The Biker's Wench (15 page)

Her captor's silence was all the answer Monica needed. How many of the people currently working with Burns were in the same situation? It was a genius move on his part, she thought as they neared the bus station. Fear of losing a child would be good motivation for keeping Burns and his business well-protected.

The SUV came to a stop in a parking space a little ways off from the depot. The man got out and came around to open her door. "Put your hands out," he said, the cuffs dangling from his fingers.

"Is that really necessary?" she asked, slowly lifting her arms. "What will people think?"
He snapped the restraints in place then pulled her out of the vehicle. Keeping one hand on the chain between her wrists, he opened the back door and took out a black leather jacket, threading it over her hands. "Keep that over your hands."
She frowned. "Or what?"
"Or I may tell your father you had an unfortunate accident." He pressed a button on his keys to lock the vehicle, then took her upper arm and propelled her toward the building. "Now, which planter is that key in?"
Monica scanned the layout, trying to decide where her best chance of escape would be. She hadn't counted on the handcuffs, but she had to try. If she couldn't recover the evidence from the cab, she and Harley were as good as dead.
She pointed to a couple of extra-large pots that stood on a narrow stone platform a few feet off the ground. "It's that gold one, on the right. I tossed them up there." She'd have to climb up to peer inside, and there was only enough room for one person. If she could jump off the other side fast enough, she might have a chance at outrunning this guy. Or at least getting to the depot where she could lose him in the transfer area.
Glancing up at him, she could see him thinking about the problems. He could climb up himself, but then she'd be left alone on the ground, which would give her a head start. Though she wouldn't complain if that's how he wanted to play it.
When they reached the spot, she looked at him, trying to appear obedient and docile. "Should I go get them, or do you want to?" He tried to reach a hand up to feel around in the pot, but could only feel about an inch inside the lip.
"Go ahead."
She stifled a grin as she reached out to steady herself on the bench, but couldn't get the leverage she needed with the jacket in the way, and her arms pulled together. "I can't climb up like this, sorry. I guess you'll have to get it."
He thought for a moment. Finally admitting defeat, he took the jacket and quickly unlocked the cuffs. "Get it and come right back down. No funny stuff, or you'll regret it." He stepped back and she boosted herself up on the platform, making a show of digging through the dirt in the pot as she glanced down at him every few seconds.
An elderly man approached, and she smiled and waved as he stopped in front of the man. She heard the stranger ask for directions, and her captor turned away to point down the street. Taking that as her cue, Monica jumped down behind the bench as quietly as she could, and raced into the station.

Harley slid the slim phone Ben had slipped him under his thigh, and waited. It was probably too late, but he had to warn Monica about the microchip, just in case there was still time for her to get away. If she could get the chip out, she might have a chance.

Stifling the urge to glance at the guard, he forced himself to be still. The man had been on duty for several hours now, barely moving from his chair by the door. He'd have to get up soon, Harley was sure of it. He rotated his own men through four hour shifts for that very reason. Just a few minutes were all he needed, enough to make a quick call. He'd already sent a text, but she hadn't answered. She probably hadn't recognized the number though, and the two words he'd managed to key in - "microchip shoulder" might have been too cryptic.

The guard shifted, retrieving his phone from his pocket. He slid his thumbs across the screen a few times then glanced up at Harley who closed his eyes and rolled to the side, facing away from the door. Apparently it was enough to satisfy the guard, judging from the sound of the door opening, then closing again with a firm click. Peeking over his shoulder to make sure he was alone, Harley quickly keyed in Monica's number and propped the phone between the pillow and his head. It rang twice, and then the line opened with a click.

"Who is this?" Monica whispered, sounding out of breath. But the fact that she answered gave him hope. Engine noise in the background suggested she must be outside.
"It's Harley. Are you okay?"
She didn't answer for a long moment, and then finally the background noise died away, leaving only the sound of her breathing. "Harley? Thank god - I was so worried!" She took in a big breath then let it out, breathing slower. "I'm...kind of in trouble here. One of Burns’ guys found me, and wanted me to give up the equipment. I tricked him and ran away, but he's following me. I can't seem to shake him..."
"I don't have much time, darlin'. There's a microchip in your shoulder - that's how he keeps tracking you. I'll explain later, but right now you need to get it out somehow. It's the only way you can lose him."
"No shit."
Harley grinned at the expletive, wishing he was there. She was adorable when she was all fired up. The door knob rattled behind him, wiping the smile off his face. "Listen, I have to go. I'm sorry. But get that chip out and get as far away from here as you can. Don't worry about me, just run. I love you."
He hung up before she could respond, a huge lump in his throat at the thought of never seeing her again. It was better this way though. Keeping her safe was the only thing that mattered.
"Hey, what are you doing over there?" A new voice, a new guard. He rolled to his back, slipping the phone back under his thigh as if he had an itch. The guard stood near the foot of the bed, his hip braced on the frame.
"Same as always," he said, looking the guard in the eye. "Just laying here, getting stronger so I can kick your boss's ass."
The guard's expression remained neutral. "Just keep your hands where I can see them."
"It's not my hands you need to worry about," Harley replied, kicking out with his left foot and catching the man right in the groin.

