Читать книгу Kidnapped! - Jo Leigh - Страница 10

5

NO LIGHTS WERE ON inside the house. From where Michael was hiding, behind a band of large elm trees, it appeared that no one was home and that the exterior lights were all connected to a security system.

Getting to the back of the estate was going to be tricky. The last thing he wanted was a police cruiser catching him trespassing. He supposed he could tell the truth—that he was trying to prevent a fake kidnapping—but he doubted the officers would let him continue on his way.

If it had been his place, he knew just where he’d focus his motion sensors and where he’d put the cameras. There was a very narrow window between this estate and the next where motion sensors became a pain in the ass. It wasn’t wide enough for an automobile, but it would work for him as long as the fence held out. There was only one way to find out.

He took off, wondering who owned this place. Now that he was here, he couldn’t picture Brody living here. The house was ornate, ostentatious. It spoke of old money with its sculptured gardens and heavy drapes behind the closed windows. Brody was modern and eclectic and he would always want to be seen as avantgarde. Unless this was somehow his wife’s estate? That didn’t fit, either.

He made his way back far enough that he could hear the ocean. The salty scent had been in the air for a while, but the sound of water lapping against a pier or a dock or a boat… He’d been in enough oceans to have some discernment, but he’d never been a SEAL.

Would he have taken her to a boat? Was that all part of his plan? If so, it was goddamn stupid. A woman with a panic disorder and the ocean didn’t mix. It was far too easy to picture an ugly death in a boat.

But perhaps there was some other building behind the main house where he had her. He hoped so. It had been too long since she’d been taken. He doubted Tate was handling things well.

Shit, by now her disappearance had to have made a stir. She was Tate Baxter, after all, and the kidnapping had taken place in broad daylight in a very expensive section of Manhattan. William would be going insane and he would want his security chief’s head on a platter.

Well, it had been an interesting job while it’d lasted. Once he got Tate back home, he’d resign and he’d distance himself as much as possible from his team. They didn’t need to collect unemployment just because he’d been suckered.

The edge of the main house came into view, and behind it he could see the ocean. There was a yacht, at least a 65 footer, moored at the edge of a small pier. Parked right by the dock was a white van with muddy plates. Lights glowed from inside the yacht, and as he ran faster, he could see a man’s silhouette.

There was no other building. They had her on the water. But not for long.

“WAKE UP.”

Tate fought to stay cool, but the sharp pains in her wrist and on her arms were more insistent than the man. She opened her eyes. There were more lights on, and she could now see him clearly.

He was of some mixed heritage, maybe black, maybe Hispanic. His eyes were almost golden, which didn’t make much sense. He looked intent and excited; he was smiling as he shook her, and his teeth were crooked, large. He exhaled garlic in her face, and she tried to move her head, which hurt worse than her wrist.

“She’s awake.”

Another voice, a man, older, behind him. She didn’t want to see him, but she looked anyway. He was nothing like his companion. She was right about his age. He was tan, and while his hair was completely white, his face was unlined except around his eyes. He seemed very tall, although from her position on the bed that could be an illusion. He wore a blue shirt and he had a large silver chain around his neck.

“Who are you?”

“You don’t need to know that,” he said. “Move back, Jazz.”

The small man let her go and got off the bed. Now she could see the tall man more clearly, and he reminded her of the men in her father’s club, pampered and false, as if they’d used every trick in the book to stay the hand of time.

“What’s your father’s phone number, Tate?”

“I won’t tell you.”

“Yes, you will. The only question is how much Jazz will hurt you until you do.”

The panic started again and she felt a scream building in her throat.

“Just tell us. It will be so much easier.”

“You’ll kill me if I tell you.”

“I’ll kill you if you don’t.”

“Go ahead.”

“Oh, no. That’s not how we play the game.” He nodded at Jazz.

The small man smiled wider, his glee apparent at the anticipation of her pain. He reached over her head and took her hand in his. He pulled it, hard, and the scream grew as it felt as if he were tearing her wrist apart.

She kicked and found that her legs were no long tied together. It didn’t matter, though. She couldn’t reach anything or stop the tearing. All she could do was scream and thrash, her free arm as useless as her legs.

“Give us the number, Tate. This is only the beginning. He’d like nothing more than to ruin that hand of yours forever. He’ll cut it through the artery. He will. Then he’ll have to stop the bleeding, and the only way he knows to do that is to cauterize it. You know what that is, don’t you?”

The image of her flesh burning made her gag, but there was nothing in her stomach. Maybe she should tell them. Then they’d kill her and it would be over. That was better, wasn’t it?

The big man sighed loudly. “Again,” he said as if he were asking Jazz to change the channel.

Tate closed her eyes as Jazz reached for her hand. The pain took her breath and, with it, her strength. She knew what they wanted from her father, and just like all those years ago, they would win.

“All right,” she said, her voice nothing more than a whisper. “Stop. Please.”

Jazz let her go, but it didn’t help much. The pain shot up her arm and wrapped around her chest. Was it really just today that she’d been picking out shirts at Prada? That she had daydreamed about Michael looking at her with pride?

“Well?”

She wiped the tears from her cheeks with her free hand, wishing for a miracle, knowing none would come. “212…”

MICHAEL MADE IT TO the pier without the police showing up. Nothing mattered now but getting to Tate. It was too easy to imagine her in serious trouble, the kind that didn’t clear up with a cup of tea and a good night’s sleep.

His gun in his hand, he moved toward the yacht, the Pretty Kitty, and tried not to make any noise. If the yacht owner was at all security-conscious, Michael had already set off the alarm. Nothing he could do about that except prepare. He had to remember to ask questions first, which wasn’t his usual MO.