In Harm's Way (15 page)

Without warning, Mitch shoved her sideways onto the lawn and followed with his body. She fell to the grass even as she heard the shot. Mitch landed on top of her, dead weight, knocking the breath from her before she could gather a scream.

Frantically she tried to move him. He didn't budge. Sticky blood covered her hands. Mitch's blood.
Oh, God!

Scuffling feet approached. Two people, she thought.

They dragged Mitch off her and tossed him aside. She could barely see their outlines as she scrambled away from them.

Suddenly they seemed to be everywhere, holding her, grappling with her as she struggled.

The men dragged her toward the van. She screamed, kicked and fought for all she was worth, knowing if they took her away, she could not get help for Mitch. He might be bleeding to death right here on Kick's lawn.

Marshaling all her strength, Robin broke free of one man and kicked the other as hard as she could.

One drew back his fist and in her last instant of awareness, Robin tried unsuccessfully to duck.

W
hen Robin woke, she figured she hadn't been out for long. The vehicle she was in was still moving. Someone had bound her hands with duct tape and blindfolded her with a cloth.

Gas fumes filled her nose. The surface she rested on was carpeted and there was room to bounce around when the van hit bumps. She was in the luggage space behind the back seat.

Not that it mattered much. No way could she escape even if no one was watching her. She wriggled her wrists, but the tape held fast, almost cutting off the circulation.

This had to do with the disk and the information it contained. She had no doubt of that. These were probably the very people who had killed James.

Robin held still and tried not to panic. Okay. Mitch could
still be alive. If he didn't show up at the police station with her in a while, someone would come out there to Kick's house to get her. Probably Kick himself.

He would get help for Mitch. And if Mitch regained consciousness soon enough, someone might even try to rescue her. But what if he stayed unconscious until it was too late to tell what had really happened? What if no one found him before he bled to death? Somehow she had to get free to call an ambulance.

Keep your head, she warned herself. Don't lose it now. Mitch's life might rest on her finding a way out of this. Her own life certainly did. And maybe another little life no one knew about yet. But she couldn't allow herself to think about that or she
would
panic.

She used the next quarter hour or so to get her wits back and to determine that her jaw probably wasn't broken. All too soon the van stopped. Robin had no idea what to expect next. They might plan to dump her body in the river or something. Unless Mitch recovered and related what had happened, the police might think she had shot him, then disappeared. He had been taking her in for murder.

Maybe these goons had seen to it that Mitch was dead before they left him there. That thought was unbearable, so she promptly dismissed it. She had to believe he was still alive.

The back of the van opened and someone grabbed her legs and hauled her out. When they stood her up, she felt smooth pebbles under her bare feet. She had lost her shoes. Hopefully there on Kick's lawn where they would be found.

Two large hands grasped her elbows and half-dragged, half-led her across an expanse of a pebble-paved walkway. She heard a door open and they entered a building. The air was warmer. A house, she decided, because it smelled like a house; furniture polish, a spicy cinnamon air freshener or
potpourri. There was a faint scent of cooked onions, too, which indicated there was probably a kitchen nearby.

Hands on her shoulders forced her to sit. The chair was straight-backed with carved spindles, its seat contoured, not uncomfortable, though she couldn't settle back in it because her hands were taped behind her.

“Where am I?” she asked, surprising herself at how utterly calm she sounded.

A man chuckled softly. “You don't want to know that. If you did, I would have to kill you, and I would regret doing that.”

“You didn't mind having Detective Winton shot,” she accused.

“No, not at all,” he agreed. The accent was different from Mitch's in a subtly pretentious way, the voice itself higher in pitch. “However, dispensing with you would be such a waste.”

“Because I'm a woman?” she asked, trying to inject a note of flirtation into her voice, “And you're such a Southern gentleman?” This had to be Rake Somers, she thought. As far as she knew, no one else had a vested interest in the disk. The other men listed on it were dead.

“No. Because you are delightfully droll. And resourceful. You've been having your wicked little way with the good detective and keeping yourself out of jail. I applaud your ingenuity, Ms. Andrews. It would have been so unfortunate for me if that disk had fallen into the hands of the police.”

“What disk?” she asked.

