Читать книгу My Spy - Marie Ferrarella - Страница 9

Chapter 3

The first thing he noticed was how vivid her hair was, even through a telescope at this distance.

Joshua wiped away another large, fat raindrop that seemed to fall on him in slow motion, and refocused on his target. Prudence Hill was a redhead and the tabloids really must have had it in for her, he thought, trying to ignore the pregnant promise of a downpour. He gazed intently into the back window of the run-down farmhouse from his vantage point some one hundred yards away.

The pictures he’d seen on the covers of the same rags that had given her infamy of a sort made her look austere, frightening, with definite wicked-witch-of-the-west attributes. The headlines screamed as much, as did the nickname the magazines had all summarily bestowed on her: Pru the Shrew.

But if the woman he was looking at actually was the British prime minister’s headstrong, outspoken daughter, then somewhere along the line, someone had made a big mistake. Not only that, but someone definitely needed to spring for better cameras for their photographers, because the only resemblance the gagged, bound young woman in the cluttered back bedroom of the isolated, dilapidated building had to the woman in the tabloid photographs that had been taken was that they both had red hair.

Beyond that, the difference between the two was like that between a butterfly and a moth. They both had wings and they both flew, but one was beautiful and graceful while the other plain and shunned. The woman he’d sometimes seen portrayed on the tabloid covers beneath unflattering adjectives had dull, lifeless hair, dowdy clothing and a body that wouldn’t give a person the slightest pause or merit even a first glance, much less a second. That wasn’t true of the woman in the white jogging shorts and baggy but clingy T-shirt. And from what he could see, she had unconditionally killer legs.

Her profile was to him and, despite the duct tape, he could see that her face, though flushed, was more than passingly attractive. He couldn’t see her eyes, which to him had always been one of the most important weapons in a woman’s arsenal, but he suspected that there was fire in them.

Which would make her beautiful, not school-marmish. The tabloids loved her for her sensational comments and hated her for her attitude toward them, which was pure contempt. As to the discrepancy in appearance, he had a feeling that whoever was in charge of reviewing the final copy probably did what had been covertly done in the past: taken her head and pasted it onto someone else’s body, making sure they used the most unflattering photo of Prudence they could find.

If he’d been armed with nothing more than their photos, he’d never have found her.

But it had taken more than just flashing around her photograph, obtained from the prime minister’s assistant, to locate the missing young woman. It had taken the combined backing of a crack team in Paris, Lucia with her almost magical capabilities with the computer, and luck.

He never underestimated the power of luck. Because luck had Mr. Merriweather Wilson walking up to the guard at 10 Downing Street ten minutes after he, Joshua, had been ushered into the prime minister’s presence. Wilson, he was told, began innocently enough by saying that he had something he believed belonged to the prime minister’s older daughter.

The moment the words were out of his mouth, Wilson had instantly been taken into a basement room within the historical residence and thoroughly, repeatedly, questioned.

The prime minister’s people had thought, at first, that Wilson was part of the kidnapping plot, sent to up the ante that had initially been set. But the poor, clueless man protested over and over again that his son Derek had found the MP3 player that morning near the park. Intending to keep his newfound prize, Derek could have easily done so if Wilson had not been running late that morning, not having yet departed for his very important position at the West End Bank.

Wilson had actually been on his way out when he’d taken note of the MP3 player clipped like a newly captured trophy to his sixteen-year-old’s belt. He stopped to question his son, who’d recently entered a rather shady period of his life. Thinking the player to be stolen, he’d been left unmoved by his son’s impassioned protestations of innocence. But Derek remained steadfast, firmly maintaining that he had found the MP3 player, not stolen it from someone.

Employing as much drama as he could, Wilson told his former interrogators that his jaw had practically dropped to the floor when he read the inscription on the back of the player. He’d lost no time in bringing it to Number 10 because he was a patriot—and because, he added more quietly, he was hoping that there might be some small reward for the player’s recovery.

Joshua had left that part up to the other men in the room, the prime minister’s personal bodyguards and his best friend, Montgomery, a kindly faced man who towered over the others. Joshua remained focused. He’d asked Wilson exactly where the player had been located. Wilson had to defer to his son. The latter was summoned. Derek was quick to pick up that something had to be amiss and made an attempt to barter.

