Sting (11 page)

“What's option two?” Panella asked.

“I walk away from this whole friggin' mess. You won't know if she's alive and in the bosom of the FBI, or buried where you'll never find her.”

“If you walk away, you get nothing for your trouble.”

“True. But neither do you. And here's why that would be consequential. First you lose sleep, wondering what happened with Jordie.”

“I don't care that much.”

“Bullshit, you don't. Because without his sister as a pawn, Josh will make good on his escape and retrieve the money. Because you ain't got it.”

“You say.”

“I say because, if you did, none of this would matter to you. We wouldn't be having this conversation.”

Panella didn't respond.

“If Josh gets away,” Shaw continued, “he'll collect the money and live to a ripe old age in a distant land, enjoying the grand lifestyle that you envisioned for yourself. If he's recaptured, he'll be locked behind bars forever with the key thrown away, and the money will molder till doomsday because he'll never tell you where it is. Either way, you wind up with only your dick in your hand.”

He let all that sink in, then said, “Better choice, Panella. Agree to my current asking price. Jordie dies. Josh surfaces. You gain another opportunity to get your revenge on him, plus a shot at finding where he hid your money.”

The only sound coming through the phone now was heavy breathing amplified by the electrolarynx. He was thinking it over. Finally he said, “I warned Josh that if he ever screwed me over, I'd kill him, but not before killing his sister first. That rat needs reminding that I always make good on my promises. Jordie coming through this alive is not an option.”

Shaw's gut clenched. It was difficult, but he held her gaze as he said, “Understood.”

“Okay then,” Panella said. “Get at it and call me when it's done.”

“We haven't come to terms yet.”

“Five hundred thousand.”

“Two million. Have a nice day.”

After Shaw clicked off, he continued looking at Jordie for a beat or two, then turned away from her and concentrated on removing the battery from Mickey's phone. He put the phone in one front pocket of his jeans, the battery in the other.

Jordie moved around to stand facing him. “Two million dollars?”

“You think it's too much or not enough?”

“He still wants you to kill me?”

He sidestepped her and walked around the car to the trunk and took out a bottle of water. He twisted off the top, poured half the bottle over his face, then drank the rest.

She knocked the empty plastic bottle out of his hand. “Answer me.”

He looked down at the bottle that had landed and rolled, coming to a stop against the toe of his right boot. Then he raised his gaze back to hers. He wanted to strangle her, and at that moment he would have happily done it for nothing.

He went to the backseat door of the car, which was still standing open. “Get in. Lie down.”

“Why?”

“Get in and lie down.”

“Or what?”

He stormed back to her, grabbed her hand, and dragged her toward the open door.

She tried to wrest her hand free. “You said you didn't want to hurt me.”

“I won't. Believe me, when I pop you, you won't feel it.”

When they reached the door, she kicked it shut, which made him even more furious. They wrestled, although it was never any real contest. He easily backed her against the car door, her hands sandwiched between it and her butt. He held her there by pressing his body flush with hers.

“You had better hope Panella says no to my terms.”

“You're not going to kill me or you would have already.”

“For two million dollars—”

“Not for any amount,” she retorted. “I don't think you will.”

“You
know
I will. You've seen me in action. Mickey? Not my first. Not even my first this week.” Her eyes widened fractionally. “Oh, yeah, Jordie. Tuesday night, I left two dead in Mexico before beating it to New Orleans. So don't delude yourself.”

She swallowed. Blue eyes that had been throwing daggers moments ago now filled with misgiving. He felt her literally going softer against him as her resistance ebbed.

To impress upon her his point, he squeezed her shoulders tighter. “I did Mickey without a blink. The two in Mexico? A snap. Didn't even stop to think about it.”

“You've stopped to think about me.”

“Not really.”

“Then what's stopping you?”

He stared into her defiant eyes, then lowered his gaze to her shoulder where her bra strap had slipped from the armhole of her top onto her upper arm. He slid two fingers beneath the strap, the backs of his fingers brushing her skin. It was warm and as smooth as the satin strip he rubbed between his fingers and thumb.

When he slid the strap up and replaced it inside her top, he didn't immediately pull his fingers from underneath it, but kept them there and ran them back and forth across her shoulder, once, twice, watching as his knuckles slid along her skin, the softest of it being that patch in front where arm and chest were adjoined.

His hand stilled there, then he pulled his fingers from under the satin and lowered his hand. His eyes moved to hers and held before he abruptly stepped back and turned away, saying roughly, “You'd be my first woman.”

Y
ou'd be my first woman.

He spoke in a rumble that was barely audible, but if he'd shouted the words, they would have had no less effect. They caused a catch in her breath and a little flutter of optimism around her heart. For one or two seconds, she let herself hope that her gender would be a deterrent, a deal breaker between him and Panella.

But that ray of hope was extinguished by his glower. Actually he seemed angrier now than before, possibly at himself for revealing his human side.

He took another bottle of water from the car trunk and twisted off the cap. “Drink this, or I swear I'll pour it down your throat.”

