Chapter 5
FIVE
Prineville, Georgia
They weren’t checking in. Montez had sent three men—three men who’d been trained by the US Government at about a million apiece, then he’d taken that training and tweaked it for another million—and they weren’t answering. Nothing. It was as if they’d dropped off the face of the earth.
Fuck!
Montez slammed the green silk brocade of the fancy arm of the fancy armchair he was sitting on. He hated being in the dark. Hated it.
The security cameras around the site where that bitch Ellen’s cellphone had been geotagged had gone out at precisely 11:47, exactly when Trey had sent a text message.
Package arriving in taxi
And then the cameras blinked off.
At the time, Montez was certain that his men had blanked the security cameras so as not to leave a trace of the abduction, particularly if they had to off the bitch.
His men had their orders, sure. Montez wanted her alive and he’d made that very clear, but shit sometimes happened.
He told himself he wanted her alive to find out what she knew and if she had any proof she’d hidden somewhere, and at some level that was true, but it was also crap.
He wanted her alive because she needed punishing. It was the first thing he thought of every morning and the last thing he thought of every night. Before falling into a shallow sleep and dreaming of her.
Fuck this.
All Ellen’s fault. All of it. Goddammit.
The money. It all came down to the money.
When he’d appropriated the pallets of bills that were just fucking lying there on the ground, without even a fucking security guard, he’d planned on that being the first step. He’d seen it all in one powerful flash. The way to turn his life around, the way to become a player.
And he’d done it, hadn’t he? The money had bought him enough land to qualify as a fucking country, and enough manpower to form an army.
Security work was low hanging fruit in the early years of the war, contracts flowed in like a river rushing to the sea. And then…the waters slowed, reduced to a trickle.
A few incidents that were reported back to the Pentagon. At first, he didn’t take them seriously. So a few ragheads got offed. Who gave a shit? No State Department or Pentagon official Bearclaw guarded got hurt. That was the bottom line.
But Montez had enemies and they started a whispering campaign and the contracts slowed down. There was a lawsuit. Which he won, but it cost him two fucking million dollars.
The shooting range was expensive to keep up, and he was shelling out half a million a month in salary. The company was leaking money and he’d managed to negotiate the last two government contracts by a hair.
If Ellen ever showed up and had anything resembling proof, he was a goner.
The full resources of Bearclaw were now concentrated on finding Ellen Palmer, known as Eve, and wiping her off the face of the earth.
Apartment 8D
La Torre
Coronado Shores
April 9
Ellen opened her eyes, then closed them immediately, trying to process the white nothingness covering her entire field of vision. Was she dead? Was this the afterlife? White, flat, featureless?
Forever?
She ached. Every muscle in her body ached, except her shoulder, which burned. Worse was the utter feeling of exhaustion, weakness, helplessness.
The only good news was that if she were dead, it wouldn’t hurt so much. Unless of course this was hell.
There was no noise except for some rhythmic…rustling sound. Or whooshing sound. Like waves on a beach. But how could that be?
She was lying on her back on what felt like a bed. Her hands moved slightly, fingering cotton. Sheets. One hand couldn’t move well. She twisted it slightly and something tugged. Tape, a needle. An IV line.
The sharp smell of alcohol, the soothing smell of clean linen. A faint hint of coffee in the air.
A hospital? Or did death smell like alcohol and clean sheets and coffee?
She opened her eyes again, and again saw an expanse of something white. Nothing for the eyes to fix on, just a featureless plain.
“You’re awake,” a deep voice said. Panicked, Ellen turned her head. The world tilted crazily, then righted itself. Of course. That wide, empty expanse was the ceiling.
Right next to her was a man sitting in a chair, looking tired, jaws clenched.
Her gasp sounded loud in the quiet of the room.
The last time she’d seen this man, he’d been running toward her, gun in hand.
Oh God, oh God.
Harry Bolt. The man she’d so foolishly turned to for help. The man who’d betrayed her, the man in the pay of Gerald Montez.
This, then, was the end. She’d run, but not hard enough or fast enough or far enough.
A wheezing, keening sound escaped her lips. It would have been a high-pitched scream but she simply didn’t have enough breath in her lungs to bring it out. Just the whimpering tones of a wounded animal as she tried run away, bare feet scrabbling for purchase against the slick sheets.
She tried to sit up, but only managed to thrash around helplessly. The IV line was ripped out of her hand and blood pooled out under the bandage.
“Jesus, stop.”
