Thunderstruck (17 page)

Shelby almost laughed. “You’re out of your mind.”

“No. He is.” She charged away, tunneling through a group of people and all but running toward the back of the club. Shelby stared at her, the warning ringing in her ears.

These people were crazy. Hopeless. Stupid. But she couldn’t do what she wanted to do—leave—until Tamara finished her ridiculous story.

In the meantime, it wouldn’t hurt to call Ernie. She pulled out her cell phone and swore at the blank screen. Tamara hadn’t left her bag or Shelby would have used her phone.

Damn it.

She stared at the half-empty dance floor. Was it just a few nights ago she was slow dancing with Mick? All she wanted to do was get back to the track, back to Mick. Back to where they were last night.

A sudden commotion on the other side of the dance floor pulled her back to the moment. A woman screamed for help, loud enough to be heard over the music.

Shelby’s blood turned to ice as she looked to the gathering crowd, scanning for a sign of Tamara.

“She’s dead!” A young, dark-haired woman screamed, flailing about as several people tried to calm her. A circle grew around her. “She’s dead! I saw her!”

Shelby lunged from the booth, straight into the crowd. One bouncer tried to restore order, a few more headed into the dark hallway toward the ladies’ room.

“Call 911!” someone hollered.

Still no sign of Tamara. Shelby muscled toward the hall, her gaze darting around. Where was she?

“Who was it?” a man asked the woman having the meltdown. “Do you know her?”

“No. Some girl. In a yellow dress. She was bloody.” The last phrase came out in a shuddered sob, sending chills over Shelby.

She charged again toward the bathroom, but one of the bouncers formed a human wall, and she nearly hit it. “I need to go back there. She’s my—”

“No one’s going back there.”

Shelby backed up, knowing better than to argue. She turned, her eyes skimming the crowd again on the off chance she was wrong.

She stood frozen, the music, voices and noise fading into nothing. All she could hear was Tamara’s voice. Tamara’s warning.

Even if that means he has to get rid of both people who own the company.

Ernie. She had to get to him.

She stood on her tiptoes and waved in the bouncer’s face, pulling his attention from several people who were trying to get to the back. “Where’s a pay phone?” she yelled.

He stuck his thumb in the direction of the hallway behind him and shook his head.

She had to get to Ernie.

Pushing through a pack of people, she barreled toward the door, but another bouncer was stopping people from getting in or out. Grinding down frustration, she slipped through the crowd toward the emergency exit in the back. They hadn’t blocked that yet.

She slammed her hands on the horizontal handle and pushed the door hard, opening it to a dark alley and a driving rain. An overflowing Dumpster nearly gagged her with the smell of trash and stale beer, so she ran in the opposite direction. Each step matched the thud of her heart. If she could just get to the front of the club, to someone who would listen to her, to let her use a phone.

She’d call Ernie’s cell. She’d call his hotel security. She’d call Mick.

Then she’d go back in for Tamara.

Hope and determination surged through her as she swiped rain from her face and blessed her boots. A flash of lightning illuminated the alley in stark white, and she stumbled, her foot landing in a deep puddle. A siren screamed, her lungs burned, her blood sang and a clap of thunder drowned it all out. She could see the street, the cars, the promising blue lights of a police cruiser.

She opened her mouth to call for help just as her foot hit something hard. With a grunt, she flew forward, but powerful hands gripped her arm as she lurched toward the wet pavement. Hot breath warmed her cheek. And a voice as dark and menacing as hell itself rumbled through her chest.

“Tamara talks too much.”

Impossible weight squashed her lungs, and cold, sharp metal stabbed at her throat. She couldn’t scream. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move.

She managed to twist her head, and in a flash of lightning saw the ugly, contorted face of Bobbie Norton. A liar. A cheater. And, without a doubt, a killer.

K
NOWING THE
Q
UEEN OF
England didn’t do Mick a damn bit of good this time. Five cop cars blocked the entrance to DayGlo, and Paul McCartney himself couldn’t have gotten past the doorman.

