Capturing Kate (3 page)

What else were you supposed to do? Leave a message, in blood. That way, when the car was found, they’d at least know you were in it. Without giving it any further debate, she scratched furiously at the soft skin on top of her foot with the nails of the other one, trying to draw blood. Harder and deeper she pushed, the pain in her foot a welcome distraction from the horrific ache and throb in her shoulders and arms, and when she felt a slick wetness on her skin, she sobbed with relief. She reached her foot around, smearing and rubbing everywhere she could, up, down, to the side.

There. Take that, asshole captor. There’s my blood. You think you’re going to kill me? Well, they’re going to get you, too.

When the car lurched again, even harder, her panic rose, hot and fast, because if they were on some back road, they were almost at the place where she was going to—

And to make the thoughts go away she dug into her foot again with her toenail, as if her life depended on it, and scratched up the skin of her calf, feeling a horrible sense of satisfaction at the way the nail sliced easily through the gentle resistance.

There’s my message
, she thought, as the car stopped and the engine cut off.
Help me. Find me
.

As the trunk popped open, cold air and driving rain hit her face, swirling around her bruised cheek like fairy kisses. She kicked out with all of her power, connecting with nothing but giving it every last ounce of strength.

“Stop! I’m not going to hurt you. I’m FBI. I’m going to help you. Stop fighting me. You’ll be safe now.” A new voice. Familiar? They were words she should have been happy to hear, but her body was in attack mode, and she kept kicking, frantic, an animal, feeling sticky trickles down her leg that felt cold in the air.

He grabbed at her, stilling her attack, and she tossed her body hard, trying to get away. Thunder crashed and her eyes lit up the same second, even through the blindfold. The storm was upon them.

Her captor’s voice called out. “Hurry. I got to get back before the storm washes out the roads to disappear the car and tell them I got the job done.”

“Jesus Christ, what happened to her leg?” She knew that voice, but from where?

“Must’ve done that to herself in the car. I tried to go as fast as I could but they were following me for the first hour. Couldn’t stop to check on her. Kept praying she wouldn’t pass out back there.”

“Are you sure you lost the tail?”

“Yeah. But I gotta go. She’s all yours now.” He paused. “I’m sorry.” It sounded like that was meant for her, but at this point, she couldn’t tell anything.

Panic surged and she snapped back into attack mode. She kicked and bucked, and then fingers pressed at the side of her neck, firm and unyielding, and she lost consciousness, letting herself drift into the welcome embrace of nothing.

Chapter Three

She was underwater, in a dim, warm cave. Sounds were muffled, reverberating around her in Doppler shifts. There was warm light glowing on her face, light she could see from behind her eyelids, and it felt so good, so much better than before, when she was—

She screamed, and this time, ungagged, her voice rang out, ragged and harsh, catching on corners of the room and tearing splinters into her eardrums. She was tied up again, but this time her arms were above her head, not behind her back, and her legs were tied down, too. Her eyes flew open but processed nothing, and she kept screaming, screaming, sucking in air, forcing out sounds, pulling at her bonds, writhing. A hand pressed over her mouth, another one on her forehead.

“Stop. Quiet.” His face swam into focus. Dark hair, brilliant blue eyes, a stern jaw—it was him. Sloan. The man from the coffee shop. Stunned, bewildered, she fell silent, and he withdrew his hand, leaving her there, panting, trembling. She was on a bed. Tied to a bed. In a cabin? The room looked like it was made of logs. Rain hit the roof like bullets, and the thought of bullets made her scream again, over and over, into his fingers, into nowhere.

“Stop screaming. My name is Sloan and I’m an FBI agent. I’m not going to hurt you. Besides, there’s nobody here but you and me for fifty miles. Making noise won’t do you any good.”

She sucked in a breath, ready to yell, but he shook his head. “I need you to calm down so I can explain. Do you want me to tell you what’s going on?”

