Читать книгу Secret Agent Heiress - Julie Miller - Страница 11

Though she hadn’t expected it, Chilton kept his word. As the sun faded and darkness claimed the cabin, he came to Whitney and helped her sit up. He loosened the gag and let it hang around her shoulders like a necklace. While she worked her jaw to restore feeling to the muscles in her mouth, he opened a canteen.

He held it up to her lips and let her drink her fill. A slop of excess water dribbled down her chin and pooled on the front of her sweater. But Whitney was too smart to mind. She’d had an entire day to do nothing but think. Chilton had to ransom her sometime. He had to trade her for his freedom or revenge or whatever purpose this kidnapping served. But she intended to keep her strength up. She intended to be ready and able to run again, in case he changed his mind about letting her live.

“Rashid will take you outside.” The short, stocky man she’d seen before materialized like a shadow in the creeping darkness. Chilton freed her feet, but left her wrists bound together. Before she left, he whispered one last warning. “Do not provoke him.”

Though she could speak, she chose a submissive nod to answer him. Rashid and his gun escorted her to the far side of a pile of ancient rocks. She made no effort to ask for privacy. She allowed him to undo her belt buckle and zipper, then turned her back to him and dropped her pants.

She heard a thunk and a shuffle of feet behind her. Either Rashid was impatiently shifting from foot to foot, or he was angling around to get a better look at her derriere. Though she could feel the heat creep into her face, she bit her tongue to stifle the crisp retort she had in mind for his blatant voyeurism.

Whitney pulled up her panties when she was finished, but with her hands bound, her jeans proved to be more of a challenge. She could pull them up over one hip, but when she’d reach for the other side, the weight of her belt would make them slip. She tried twice, and ended up with the denim pooled around her knees.

Swallowing what bit of pride she had left, she turned back to Rashid. She blinked twice, and looked again.

Not Rashid.

Though this one, too, was dressed in black from head to foot, the man who stood guard over her now held a different gun. Something sleek and compact that fit into his fist. So Chilton had called in another thug. In the dawning light of the moon she could see his black eyes, the shadow of black stubble on his jaw, the short, shiny crop of inky-black hair that molded to his head.

The thing that frightened her most about this man was his size. He stood bigger and brawnier than any of the others. Well over six feet tall, the breadth of his shoulders strained against the leather jacket he wore. He fit the dimensions of the mountain itself. Even his legs, encased in black denim, looked as solid as the pine trunks that towered around the cabin clearing.

She definitely didn’t want to cross this one. Whitney raised her hands in surrender. “I’m not trying to escape this time, I promise. I just…” She didn’t want to say the wrong thing. She’d been warned not to speak at all. But necessity dictated taking this risk. “I need some help with my pants.”

“Ms. MacNair?”

His deep, raspy voice held no trace of the accent the other men shared. He buried his gun inside his jacket and closed the distance between them. She was too stunned by what she’d just heard to make any protest when he reached down and pulled up her jeans.

With swift, spare movements, he zipped and snapped, and buckled her belt. With him standing so close, she had nowhere else to look but at the controlled flex and give of his broad chest beneath the jacket and a wool turtleneck. He smelled different than the other men. Clean. Leathery. She tipped her chin and looked him in the eye. “Who are you?”

From somewhere behind him he pulled out a switchblade knife and punched it open. She recoiled from the razor-sharp point. But he grabbed both her hands within one of his and pulled her to him. He slipped the knife between her wrists and slit the tape. He’d freed her. Whitney’s confusion must have reflected in her face. He closed the knife right before her eyes so she could see he didn’t plan to slit her throat as well.

“Relax, ma’am. I’m here to rescue you.”

“RIGHT. And I’m the tooth fairy.” Vincent narrowed his gaze and watched the changing emotions play across Whitney MacNair’s upturned face. Her creamy skin reflected the moonlight, revealing fear, distrust, anger. But not once did the classic contours of her oval face soften into anything resembling joy or relief. “I’m tired of playing these games. Just take me back. I won’t run away. I promise.”