* * *
"How do I get the chip out? Harley? Oh god." Monica just stared at the phone in her hand, shock and fatigue making it difficult to process the last few seconds. Burns had Harley, which was obvious, but how? A microchip in her shoulder? All this time, and she'd never had a chance. Even now she could hear footsteps coming nearer to the window of the old warehouse she'd ducked into. If what Harley had said about a chip was true, it wouldn't do any good to run. Burns’ man would just find her again.

She reached up with her right hand to feel the skin on her left shoulder. Pressing hard, she covered as much area as she could, but it all felt normal. Suppressing a panicked sob as the footsteps stopped, she pressed deeper under the old desk and quickly examined her right shoulder the same way.

Yes.
There was a tiny lump high on her shoulder blade that definitely covered something hard. That had to be it. She heard the man searching just outside the office she was in, moving boxes and shuffling things around. Reaching up, she blindly moved her hand over the desktop, grabbing several long, thin objects in the hope that one would be useful. The pen and pencil were out - she didn't want to poison herself. The third item turned out to be a letter opener with a nice, sharp edge. Perfect.
Wiping off the blade as well as possible on her shirt, she took a deep breath, and worked the metal tip into her skin. Tendrils of pain shot down her arm and she bit her lip to keep quiet, opening the wound enough to get her fingernails in. Grasping the object tight, she exhaled, then took another breath and held it as she yanked it free as she let out her breath in one big gasp.
The noise from the other room stopped and she knew it was over. He'd find her any minute. The pain receded as fresh adrenaline flooded her system, and she pulled herself out from under the desk, taking stock of her surroundings as she turned to face the door. There was a window at her back. That was probably her best chance at getting out.
A large shape loomed in the doorway, the illumination from his cell phone striking Monica as garish. She backed slowly to the window, wincing as she tried to pry the window open. It wouldn't budge. The man turned his phone outwards, and she blinked, holding her hands up to shield her eyes.
"Nice try," he said in that patient tone that was starting to irritate her. "I assume from the blood that you found the chip your father tagged you with?"
She looked down at her hands. She'd wiped them off as well as she could, but even in the inadequate light they looked like the hands of a killer.
"You assume correctly," she said, shivering slightly as the adrenaline began to wear off. She didn't have time for chit chat. She needed to get out now, before shock set in completely. "I'd return it, but that doesn't seem right, somehow." She ground the heel of her foot into the concrete floor. "I bet he'll have a harder time tracking me without it. That seems more sporting anyway."
He laughed. "What makes you think you're getting away this time? We don't need the chip if we have you."
"You don't have me yet." Monica shoved hard against the desk, thankful when it proved to be lighter than it looked. As it went flying toward the shocked man, she flung herself backwards into the window, hoping it would break like they did in the movies.
It didn't.
She dropped to the floor, dull pain suffusing through her shoulder and across her torso as she fought to stay conscious.
Get up. Run.
Somehow she pushed off the floor, closing her eyes while waiting for the latest wave of pain to pass. When she opened them, he was there, standing right in front of her and blocking the only exit.
"Let's go." His phone rang, and he held up a hand, answering the call with the other. "Doug here. Yeah, she's here. Just caught up with her, actually. I don't think the chip's going to work much longer though. She dug it out." He wrapped a hand around her arm, tugging her back through the dark warehouse with scary accuracy. She twisted and pulled, but couldn't manage to get free. "I'll do that," he said then disconnected the call and turned his phone to use as a flashlight again. When they got to the warehouse door, he stopped and turned to face her.
"Your father--"
"He's not my father."
The man shook his head. "Your father said to tell you that your husband will pay for every hour that it takes you to return to the compound. If you want to spare him as much pain as possible, we'd better leave now."
Monica considered that for a moment. If she didn't get that bag back, there was no other way to prove that Burns was trafficking children. But how could she run knowing that Harley was being tortured and used against her?
Doug led her out the door and helped her into his SUV. She blinked back tears, knowing what she had to do when she spied the keys dangling from the ignition. As soon as he shut the door, she pushed the button to lock herself in and slid over into the driver's seat. Turning the key, she put the car into drive as he fervently punched at the keypad on the door. Just as the locks disengaged, she stabbed at the lock button again and stepped on the gas pedal, punching it nearly to the floor. The vehicle lurched forward, tossing Doug to the side, and flinging her backwards as she peeled out of the alley.
She veered side to side as she tried to gain control of the wheel. Easing up on the fuel she turned onto the main road and started back toward the FBI offices for the second time that night. She'd ditch the vehicle several blocks away and wait for the offices to open. Maybe the FBI could find her bag and the evidence. In the meantime, she'd try not to think about what horrible things Burns could be doing to the man she loved.

