The Strongest Steel (37 page)

His face was gaunt. Gone were the once-handsome features, replaced with a menacing sneer. Tight, sinewy muscle and raised veins wrapped their way around the arms she’d once felt safe in.

“There is no option here, Taylor. Get in the van or I will kill this fucking kid where he stands.” She looked at Anton, willing him silently to remain still and quiet. He stared at her, wide eyed, his body frozen with fear.

Her fingernails dug painfully into her palms as she gripped her hands into tight fists. The sight of Nathan, combined with every teacher’s worst nightmare of a child getting hurt, made it difficult to think. What could she do?

“Taylor!” he snarled. “Move it before you force me to do something you’ll regret.” The knife broke the skin of Anton’s neck. A small slice, but enough to make a small trickle of blood run down Anton’s skin.

“Anton, don’t move.” His eyes were filled with tears, but he was still as a statue. Good boy. Harper hurried toward the open doors of the dented brown van and got inside, throwing Anton’s backpack ahead of her.

She spun her legs around, and peered back into the alley in time to see Nathan shove Anton to the ground. He landed on his shoulder, his head hitting the concrete with a thud. Nathan marched the few footsteps to the van.
Get up, Anton. Move.
Anton started to sit slowly. He was okay.

The rear doors to the van slammed shut. She had moments before Nathan would climb into the driver’s seat.
Think, think
. If she screamed, he might turn back and kill Anton. Cooperating with Nathan was the best way to ensure Anton was safe. She ripped open Anton’s backpack and riffled through it, finding the phone Frankie had asked her to text on when she’d collected Anton. She started to dial 911, but the door opened and slammed shut. Nathan got in alone. She stuffed the phone down her bra. Her loose workout hoodie would hide the shape.

Nathan climbed between the seats, knife in one hand, tape in the other.

“What did you do with Anton?” she hissed.

He put the point of the blade to her throat. “Don’t make me hurt you, Taylor. Put your arms behind your back.” She winced as he wrapped the tape tightly around her hands, trying to flex her fingers to keep the circulation going.

“Where’s Anton? Please tell me you didn’t kill him.” She eyed the knife he laid down on the seat next to him as he climbed back into the front seat. The blade was clean except for the tiny bit of blood on the tip. Nathan rocked on the seat, cursing in a whisper before turning the key in the ignition. The old van spluttered and vibrated to life.

“Sit up here near me and don’t move,” he shouted, adjusting the rearview mirror until she could see herself in it. He was incredibly agitated, a fresh high.

Harper shuffled across the floor until she sat behind the passenger seat, positioning herself so that she could see a little out of windshield. “Nathan, you know this isn’t going to end well. Please, just let me go. We can figure this out.”

“Figure it out?” he spat. “Figure it the fuck out! Are you kidding me? There’s nothing to figure out, Taylor. You’ll always be mine. I told you that. Believe me now?” A staccato burst of laughter burst through the van.

“Now shut up. You scream and this gets worse. How you behave determines whether this goes quick or slow. So you remember that before you start trying to outsmart me, bitch.”

Harper scanned the inside of the van, hoping for something she could use, but it was so dark. If she jumped on him now, without the use of her arms, they’d likely both be killed or he’d grab the knife.

A leather jacket and silver helmet were tossed in the corner. The bike. Of course. It had been Nathan on the bike that was so similar to the designs he and Reid used to work on. He must have kept one of the ones he made. He’d biked to find her.

Nathan steered jerkily away from the curb, and Harper lurched violently. Unable to use her hands to stop herself, she had no way of stopping her head from banging against the metal wall of the van. Her vision blurred upon impact.

Harper squinted to help focus on the road ahead of her. It was crucial that she know where she was being taken. Buildings went past too fast in the dark, but she was relieved to make out Allison Park on their right. They were definitely heading north. Where could he be taking her? Tears filled her eyes, but she blinked them back fiercely. They would not help her get out of this. She needed to focus, come up with a plan to get away from Nathan, and then alert the police. If she didn’t, well, she couldn’t afford to dwell on that option.

The Canyon Ranch Hotel, with its unique wraparound of white stone and wavy river of dark glass, went by. At a red light, Harper eyed the rear doors.