He ignored her as if she hadn't spoken.

“Therefore, I've decided to cut you a little slack and let you live if you cooperate. That's the purpose of the blindfold. So you won't be able to identify me. See, you're perfectly safe if you comply with my needs.”

Robin didn't believe him for a second. The blindfold was
to enhance her terror, not prevent her knowing who he was or where they had brought her. Or was he trying to give her a false sense of security? But she could be wrong on both counts. Maybe he wouldn't kill her.

He seemed to think she was crooked, so she might as well use that. God, she would use
anything
at this point. “Thank you so much. I admire a man with forethought. Do you need a partner?”

He laughed outright. “No, but I appreciate the offer. What you must do now is tell me where the disk is located.”

“There is no disk,” she said with a shrug. “I destroyed it rather than let the police have it. James told me to get rid of it if there were the slightest risk of anyone other than himself obtaining it.”

Her head reeled with the unexpected blow. Her cheekbone was numb, and she thought she heard bells. She certainly saw stars. His fist had dislodged the blindfold just enough that she could see her captor if she lolled her head back a little. He seemed not to notice.

He was a heavyset man, close to sixty, with silvery hair and dark, narrow eyes. Distinguished. Impeccably dressed and carefully massaging the well-manicured hand he had used to strike her.

“Now, then,” he crooned. “Let's have no more of those lies. Where is it?”

Robin took a deep breath, hoping to clear her head a bit more before she spoke. She needed to convince him that she was no threat if he let her go. Finally she replied, “I told you I destroyed it. But I know what was on it. For half of my husband's cut, I'll give you the numbers I memorized.”

“That's precisely what got him dead, my dear. He was well paid before he set up those accounts. That was his job. Greed is a nasty vice, isn't it? You don't want to be guilty of that.”

“I'm not greedy, but I want a little compensation. James left me with nothing.” Robin knew she couldn't simply cave in here. Somers would see it as the ultimate weakness. He seemed one of those men who fed on that. “Can't we deal?”

“Repeat what was on the disk for me, and I will set you free. That seems fair to me.”

Now Robin laughed. “Right. You'll simply let me walk out of here and risk me going straight to the cops? Get real. I want some insurance.”

“Not needed. You had better hope the police don't know about the accounts. And they don't unless you told them. They'll believe it was you who shot your husband and later your lover, Detective Winton. The only sensible thing you can do now is run. I'll provide your transportation to the Caymans. Your husband's account there should take care of your expenses. But you won't access it until after I have transferred the others. You will give me the numbers. Now. And then you will tell me what else Andrews put on that disk, the information he threatened me with. Word for word.”

“It was in code of some kind. I never knew what was on it. I just destroyed the thing the way he told me to. Burned it and buried what was left in Taylor's backyard.”

All the while she was talking, her mind worked furiously. James had an account? His name hadn't been on that list. Though the reports of the other men's deaths indicated they were accidental, she would bet her last nickel Somers had arranged their deaths, then approached James for all of the account numbers. He would have been the only source. James had put something incriminating on disk to ensure that Somers didn't kill him, too. And the account numbers and names would have provided verification to the authorities if he ever had to turn it over.

“Well? I'm waiting,” Somers said calmly.

“All right,” Robin said. “Get me a paper and pencil. I'll write the numbers down for you. I'm sorry I can't help you with the other file he put on the disk. I got past the password encryption, but the entire thing was in code.”

“What sort of code?”

“I don't know. Symbols of some kind. I didn't spend much time on it since it was nothing to me.” She smiled. “But I figured the accounts might be important.”

She hurried to add, “And you're right about my running. As long as I have funds, I'm willing to disappear.”

He would kill her. He might let her live until they reached the Caymans just to avoid her body being discovered here. He probably would want to keep her alive until he saw whether the numbers she gave him were legitimate. If James did have an account there, this man would want that, too.

“You're thinking you haven't a chance of surviving, aren't you?” he asked as if he could read her mind.

“It did occur to me,” she admitted wryly.

“Well, you're wrong, you know. I really don't want to kill you. If I intended to, you wouldn't need that blindfold. As long as you can't name me, you will be fine. There were five names on that list that I know of. I could be any one of those men. Or simply someone who knows them and was in their confidence. You needn't be afraid. Just give me the numbers. Recite them, and I'll write them down.”