But there was to be no exchange of information, on that the prime minister was absolutely clear. No one, except a very select few, was to even know that his daughter was missing.

On that Joshua and the prime minister had been in agreement.

Taken to the exact spot where Derek Wilson had first been united with the MP3 player, Joshua had the prime minister’s people fan out and locate every security camera in the area. After the London subway bombings of two years past, local small businesses, not to mention the government, had installed security cameras in as many available nooks and crannies as possible.

They got luckier. A grainy film of the abduction was recovered.

From that came a poor photograph of the van used and a much magnified partial license plate. Turning everything over to Lucia via the capabilities of his highly advanced cell phone, Joshua was rewarded in short order with the name of the van’s owner.

The prime minister sent two of his people to the owner’s house. He wasn’t there. But a hit on one of his credit cards at a distant gas station, also thanks to Lucia, showed them the path that the van had taken. Away from London and into the countryside, the land of the sisters Brontë, haystacks and needles. In other words, it appeared that they were headed north, in the general vicinity of Haworth.

It was an easy place to get lost. Or to hold a hostage.

Eager, distraught, the prime minister wanted to send some of his people along when he’d discovered that Joshua had come alone. But he’d respectfully declined the offer, saying he worked best on his own and unimpeded. If the cavalry was sent in, Prudence would be dead before they made it to the front door.

Reluctantly, the prime minister agreed to his terms.

Joshua continued tracking and following slim leads until, a day and a half after Prudence Hill had been snatched outside of the southern end of St. James Park, he had wound up here, in an isolated section of the countryside relatively untouched in the last 170 years, staring through a telescope at a filthy window into an even filthier room.

Staring directly at the object of his search.

She looked none the worse for her ordeal, Joshua judged, relieved that the young woman was still alive. Now all he had to do was to keep her that way, get her out of there in one piece and bring her back to her father.

A tall order from where he stood. But not an impossible one.

Joshua rose to his feet, reducing the telescope in his hands to a fraction of its original size. The fat drops of rain began to increase and fall in earnest. The sky had been an odd shade of amber and mauve all day and there’d been talk of an electrical storm on the horizon. He’d hoped that the weather would hold steady until he got Prudence out of there.

In true black ops tradition, Joshua began turning the situation around in his mind, searching for a way to make it work for him rather than against him.

Ten minutes later, his clothes sticking to his body and his hair plastered to his head, Joshua walked up to the kidnappers’ front door and knocked urgently. All he knew was that the farmhouse, which belonged to one Owen Sutton now that his grandfather had passed on, contained anywhere from two to four people, not counting their hostage. No one knew what Owen’s source of income was, since the farm was not a working one.

Joshua had a hunch he knew.

Hidden inside his left boot was an extra clip of bullets for the gun tucked into the back of his waistband.

He knocked again when there was no response.

It was several tense seconds before the door was finally opened. An average, unfriendly looking man of medium height and build, dressed completely in black, stood squarely in the doorway. There was a streak of what looked like pale pink face powder across the cuff of his left sleeve. From carrying Prudence, Joshua surmised, unless the man had some peculiar habits.

Eyes like cold, black marbles passed over him. “Yeah?”

Joshua looked properly humbled, a hapless man without a clue as to how to remedy the situation he found himself in.

“I’m sorry to bother you, mate, but my car broke down about a mile away—” he pointed vaguely toward the road “—and I was wondering if you’d mind my using your telephone.”

The man in the doorway looked as if he would have rather shoved his face into the nearest deep puddle than to allow him access into the farmhouse. “What for?” he spat out.

Joshua shrugged helplessly. “To call a mechanic, a towing service, someone for help…” His voice trailed off.

The man eyed him for a long time. Joshua felt as if he were being X-rayed. Obviously coming to no conclusion, the man lifted his chin pugnaciously. “How come you ain’t got a cell phone?”

“Had one,” Joshua admitted forlornly, “but it fell into the loo when I took a leak in the restroom of a bar at the last town. It doesn’t work anymore.”