“Locked.” She looked toward Nathan, who was studying her in the rearview mirror. He sounded almost regretful. “Why did you have to make this so hard, Tay? I just wanted us to be together.”

Harper estimated fifteen minutes had gone by when the van suddenly pulled to a stop and Nathan exited.

When the rear doors were yanked open, Harper saw they were parked next to the skeleton of what had once been a classic hotel or apartment building. Its windows were boarded over, and a wire fence with Caution signs rattled in the cool breeze.

Nathan dragged her roughly from the van. Her foot hit the ground at an awkward angle sending a shooting pain up her leg.

He pushed her through a gap in the fence. “Let’s go,” he whispered fiercely, pushing the tip of the knife into her back. “Don’t make me have to use this sooner than I intend to.”

The knife cut into her skin and Harper gasped, the pain intense. “Mmm, I like a little fear these days, Tay. The way you fought me those years ago—huge turn-on.” The thought sickened her. He was trying to scare her, and it was working. Her heartbeat raced at the horrifying familiarity of him behind her, knife in hand. Dizziness overtaking her as she gulped down breaths. Trembling, she starting counting to ten, focused on her breathing. Focus was the only thing that could save her.

The point of the blade left her back, but the fingers digging into her shoulder directed her around the back of the property. Dusk had shifted to night, and there was little light from the street. As they moved through the overgrown landscaping toward an empty pool, the grounds were even darker. Nathan shoved Harper into a small outbuilding, causing her to fall forward. Without her hands free, she fell face-first into the torn and faded blue linoleum. A sharp pain rushed up her cheekbone as the side of her face made contact with hard floor.

A hand grabbed the back of her hoodie, and she was dragged along the litter-strewn floor before being turned and propped up against a cold, gray, cinder block wall.

She was in a deserted poolside bar that was backed with speckled mirrors and empty, corroding optics. Broken light fixtures and wires hung from the ceiling, swaying in perpetual motion.

Nathan was breathing heavily, pacing back and forth. “Why did you do it, Taylor?” he whispered.

Harper remained silent, shaking her head to clear the aftershock of hitting the ground. She took the time to review her surroundings. She heard Frankie’s voice in her head, loud and clear.
You have to know you are worth defending.

“I rotted away in that place for four years, and you were prepared to let me stay there for another four.” Spit collected at the corners of his mouth as he ranted at her. His sunken eyes, ringed with black circles, centered on her.

“Fuck, what to do, what to do,” he mumbled as he paced the length of the room, running his hand through his short hair over and over. If she didn’t figure something out soon, he was going to kill her. This wasn’t about some sick, messed-up reunion. This was about revenge, pure and simple, and the thought terrified her.

“Nathan, this isn’t you. It’s the drugs talking. You can get help.”

“Help? Is that what you wanted me to get when you wrote your letter?” Nathan rubbed his hands up and down his arms as he stared at her. “Do you want to know what kind of
help
you get in prison? ’Cause I can tell you what kind of
help
you have to give and take in there.”

“Don’t do this, please, Nathan.” Harper tried to tamp down the panic, override the adrenaline causing her heart to race. She closed her eyes and focused on words from one of her first sessions with Frankie …
a place of control, not a place of fear.

She looked for something sharp she could lean against to cut the tape binding her hands. A rusted chair frame sat up against the wall only inches away, the leg bent and broken.

Silently, she waited until Nathan was pacing away from her and then shuffled the short distance toward the chair. He was too far gone to notice. If she could get her arms free, she had options. Possibly the phone, or at least a chance to run. Even fight if she had to. He may have been able to destroy her last time, but he wouldn’t get the chance again.

*   *   *

“Frankie, how’s it going?” Trent lifted a finger to Dred and mouthed, “Sorry.” He didn’t usually answer his phone when working on a client but Harper had said she would ring from there.

There was a long pause and the piercing sound of a child crying. “Hey man, there’s a problem.” Frankie’s voice was panicked. The usually cool and collected fighter was distraught. “The guy Harper was running from, Nathan, I think he got her.”

“What the—what do you mean?” Trent jumped up out of his stool, rubbing the back of his gloved hand across his forehead.

