Relative Strangers (28 page)

Another nurse thrust a cell phone into his free hand, and he released the one with the needle. "Thank you."

He dialed Nick's number with one hand while both women went to work cleaning up his shoulder. Once his friend answered, Ryan barked his name into the phone and choked on a hiss of breath when one of the nurses poured an-tiseptic into his bullet wound.

"Ryan? Is that you? Jesus, where are you? I lost Margot. I couldn't get a decent signal on my cell phone, so I went back to my cabin to call the feds on a land line. She slipped out while I was gone. I'm sorry, man. I feel terrible."

Ryan finally got his breath. "Nick, I'm at the ER. Come get me."

"What happened?"

"The bastards got Meg."

Meg fought them again when they transferred her from the van to a midsize boat, but her struggles must have seemed pathetic because they didn't acknowledge them. After reapplying the gag, they locked her in an empty storage compartment below deck.

In the dark, she began working at her bonds, wincing every time the band of Margot's watch dug into her flesh. She had no idea what she would do if she got free. She only knew that if she could do it before the boat left shore, she might, just might, have a chance of getting to Ryan.

She refused to believe he was dead. The thug had just been playing with her head, she reasoned. He'd been trying to frighten her into telling him what he wanted to know.

Only a few short minutes passed before the boat's engines roared to life. Meg fought frantically against the cord wrapped around her wrists. She didn't feel it biting into her flesh as she twisted and pulled. She didn't feel the intense heat. Didn't know that sweat raced down the sides of her face.

The boat took off and bumped through some rough waves before leveling off.

The fight drained out of her by slow degrees. She went limp, her wrists awash in her own blood, and closed her eyes.

"What do you remember?" Nick asked.

Ryan winced as he steered with one hand and tried to ad-just his arm in the sling. A doctor had removed the bullet and given him painkillers, but the discomfort was still intense. "The son of a bitch shot me. The next thing I knew I was in the ER. He took her."
Please let her still be alive.
He glared at the notebook computer on Nick's lap. "What's taking it so long?"

"It has to boot up. You're sure she's still wearing the watch?"

"Yes. I think so." Damn it, he couldn't remember. His head was killing him.

"Okay, here we go," Nick said. He tapped keys, manipulated the button that controlled the mouse. "It's working. Holy shit, there she is." His voice rose with ex-citement.

Ryan strained to see the computer screen, almost driving off the road in the process.

Nick grabbed the dashboard. "Watch where you're going."

Ryan focused on the street, blinking back the moisture that had blurred his vision. "Where is she?"

Nick squinted at the screen, his fingers flying over the key-board. "Let me check the coordinates."

"Come on, damn it. Hurry."

"She's moving. Looks like she's in the Gulf."

"In the Gulf?" Ryan asked. "How can that be?"

"They must be transporting her by boat."

"Nielsen's got an island. Didn't you say he's got an is-land?"

"Yeah, it's private," Nick said. "The feds have been trying to locate it for months."

"That must be where he's taking her," Ryan said. "We need a boat. A fast one."

"We can take mine. It's at the marina." Yanking out his cell phone, Nick flipped it open.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm calling Delilah at the FBI," Nick said. "She can call out the troops, meet us there."

"No, that's too risky. I don't want—"

"We can't take on Nielsen and his henchmen by ourselves, Ryan. We need help."

Meg gauged that half an hour passed before the boat slowed and she heard the hull thump against what she as-sumed was a dock. She didn't move when the compartment door opened and Turner ducked into the area. His cowboy boots clunked hollowly on the wooden floor before he flipped on a light.

Meg blinked against the brightness as he moved, wolf-like, to stand at her feet. Curling his fingers into the front of her shirt, he pulled her, almost gently, to her feet and removed the gag. "How are you at begging, baby?" he asked.

Meg showed no reaction when he grabbed her breast. His grip was strong, bringing tears to her eyes, but she waited. Waited even as a grin spread across his mouth, and his eyes narrowed with desire. "Damn, you're going to be a sweet piece," he said.

He locked his arms around her and drew her flush up against him. Stiffening, Meg almost panicked before she felt his fingers working at the knot in the cord that bound her wrists. "You're going to need your hands for this," he said, his breath hot on her neck.

At the same moment that her hands, slack from lack of cir-culation, fell free, she seized Turner's shoulders and drove a knee into his crotch. He dropped to the floor with a howl and curved his body around the pain. One side of his jacket flopped open, revealing the butt of a gun.

In two scrambling strides, she was on him, her hands inside his jacket. Her fingers closed on the gun, and she yanked it free, triumphant for only an instant before a shadow came at her from the side.

She fumbled with the gun with hands that were numb and clumsy. Too late. Strong hands snatched her around the waist and heaved her against the wall.

She broke the fall to the floor with a hand that bent unnaturally back. Agony shot up her arm and into her shoulder, and the compartment took a slow, sickening spin. Seeing Dillon barreling at her, she raised the gun and jerked the trigger. Nothing happened.
Damn it, damn it, damn it.
It wasn't cocked.

Dillon grabbed her by the collar and savagely slammed her against the wall. Her back cracked with the impact, and when he let go, she landed hard on her butt, pain zipping up her spine. She held onto the gun by sheer luck. As he bent down to grab her again, she aimed it at his face and cocked it.

His eyes crossed when he focused on the weapon. "Shit."

