Afterglow (22 page)

R
and?” The faint crackle of the Bluetooth’s feedback was all Dakota’s straining ears picked up. No conversation. No breathing. She’d heard a
pop
, then static. She got to her feet, finger pressed to the small device on her ear. “What was that?”

Silence.

Silence
.

Holding her breath was counterproductive, and she let it out slowly.
Think
. Law-abiding citizen that she was, her first thought was to go to the local authorities. Terrific idea, if she weren’t on the run herself. They’d arrest her,
maybe
remembering to ask questions later. Not going to help Rand.

Her heart double-tapped. “Damn it, Rand, say something.”

He wasn’t alone. Ham was with him… . “But what if something’s happened to
both
of them? Shit, shit, shit.” She walked to the door of the room, then paced back to the window. “Okay. Not
alone
alone.”

He had a team of highly trained security guys back in Monte Carlo, she reminded herself with relief. They were hundreds of miles away, but at least he had backup.

She curled her fingers around the sock in her pocket. His numbers glowed bright in her mind’s eye. He was alive. “Thank God. Because one way or the other, Rand Maguire, we’re going to have a come-to-Jesus moment one of these days, and
soon
. If I have to handcuff you to the bed—no, bad idea. No beds when we talk. Tie you to
something
, and sit on you—we’re going to have the conversation you weren’t ready to hear two years ago. Whether you want to hear what I have to say or not.”

Through her fear and pent-up anger, Dakota was left with a stark and unequivocal truth. “I still love you, you jerk. You
better
be all right.” Now all she had to do was find him.

Using the hotel phone so she could maintain her connection with Rand, Dakota called his assistant’s cell phone. The phone rang, then abruptly went dead. Impatiently, she tried it again. Same deal. With a growl of impatience, she got the number for the hotel in Monte Carlo and asked for him, only to be informed he’d checked out. She frowned. Had he gone back to the States? Wasn’t an assistant’s job to stay close to his boss so he could assist?

Since she didn’t know the names of any of Rand’s other men, and the only guests she remembered were the movie-star couple—probably on their honeymoon somewhere—and the big-time director, she asked for Seth Creed. They’d been in his suite when Dakota arrived from the airport. It made sense that he was at the top of the food chain. Unless he, too, had checked out?

By the time the call went through, she was already regretting involving him. She wasn’t paranoid, but as Rand and Ham’s sudden silence proved, they couldn’t trust anyone.

“No comment!” Seth Creed said the moment he answered the phone.

“Mr. Creed, this is Dr. North. I’m working with Rand Maguire—”

“You found the son of a bitch who drugged us?”

“We’re working on it. I wonder if I could talk to whomever he left in charge?”

“Don’t you know who he left in charge?” he demanded, suspicion lacing his impatient tone.

“It wasn’t relevant.”

“And it is now?”

Not a fan of his cool tone, Dakota answered his question with her own. “Is Rand’s second-in-command there, Mr. Creed?”

“Everyone split this morning. In fact, I’m on my way to go see his father before I head back home myself.” He expelled an impatient breath. “Is there anything I can do … ?”

“No, thanks. It’s no biggie. I’ll ask Rand later. Thanks.” Weren’t they investigating on their end? Maybe not. Had he thought as she had—trust no one—and sent them all home? Maybe his men had accompanied Ham, and they were here in Paris already. Available to come to his aid if he needed them?

Dakota put the hotel phone back in the cradle and started pacing the small room. To the door. To the window. To the door. To the window. “Damn it! Okay. What to do? Breathe. Think. Form a plan of action.”

She could tell the line was still open, but try as she might, she couldn’t hear either Rand or Ham. The good news was that she knew Rand was alive. If he weren’t, his GPS numbers would blink out. She had no way of knowing the condition of Mark Stratham. Rand wasn’t moving, the guy he was looking for wasn’t moving either, and she was stuck in a hotel room blocks away.

Or not.