He thrust the bottle at her in such a way that she either had to catch it against her chest or let it drop, and she didn't dare. Not after he'd looked ready to kill her on the spot when she'd knocked the empty bottle out of his hand and onto the floor.

She drank.

When she finished, he took her empty and tossed it into the trunk, then walked over to the crate and retrieved the pistol, shoving it into its holster. When he came back to her, he reached for her hand. She snatched it away, but he reached for it again and this time held on. He pulled her toward the door. “Where are we going?”

“Bathroom.” He pushed open the door just wide enough to walk through, then stood aside and hitched his head.

She looked outside. “In broad daylight?”

“There's nobody to see you.”

“I'll wait till it gets dark.”

“I've got to sleep. I don't want to be woken up for you to take a bathroom break.”

“I won't bother you.”

He appeared to mentally count to ten, then said, “There's another option for me, you know. I could call Panella back, say to hell with all of you. I tell him where we are, then tie you up and split. What will he do? Dispatch a replacement who'd probably do you for fifty grand. Even less than Mickey settled for. Which should give you an idea of the caliber of guy who'll show up. I can almost promise he won't be nearly as nice or restrained as me.”

He gave her time to think it over, then added, “You have two minutes of privacy before I come out looking for you.”

She went outside. Two minutes was more than adequate time. She finished in half that, then ran toward the far side of the building, thinking that perhaps there was a reason why he hadn't shown it to her earlier. But as she rounded the corner, she was disheartened to find that the view from that side was as dismal as the other. If anything, the reeds behind the building looked taller and spikier, the water from which they protruded even more opaque and viscous.

She made it back to the door just as he emerged. Noticing that her face was shiny with perspiration, he guessed the reason. “Go exploring? I could have told you there isn't a boat to go with that busted outboard. I already looked.”

Smart-ass
. She stepped around him and went back into the building. He followed, and when he reached for her hand, about to put another clip cuff on her wrists, she asked, “Is that really necessary?”

He just gave her a sardonic look.

“A tightly tied bandana would work just as well.”

“Not even near.” He turned her around.

“Can you at least leave them in front?”

“Not while I'm asleep.”

“What could I do with my hands tied?”

“I'm not sure, but I don't want to be surprised. Don't move from this spot.” He went outside.

She didn't move but she did conduct a visual search of the place. He'd hidden her phone. The phone battery. The car keys.
Where, where, where?

When he came back inside, he was still buttoning up his fly. “Get in the backseat and lie down.”

“I'll swelter inside that car.”

“You want me to take your clothes off?” At the look she gave him, he snickered. “I didn't think so. Go lie down.”

“When are you going to call Panella back?”

“After he's had time to think it over. Or, you could tell me how to contact Josh and we could be done here.”

“I can't.”

“Then get in the car.”

“If you wait too long, Panella may—”

“Stop stalling. I'm tired.”

Unprepared to engage in another wrestling match, this time with her hands tied behind her, she went to the car, got in, and lay down on her right side. “My arm goes to sleep in this position.”

“When it does, roll over.”

“I'll chatter, sing, keep you awake.”

“I'll put a gag in your mouth.”

He went to the trunk and rummaged among the things in it. She listened to the clank of license plates, the thump of the tire iron, the rattle of empty plastic bottles and sacks of canned goods, trying to think of ways in which one or the other could be used to debilitate him, at least long enough for her to get off a 911 call.

The tire iron would be ideal, but even though he left the trunk open, what good was having access to its contents with her hands bound behind her?

When he came back into her range of vision through the open backseat door, he was carrying a folded bright blue tarpaulin, which he dropped to the floor. He turned to her and, as though he'd been following the track of her thoughts, addressed the helplessness she felt.

“I'll leave your feet free. There's not much you could do without the use of your hands. I guess you could try running to the main road before I chased you down, but whatever you tried, you'd fail.”

“If I'm going to die anyway, I had just as well try to escape.”

“I admire that fighting spirit, Jordie. Truly I do. The thing is, I don't wake up in a cheerful mood on the best of days. If you woke me up trying some doomed-to-fail stunt, I'd be so pissed off I'd likely tie your feet together, gag you, shut the car doors, and then it really would be sweltering in there. Or I could always put you in the trunk.”

As he turned away, she said under her breath, “You're not all that nice.”

He came back around. “What was that?”

“Nothing.”

He gave her a hard look, then his eyes tracked down the length of her body and all the way back up, pausing in places that grew warm under his scrutiny. “I'm not all that restrained, either.”

He always had the last word, disallowing her to enjoy even a small triumph. Resentfully she watched him unfold the tarp. “I suppose you use that to wrap bloody bodies in.”

“It comes in handy.” He spread the tarp over the grimy floor a few yards away from the car, then popped open the first two snaps on his shirt and pulled it over his head.

She quickly looked away to avoid the sight of his bare chest.

“Jordie.” He came to stand just beyond the open backseat door. “Jordie.”

Feeling foolish and cowardly, she jerked her head back toward him.
“What?”