“Anton just ran into the gym, shouting about a guy grabbing Harper. He made her get into a van. Harper called him Nathan.”

Trent kicked the stool he had been sitting on and sent it crashing across the studio floor.

“Did he hurt her? Did you call the police?” he asked, aware of the studio grinding to a halt around him. Dred had stood, and Cujo had come over, putting a hand on his shoulder. Fortunately the studio was close to closing and Dred was the only client still getting inked.

“Yeah, they’re on their way here.” Trent could hear Anton’s sobs in the background and heard Frankie mumble words of comfort. “I’m sorry, man, but Anton said Nathan was acting all crazy and was packin’ a large knife.”

“Had he hurt her? When Anton saw them leave, was she still … was she…?”

“She wasn’t hurt when she got in the van.”

Trent wasn’t certain his legs would continue to hold him. He put his arm out and leaned forward, the tattoo chair taking his weight. He’d be able to think clearly if the fucking spinning in his head would just stop. Images of Harper with a blade to her throat skittered through his mind making it hard to focus.

“Trent, you still there, man?”

“Yeah, I’m here, which way did he take her? Did Anton see?”

“No, he just started running as soon as Nathan got in the van. But Harper is smart; she still had Anton’s schoolbag. I installed a GPS app on Anton’s phone. It shows the phone is over by that abandoned strip on the way to Veterans Park. Units are on their way over there.”

“On my way, call me if it moves.”

Trent ran into the back and grabbed his jacket and keys from the office, relieved to find himself flanked by Cujo and Dred as he made for the back door. Not that he would need their help destroying that motherfucker.

Cujo grabbed the keys from his hand.

“Cuj, I don’t have time for this, give me the keys.”

“No can do, brother. You aren’t in any fit state to drive. Get in or I’ll go without you.”

“Cujo, give me the fucking keys.” Cujo got in the car and started the engine, the Plymouth’s engine revving loudly.

Trent felt a shove from behind.

“Get in the car, Trent,” Dred said, pushing him toward the door. With no further time to argue, he climbed in and Dred followed, the three of them crammed onto the bench seat.

“North on Collins, up toward Veterans Park.”

Cujo careened out of the Second Circle parking lot and Trent leaned forward, head in both hands.

“She’s gonna be fine,” Cujo said as he fired the Plymouth through Miami.

Trent hoped with all his heart that Cujo was right.

Because if she wasn’t …

Fuck.

*   *   *

The blood trickled down her wrists, collecting in the palms of her hands. Her first failed attempt at cutting the binding on the rusted leg had resulted in a painful gash, but Harper forced the pain to the back of her mind and continued more cautiously than in her first attempt. She pushed her hands back toward the rough edge, feeling the friction as it dug into the tape.

“This is all your fault,” Nathan said, abruptly stopping his pacing. “If you hadn’t tried to leave me, none of this would have happened. You owe me those years back, Taylor. You owe me for every time you fucked your new boyfriend while I was sitting in a cell.”

He ran his thumb sideways over the blade of the knife, testing its sharpness with his thumb, hissing when the edge caught his skin.

“Don’t you even want to know how I found you?” he spat.

Harper shook her head. “It doesn’t really matter, does it?”

“Of course it fucking matters. I went to a lot of effort to find you. If you’re smart, you’ll respect that.” He walked to the window, peering into the darkness warily.

“You meet all kinds of people with all kinds of interesting talents inside. People who’ll use their talents if they owe you a favor or two. Prison is one huge bartering system, and I was very good at making myself invaluable to the right people.”

Harper raised and lowered her wrists against the chair, pulling them apart simultaneously to keep the fabric taut. The sound of the hard metal cutting the tape sounded like an earthquake in the silence of the room.

“It’s so easy to manipulate desperate, power-hungry people. Inside, the guys rely on favors. Who can do what for whom? Good old Winston might have been a fucking useless parent, but he was great at getting charges dismissed and knowing the right judges. You know, the interesting thing about gangs, they have chapters all over the country. A little ‘You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours’ for the right people, and I was able to get your idiot lawyer’s car jacked and laptop hacked. From her laptop, I could get to yours. She had your address, phone number.”