The cavalry wasn’t coming. Or rather, the cavalry
was
coming. Like it or not,
she
was the cavalry.

RAND CAME TO WITH
a vengeance, pain spearing through his head in a white-hot sunburst. There wasn’t a vestige of light, and the weight of Ham’s considerable girth pinned him to the cold stone floor. He shuddered with the chill that seeped around his body. His clothing was wet—moisture from the seeping rocks, and possibly Ham’s blood. He smelled it above the notes of mold and decay, the sharp, metallic stink of death.

He knew his friend was dead, but he fumbled to find a pulse at his throat anyway. Nothing. Goddamn it. He hadn’t heard anyone approaching. But the noise Ham had made struggling for breath, Rand’s own responses to Dakota’s questions, and their feet scraping the gritty stone floor probably masked the approach of the killer.

He managed to roll Ham off him and pressed the lighted dial on his watch so he could look for his weapon and headset. He discovered both nearby. Automatically, he checked his weapon, something he could do with his eyes closed. The clip was still in it. That was the good news. The bad was that the flashlights—both his and Ham’s—shattered on impact.

No phone reception, and no light source other than the faint and ineffectual blue light on his watch. He was effectively out of communication with Dakota and had no idea where the hell he was, or how to go on.

Staggering to his feet, he found Ham’s weapon close to his body, and shoved it into the back of his jeans under his jacket. Someone had known they were there. Someone who’d been stupid enough not to check to see if
he
was alive or dead. The only thing Rand had going for him right now was that the killer wasn’t aware he was alive and at large in the tunnels.

Dakota had said his objective was less than a quarter of a mile ahead. He could go back, up the stairs, back to the ossuary, and follow the tourists out. Or he could continue on the path that he was on.

Either he’d find his man and a way out, or … he wouldn’t.

DAKOTA TWISTED UP HER
damp hair, dug the short black wig out of her bag, and pulled it on, shoving the long strands of red hair under it as she would beneath a shower cap. She found her Smith & Wesson on the counter in the bathroom. Nice of him to leave it for her. “I’m out of my damned mind!” she muttered, tucking the gun in the back waistband of her jeans. The thing was
tiny
when she wanted a—a bazooka!

What had Zak Stark been thinking when he gave her the .38 at Sea-Tac? “Point and shoot. Yeah. Right,” she muttered, looking around to see what else she might need. “A doctor? A gurney? Rand’s missing damn security team? An army of armed soldiers. A Navy SEAL? All of the above?”

What she had was a GPS location and a six-inch gun with five rounds.
I hope there aren’t six bad guys,
she thought with gallows humor. She’d never fired a gun in her life.

The chances of her hitting anyone farther than a few inches from the barrel were slim to freaking none. “Out of options. Woman up, Dakota Christina.” Not sure if the S&W, small as it was, could be seen under her thin T-shirt, she slipped on her black windbreaker, stuffed the GPS in one pocket and her phone in the other, and left the hotel, heading toward the entrance to the catacombs.

The sun was shining and there were people everywhere, enjoying the beautiful day. She walked briskly, even though she wanted to break into a run or turn around and go back to the hotel. The streets smelled of urine, cigarette smoke, and the dog poop left where it had been deposited on the sidewalk. Parisians
loved
their dogs almost as much as they loved smoking.

In the dark wig and sunglasses, she was hardly memorable or even noticeable. Just another tourist in a city filled with them. Still, she felt as though she had a large red bull’s-eye painted on her back, and her skin prickled with nerves. The stationary latitude and longitude numbers in her head showed her that Rand hadn’t moved. Still alive. Same for the bad guy, who hadn’t budged either.

They were down there, maybe a quarter of a mile apart. Neither moving. Dakota wasn’t sure if the fact that they weren’t together right now was a good thing or a bad thing. Do
not
think, she warned herself as her heart pounded and her hands, stuffed in the pockets of the jacket, grew increasingly sweaty.

Do not think about going—
willingly
—into
catacombs
.