Trying to protect his cell phone from the downpour with one cupped hand, he called Ernie, who answered in half a ring.

“Did you find her?”

“No, but I got some help. The doorman at the hotel you sent me to was pretty certain he put Tamara in a cab with another woman. And they were headed to the club district. I’m going on a hunch to the club they were at the other night. Except…” A couple of cops pushed through, and the lights of an ambulance flashed. “I hope I’m wrong.”

“Why?”

“Because something’s going down. There’s…” No reason to worry him. “A long line.”

“Is that a siren I hear?”

“Yeah, the place is wild.”

“On a Monday night? I don’t believe it.”

“Believe it.” Paramedics and cops shouted to the crowd, and Mick covered the phone to block the sound from Ernie. “Call me if you hear anything from her.”

Mick flipped the phone shut and circled the chaos, dodging partyers and onlookers, scanning every face for one he recognized. Conjecture and rumors ricocheted everywhere.
Someone was shot…a madman was loose…a terrorist attacked.

He knew by the way the cops were acting that none of that was true. He disregarded all but the one rumor that really scared him.
Someone was attacked.
A woman.

His
woman?

He darted around the fringes of the crowd. No one was getting in, but no one was getting out either. Could there be another entrance?

He scanned the building, the one next to it, the alleyway in between. Beyond that loomed the dark waters of the Intra-coastal Waterway and a causeway bridge that spanned it. Lightning and thunder cracked almost simultaneously as he jogged around the growing pack of curiosity-seekers huddled under jackets and a few umbrellas.

He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t stand out here and wait. He passed a cop who gave him a wary look and hustled to the corner of the building, peering down a long, dark passageway lined with garbage cans and littered with overflow trash, crates of rotten food and broken bottles. At the very far end, a shadow moved.

Surely there was a door into the club, a fire exit or employees’ entrance. Rain and blackness obliterated almost everything as he stepped over a beer bottle and kicked a can.

Something definitely moved back there.

Picking up his pace, he almost called out but decided to get closer first. Puddles soaked his jeans and sneakers. Another siren pierced the night.

Hands outstretched like a blind man, he only made out shapes as he reached them. Dog-torn trash bags on the right, a slashed, discarded sofa on the left.

Then he heard a grunt. A breath. A scuff and a muffled cry like a trapped animal.

Or a woman.

His hand smacked the flaky rust of a Dumpster, the reek of garbage confirming what he’d hit. From the other side, something clunked against the metal.

He froze. Moved slowly, quietly. Another scuff and a muted groan.

Someone was definitely hiding on the other side of the Dumpster.

Crouching down, he strained to see underneath. A rat darted away. But four dark spots remained.

Feet? Yes, feet. There were two people backed up against the wall, and they did not want to be found.

One set scrambled, then stilled.

He breathed without making a sound, thinking.

He was unarmed. Unable to do anything. He stared at the feet, trying to determine if they were moving, running, fighting or waiting for their next move. Whoever they were, Mick was in no position to take them down.

He should get the hell out of there and find—

A massive bolt of lighting bathed the entire tableau into a frozen snapshot of blinding clarity. He had one millionth of a second, but it was enough to see. Enough to recognize familiar, wet, steel-riveted work boots.

He jerked on instinct, then stilled.

Shelby.

Someone had her, and Mick had no weapon, no help, no hope. The only thing he could do was run for a cop, but that might take too long. He had no gun, no knife, no…

He looked at his own soaking feet, mud obliterating the name stitched on the side.

Mick Churchill. The Striker.

He knew how to do one thing. And he knew how to do it really, really well.

I
T WASN
’
T A KNIFE
. That much she knew. But it was pointed and deadly and digging so deep into the flesh above Shelby’s collarbone she thought she’d pass out.

Bobbie had dragged her about ten feet before something had spooked him and he’d heaved her up to a stand and backed her into a filthy corner behind a Dumpster. His hand flattened over her mouth, cupped just enough so that she couldn’t bite. His other arm braced her chest and held sharp metal against her skin. She tried to flail and fight and moan, but every movement just made him dig deeper and clutch tighter.

