Читать книгу Reluctant Hero - Debra Regan - Страница 10

Chapter Three

Becca came awake slowly, her eyes gritty and her throat dry as she tried to get her bearings. The lights were dim and she had the immediate impression of being in a pleasant small sitting room. Someone had removed her shoes, tucked her in and covered her with an incredibly soft throw. The gesture left her wary rather than comforted. What happened?

Easing herself upright, she found herself on a love seat upholstered in deep burgundy leather so smooth it felt like silk to the touch. Not Bill’s house. She didn’t recognize the space, couldn’t name a single friend who had a room like this. Where were her shoes?

“Hello?” Her throat was dry enough that she sounded like a frog. How long had she been here? She called out a couple more times, receiving no answer.

Fear trickled down her spine, a chill under her skin that burned as questions burst through her clouded mind. Where was she? Who brought her here? Why?

She stood up and the room turned in a sick, lopsided circle. Falling back, she let the love seat catch her as she tried to force herself to remember something. Anything. A bottle of water had been placed on the end table between the love seat and chair. Terribly thirsty, she reached for it and then snatched her hand back. The bottle looked new, but that was no guarantee it was safe to drink.

“Think,” she whispered to herself. Someone had put her here, and she had no intention of making it easy for them to keep her. She fingered the hem of her dress, vaguely recalling her boredom with her date. They’d been at a hotel. A party. Snippets of the evening floated in a disjointed parade through her brain. A grand staircase, free-flowing champagne and beautiful people twisted in a kaleidoscope that made her eyes ache and her head pound.

When she felt steadier she stood up again. Doing a slow three-sixty, she took in the rest of the room. The space was cleverly designed in a narrow rectangle with a refrigerator, microwave, small oven and sink making up a kitchenette at one end. On the opposite end of the long room was a single door and next to that a set of floor-to-ceiling doors. She walked closer and found a Murphy bed.

“I’ve been kidnapped by a tiny house architect,” she said aloud, imagining Bill’s laughter and snarky retort.

This was more luxurious than some of the movie trailers she’d seen while working on sets with her dad. She bounced a little, discovering the floor didn’t have any give the way a trailer floor often did. Another tremor slipped over her skin. A trailer could be moved anywhere, at any time. Who would do this?

There were no windows, only a lovely painting of the Golden Gate Bridge spearing out of a thick fog bank. All of the lighting came from LED fixtures in the ceiling. What she assumed was the entrance door was painted the same warm ivory as the rest of the walls, but with the oversize hinges and crossbars, it looked more like a bank vault. She walked over, pushing and tugging at the spoked handle. Her grip was weak; her entire body felt used up and she couldn’t make the wheel budge in any direction.

A flat panel on the side of the door lit up and a feminine computerized voice announced, “The status of the safe room is secure.”

“Good to know.” Becca tapped the panel, and a command screen appeared. Not seeing an icon or a button to unlock the door, she spoke clearly in the direction of the speaker above the panel. “Unlock safe room.”

After a moment, the computer denied her request.

“Thanks for nothing,” Becca muttered. She walked the length of the room, looking for a switch to make the lights brighter. Apparently that too was controlled by a system outside her reach. Not even the reading lamp on the end table tucked between the love seat and the oversize tufted leather armchair responded when she flipped the switch. “Where am I?”

More silence. Apparently not even the computer had an answer.

She went to the kitchen sink and tested the water faucet. The water smelled fine and looked clear. The cool water on her hands refreshed her and she blotted her face as well before finding a cup and drinking her fill.

Her memories returned in fractured images. She remembered walking with Lucy, but not what they talked about. There had been a strong man holding her tightly. He’d smelled funny. Odd. Too sweet and strong for a cologne, the odor had made her head swim. Chloroform? Was she recalling fact or was her mind weaving in some fiction?

Uncertain, she crossed to the other end of the room, opening the bathroom door, finding no windows and no obvious escape route. A glance in the mirror had her scrubbing away the mascara smudged and streaked under her eyes and down her cheeks. Noticing a red mark at her neck, she rubbed at the spot, remembering the pinch and sting of a needle before her world went black. Someone had shouted. Who had it been?