He knew an uncharacteristic moment of indecision when she walked around him and headed for the open ground of the clearing. Few things surprised him, yet her straight-backed refusal to accept his help did.

But he wasn’t a man to let anything rattle him for long. Before she reached the end of the rocks and the sight line from the cabin, he snatched her by the belt and pulled her up against his chest. He backed them both into the shadows. “Where are you going?”

“Back to the cabin.” The crown of her hair barely reached his chin, but she squiggled in his grasp as if she had a chance of escape.

His grip held firm. “You can’t.”

“I can and I will.” She reached back and swatted at his hand. “I won’t have your boss take away what privileges I have left. Now let me go.”

Vincent knew of hostages who became attached to their kidnappers, who became loyal to the keepers who terrorized them if they stayed together long enough. But Whitney MacNair had been held for fewer than forty-eight hours.

Maybe she hadn’t understood him. She might be injured or brainwashed or just too frightened to listen. He spun her around and clasped her by the shoulders. “I’m Agent Vincent Romeo. I’m here to take you home.” He scrunched down to her level and looked her straight in the eye. “Do you understand?”

In a shadowy trick of the moonlight her eyes appeared colorless. Gray, her file had said. But much paler than he’d imagined, as airy and light as quicksilver.

The expression in those eyes was unmistakable, though. Simmering anger. Pure rebellion.

Her wide mouth tilted into a sarcastic line. “Romeo, hmm? Romeo, ‘Romeo, wherefore art thou, Romeo?”’

Shakespeare? Like he’d never heard that joke before. All right. So he’d never heard it while he was in the middle of an incisive, undetected strike into enemy territory to retrieve a spoiled society dame who had fluff for brains.

“Come with me now, or I will take you by force.”

Though he never raised his voice above a whisper, he snapped the directions with a clear-cut authority that was rarely challenged.

“I said I’d go back.” She twisted her slim shoulders within his grasp. “Just don’t touch me anymore.”

Giving her the benefit of the doubt, he released her. She stumbled back a step in her haste to get away from him. Her heel caught and she staggered backward. Her arms flew out like twin windmills, but her left foot hit on the same impediment and her balance was lost. She landed with a soft thump on her backside.

On top of the man he’d taken out two minutes ago.

Dazed by the proof of his mission, she touched her fingers to the dead man’s face. His skin would still be warm, but his lack of a response to the woman sitting on his chest should clue in even her stubborn brain to the truth.

Vincent checked his watch while she studied the man. He scanned the clearing for signs of the other guards when she looked up at him. He unholstered his gun when she looked back at the corpse and met her questioning gaze when she looked up at him again.

“Is he…?”

“Dead.”

She scrambled to her feet with reflexes rivaling his own. In an instant she was behind him, her fists gripping handfuls of his jacket.

He had her full attention now.

She poked her head around his shoulder. “Did you do that?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“You don’t need to know.”

He could feel her chest expand and press into his back as she dealt with the shock. The pictures he’d seen of Whitney MacNair had given him the initial impression of a woman of above-average height who needed to put some meat on her bones.

His introduction to her tonight, though, had provided an unexpected glimpse of a nicely rounded bottom. And the stretch of her body against his back indicated an athleticism to her build that decried her klutzy maneuvers thus far.

“Let’s go,” he ordered, setting aside his awareness of her physical attributes. When he turned toward the high ground, he expected her to follow.

But what else had gone as he expected tonight?

Whitney moved in the opposite direction, back toward the terrorist’s body. “You jerk.” She kicked the body’s crumpled legs. “You hurt me.” She collapsed to her knees, grabbed the front of his jacket and shook him, as though his ears could still hear. She raised her voice to a level that would certainly catch the attention of any living ears. “And don’t think I didn’t see you look…”

“He’s dead.”

Vincent wrapped his arm around the waist and lifted her clear off the ground. He clapped his hand over her mouth to stifle her startled yelp and carried her back to the cover of the rocks. She beat at his arm with her fists and writhed within his grasp.

The gun he still held in his hand made it difficult to keep hold of her. Persistent as a fish on a hook, she nearly slipped free. He twisted around and pushed her back against the boulder, trapping her there with his body, absorbing the force of her blows until her energy was spent.