Don’t think millions of dead people residing there.

Don’t think tight, confined spaces.

Don’t think seven levels of hell.

Don’t. Think. Claustrophobia.

The gun in her waistband was heavy for such a little thing. Her armpits itched with anticipated fear. She took a roll of hard candy out of her pocket and popped a butterscotch in her mouth to alleviate the dryness.

Think, she reasoned with herself as her footsteps got slower and slower with dread, of
not
going inside.

Imagine walking away. Imagine leaving Rand in there, injured or somehow incapacitated. Imagine no one ever finding him. Ev-er! “Damn, I hate it when I’m this logical.”

“Allez-vous bien, coup manqué?”

She shook her head. She didn’t speak French, but by the frown of concern on the older woman’s face, Dakota guessed she’d asked if she’d lost her mind. No,
that
she’d lost years ago. When she’d believed Rand when he’d told her she was the love of his life. That they’d be together forever. That they were two halves of a whole.

Forever was apparently eleven months, seventeen days, and a handful of meaningless hours. He should have listened to her when she’d told him love didn’t—couldn’t—last.

Obstinate bastard.

She’d been wrong, but she was still going to save his ass.

The line to get into the catacombs was around the block and all the way up the street. It was a tourist attraction. What had she expected? That she’d just stroll inside, one, two, three?

It was noon and too hot to be wearing even the thin jacket, but she ignored the discomfort as she walked all the way up the line until she was three groups from the entrance. Nobody said anything. They just presumed she was where she was supposed to be.

Taking out the map of the underground streets and tunnels, she memorized each path and branch that she’d advised Rand to take as the first group in line was allowed in. Five minutes between groups, she’d read. She shuffled to close the gap, closed her eyes, and walked the tunnels in her mind. Looked at the map again, then refolded it and shoved it in her pocket.

The couple before the family in front of her went inside. Her stomach turned agitated, impatient somersaults, not helped by the greasy smell of the burgers the kids near her were eating while they waited.
Come on, come on, come on!

Her heart fluttered in anticipation. She glanced at her watch. It had been just over fifteen minutes since she’d lost contact with Rand.

Was she overreacting? She was imagining him unconscious and hurt. Maybe they’d just lost cell reception? She shuffled forward a few more steps. If that was the case, Rand would be furious if she followed him. God only knew, she’d be relieved if she didn’t have to go inside… .

The problem was, there was no way of knowing what the hell the situation was.

When the laughing, joking, noisy British family of seven went in, Dakota sucked in a stabilizing breath and went in with them.

It wasn’t as dark and confining as she’d dreaded. Just long stone walls with dim sconces every now and then, but her hands were still sweating, and her breathing became a little erratic in the narrow tunnel. There wasn’t much to see, as the two older kids just ahead of her pointed out to their parents, who were marching ahead of the pack at a nice fast pace. Dakota appreciated that. The air smelled more of greasy hamburger than anything else. Her stomach rumbled.

“Where
are
the dead people, Mum?”

Rand’s numbers glowed bright in Dakota’s mind’s eye.

A BEEP IN HER
ear indicated a second call.
Ham
Relieved, she put Rand’s call on hold, and accepted the second caller.

“Rand’s down.”

“Mark?” Thank God Rand hadn’t gone in alone. “What ha—”

“Ma’am, this is Chris Raimi.”

Her heart was pounding so hard Dakota almost passed out. Not Mark Stratham. If this man had Rand’s phone, he had Rand. “What do you want?”

“I’m with Maguire Security, ma’am.”

Her breath came out in a
whoosh
of relief. “Thank God. You’re with him. Is he all right?” It was a stupid question. Of course he wasn’t. If he were, he’d be talking to her himself.

“We did not accompany Rand and Ham into the catacombs. We lost contact twenty-three minutes ago. We’re on our way to you at the hotel. Please stay where you are.” There was a faint click, but she was still getting feedback from Rand’s Bluetooth, which meant his line was open, he just wasn’t responding.