Chapter 32
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
It was dark and dusty in the attic. And the rough edge of the vent hole scraped Violet's bare stomach as she wriggled further into the crawlspace. She silently catalogued every injury and inconvenience. Max would make payment in full for each one of them.
Once inside, she aimed for the bathroom.
She noted there was a proper extractor fan over the shower and was glad she hadn't been stuck trying to get past something like that.
There were a couple of loose bricks at the edge of the fan, left over from construction or put there for some other reason she couldn't quite figure out.
She helped herself to one of them and discarded the toilet brush.
Dust tickled her nose, making her sneeze as she kept her weight on the beams beneath her and not on the ceiling panels. They didn't look secure at all, which was what she was counting on.
Someone had made a path in the crawl space, using rough plywood that acted as a bridge between beams. She slithered over it, aware of every scratch, graze, and splinter that damaged her exposed flesh.
"I am so going to torture Max when this is over," she muttered.
Guessing she was over the sinks, Violet lifted the brick and pounded at one of the spotlights until it fell from the ceiling. She then did the same with the one nearest it. Now, she had two holes looking down at the bathroom sinks.
Dust clung to her lungs, making her sputter and cough.
Her eyes stung and her fingers were raw from gripping the brick.
But Violet didn’t let up. She used the brick to knock out what was left of the ceiling panel between the two holes, and it crumbled like confetti, leaving a gap big enough to slip through.
About time.
Holding onto the beam, she turned around until her legs were dangling through the hole. Slowly, cautiously, her upper body screaming with the strain, she lowered herself until she felt the sink counter beneath her toes. Gingerly, she let go of the ceiling until she was standing on the sink.
A dizzying sense of relief swept over her as she climbed to the floor. She glanced up at the mess she'd made of the ceiling and smiled. Damien Poole deserved worse.
Quickly, Violet rushed into the bedroom to get her phone. And found it was missing. Along with her gun. She spun toward the room phone, but when she lifted it, she discovered there was no dial tone. The wire had been cut where it joined the wall. Max really hadn't wanted her to stop him.
She raised her chin and howled yet again.
There was nothing to do but get dressed and hunt him down.
Stealing a moment to rinse her scrapes and apply antibacterial ointment, because the humid weather would hasten infection, Violet dressed in the black cargo pants and T-shirt she'd initially worn to the airport in Houston—before Katrina had made her change into something more holiday appropriate.
She slipped on her running shoes and tied her hair back into a low ponytail. Once done, she ran for the door.
Horizontal rain lashed the island as palm trees were whipped about by the wind.
Overhead, thunder rumbled menacingly. Between the cloud-induced darkness, and the waterfalls of rain, it was hard to see even a few feet in front of her.
And she was soaked through by the time she'd taken half a dozen steps.
The only mercy was that the rain and wind were warm, otherwise she wouldn't have been able to feel her fingers and she'd have been no use to anyone.
As she ran down the path, she caught sight of movement out of the corner of her eye. She spun to face the threat, lifting her fists as she shifted her weight, ready to fight.
The large, nondescript man she'd spotted watching them at the karaoke dinner, and again at the wedding, stepped out from the shelter of the bungalow next door.
His gray shirt and khaki pants were soaked through, telling her he'd been standing in the rain for a very long time.
Damien needed to hire some smarter henchmen.
She took a breath, steadied herself and waited for the attack.
It didn't come.
Instead, he kept his distance as he spoke. "If you're looking for your husband, I know where he went."
Everything within Violet stilled because his accent was straight out of Glasgow. This wasn't one of Damien's hired soldiers. This was the man who'd ruined her life. The world shifted slightly as she stared at her stalker.
"Your welcome?" she asked.
He nodded, keeping a wary eye on her. "I didn't know if I should follow him or wait for you," he said, as though they were having a normal conversation.
The man made no threatening moves. In fact, he lowered his head slightly, as though deferring to her. As though, she was in a position of authority over him. Definitely military, Violet thought as she cautiously lowered her hands.
"You saw where he went?" She added a hint of command to her tone.
He responded by standing straighter and nodding sharply. Oh, yeah, he was obviously looking for someone to tell him what to do.
She was happy to oblige. "Show me," Violet ordered.
The man inclined his head before jogging down a path running parallel to the beachfront. "He thinks he can get into Poole's house from the waterfront. I saw him heading into the trees before I came back for you."
Violet followed behind him. "That's stupid. It's jungle there and it's guarded."
The stalker glanced back at her. "The guards are inside because of the weather, but the bush is dense."
"I'm beginning to think my husband is too," Violet muttered. "Do you have a phone?"
"Don't need one," was the reply, so no luck there.
As they rushed through the empty resort, Violet wondered if she was making a big mistake following her stalker instead of going to Rodrigo for help.
But time was running out fast and her instincts told her she was safe with this man.
After all, he'd never tried to hurt her, only the people who'd attacked her, and that trait could come in handy in their current predicament.
"Why didn't you attack Max?" she asked as they raced past the watersports shed, locked up tight against the weather.
"Because he isn't a threat to you," he said, confirming her suspicions. Dark, and possibly mentally unstable, eyes caught hers. "Is he?" The implication being he would deal with Max if he was.
"No, he isn't a threat to me," Violet assured him. "But he sure as hell is one to himself."
Her stalker grunted and Violet was pleased to discover they spoke the same language. Several long minutes later, they entered the dense bush that kept the resort guests from wandering into Damien's private domain.
"He went this way," the stalker said, leading her into the wall of green.
“You got a name, soldier?” she asked.
“Alan Thomas.” There was a pause. “Ma’am.”
“Want to tell me why you’ve been following me all these years?” It probably wasn’t the time to ask, but she had to know.
He frowned in confusion. “You’re my mission,” he said at last. “You’re the warrior and I’m the protector. I keep you safe so you can do good.”
Okay then…
“By any chance, were you injured in action?” she asked.
“IED,” he said. “Head injury.”
That explained so much. “Did you spend time in hospital?”
“Lots of hospitals.” He looked back at her, his expression filled with pure determination. “I won’t go back.”
“Understood,” she told him, and they carried on in silence.
Mud sucked at Violet's running shoes, while rain and wind whipped the forest into a frenzy. Branches cracked and plummeted to the ground like bombs from above, as leaves and twigs turned into out-of-control missiles. They were in a war zone. Mother Nature was raging against them.
The cold, knotted fury in Violet's belly silently roared with frustration.
Max had thought this was the best way in?
Her hand trembled as she shoved a branch out of her way, and she realized it wasn't only fury she felt.
Underneath it all was a growing sense of dread.
What if she was too late? What if Max was already dead?
What if his desperation and stupidity had taken him from her?
She glanced down at the wedding ring she'd forgotten to remove and curled her fist tight around it.
No, she thought.
Just no.