Until he felt the drop of hot moisture hit his hand where it covered her mouth. Oh no, he prayed. She wouldn’t do this now. She couldn’t.

Great. Maybe the reason MacNair had shuffled his daughter off to Montana was because she was crazy. An absolute dingbat without a single survival instinct in her bones.

But she had the most unusual eyes. Sad eyes, he thought. Wounded eyes that seemed to catch and reflect even the dimmest light without allowing anyone to see inside. Right now they brimmed with tears that spilled silently down her face. Vincent peered through the shadows and saw the bloodstain on her cheek. Acting on instinct, he shifted his hand to touch his thumb to the injured spot.

“Are you hurt?”

She shook her head, stirring her cheekbone beneath his touch. The blood came away on his thumb, revealing unblemished skin. She must have put up one hell of a fight to draw someone else’s blood.

Somewhere inside, his confusion shifted and was replaced by an old familiar calling. To protect. Crazy lady or not, Whitney had been taken by force, degraded, and possibly even abused. She had a right to cry. A right to pummel the corpse of a man who had terrorized her. She needed a kind of emotional help that wasn’t in his power to give. But he could keep her safe. He could get her home in one piece.

If she’d let him.

“If I take my hand away, will you be quiet?”

She took a deep, steadying breath and nodded. Slowly, watching for any sign of verbal protest, he removed his hand. He stepped back to put some physical distance between them, and thought through the next series of moves he had to make. The light brush of her hand on his chest diverted his attention.

“I thought…I’m sorry.” Her voice was little more than a husky whisper. “You look just like the others.” She pointed to the dead man. “The black outfit… Do you have some ID?”

Vincent allowed himself one choice succinct curse.

He supposed her initial distrust was justified. With his dark coloring he could pass for one of Chilton’s men. But hadn’t he identified himself already? Hadn’t he gotten to her when no one else could? Didn’t she have a lick of common sense?

He dropped his face down to her level and articulated each word so she would understand. “We are twenty yards from Dimitri Chilton and his hired help, and we have to be at the rendezvous point in less than ten minutes. Do as I say right now, or you won’t get the opportunity to ask another question.”

She puffed up like some wounded debutante who was about to run off and tell Daddy what the mean old man had dared to say to her. Vincent stared her down. His menacing silence brooked no argument. After a charged moment, her shoulders dropped and her chin fell to a subdued angle.

Finally, she’d do as he said.

She followed his lead and crouched behind him when he moved to the edge of the rocks and knelt down to spy through the brush and locate the other two patrol guards he’d spotted earlier.

But the silence was too precious to last. He felt a tap on his shoulder before her warm breath whispered in his ear. “What about Montana Confidential? Does Daniel Austin know I’m here? And Jewel? Did she get home okay? What about my horse?”

He looked over his shoulder and stared at her in disbelief.

“There is a time to run, a time to fight and a time to shut up.”

Vincent held her gaze until he was sure she understood which time this was.

Though he was quickly learning not to trust her silence, he couldn’t afford to waste any more time. He had to get them out of there. Now.

He shifted his weight to the balls of his feet and held the gun with both hands in front of him. He stilled his breathing and concentrated on the sounds of the night around them. The darkness would be their ally. He had to time their dash across the open terrain with the sweeping currents of cloud cover. The moon would be hidden for only a few seconds, but that would be all the time they…

The snap of a twig jarred him. He pushed Whitney back against the rock, shielding her body with his, automatically covering her mouth with his hand. He held his breath and waited for the guard to pass by.

The man walked past at a leisurely pace, indicating no alarm about his missing comrade or the length of Whitney’s trip to relieve herself. Vincent considered taking this guard out, too. He could do it in a matter of seconds. He could do it without making a sound.

But he couldn’t trust Whitney to keep her mouth shut or to follow his orders without an argument.

When the sound of footsteps faded, Vincent eyed the sky and counted off his own internal clock. The time to move was now, or they’d never reach the old mining road where his Washington contact was due to arrive soon. The driver couldn’t park and wait for fear of detection. And with the short turnaround time necessary for a hostage retrieval, he couldn’t spare the days needed to abandon the truck and let it sit long enough for Chilton’s men to disregard its presence.