Harley stuffed the unconscious guard into the bathroom and pulled the door shut, wiring it closed with a hanger from the wardrobe. Trying to ignore the pain in his side from the bullet wound, he got the cell phone from the bed and dialed Ben's number. The doctor answered on the second ring.

"Ben? You there?"
"You shouldn't be out of bed in your condition, Mr. Majors." Burns said, mock censure in his tone. "But I'm assuming you are, since my guard hasn't taken your cell phone away. Whose phone is that, Majors? I didn't recognize the number."
Harley closed the cupboard door and moved a panel on the back wall to reveal a tunnel entrance. There was nothing he could do for Ben now except to get a weapon and come back. Hopefully it wouldn't be too late.
He disconnected the call and slid through the small opening, sliding the panel back in place as he heard his hospital room being breached. Standing up, he turned, holding the phone up for light. A tall figure blocked his path, arms crossed over his chest, chuckling.
"Surely you didn't think Burns was stupid enough to leave the tunnels unguarded, Mr. Majors?"
Harley shrugged as the man started walking toward him. "Didn't really give it much thought, actually. Burns ain't the brightest bulb in the box, from what I've seen." To the side he caught a glimpse of one of the flashlights they kept at each tunnel entrance. Big, heavy and metal, that would do the job. If he could reach it.
The man advanced, his arms dropping to swing at his sides. He reminded Harley of a cheesy B-movie soldier, fresh off the mold. "I'll have to ask you to return to your room, Mr. Majors. I'm afraid the ranch is on lock-down at the moment."
Harley edged closer to the flashlight, careful to move only a few inches at a time. "It's my ranch. I say whether it's on lock-down or not."
He lunged just as the guard reached for him, the other man's fingertips just grazing his arm. Grabbing the flashlight he waited until the guard was nearly on top of him. He swung the light in a wide arch, catching the man on the back of the head with a resounding thunk. The guard slumped over him, and Harley pushed him off then ran down the tunnel, flashlight in one hand, phone in the other.
Not bothering to use the light, he felt his way to the spot where he and Monica had escaped his bedroom. Ducking through the portal, he went to the closet and put clothes on, wincing at the bite of material over his wound. Then he grabbed a rifle and a handgun off the top shelf, loaded both, stuffed the gun in his waistband and headed back into the tunnels with the rifle slung over one arm.
Using the flashlight this time, he traveled deep into the lesser known passages at the back of the compound. It felt like forever, but finally he emerged from the cellar at the dude ranch, relieved that Burns seemed to have forgotten about this offshoot of the main compound. He hurried across to the bunkhouse and peeked in the corner of the window. The clock on the wall read four-thirty in the morning, and six cowboys were just starting to rise from their bunks. They'd probably enjoy a change of pace today, he thought as he knocked on the door before letting himself in.
The men greeted him with silent nods. Devon, the dude ranch foreman held out a hand. “You’re up early, boss.” He examined Harley’s face closely before adding, “And not lookin’ so hot, if you don’t mind my sayin’ so. What can we do for you?”
Shaking the man’s hand, Harley let the rifle slip down his arm and propped it agains the wall. “As a matter of fact, there is. I don’t suppose the strange guys acting like they own the place on the main compound have been up here to see you?”
A couple of the guys in back snickered. “Well, two of ‘em came out the other day. Decided they weren’t quite ready for country life though, and skedaddled back to your side of the property pretty quick when Barney looked sideways at ‘em.”
Harley grinned. Barney, a two-thousand pound bull kept for on site rodeos and the occasional breeding tended to have that effect on people, even though he was quite gentle. For a bull.
“Glad to hear it,” he said, wincing as he leaned against the door, pain shooting up through his side. “I don’t know if you heard out here, but I married the daughter of the man in charge of those guys.” He figured they could clarify details later. Right now there were more important things to worry about. “Burns, the leader, wasn’t real happy that I married Monica, and now he’s got control of the ranch, and was holding me hostage until just a few hours ago. Thought you guys might be able to give me a hand in running him off my property.”
Nods and murmurs of approval met his request, and Devon settled a short Australianstyle felt hat on his head. “Just tell us what you need, boss. We’ll have those guys out of here in no time.”