To Joshua’s surprise, the man laughed. But it was a nasty, unsympathetic sound. “Ain’t your day, mate, is it?” he jeered.

“That it ain’t,” Joshua agreed nervously. He projected just the right amount of uncertainty as he shifted from foot to foot and nodded toward the interior of the house. “So, can I use that phone?”

“Sorry,” the man replied, his voice indicating that he was anything but. “Never got around to hooking up a service.” And then he paused, as if debating. Joshua guessed that he was weighing whether it was less trouble to shoot him or get him to leave on his own. And then the man surprised him by looking over his shoulder into the house. “Hey, Ken,” the man shouted. “C’mere.”

A moment later, “Ken,” a lanky man whose clothes were meant for someone a size or two larger in build, shuffled to the front door. It was obvious by his manner that he didn’t like being summoned. It was also obvious that he didn’t have the courage not to come when called.

He looked sullenly at the intruder, then at the man who had called him. “Yeah?”

“Why don’t you play the Good Samaritan and see if you can help this bloke with his car.” The man sounded almost genial. But his voice was flat and unreadable as he added, “Says it’s dead. Go check it out.”

The man probably asks his mother for an ID, Joshua thought.

Ken’s sullen expression deepened. “Why the hell should I?”

“Because I said so,” the man bit off. Then he looked at the man on his right. “Ken here can fix anything, can’t you, Ken?”

Ken’s answer was given under his breath and addressed to his shoes as he shuffled onto the front porch. He turned up the collar of his dark shirt against the rain, as if that would make a difference. “Where is it?” he wanted to know.

Joshua pointed north. “About a mile or so down the road.”

Ken cursed roundly, then told the man in the doorway, “I’m taking the van.”

In response, the first man pulled a set of keys out of his pants pocket.

“Take my car instead,” he instructed in a firm monotone that allowed for no argument.

Ken grudgingly accepted the keys and trudged off to the tan car parked over to the extreme right side of the front yard.

Joshua nodded his thanks at the man in the doorway and quickly followed behind Ken. In a move that would have made a magician proud, he’d already shifted his weapon to the side to avoid having it detected as he walked away.

Fifteen minutes later, Joshua was back at the house. This time, however, he didn’t knock on the front door. He approached the farmhouse from the rear. He’d left the sullen Ken bound, gagged and unconscious in the front seat of the now disabled tan vehicle. Cars didn’t go very far without their distributor caps.

One down and he wasn’t certain how many more to go, but at least there was one less gun to face. He had Ken’s tucked beside his own. The metal chafed his skin.

Above him, a lightning bolt flashed. Thunder exploded loudly not more than thirty seconds later.

Close, he thought.

The world had gone crazy. There was no other explanation for the kind of weather they were having this summer.

The storm had descended and it was interfering royally with his cell phone’s reception. He glanced at the cell’s screen. There was no signal coming in at all. Joshua frowned. His cell phone was temporarily useless and that left him dependent solely on his own ingenuity.

He’d been in worse situations.

His boots sinking into dirt now rendered to mud, Joshua gingerly tried the window. Locked, it didn’t budge. Quickly stripping off his shirt, he wrapped it around his arm, then swung it, breaking the glass with his elbow just as another crack of thunder resounded.

Despite the cover of thunder, the woman in the chair abruptly turned her head in his direction.

Joshua lost no time reaching in and unlocking the window. Raising the sash, he slipped into the dust mote laden room.

Her eyes were green, he noted. And huge as they watched and absorbed his every move.

Huge, but not frightened.

Good. The last thing he wanted was a hysterical woman he couldn’t reason with on his hands. Even if she was gorgeous.

Oh, God, now what? Pru thought, her breath backing up into her lungs. They’re coming out of the woodwork, or at least through the windows.

Her adrenaline kicked into overtime at this latest threat. She’d been working on her ropes now for God only knew how long, ever since that cretin in the baggy clothes had come in with a tray of what looked like recycled table scraps. He’d had the audacity to offer to feed her with the promise of a “special dessert if you behave yourself.”

The laugh that followed had made her skin crawl.

