Make Her Pay (20 page)

And she
did
deserve better.

“Then what are the Bullet Catchers?” she asked.

He leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. “It’s exactly what I told you-the best security and investigation firm in the business. I’m trying to join the company.”

“And they hire former thieves?”

“They might. That’s what I want.”

“Why? To clean up your act?”

“So to speak.”

A million questions formed and she went with the first one. “What did you steal?”

“Whatever people like Gerry Dix wanted. Art. Information. Jewels. Money.” He lifted one eyebrow. “Treasures.”

The word punched her chest. “Why? Just for money?”

“Because I could,” he said gruffly. “Because I learned how as a kid, and after my brother Alix died, I left the SEALs, and the first thing I did got screwed up by somebody else. I got accused of stealing, because that’s what I was, so that’s what people thought I would always be.”

“So you thought, what? Can’t fight ’em, then be one?”

He shrugged, his defensive walls up so high Lizzie could practically see them. “More or less.”

“I suspected something,” she admitted. “Not that, exactly, but you know an awful lot about stealing stuff.”

“I know everything about stealing stuff. I’m wanted in four states, and well connected to some of the people you hate most in the world-Judd Paxton and others like him, private collectors rich with money and greed.” He gave her a sharp look. “You wanted to know, Lizzie. And now you do.”

She certainly did. “Have you…” The words wouldn’t come out. Did she want to know this?

“Have I what?” he prompted.

“Ever killed anyone?”

“No.”

Relief rolled through her.

He smiled. “So maybe there’s hope for me yet.”

“I appreciate the honesty.”

“And I appreciate the desire to… what was it? Get inside my head and figure me out.” He lifted one shoulder. “Now that you have, no doubt you’d like to get right back out again.”

Had she figured him out? She knew his past now, and it was ugly.

But the man in front of her was still made of something good. Wasn’t he?

“I don’t know,” she said honestly. “I don’t like what you’ve done, But I like the potential for what you could be.”

He said nothing, but his face said it all. Gratitude. Surprise. Hope.

Outside the door, loud footsteps broke the moment, along with a hard rap on the door. “Miss Dare?”

“Gabby!” Lizzie rolled off the bed as Con let her in.

Gabby filled the little doorway, shouldering a large bag and greeting them with a concerned look. “I heard you didn’t find your sister.”

“Mrs. Bettencourt said she left on the ferry to Flores.”

Gabby glanced at Con, then back to Lizzie, frowning. “That’s not possible. I was on the ferry this afternoon and just came back. That ferry’s small, maybe twenty people.”

“She said she left this morning.”

Gabby shook her head. “The morning ferry was canceled because of high chop in the seas, or I would have been on that one. She was not on the ferry.”

“Could she have flown out?”

“No,” Con said. “I already checked that. We got the names of every person who left via the Corvo airport today, remember?”

“There’s no other way to leave the island, unless she had a private boat.” Gabby frowned. “I don’t like it.”

“What do you mean?” Lizzie asked. “What don’t you like?”

“That woman, Bettencourt, is certifiable. And I seem to be the only one who thinks Ana’s trip off the top of the windmill was not the suicide everyone’s claiming it was.”

“Think we can get that scooter again?” Con asked.

Gabby nodded. “No problem.”

“I’m going up to pay a visit to Mrs. Bettencourt.” He reached under the bed and got his Glock. “This time I’ll be the first to pull the gun out.”

“I’m going with you,” Lizzie announced. At his look, she held up her hand. “Don’t even think about it. She’s my sister, and I’m going.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

WHITE-HOT PAIN BURNED Brianna’s shoulder, a vicious, blinding hole of hurt that seared through from front to back.

Which meant she was still alive.

Digging deep, she attempted to open her eyes, fighting the darkness of unconsciousness, desperate to awaken. She blinked, but that didn’t clear her blurred vision. Shades of gray swam before her eyes, the smell of earth and sea and something metallic filling her nose.

Gunpowder.

The thought forced her head up, causing a suctioning sound as her face separated from a sticky, wet floor. Sticky with… blood. Her blood.

“Oh, God,” she whimpered. She’d been shot by that lunatic.

Where did she go? Was she standing over her right now, aiming that gun at her head, ready to push Brianna into that grinder thing that belonged in a horror movie? Why didn’t she say something?

Using every drop of strength she could muster, Brianna lifted her head higher, a wave of dizziness and nausea rolling over her as the sound of a gear a few feet away passed by then headed around the other side.

She managed to tilt her head back, her knees digging into the stone floor, one hand smashed against her wound. The bitch missed her heart, but left a hole in her shoulder. Was the bullet still in there?