“And what happens then?” she asked.

She heard him sigh. “Then you will be given proper clothes and shoes for traveling and allowed to dress. Later tonight we will board a plane and go to retrieve the money. Fair warning, those numbers had better be correct. For your sake I hope your memory is infallible. I will also need the name of the bank, of course.”

The name of the bank? Oh, God.
Robin almost panicked.
There must be dozens, maybe hundreds of banks on Grand Cayman. But she had to run this bluff. Buy time.

“My memory's fine,” she assured him. “Could I have a drink of water?”

“Certainly.” Fingers snapped and in a few minutes, Robin felt the edge of a glass touch her lips. She drank, her throat almost closing with terror as her thoughts scrambled for a name.

What bank?
Had James given her any clue at all? He had mentioned going to the islands, George Town in particular. Had he been trying to give her clues she might need if anything happened to him? Why hadn't he simply told her outright?

Because he might not have trusted her quite that far, Robin thought.

But the bank's name was what was critical now. Had he said anything else unusual? A specific name of something that could be the bank?

Damn! She couldn't think! She was as good as dead if she couldn't come up with something. Robin drank another swallow of water as if she were desperate for it. It took so little time to finish that glassful. And her mind was still a blank. “Could I have more?”

“I think not,” the voice now snapped with impatience. “You're not by any chance stalling, are you, my dear?”

“You want those numbers or not? Give me another glass of water!” she demanded. Feigning anger was a lot easier than she would have thought.

The resulting blow was hard enough to knock her out. It didn't, but Robin let her head loll bonelessly to one side as if it had. She could feel the blood from her nose trail slowly down the side of her face.

How long could she fake unconsciousness?

 

Mitch had managed to stagger upright long enough to reach Kick's truck. He held his backup weapon in his left hand and was braced against the steering wheel, trying to get his head clear enough to drive when a car pulled up beside him. He watched as Kick parked, got out and ran toward him.

His partner opened the door and the dome light came on. “Good God, man, what happened to you?”

“Wh-what are you doing here?” Mitch shook his head. “Never mind. Somers has Robin. We gotta go after them. You drive.”

“Somers?” Kick froze, staring at Mitch in the dim light of the truck's dome. “Okay, but first let's see how bad this is. Slide over,” Kick insisted, frowning at Mitch's shoulder as he climbed in the driver's side.

“Went straight through, I think. Don't have time to—”

“We need to get you to the emergency room,” Kick argued.

“Crank up this damned truck and get me out to Somers's place,” Mitch ordered, his teeth gritted with frustration and pain. Only then did he realize he'd been pointing his pistol in Kick's direction all along, holding the gun in his right hand as he pressed the heel of that hand to the bullet wound in his left shoulder.

“How do you know it was Somers?” Kick asked.

“It was Billy Ray Hinds, his number-one gopher,” Mitch explained. “Recognize him anywhere, even in the dark.”

Kick cursed, twisted the key and geared the truck into reverse.

Mitch pressed even more firmly over the bullet hole just below his clavicle and leaned hard against the back of the seat to put pressure on the exit wound. The bleeding had just about stopped, he thought. The muscles of his left arm were barely working and he was beginning to shake. He transferred the weapon to that hand anyway.

Kick glanced down at the gun, then back up at him. “You just sit back there and try not to bleed all over my upholstery, okay?”

“Call for backup,” Mitch ordered gruffly.

Kick pulled out his cell phone, punched a number on the speed dial and barked into the phone. “Winton's been shot, but he's ambulatory. We're headed out to Rake Somers's place on Willow Road. Need backup.”

The other end of the conversation was not audible. Mitch thought it should be, given the relative silence and lack of road noise in smooth riding truck.

Nausea distracted him and he felt a little woozy, sort of disoriented. Something wasn't right about that call. He fought the urge to pass out and get away from the agony that knifed through his body like a sword thrust. If he gave in to the need, he'd be useless to Robin. Kick might not be able to handle this alone. Mitch let go of his wound long enough to lower the window and suck in a deep breath of cool night air.