The man, this Harry Bolt, stood up immediately and placed huge hands on her shoulders, pinning her down, looking down at her with a frown.
Even in her desperation, Ellen could see he looked ten years older, deep grooves creasing his cheeks, dark circles under his eyes, cheekbones more prominent.
She struggled against his hands, but it was like struggling against a concrete block. She couldn’t move his hands, not even a little bit. They stayed strong and steady on her shoulders, holding her down.
It was the most horrible thing of this horrible situation. She had no chance, none at all. The times she’d escaped Gerald’s men she’d done it by reacting quickly, making the smart decision, moving fast.
Everything that had helped her before—swift reflexes, strength, the will to survive—all of it was gone. Her mind was muddy, confused, slow. It had taken her a couple of seconds to even recognize Harry Bolt, as if her mind had to focus just as much as her eyes did.
Even her ineffectual attempts to shake off his hands exhausted her. There was nothing left in her. She’d reached the end of the line, muscles lax and unresponsive. And, deep down, at an animal level, she no longer had the will or the strength to fight.
It was over.
She made one last pathetic attempt to shake his hands off her and subsided, her spirit sinking into her, spiralling down. There was nothing left to her, nothing.
She closed her eyes and felt the cool tracks of her tears at her temples.
“God, don’t cry. Please.”
That deep voice again.
Hard, heavy hands lifted from her shoulders, took her hand in his. In a second, without pain, the needle was rethreaded into her vein, the bandage gently pressed again to the back of her hand.
Startled, Ellen opened her eyes again and met his. Where she’d been expecting victory and cruelty, all she saw was fatigue and…kindness?
What—?
They stared at each other, Ellen’s heart thudding slowly. “Are you going to kill me?” she finally whispered.
A spasm crossed his face and his head reared back. “Fuck no! Sorry.” He shook his head, looking baffled and worn out. He turned to the room behind him and bellowed, “Nicole!”
Ellen continued watching his face. No craziness, no cruelty. He held himself still, one finger pressed gently on the back of her hand, holding down the tape.
A swift tattoo of heels and a woman appeared in Ellen’s line of sight, bending over her.
Ellen nearly gasped. She was the most beautiful woman Ellen had ever seen. Long, midnight-black hair belling down to her shoulders, intense cobalt-blue eyes, fine features, a soft expression on her face.
Was this Harry Bolt’s woman? Was she the enforcer? Was she the one who would kill her?
It was like having spikes pounded into her brain. With the hand untethered by the IV line and Bolt’s hand, Ellen held her head where it hurt, so badly she whimpered again.
Never show weakness. It was a rule she’d lived by all her life, but right now, she was so weak she was rendered down to her rawest state.
Nicole lifted her hand and put it on her uninjured shoulder, the touch light and gentle. “It’ll be okay,” she said softly. “Everything will be all right.”
That was a lie. Nothing would ever be okay again.
Ellen turned her palm over, crooked her index finger in the universal come here gesture. Even that taxed her strength. Nicole bent down to her, holding her hair to one side. She smiled. “Yes?”
Ellen arched her neck, trying to get closer, lifting her head a little. It fell back. She had no strength in her neck muscles. Nicole bent closer.
Ellen looked at Harry Bolt, then up at this Nicole woman. She was taking a huge risk. Maybe Nicole had no idea Harry was a killer. Maybe she was his girlfriend and thought he was an ordinary guy.
“That man,” she whispered as Nicole bent her head closer. “Be careful. He tried to kill me.”
She closed her eyes, exhausted. There, she’d said it. At least someone would know the truth before she died.
Nicole straightened, startled. She looked at Bolt then back at her. Bolt was completely still, the only thing moving his broad chest as he breathed. His face was taut, remote, completely emotionless.
Nicole laughed and Ellen jolted a little.
The laugh was genuine and so out of place in this room of pain and sorrow that it took Ellen a second to recognize it and process it. Nicole sobered as she looked down at Ellen, beautiful face suddenly very serious. Her hand passed lightly over Ellen’s hair.
“Harry didn’t try to kill you, my dear. Trust me on this. He saved your life. You were walking right into an ambush when he showed up. What’s the last thing you remember?”
Ellen’s hand opened, scraping lightly along the sheet, index finger pointing toward Bolt. “Him,” she whispered. “Running toward me with a gun.”
Nicole frowned and looked at Bolt again. “You didn’t see two—“ Harry Bolt held up a big hand, three fingers up. “Three men?” Nicole finished.