She couldn’t tell. And she couldn’t see where that woman went. The door to the sweeps was closed, blocking out light. But she could see the ledge, only six inches away. And if she fell over it…

The nasty gear groaned as it rolled by again.

The teeth of the two gears meshed on each pass, crushing anything caught between them.
Not
the way she wanted to go.

Crazy Lady appeared to be gone. Brianna forced herself up on her knees, finally letting go of the wound, another whimper escaping her as she stared at the blood all over her hands.

But she was
alive
. And if she was alive, she could get the hell out of here before her killer returned. She didn’t dare call for help. Solange might have left her thinking she was dead. She might just be planning to let her rot up here.

No one ever comes up here.

But what about Gabby? Maybe she’d come back. Had she sent the e-mail to Lizzie, telling her all was fine?

Lizzie
. A whole different kind of pain gripped her. This would be Lizzie’s worst nightmare: Brianna being impulsive and adventurous and getting herself killed.

Just like Dad.

No
. She wasn’t going to die like this! The thought was all she needed to ignore the pain and push herself higher, her knees sliding on blood.

The wheel moved by again, like a beast reminding her that he was right there to bite her. Carefully, she pushed herself up higher. The knife of pain cut through her shoulder again, making lights burst behind her eyes.

With a grunt, she slowly pushed up, her legs wobbling, her one sneaker slipping on the blood, the toe right at the edge of the ledge. She flailed, fighting for balance, the movement firing pain in her arm.

That sent her right back to her knees, cracking them on the stone.

“Son of a bitch!” she hissed, tears soaking her face.

She’d never make it to the damn door and down all those stairs. Despair clutched her, and she squeezed her eyes shut to push it away. She couldn’t think
never
. She had to get out of this place.

Outside, the giant sweeps made a higher pitched whine that turned to a shriek when the wind gusted. Could she climb down the side of the windmill? The stones were irregular and jutted out here and there, and it wasn’t that high. Not more than a three-story building.

She had no choice. That way, there was less chance of running into Solange and her gun.

Once more, she dipped into the last bits of her strength to force herself up. This time she made it, straightening her legs and finally getting control. It was just pain, she told herself. Just pain, not death. She could do this. She took one step, then another, reaching the door. She closed her fingers over the handle, turning it, bracing for the wind. A strong gust would send her right back into the gears.

She managed to open it, the wind whipping her hair and face, an eerie coldness shooting through the hole in her upper chest. She leaned out to look down, the angle too awkward to really see how steep a drop it was.

The other door flew open, creating an instant wind tunnel, pushing her like an invisible force straight back to the ledge. She tried to grab the doorjamb but just missed getting a grip, the wind ramming her backward, folding her almost in half. Two steps, three… her sneakers were at the edge.

She threw herself flat on the ground to keep from falling back into the gears, just as another deafening crack echoed. She looked to the entry door, but it had slammed shut before anyone had entered, leaving her completely alone again.

For a second the wind died down, and the door to the sweeps started to close without the force of the breeze. Then it squalled again, more forceful than before, slapping the door wide open and gusting over her like a freight train.

Her whole body slid over the edge. With nothing but the blood-slickened stone floor to grab, she went sliding into the pit of the gears, her foot jamming into a wooden wheel as it turned.

She opened her mouth to scream, bracing for the pain, the sound of her bones breaking, the blackness of inevitable death.

But the groaning machine stuttered… then whined. She was lodged just enough to hold the gear back. But the beast was fighting her, and something told her that one killer gust of wind would finish her off.

“Help!” she screamed, her word drowned out by the cry of the machinery. “Someone help me, please!”

But no one could possibly hear her over the endless, deadly wind.

“That was a gunshot,” Con said sharply.

Lizzie’s heart clenched. Would that woman hurt Bree.
Why
? “I didn’t hear anything.”

“I did.” Con squeezed even more speed out of the bike, powering up the turnoff to the Bettencourt farm. At the windmill, he vaulted off the scooter and instantly pulled her off. “You need cover. Inside, now.”

“What?”

“I heard a gunshot. You’ll be hidden and safe here, and I’ll find out what I just heard.”

As much as she wanted to believe he was wrong, she’d been with the man long enough to know not to question his hearing.

They darted over the gravel to the door, only to find it locked.

Con swore under his breath, reaching for his gun. He pushed her behind him with one hand and fired twice at the lock, the shot so loud she had to cover her ears. The door popped open and he pushed her in, then froze.

“What-”

“Shhh!” He held a hand up to her mouth to silence her, closing his eyes.