The plan was to reach the rendezvous point and radio his contact to pick them up. If he couldn’t reach the site, he’d call in a bypass so the truck would drive on without alerting the terrorists to the location.

Whitney’s delays had already endangered the mission. Soon he would be left with plan B. Instead of bringing MacNair’s daughter home, he’d simply keep her alive until a second rendezvous could be scheduled.

If she didn’t screw that up, too.

“This is the time to run.” Gambling their lives on her cooperation, he released her and scooted to the farthest end of the rocks. “Stay right behind me.” She was already clinging to the back of his jacket when he turned to give his next command. “Don’t fall down.”

Ignoring the questioning look on her face, he took her hand and sprang to his feet. Keeping low to the ground, he sprinted for the trees, drawing Whitney along behind him. After only a few steps she extended her legs to match his stride, and Vincent quickly realized he had no need to compensate for her speed. She very nearly outdistanced him.

They had barely reached the cover of the trees when the alarm sounded.

“Rashid!”

Three shots fired, followed by a rapid discussion shouted back and forth in Chilton’s native language.

Inside the treeline, Vincent shifted directions and headed up the mountain. He felt the jerk of Whitney’s arm at the sudden alteration of course. But within moments she fell in step beside him again. The confusion and shouting from the cabin bought them precious seconds.

He found the path he’d marked earlier. It led to a boarded-up mine shaft. The slope steepened by several degrees and Vincent leaned forward to take the climb without breaking his pace.

“Where are we going?” Whitney’s breathy query broke the frantic sound of stamping feet and scrabbling bits of gravel breaking loose to roll down the incline behind them.

He released her hand to leap across a three-foot-wide crevasse that split the path. He paused and turned, waiting for her to make the same jump. She balked at the other side. Her chest rose and fell, breathing deeply, in time with his own strained breath.

Vincent swore as she planted her hands at her hips and demanded a response. “I asked where you were taking me.”

He had no time to explain his plan. He spared her an answer before turning his attention back to the zigzagging climb to the top of this crest. “Away from Chilton.”

They were at least ten minutes out. He had to cut time somewhere. He hit the trail at a faster pace. He heard her make the leap behind him. Good. She was moving.

“That’s not much of an answer.”

“Don’t talk. Save your breath.”

A heavier tread in the underbrush below them caught their attention. Chilton’s men had found their trail.

“Is that—”

“Move it.”

He went back to grab her hand and pull her along at his speed. They doubled back on a hairpin turn and her slick-soled riding boots slipped on some loose gravel. She went down hard on her knees and left hand. With his help, she quickly regained her footing. A spot of creamy white on her pant leg indicated she had ripped her jeans, and probably cut her knee in the process.

But with Chilton closing in, they had no time to stop and play doctor. “Hang in there, Ms. MacNair.”

He wasn’t a big one for encouragement, but he needed her to keep up. The brightness of the moon worked against them in the woods. Its iridescent light created deceptive shadows that assailed them from all directions, playing havoc with Vincent’s own internal compass. But Chilton’s men had no such handicap. The beam of their flashlights bounced through the trees, illuminating leaves and rocks and even their path like all-seeing eyes.

But the mine shaft should be close now, almost straight above them. Yes.

Changing his strategy, Vincent spun around and retraced their last few steps. He pulled out night-vision goggles from his jacket pocket and slipped them over the top of his head. He had the original trail memorized, could probably find it with or without a light. But covering new ground required he be able to see.

He went back to the steep sheer slope that went straight to the top of the plateau. Looking up, he saw that a few small trees managed to cling to the rocks. And traces of abandoned birds’ nests indicated tiny ledges and crannies in the rock itself. About twenty feet to the top. The drop-off below them was another hundred feet or so. But with Chilton’s men closing in, he decided they had little choice.

Whitney tugged at his jacket and pointed to the swaying lights coming up the path. “Hello, spaceman. Bad guys coming.”