As he came toward her, she’d managed to twist and bump into him, knocking the tray out of his hands. It, the plate of food and the dirty glass of water had crashed to the floor. The latter had shattered.

Just as she’d hoped.

Cursing her, her kidnapper had picked up the pieces. All but the one shard she’d covered with her sneaker and drew beneath her chair, leaving her foot over it.

It had taken time and patience, patience when she wanted nothing more than to flee, but she’d counted off thirty minutes. Thirty minutes before she executed the second part of her plan. Rocking back and forth, she’d finally succeeded in tipping over her chair. When she crashed to the floor, she’d felt the impact reverberating in her teeth, not to mention through her shoulders.

The crash had brought her kidnappers running, then cursing, then finally laughing at her. She assumed that they thought she was attempting to break the chair and then escape. They’d called her stupid and told her not to try anything like that again, then left. She hardly heard them, aware only of the shard of glass she’d secured and now held locked in her closed fist.

The moment the door was closed, she went to work.

It was slow, tedious and painful. Pru worked the shard like a tiny, jagged glass saw, drawing it back and forth across the thick hemp that held her prisoner, feeling a sticky trickle of blood at her wrist. She’d just managed to cut through the ropes when this miscreant had come through the window.

A new face. Another one of the kidnappers?

She wasn’t sure how many there were and only knew two by actual sight. His coming through the window made no sense, unless he didn’t want the others to know what he was doing.

Every muscle in her body tensed.

She pretended to still be bound as the stranger came toward her. The element of surprise was all she had.

He put his finger to his lips, as if the dolt thought she could scream beneath the duct tape. If she could have screamed, she would have done so a long time ago. Loud and long.

He crouched down beside her. He was going to rape her, she thought, banking down the surge of panic and turning it into fury. He damn well might try, but he was going to lose a few vital organs in the process.

“This is going to hurt,” he warned her, taking the edge of the duct tape covering her mouth in his fingers. He yanked it quickly and a line of fiery pain zigzagged along her lips.

The next second, she propelled herself forward, lunging at him. He wound up on the floor, flat on his back, with her on top of him, pinning him down.

“This’ll hurt more,” she declared fiercely, her face inches from his.

Her heart pounding wildly, Prudence began to scramble to her feet, intent on grabbing the weapon she’d seen go flying from his waistband. But he caught her wrists with his hands and held her to him. The length of his rock-hard body directly beneath hers registered on the outer perimeter of her consciousness. As did the heat from his bare chest.

Stockholm syndrome, Stockholm syndrome, she warned herself. He was a lowlife, nothing else.

A lowlife with a temper.

“Are you out of your mind?” he hissed angrily.

She squirmed and wriggled against him, trying to get free, alarmed at the sensations that were swiftly and dramatically telegraphing themselves through her body. Alarmed, too, at the rather sensual curve of his mouth as he looked up at her.

Prudence gathered her indignation to her like an invisible, invincible cloak. She was not about to succumb to this. They were not going to keep her docile and inline with this cheap ploy. She didn’t care how hard his chest, or other parts of him for that matter, were.

“If you think that I’m just going to lie here and let you attack me, you less than worthless sack of horse manure, then—”

“Attack you?” he echoed incredulously, his hands still very tightly wrapped around her wrists where they would remain until he was confident that she wasn’t going to take a swing at him. “I’m here to rescue you.”

For a moment, still sprawled out on top of him, Pru wavered. Rescue her? She was being rescued? Her father had actually managed to find where she was being held? The man deserved more credit than she’d been giving him lately.

And then suspicion crept in between the lines.

“Where are the others?” she wanted to know.

“There are no others,” he told her.

Her eyes widened. “You’re it?”

“Yup. Lucky me,” the man commented dryly. “Now, not that I wouldn’t find this position interesting at any other time—” he opened his hands, releasing her wrists “—but I think that we’d better get the hell out of here before one of those Neanderthals comes to investigate the noise.”

Pru scrambled to her feet, managing to have more than just marginal contact with all parts of him. “Just who the hell are you?” she demanded hotly, her cheeks burning.

A smile twisted the man’s lips as he motioned her over to the same window he’d just used to get in. “At the moment,” he told her, “your savior.”