“Where am I?” she asked, returning to the center of the room.

“You’re in a safe room.”

She jumped. This reply was not automated. The voice, as rough as sandpaper thanks to one of those altering devices, filled the room. “Cooperate, Ms. Wallace, and you will be released unharmed.”

She heard the unspoken flip side of the statement. If she didn’t cooperate she wouldn’t be released. “Come in here and say that,” she said with all the bravado she could muster. “Show yourself!” Her temper mounted as she waited for a reply. “You coward! It will take more than voice alteration and an automatic door to avoid the penalty for kidnapping me.” She needed to keep him talking, needed information about her captor.

“We’ll see.”

Male, she was sure of that much. Ninety percent sure, anyway. Those voice gadgets could do bizarre things. “Let me out!

“People will be looking for me.” She hoped they already were.

There was another long delay before the reply. “Rest. Drink plenty of fluids. We’ll talk again soon.”

“What do you want from me?”

“For now, I want you to rest.”

“Where are my shoes?” She shouted the question at the door and pulled on the handle again. Her frustration soaring to new highs, she smacked the control panel, hoping for a short circuit if nothing else.

“Escape is impossible without the code and my palm print.”

She swore at the door and the electronic panel that was currently dark. “Unlock this door.”

“As soon as it’s safe, I will.”

“When this door opens I’ll—”

“I understand your distress. You will not be harmed in my care.”

Becca shivered. Something about the voice, the cadence of it, felt both familiar and frightening. “I won’t make the same promise to you.”

“The basics are stocked for you,” the gravelly, distorted voice said. “Meals will be provided three times each day.”

When left to her own devices, she didn’t eat three regular meals each day. “What makes you think I’ll eat?” A hunger strike might be her fastest way out of this room.

“Eating is your choice,” the voice replied. “But I will not allow you to harm yourself.”

“Oh, that’s your job, huh?” She crossed her arms to hide her trembling hands. “What do you want? Money?” Had one of her notoriously bad dates gone off the rails in an effort to get her father’s attention? “Name your price.” She’d gladly give up the password to her untouched trust fund account in exchange for the code to leave this well-appointed prison.

“No,” the voice said. “Cooperate and this will be over soon.”

Cooperate with a faceless kidnapper? No way. “Buddy, this won’t be over until I’m free and you’re locked up in a prison cell,” she shouted at the ceiling.

The speaker crackled once and went silent. The vault-like door remained closed. Knowing the effort was futile, she walked to the panel and poked at it again anyway.

One dead end did not a hopeless situation make, she told herself, not quite believing it. She couldn’t bring to mind any situation quite as bad as this one.

Her father’s film company had been detained once in Turkey. It had been a miserable and uncertain forty-eight hours under house arrest, before all the paperwork was considered acceptable to the authorities and they were allowed to leave.

As stressful as that had been, this was worse. Here, she was alone, trapped by someone who had yet to make any real demands. She felt her molars grinding on the tension and forced herself to take a few calming breaths.

She’d survived worse things than this. Turkey had been dangerous. Working the story with Bill in Iraq, right on the Iranian border, had been a huge risk. Anymore, dating was akin to Russian roulette. No way was she going out of this life in the role of a helpless captive.

“What do you want from me?” she shouted at the door.

The silence built and built until she ended it with a loud, long scream worthy of the worst horror flick. Cutting loose, she released all her bottled-up fury into the sound, imagining her captor’s ears bleeding from the assault.

He might be in control for now, but there had to be something here she could use against him. Her dad had gone through a horror flick phase and she’d learned a great deal about improvised weapons on those sets. Not to mention all the time she’d spent with prop masters, learning how to fashion amazingly realistic things with little more than duct tape and a good idea.

Her captor had been smart enough to confiscate her high heels. No matter. That was only the first, and most obvious, option. She reviewed the small room through a new lens, with the primary goal of escape.

The love seat wouldn’t be much help, unless it had a pullout option. It didn’t. She examined every inch of the shelves and the items they held. The CD cases could be sharpened with a little effort.