Meg would have smiled, but her head was spinning, little firecrackers of pain exploding in her back and wrist. She cra-dled her injured wrist in her lap, fighting to recover the wind he had knocked from her. "Back off."

He obeyed, raising his hands palms out. "Easy, easy," he said.

Turner groaned as he got to his knees.

"Tell him to be still," Meg said, scrunching up one shoulder to stop the sweat running down the side of her neck. She was soaked with it.

"Stay where you are, man," Dillon said.

Turner lurched to his feet on the other side of the room.

Meg leaned her head back against the wall to catch her breath. "Tell him."

"Don't do anything stupid, Turner," Dillon said. "The lady's got your gun."

"Fuck me," Turner said.

"We're both screwed if you don't behave," Dillon said.

Meg braced an elbow on the wall behind her and used it to help her get to her feet. Her legs were weak, as if she had just ridden a bicycle up a steep hill. Pain was bursting in her side and back. The son of a bitch had probably busted some ribs when he'd thrown her into the wall. She shoved the weakness back. "Get your hands up."

Dillon obeyed as sweat tracked his scar to the corner of his mouth.

"Where are we?" Meg asked.

"Island in the Gulf."

"Slater Nielsen lives on the island?"

"He owns it." Dillon shot a nervous glance at Turner, who was dancing from one foot to the other in agitation. "Be still, you idiot. You're making her nervous."

"What happened to my friend?" Meg asked.

Dillon gave her a baffled look. "Turner shot him."

She bit back the grief that surged to the surface, forced herself to focus. "The woman you kidnapped. Her name is Dayle. Where is she?"

Dillon wet his lips. "I had orders."

"Is she dead?"

"Listen, lady, the boss told us to get rid of her," Dillon said.

"Give me a straight fucking answer. Is she dead?"

He swallowed. "Yes."

She took a moment to absorb that, tempted to pull the trigger and find solace in vengeance. Both men watched her in trepidation.

Gesturing with the gun, she said, "Turn around."

Dillon hesitated.

"Slowly. Any fast move I'll consider a threat. I'm not kidding. I have nothing to lose."

"All right, all right," he said. "Just take it easy."

He lunged for the gun.

She jerked back from him in shock and felt his hands clamp around hers. They both hit the wall, and the gun went off. His body twitched once before he dragged her to the floor under him. Squirming violently, feeling the warm rush of blood, she was mindless to anything but getting out from under him. Blood was everywhere. On him. On her. She pushed at his chest but couldn't budge it. She saw his eyes open and staring.

Her body arched like a bow, and she screamed. Kept screaming even as Turner pulled Dillon's body off. He tried to grasp her arm to pull her up, but she hit him in the face. He reeled back, then came at her again. Raising the gun over his head, he swung it down at her.

A blinding flash of pain at her temple lit up the inside of her head. The light went out.

"How close are we?" Ryan shouted over the roar of the speedboat's engine. Visibility in the dark was minimum, but a moon that was almost full provided some relief. The wind against his face was cold, but his shoulder was on fire. His stomach burned hotter, however, with fear for Meg.

"Maybe a mile," Nick shouted back. He was standing next to Ryan, hunched over the computer balanced near the boat's controls. "Keep heading west."

Ryan gritted his teeth as the boat plowed through a large

wave, jarring his shoulder.

"Are you sure you're up for this?" Nick asked. "If he touches her, I'll kill him." "Jesus, Ryan, don't say that."

"I'm saying it because I'd go through you or anyone else to do it, so don't get in my way."

Chapter 29

Margot paced the bedroom. Slater had told her to go to bed, as if his brutes were not about to deliver her sister for one ex-press purpose. To die.

She paused in her pacing as nausea rolled through her. When the sickness passed, she sat on the edge of the bed, a fist curled against her stomach, aware of the pink satin comforter that wrinkled under her. She hated everything about this room. Its pinkness was a joke. She had only wanted what she had not had as a child—pretty, girl things. Dolls and dollhouses, frilly dresses and real china tea sets.

The door slammed inward as if it had been kicked in, and she jolted to her feet. Turner Scott stood there, staring at her in shock. Her sister hung limp as a rag doll in his arms, her head fallen back over his forearm, one arm dangling. She was covered with blood.

"Oh my God," Margot breathed.

Turner carried Meg into the room, his gaze fixed on Margot's face. "What the fuck?"

"What did you do to her?" Margot demanded.

"I didn't do shit to her," he said, dropping Meg on the pink satin comforter. She didn't react to the rough handling.

"Is she breathing?" Gingerly touching her fingers to Meg's throat, Margot felt a strong but erratic pulse. Then her gaze fell on the raw skin circling both of her sister's wrists. She'd been tied up. Margot whirled, ready to take a swing at Turner, but he had retreated to the door.

"Who is she?" he asked.

"She's an innocent woman," Margot said. "You brought an innocent woman here to die."

"If she's related to you, she's hardly innocent."

"That's warped and you know it."

"The bitch killed Dillon. If Slater hadn't wanted her so bad, she'd already be dead." He walked out, slamming the door behind him.

Behind her, Meg stirred, a low moan escaping her lips.

The sight of the blood brought Margot's nausea storming back, and she put a hand on the bedpost to steady herself. When she had her stomach under control, she bent over her sister and tried to locate the source of the blood. It took her several moments to realize it wasn't Meg's.