All Lizzie could hear was the infernal growl of the wheel, the moan that sounded like a woman-

Calling for help!

Con launched toward the stairway, disappearing into the darkness as he took the stone steps three at a time. Lizzie followed, the sound even clearer as she entered the echo chamber of the stairwell.

She rounded the curve, blinking in the dark, but seeing Con bent over a body.

“Bree!” She threw herself to the ground just as Con turned the woman over and two lifeless eyes stared up at them, blood oozing from a hole in Solange’s chest.

“Help me!”

For a split second they stared at each other in shock, then simultaneously jumped up and ran up the last of the stairs.

“That’s Brianna!” Lizzie cried, her foot slipping as she tried to take the stairs three at a time like he did.

Con beat her to the door, lifting a leg and slamming the wood with a solid kick. Lizzie practically pushed him out of her way, but he held her back. The area was nothing but an open pit, the stairs turning into a three-foot-wide ledge with no railing or inside wall.

“Bree!” She took a step toward the center, but Con yanked her back, diving to the edge himself.

Lizzie followed, falling to her knees, a scream welling up inside when she saw Bree four feet below, trapped between two massive cogs, her legs extended to hold back the turning wheels. Blood oozed from her shoulder.

“Oh my God!”

Con thrust her back. “Find the brake, Lizzie! There’s a brake outside, under the sweeps! A lever, a rope, something turns this off. Find it while I go down there to get her.” He flipped himself over the ledge so fast she barely saw him disappear, stunned as he dropped through the air and landed right on the cog of one of the wheels, his weight taking over the job of holding off the machine from squeezing Brianna any more.

“Find the brake!” he yelled.

She shot downstairs.

“Go below!” Con yelled after her. “You have to look below the sweeps!”

Leaping over Solange’s dead body, she stumbled once on a loose step, bracing against the wall to save herself. Spinning around the wall as it ended, she tore outside.

Below the sweeps.
Below
them?

Flat against the stone building, she made her way around toward the front, the giant blade whooshing by her head at what seemed like fifty miles an hour, the wind pressing at her.

Peering up, she saw a rope, frayed and shortened with age, fifteen feet above her head.

The only way up there was to scale the stones. If she fell backward, she’d be sliced in half by one of the sweeps. She glanced down the cliff, which was equally dangerous.

There was no way Con could get her sister out of that machine if they didn’t stop it.

She grabbed hold and started to climb the wall, every muscle quivering as she scaled one stone, then the next. Her fingers dug into the cold, hard wall, barely able to find a grip as the next blade whizzed by. She put one foot up, then the other. Using all her strength, she hoisted herself higher. The next possible step was hip high, requiring her to lift her knee up as far as possible, pull with both arms, and find her footing as the sweeps sailed by and the wind whipped off the ocean.

Forcing herself not to shake, she continued to climb, grunting with the effort, determined to make it.

The rope was within reach. One more step, one more pull, one more huge push… she finally got high enough and reached for the bottom of the rope, but she just couldn’t… get… it.

A gust of wind fluttered the rope, catching the unlatched door above the windmill shaft and blowing it open, sending Con’s voice out into the air.

“Hurry, Lizzie! Hurry!”

They were still alive! She stretched her arm farther than it seemed possible, closing her hand over the rope to pull.

It didn’t budge.

Horror rocked her. Wasn’t it the brake rope? Or was she just not strong enough? She needed all of her weight to pull on it, and if she grabbed it with both hands, she could swing right into a passing sweep.

She couldn’t let them die.

Using every muscle in her body, she levered herself against the wall, grasped the rope with the other hand, and hung from it.

It was coming down! It was
moving
! A grinding sound echoed as the sweeps slowed, and she looked up to see the lever attached to the rope moving down, down, down.

The sweeps grew slower. The groans lessened. The odds of Bree and Con living increased. Finally, when the brake lever was parallel to the ground and the rope had dropped so far that Lizzie was only two feet in the air, the sweeps stopped.

She did it. She
did
it!

“Can I let go?” she yelled up to Con. Her arms were burning, but if she let go and dropped to the ground, would the sweeps start back up again?

There was nothing but ominous quiet in response. Was she too late? Had one of them slipped and let the gears crunch them both while she was scaling the wall? She barely breathed, hanging on to the rope as if it was hope itself.

“You can let go,” he finally called out. “I’ve got her. We’re out.”

She tumbled to the ground with a moan of relief, then ran into the building, seeing images of Bree, bloody and inches from death… and Con diving into the deadly machine to save a woman he’d never met.

He’d risked his life without a second’s hesitation.

Who cared what mistakes he’d made in the past? He’d just erased them all.