For at least the tenth time since she’d woken up, she reached for her cell phone and felt that swell of panic when she didn’t find it. How pathetic to be so dependent on a device no bigger than an index card. She’d noticed that her captor had also stripped the space of any technology that could be used to communicate with the outside world. Not even a remote for the television remained.

That meant careful planning and forethought. Was all this for her specifically, or just because she was unlucky girl number whatever? She battled back another surge of fear and blinked away the tears threatening to turn into a pitiful sob. She would not let this bastard watch her cry.

Having noticed two surveillance cameras, she retreated to the bathroom, which was the only place he couldn’t keep an eye on her. Maybe no cameras in the bathroom qualified him as a decent sort among the kidnapper set, but it did little to improve her opinion of him.

* * *

PARKER WATCHED THE woman carefully through the two cameras he’d installed in the room, feeling better now that she was moving around so well. Fighting back was another good sign.

The drug hadn’t kept her down long, thankfully. In the two hours he’d watched her sleeping off the effects, he hadn’t come up with an acceptable explanation to offer if he had to take her to an emergency room. The only friend with medical training he trusted in a situation as sticky as this one lived in Nevada, and also happened to be the third man on the blackmailer’s list.

Her blatant search for something to use as a weapon left him smiling. She didn’t give a damn that her captor knew what she was up to. Grit and courage were traits he admired. He shook off the sensation. He didn’t want to admire anything about Rebecca Wallace. She was a means to an end and he should stop wasting time coddling her.

If she was strong enough to argue with him and fight with the locked door, she was strong enough to tell him her source. His finger hovered over the communication link before he pulled it back. As soon as he demanded answers, she’d know it was him keeping her locked away. What would he do with the information at half past one in the morning anyway? Better to wait, to learn more about her. He’d prefer to find a way to handle this without exposing himself to a lawsuit or criminal charges.

It was a relief when she ducked into the bathroom and out of his sight, ending his one-sided debate.

There was no way for her to escape. She’d accept that soon enough. Fortunately for him, there wasn’t anyone else to hear her screaming, though he hoped she didn’t do that again any time soon. The woman had excellent projection and stamina. Rubbing his aching ears, he returned to his search into her background, looking for anything that made her a target.

He glanced up at the monitor when she emerged from the bathroom. She’d let her hair down and he’d bet the clip was tucked in her bra or somewhere she thought to use it as a weapon. Fair enough. When she brushed a finger under her nose, he zoomed in on her face and cursed himself. She’d been crying. In the one place where she knew he couldn’t watch.

What had he done here? After a few hours, he was already dangerously close to feeling guilty about locking her in the safe room, even if it was for her protection. Guilt didn’t suit him. He assessed and took action according to mission parameters. That philosophy had served him well in the field and equally well in his civilian endeavors. It would serve him well as he tracked down the blackmailer.

Parker pulled the tie from his tuxedo collar, wrapping and unwrapping the length of fabric around his knuckles. He’d mined her school records from high school through college. She’d made straight A’s through a tough course load peppered with every form of drama club and literature classes. According to her first résumé out of college, she’d held lead roles in some of the stage productions. He supposed that went along with being the daughter of a powerful force in Hollywood. Those details trickled down and eventually disappeared as she applied for jobs that took her away from Southern California. She’d had an interesting journey to her current post as a producer.

Nothing in the first layers of her background pointed to motive for kidnapping. His mind followed the logic back to his first theory that the scarred man’s attempt to take her was connected to the blackmailer and the source feeding the media lies about Parker’s team. It wasn’t the least bit uplifting.

Satisfied she was alert and out of immediate danger, he felt better about leaving her unattended while he made the quick trip over to her place. She wouldn’t be comfortable in that dress indefinitely. Hopefully a gesture of goodwill in the form of clean clothes would be a step in overcoming her justified anger.

With a sigh, he synced the app that would let him keep an eye on her and this condo through his phone. As he changed clothes, he decided the only silver lining was that she didn’t seem to remember he’d been around when the scarred man grabbed her. He didn’t expect that to last much longer.