“Pistol.” He touched the holster at his hip. “Cell phone.” He patted his right jeans pocket. “Cell phone battery.” He patted his left jeans pocket. “You might manage to get one away from me, but not all three.”

His hands remained flat against his pockets, bracketing the frayed fly of his jeans, which she was relieved to see he'd finished buttoning. The waistband was low and loose, curled slightly forward away from his torso where skin and hair were sweat-damp.

Cowardly or not, she turned her head aside again and closed her eyes. She heard the worn soles of his boots scrape against the concrete as he stepped away, the rustle of the tarp, sounds of him settling. Then an encompassing, almost palpable quiet descended. The next sound she heard was the even breathing of someone who'd fallen instantly but soundly asleep.

He slept like a baby, while she was still trying to attach a definition to the way he'd touched her when he replaced her bra strap. She didn't want to think of it as a caress, but that was what it had been. The most disquieting thing about it, the aspect of it that had stopped her breath, had been his absorption, his fixation on the textures of her.

Compelled by curiosity and a confounding restlessness, she raised her head so she could see him through the open car door.

He lay on his back, his shirt bunched beneath his head. One hand lay at his side. The other, the one that had handled the satin strap with such delicacy, maintained a loose clasp on the pistol grip.

But despite the rhythmic expansion and recession of his rib cage, she didn't trust that he lay in the boneless lassitude of deep slumber. Any stimuli would bring him bolt upright, eyes slashing like sabers, muscles instantly reactive.

She laid her head back down and settled more comfortably onto the seat. If she lay still and quiet and allowed him to sleep, it might buy her more time. If she provoked him, he might follow through on his threat to shut the car doors, or stuff her in the trunk, or decide that for two million dollars he could live with the guilt of having killed his first woman.

Chances were good that he would reach that conclusion anyway. Even if he had to settle for less, he would squeeze as much as he could from Panella and finish the job.

The job contracted by Panella but prompted by Josh.

Why had her brother done this stupid, stupid thing? Where was he? Had he paused to consider the tragic chain of events this irresponsible act would incite? When he fled the safe house, had it been a spontaneous decision spurred by desperation? Or had he meticulously planned it?

Of course he'd planned it, she told herself. He wouldn't have left anything to chance.

As always, thoughts of her brother were conflicting, suspending her between loyalty and resentment, anxiety and agitation. She worried for his safety and wanted to know that he was unharmed. But she also wanted to shake him senseless for continuing to cause so many people, herself included, untold distress and unhappiness. He'd stolen hard-gained funds from hundreds of people, but to her knowledge he'd never expressed remorse or compassion for his victims. In fact, on one occasion he'd disparaged them for being gullible and greedy, saying that if not for avarice, they wouldn't have been eager to sink their life savings into investments so transparently bogus.

No, it hadn't been Josh's conscience that had compelled him to turn informant, but rather a fear of harsher punishment if he didn't.

Even Shaw had recognized that everything Josh had done had been self-serving, but only she knew the extent of her brother's selfishness. She hadn't been bankrupted by his larcenous scheme with Panella, but she'd been the first and longest-standing victim of Josh's manipulation.

When he'd acknowledged his alleged crimes to her, she had lent moral support. But in a private moment, when Josh, with hand-wringing indecision, asked her advice on what he should do, she'd told him without hesitation,
Take your punishment like a man
.

That being not what he wanted to hear, he'd predictably turned the tables and made her the villain for not taking his side, for not doing enough, for not fiercely denying any wrongdoing on his part.

True to form, he harkened back to the accident that had ordained their relationship. It was Josh's excuse for any shortcoming, his season pass to cover any transgression, his free ticket for unlimited self-absorption.

Those fateful moments in 1992 had charted a course from which she and her brother had never deviated. Through childhood, adolescence, and into adulthood, it had kept her tethered to him as securely as a ship is to an anchor.

She had remained Josh's custodian until that day when he was escorted away by federal marshals. They weren't playground bullies against which she could defend him. Josh wasn't a child anymore. He was a man, and therefore accountable.

As she'd hugged him good-bye, she'd whispered in his ear,
This is it, Josh. I'm done
.

She had meant it, too. He'd wheedled his way out of facing felony charges and had been granted a second chance that was more than fair. It was up to him what he did with it.

And he'd blown it.

So, yet again, she was suffering the consequences of his bad judgment and self-interest. Wherever he was, was he aware of what had happened to her last night? Would he care? If she didn't survive this, would he ever acknowledge, even to himself, that she had died because of his unrelenting selfishness?

Shaw— Had she thought of him as Shaw?

He wouldn't kill her. Would he? Surely not. Not after touching her that way.

She breathed deeply, as though inhaling an anesthetic. Her hairline grew damp. Her cheeks burned. A rivulet of sweat trickled through the valley between her breasts. Drowsily she realized that they felt heavy and full and achy, and, had her hands been free, she might have pressed them.

Surrendering to the drowsiness that the stifling heat induced, and lulled by the rhythm of Shaw's breathing, she closed her eyes.