Vincent wrapped his hands around her slender waist and lifted her off the path.

“What are you doing?” He set her toes on a four-inch ledge, and she automatically grabbed hold of the tree root in front of her face so she wouldn’t fall. “Romeo?” Her voice held hardly any tone, an indication of her shortness of breath. He’d pushed her hard and she’d hung in there with him.

He was about to push her harder.

“Climb.”

With his greenish night vision through the goggles showing him the way, Vincent guided Whitney’s hands to the sturdiest grips, and slowed his pace to make the climb beside her.

He changed his grip to her shoulder to keep her from moving when Chilton and his men ran past directly below their feet. Chilton shouted orders in his native tongue and his two men responded with clipped words and phrases. The terrorists continued up the winding path that took them farther away from their position. They’d reach the top about the same time, but Vincent would be closer to the road. That still left him with a slight advantage.

He urged Whitney to resume the climb. “Do you know what they’re saying?” she asked.

Damn, but the woman loved to talk.

“Chilton doesn’t want you dead.”

“That’s nice.”

He didn’t want her dead yet. Vincent didn’t share what other promises of violence Chilton had in mind for her in the meantime.

“He wants me dead, though.”

“Not so nice, hmm?”

A third of the way from the top she slipped. The root she clung to began to peel away from its thin layer of dirt. Vincent nabbed her by the wrist to keep her from falling. She cried out in pain, but quickly turned her face into her upraised arm to muffle the sound.

Vincent bided his time while she hugged the rock, alternately wanting to hurry her along and to ask what he’d done to hurt her.

“Whit?” Maybe by now she was too weak and too frightened to answer.

After a moment she wrapped her fingers around a more secure grip and pulled herself up to the next ledge. When they reached the end of the steep shortcut, he hoisted himself up and over to the top of the plateau. He was winded from the exertion, but reached out to pull Whitney up beside him.

She rolled over the top edge and curled into a ball, her energy totally spent. Her breathing came in shallow gasps that echoed in the night air. He needed to quiet her down. Chilton’s men would be close now. But when he knelt behind her and touched her shoulder, she winced. She pulled her hands into her waist and curled up even tighter, making it impossible for him to assess her condition.

“You are injured.” She clearly needed time to rest if she was to go any farther. He listened for the sound of Chilton’s men in the distance. He could give her a minute. “Stay here.”

A nearby break in the trees hid the entrance to the boarded-up mine shaft. Vincent pried off a board at the bottom and tossed it aside. He reached in and pulled out the black nylon duffel bag he’d hidden there. He dropped his goggles inside and set it at his feet. Then he took out his knife to loosen the nails of the next board. He was pulling loose the third board when he heard a soft voice at his shoulder.

“Are we going in there?”

Vincent rose to his feet and turned. Whitney had come up behind him undetected. Not an easy feat for a grown man trained in covert experience. The irony of this talkative amateur pulling it off wasn’t lost on him.

She huddled inside her thin blue sweater with sleeves that barely came past her elbow. She looked cold and exhausted and not much older than that Jewel girl back at the ranch. That distracting urge to protect trickled into his thoughts again.

He’d planned to go back for her. But Whitney had found her way here.

Vincent pushed aside the impulse to swallow her up in his arms and warm her with his own body heat. He didn’t have time to deal with the hostage’s needs right now. He had to get her to freedom. That meant making the rendezvous that was fast approaching.

Besides, Whitney had more resiliency than he’d expected for a pampered society girl from a privileged family back East. He had to give her credit. She might lack common sense, but she had stamina and determination to spare.

“No.” He reached out and took her by the elbow, more gently this time, and led her up the rise to the top of the shaft. “Decoy.”

“So Chilton will think we’ve gone in there?” She crouched behind the rocks where he pointed.

“I hope. Stay here.”

He slid back down the slope to grab his bag and cover their path. When he returned, he held out his hand to help her to her feet. She studied his hand with the same trepidation she might use if he’d stuck a gun in her face.

“It’s not much farther.” Distancewise, he spoke the truth. But he couldn’t promise that Chilton and his men would make this an easy trip.