* * *

BECCA PACED THE length of the room, considering her options. In the bathroom, she’d taken the clip from her hair and broken it in two pieces. One was inside her bra, the other tucked into her garter. She wanted to be prepared if her captor came in and tried something. As weapons, the pieces wouldn’t cause much damage, but they might buy her a few precious seconds to get away.

She loosened the zipper on her dress, wishing she could take it off. Although the little black dress was considered a wardrobe staple, perfect for every occasion, she was ready to be done with it. What she wouldn’t give for yoga pants and her threadbare college sweatshirt. And some thick socks. Her sheer stockings did nothing to protect her feet from the cold tiled floor.

It was a peculiar experience for her to not know the time. Her entire life revolved around her daily routine. Good grief, she wanted to know the day. Was anyone looking for her yet? Had a ransom been issued? Would her captor be demanding payment from the network or her family? She supposed that depended on the reason for taking her captive. If the goal was money, he’d be better off dealing with her directly. She could just imagine her dad ignoring a critical voice mail or email because he had a movie to finish or business to handle.

Tears threatened once more. He’d always been tough, though she knew he loved her. They loved each other. The gap had just become too wide after her mother died. Flattened by his grief, he’d never quite made it back to really connect with her. They hadn’t had a real conversation in months, and that last one hadn’t been uplifting for either of them. She hoped that terse exchange wouldn’t be their last.

Her stomach rumbled and she decided to make use of the basics her captor had stocked. Finding peanut butter in the cabinet and bread in the refrigerator, she used a spoon and made a sandwich. “Good thing I don’t have a peanut allergy,” she said, raising the sandwich to the camera. “Did you check my medical records?” She poured another glass of water from the tap, not ready to trust the chilled bottles.

She ate standing up, refusing to be caught at a disadvantage. “It really is a good use of space,” she said, in case her captor was listening. “Efficient too. Must have cost you a fortune with the design, the build and all the security measures.”

Security. The word ricocheted through her brain. Parker Lawton handled security for high-end clients like the Gray Box data storage solution company co-founded by Rush Grayson. Could he be foolish enough to hold her hostage? It wasn’t outside the realm of possibility. He had been dumb enough to stick a boot in her door and demand information.

Much as she tried, she couldn’t recall seeing him at the party. Of course that didn’t mean he hadn’t been there, only that her memory was still recovering from whatever drug had knocked her out. If—when—she got out of here, if Lawton was the captor behind the speakers and cameras, she would make sure gold theft was the least of the charges against him.

With renewed resolve, she returned to the bathroom and closed the door. This was a safe room per the computer and her captor, making it a safe bet that the room was inside a building. If she could loosen a pipe or somehow cause a leak, that would draw someone’s attention. At the very least, her captor would need to come in and repair it, giving her an opening to escape.

She knelt down to peer under the sink, and the lights went out. Biting back a startled scream, she scrambled to her feet and reached for the door handle. It locked under her hand. She was trapped in the dark, half expecting some monster to lunge out of the shower stall, when the deep, altered voice carried through the closed door.

“Time to talk, Ms. Wallace.” He was in the safe room, having made his move when he knew she couldn’t attack.

She pounded on the door. “Lawton, is that you?”

“No.”

It had to be. “Prove it.” She hammered another fist on the door. “Let me out.”

“In good time. I need some information.”

She clapped a hand over her mouth to smother the weak plea that nearly promised him anything in exchange for her freedom. Becca Wallace did not beg.

“If you cooperate—”

“Oh, stop with the threats and get to the point,” she snapped, somehow keeping her voice steady.

“Your show has a good reputation.”

What? She bit back a sharp retort. Maybe it was her awful date. Surely Lawton was smart enough to know he couldn’t win her over with ridiculous, mild compliments. “Good? We win awards, thank you very much.”

“How do you decide on ideas for the show?”

The question threw her off. Lawton or the dumb date? “I can assure you we don’t let kidnappers dictate our topics.”

“Walk me through it,” he insisted.