the floor and stomped on it.
“I knew it,” Mark mumbled.
“Knew what?”
“Knew you were crazy,” he said. “That smelled like a great sandwich.”
“You…” Eaton threw several punches into Mark’s gut, but after Muscle and Quick-Punch Kid, the strikes felt more like a deep tissue massage than a beating. Mark’s laughter enraged Eaton.
“Not personal,” Mark said, gasping. “Pain response.”
Eaton lit into him again.
A phone rang and, with an annoyed curse, Eaton stalked back to his desk.
An island with cell service? Charlotte described it as little more than a forested sandbar, yet with the generator and phone, Mark wondered if it was a time-share for criminals. He wheezed out a laugh. His pain-addled brain came up with an infomercial script and sales pitch. His body creaked with the ensuing giggles and the cha
in holding him jerked and clanged.
“Shut up!” Eaton hissed.
For a man in charge, Eaton behaved as if he was reporting to a boss. Weird. Mark watched the body language and regretted it when a reptilian smile creased the other man’s face.
“We’ll have two ready for you,” Eaton was saying. “One in prime condition and the other less so.” He paused, eyeing Mark. “Yes, wounded animals do make for delightful unpredictability.”
Eaton swiveled in his chair, listening again. “The island is low on creature comforts, but we have the basics in place.” He smiled. “Yes, more motivation to complete the hunt quickly, I agree.”
Mark’s blood chilled as the situation crystalized. Eaton was inviting a hunter to the island and he and Charlotte were the trophies. Had this been his plan for Mark all along?
Eaton finished the call and polished off the rest of his sandwich, treating Mark like a sculpture in the corner.
“Charlotte is talented and young,” Mark blurted. “She’s not a survivalist. Let her go.”
“I most certainly will, in due time.”
“Don’t do this, Eaton. Take her out of the equation. Please,” he added, though it cost him. “You can’t let some jackass with too much money and no soul snuff her out.”
“How much is her freedom worth?”
“Anything,” he said. “I’ll give your hunter a good chase. She won’t. It’ll be shooting fish in a barrel.”
“Maybe that’s what my client wants.”
“No hunter worth his ammo wants that. It’s the thrill of the chase.”
“Not for everyone,” Eaton countered. “For some, a live capture is the thing.”
Mark strained against the chain holding him. Did he mean the hunter wanted to take Charlotte alive? “What do you want? Let Charlotte go and you’ll get anything,” Mark pleaded. He had to spare Charlotte. He knew he was being manipulated by a master and didn’t care. He didn’t know if the room was wired for sound, or if his father could only see his struggle, but that wasn’t important now.
Harlequin Romantic Suspense December 2020 Box Set Page 80