Her shoulders lifted with a determined sigh and she reached up to fold her hand into his. The ground was flatter up here. Still rocky and dotted with trees, it provided less cover, but they could move more quickly. Vincent broke into a loping run, and Whitney kept pace behind him.

When they reached the road, they ducked behind a pile of decaying tree trunks that had burned and fallen to the ground after a recent forest fire. Whitney leaned back against the wood and seemed to concentrate on her breathing. Vincent pulled the two-way radio from his pack and called in.

“The hawk has his prey. Repeat. The hawk has his prey. Over.”

A blip of static answered, then cleared. “Understood. Hawk’s nest on the move. Out.”

“I don’t think I like being referred to as prey.” She breathed in quick, shallow breaths, but her voice sounded stronger. “Chilton’s a smart man, you know. That’s not much of a code for him to break.”

“He’ll have us in his line of sight any minute. He doesn’t have to eavesdrop.”

Preparing for that certainty, Vincent pulled out his gun, checked the clip and reloaded. In the light from the moon, he saw those quicksilver eyes of hers pool up like saucers.

But was it the gun, or Chilton’s imminent arrival that frightened her?

“Is there something I should do?” she whispered.

“Shh.”

“Of course. Always with the shush thing.”

Thankfully, she settled in beside him to do her brooding in silence and no doubt think of the next line of questions she wanted to ask. Vincent squeezed his eyes shut. Fatigue was starting to tell in the protest of his muscles as he knelt behind the cover of the trees. But his senses were working just fine. He fine-tuned his ears and listened for the crunch of footsteps in the underbrush.

He heard the order to spread out and widen the search first. Chilton hadn’t taken long to discover his ruse, and was closing in. Vincent opened his eyes to check his watch. Their ten-minute flight had taken twelve. “Where are you?” He breathed the urgent wish between clenched teeth.

Right on cue, the roar of a four-wheel-drive engine echoed through the rocks of the plateau. But Chilton heard it, too.

A black pickup topped the crest and bounced down the mining road toward their position.

“There he is.” Whitney popped up and pointed at the truck.

“Get down, dammit!” He palmed the top of her head and pushed her down to the ground just as the first bullets hit.

The rapid fire of semiautomatic weapons flashed like fireworks in the darkness. Vincent braced his elbow on the top rotting trunk, took aim and fired at each burst of light.

A spatter of bullets hit his position, splintering the wood and sending chunks of bark flying. Vincent ducked to the ground, pinning Whitney beneath. With his hand on her head, keeping her flat in the dirt, he rose again, pointed his gun and fired.

He hit his mark. The flash fire of one weapon sank to the ground and went out. But the bullets kept flying.

The truck engine gunned and picked up speed.

Two of the terrorists were close enough to make out their shapes as they dodged from cover to cover, spraying bullets in their direction.

The squeal of brakes behind him gave a small measure of reassurance. “Romeo! Get in!”

Vincent grabbed his bag, pulled Whitney up by the arm and pushed her toward the open door of the waiting truck.

“Go! Go! Go!” he ordered.

The driver stomped on the accelerator. Whitney had climbed in, headfirst. Vincent flattened his hand on her butt, pushed her across the seat and tossed his bag into the bed of the truck. The wheels spun on the gravel and dirt, giving him time to get his feet on the running board before the truck sped away. Clinging to the open door with his left hand, Vincent turned back and fired at their pursuers.

A spray of gunfire hit the truck. Bing. Bang. Thunk.

The truck lurched and Vincent fell inside. They’d hit the back window and shattered it. “Gun it, Carl!”

Whitney sat in the middle of the bench seat, brushing the broken glass from her shoulders.

“You hit?” he asked, keeping his eye on the side-view mirror, mentally calculating the distance before they’d be out of range of Chilton’s weapons.

“No.”

The truck continued to pick up speed.

“Romeo?”

Whitney’s fingers dug into his thigh.

“Romeo!”

“What?”

He pried her grip from his leg, then looked up to see why she’d cried his name.

Carl was slumped forward. A tiny hole leaked bright red blood from the back of his head.

He was dead.