Something skittered and scraped on the concrete of the alley. Bobbie’s hot, sour breath blew fast and loud in her ear, and his heart thumped in a barrel chest against her back. He was as scared as she was. She tried to kick his shin, but he growled in her ear and stabbed the weapon harder into her neck.

She tried to scream, but it came out as a groan, muffled and impossible to hear. He stuck the steel farther into her skin. There had to be blood. He had her carotid artery. He could kill her with one more pound of pressure.

In minutes, she could bleed to death in an alley outside a club in Daytona Beach.

No.
No.
Her pulse racked her body and she struggled for air. For brainpower. For a move.

He was scared. If she could get this thing out of her neck, she could squirm away. It wasn’t a knife. Could she grab whatever it was and not cut her fingers off? Could she?

She looked down her nose, her cheeks, trying to tuck her chin so she could see the weapon. He jerked her head in warning.

Lightning flashed brilliant white, giving her an instant to see something square, silver, shiny.

She sucked in a breath. A restrictor plate?

Was that possible? Of course it was. But his weapon only made it worse. She would not die in an alley in Daytona by the hands of a cheater using a
restrictor plate
to kill her.

She. Would.
Not.

Something banged against the Dumpster, and Bobbie jerked her harder. Shelby managed to bend her arm, closer to the plate. She refused to think about who—or what—was in that alley. She…had…to…get…the…plate. Straining with effort, she tried to reach it but couldn’t.

The Dumpster rumbled with movement, and Bobbie jerked in response. She seized the opportunity, stabbing a finger into one of the four holes in the plate. Then she yanked like hell.

It flew from his hand, whipping across the alley and clattering in broken glass. Bobbie grunted in anger and flattened his hand enough for her to chomp his palm until she tasted blood.

“Yeoowww!” He threw her off him, and she spun around, rammed her knuckles under his nose and slammed her knee into his crotch. Just as he buckled and lunged for her, someone grabbed her from behind and pulled her back.

“Run!” he ordered. “Now!”

Bobbie doubled over and stumbled, but Shelby stood frozen.

Mick?

“Go!” He gave her a push just as Bobbie reached for her on his way down.

Mick’s kick was so hard and fast she barely saw it. But she heard Bobbie’s explosion of pain and knew what had happened.

“Go get help!” Mick demanded.

She tore toward the street, still shaking, still in shock, barely able to speak enough to convince one of the bouncers to come back with her.

She finally did, and they found Mick with Bobbie Norton in a headlock that immobilized him. He tossed the big man at the bouncer, then folded Shelby in his arms.

She couldn’t even talk. She just clung to him, loved him.

“Thank you,” she managed to whisper.

She drew back as he cupped her cheeks in his hands, searching her face, looking for signs that she was hurt. “Are you okay?”

“He almost killed me,” she said, her breath still strangled and her heart still wild. “With…” She searched the ground.

Mick held up the restrictor plate. “With this.”

“Do you know what that is?”

He smiled. “I believe it goes between the carburetor and the intake manifold.”

She wanted to laugh, but everything hurt. “Congratulations. You’re a gearhead.”

He just dropped his head against her forehead and pulled her close, whispering her name.

She whipped her head back and gripped his shoulders the minute she remembered what had taken her to the alley in the first place. Ernie.

“Call my grandfather. Now. Make sure he’s safe.”

He pulled out his cell and hit one button, searching her face as he listened, brushing wet hair off her forehead with his free hand.

She could hear the rings. One, two, three. “Where is he?”

“I left him in your motor coach.”

“Call track security. Call Whit. Call Scott Bronson. Call anybody, but find him.” She closed her fingers tighter around his arm.

Another bouncer jogged into the alley with a flashlight, and Shelby waited impatiently while Mick explained that Bobbie had assaulted the woman inside and needed to be taken into custody. Minutes ticked by while Mick talked to an officer and Shelby answered questions about Tamara. Finally they were finished and Mick took Shelby’s hand and tugged her toward the street. “Let’s go find Ernie.”