Chapter 50
“Jemma! Jemma! Jemma!”
Rocco’s voice was raw, filled with a panicked desperation that tugged at Jemma’s heart. She wanted to get back to him. Fight through the cloak of darkness to be reunited with the man who had tattooed himself across her heart. She struggled and fought against her limp, unresponsive body hoping for a chance to reach him. To let him know she was okay.
But she wasn’t … okay.
A startled scream erupted from deep within her. Jemma’s lids flew open. Her eyes struggled to adjust to the pitch black surrounding her. The floor beneath her tilted and she slid a few inches across the cold, hard floor.
Where the hell was she?
Her mind fought against the swirling confusion of waking up alone in an unknown place. The fragmented pieces of her last memories emerged slow and fuzzy.
Rocco pinned beneath the storage container door.
Her efforts to free him failing in vain.
No cell service.
She had to get help.
But didn’t want to leave him alone.
The voice, deadly and menacing, stopping her in her tracks.
Nomar.
He’d grabbed her and pinned her against his broad body.
Fighting was futile.
His arm around her neck, squeezing and then darkness.
“Damn it,” Jemma muttered, slamming her fist against the floor. Nomar had kidnapped her. She had no clue what happened to Rocco. If that bastard had hurt the man she loved, there would be no limit to the vengeance she’d rain down on him.
A sob caught in her throat as her hands flew to her mouth.
The man she loved.
Was she in love with Rocco?
It was a foolish question she already knew the answer to.
There was no way she could pinpoint the time or the moment when she’d fallen in love with Rocco but it had become a pure truth in her life. All the time they’d spent with each other had forged a connection between them that couldn’t be denied.
One that had led to love … at least for her.
She hoped she’d have the chance to see Rocco again. To tell him how she felt.
No, hoping wasn’t good enough.
She would get out of this prison Nomar had placed her in and find her way back to Rocco.
Leaning forward, she eased to a standing position as the floor rocked and swayed beneath her. Swinging an arm out, she balanced herself by pressing a hand against the wall. The room was small. Maybe a storage room or closet.
She stood still, listening carefully until she could make out the soft murmur of waves lapping against steel. The sterile scent of nautical polish was faint in the air.
She was definitely on a boat. It was moving swiftly toward its destination. But Jemma had no plans to be around when it got there. Decades of training as a DEA agent and innate instincts propelled her forward. Frantically, her hands moved along the surface of the walls until she found what she was looking for—a door.
Could she be lucky enough for it to be unlocked? Gripping the knob, she’s turned it hard. It didn’t budge.
A sigh escaped her lips. Nomar knew her well. He wasn’t going to make this easy. But she had extra motivation to regain her freedom. Back pressed against the door, Jemma rummaged through her clothes and hair for something she could use to pick the lock. No surprise that all of her weapons had been confiscated.
But she always had a backup plan.
Sinking to her knees, she removed her left sneaker and raised the insole. Grabbing the small blade from underneath, Jemma turned around and felt for the screws that held the door knob in place. Minutes later, she unscrewed the knob and jostled it free from the door. A sliver of dim light strewn in through the hole, cutting through the darkness of the makeshift cell, which indeed looked like an empty storage closet.
She squatted to peer through the hole.
The corridor beyond was short with elegant pecan wood wainscoting contrasting against cream painted walls. Luxurious gold sconces hung high emitting a soft glow. The decor held an opulence she hadn’t expected.
Pushing the door open, Jemma crept along the wall with slow, methodical steps. The corridor ended in a T-junction that offered no hint of which way might lead to freedom. Fear gnawed at her as she paused at the edge of the junction, listening intently.
An almost imperceptible thud of footsteps reached her, the sound growing fainter with each step. She cycled through her options, convinced the footsteps belonged to a guard stationed to prevent her escape. She had to be quick, decisive, trusting that her training would help her navigate any possibility.
She’d gotten out of tough spots dozens of times during her career and trained hundreds of others on how to do the same. Easing forward, she stole a glance down the hallway toward the sound of the footsteps.
An armed man moved silently away. His broad back to her as he approached a door at the end of the hallway. He was muscular but shorter than her six feet. He held an AR-15 which brushed against his jacket, making a swooshing sound as he swung his arms. Jemma honed in on that sound, memorizing the cadence and the steps as he reached a door at the end of the hallway and prepared to turn around.
She jerked back out of sight, gauging the distance and estimating the number of swooshes until he would be at the opening of the T-junction.
She only had one chance to get this right.
He would see her at the same time she saw him. But she had the element of surprise. The guard thought she was still locked inside the closet, not in the corridor planning an attack against him. If she timed her move carefully, he would never see her coming. He would be useless against her ambush.
Her heartbeat ratcheted louder, thumping wildly against her ribcage as she focused on the swooshing sound. It grew louder as he grew nearer.
He would be within her reach in five, four, three, two …
The man emerged in the gap, his head turned to glance at the closet door Jemma had broken out of.
She reacted with quickness, sprang from her hiding spot and slammed her fist into the man’s throat. He was no match for the speed and force of the unexpected blow. A tortured gurgling noise escaped his lips as he dropped his weapon and grasped at his neck, struggling to breathe. Jemma scooped the AR-15 up and slammed it across the man’s face. Blood splattered from the gash as he fell backward, slumped against the wall, unconscious.
Jemma stood over him, panting heavily with triumph. She kicked at the man’s body to be sure he was out. The next obstacle might not be so easily subdued but at least she had a weapon to defend herself.
Placing the strap over her shoulder, she held the gun tightly, finger poised near the trigger and glanced down the opposite end of the hallway. It was a dead end, decorated with an ornately carved glass foyer table and adorned with a blooming bouquet of tropical flowers. There were no other doors on that part of the hallway.
Stepping over the slumped form, she jogged toward the door at the end of the hall. Twisting the knob, it gave way. She kicked it open and entered the space with gun raised high.
Panic flooded her as she found herself not on the deck under the open sky, but in a luxurious stateroom face to face with her nemesis.
Nomar lounged on the bed, shirtless, showing off an impressive muscular chest and six pack, while wearing satin red boxers. His eyes lit up as his gaze raked over her from head to toe and back again.
“What took you so long?” Nomar mused, his voice a smooth caress that belied the malice lurking beneath. His black soulless eyes locked onto hers, a challenge and a taunt all in one. A predator’s grin spread across his face, sending a chill down Jemma’s spine as she stood her ground.
Pure hatred washed over her. This had been a part of his sick twisted game. His next words confirmed her suspicions.
Nomar sat up. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
As she stood there, facing the man who’d engaged her in a dangerous cat-and-mouse game for the better part of a decade, Jemma knew one thing for certain—the game ended now.
Pointing the AR-15 at Nomar, she pulled the trigger.