Yes. Yes, she did want that. She needed to get her brain together and bargain for her life. The fact that she was still alive, tied up, not dismembered, was a wonderful, blessed sign. The fact that she’d seen his face, not such a good sign. But her mouth was free. She could speak, make herself sympathetic, real, someone he didn’t want to hurt.

“Can I please have some water?” The words came out as a croak, and she realized that she was parched. Her lips were cracked and split, her tongue so dry it felt like leather. Her throat was on fire.

He brought over a water bottle and tipped it to her mouth, and she drank eagerly, spilling it on her chin and chest, not caring that she was being bottled like a baby, like an animal, just sucked in the water until the bottle was empty. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, wishing this would all just go away. These things didn’t happen to real people, in real life. They just didn’t. It was ridiculous. It was so ridiculous that it had to be fake.

“Let me go. Untie me.” She struggled, licked her lips, cleared her throat. “You need to let me go.”

“No.” He stood above her, arms crossed. “I’m sorry, Kate, but I can’t do that yet. Once you listen to what I have to say, and agree not to run, then I can release you. I’m an FBI agent and I’m not going to hurt you, and you need to listen to me.”

“You talked to me. You gave me napkins. You—were in the coffee shop.” Her voice was accusing. She didn’t understand a thing.

“Yes, I was.”

“Are you going to kill me?” The words tumbled out, and her heart accelerated so fast that she almost passed out. Vomit rose into her throat even before he spoke and she started gagging, retching a thin watery spew into her mouth, trying to cough it out.

“Turn your head so you don’t choke.” He grabbed her neck and turned and she let the vomit pour onto his hands, onto her shoulder, her eyes tearing with the effort, the fierce convulsions of her diaphragm. “No, I’m not going to kill you. Settle down.”

“How can I settle down!” she wailed, her whole body going into a shock of relief at his words, even though she didn’t trust him. “I’m dying right now from shock and stress.” Just because he said he was a FBI agent, that didn’t mean anything. He was probably lying, and he’d still—. She shuddered.

“You don’t look good,” he agreed, his voice calm. “I need to clean you up and tend to your leg before anything else.”

“My leg? Fuck you. Untie my hands and let me go. You have to let me go! The police—” She broke off. She didn’t know what to say.
The police will help me
?
They know I’m here
?
They give a shit
?

She should bargain, not threaten. She started over. “Look, I have about eighty thousand dollars in my savings account. If you let me go, I’ll give you the account number. You can have all the money. I swear it. Take it, it’s yours. Just let me go. You can disappear, I just want to go home. Please.”

He looked at her, unblinking, and she spoke faster. “I won’t tell the police about you, I swear. Listen, just—please, let me go. My boss will be looking for me. My friends! You can have my car. I’ll sign over my house to you, too, or anyone you choose. I’ll—do anything. I just want to go home.” Tears rolled down her cheeks.

“You can’t go home.” He washed his hands in the sink for a long time, and took off his shirt, washed again. His muscles stood out, lean and hard. Strong. Kate sought for answers around her, but the room offered few clues: kitchenette against the wall, with sink and stove and a small cupboard; a battered wooden table and two chairs; a shelf with some old books and gear, and this bed. Wet windows holding back the rain. An alcove with another door—bathroom?

He picked up a leather case from the table and unzipped it, and Kate’s eyes widened. “What are you going to do? Are you going to torture me?” She started to shake as he drew out a plastic-wrapped syringe and some wicked silver scissors. “Please don’t hurt me! I swear, I’ll do whatever you want! I’ll—I’ll be your sex slave, I swear, is that what you want? Just don’t cut me or slice me or ruin me. Killing me would be a waste of a… valuable resource. You could sell me to other slavers. I’d be a great sex slave. Please! Tell him you killed me, but sell me, give me away, then you can make double the money!”

The sobs ratcheted her body so badly that she couldn’t breathe again, and he put down the items with a curse. Again he put one hand on her forehead, the other on her shoulder, the non-vomited one.

“Kate. I’m not going to torture you. Take a deep breath. Okay? I’m not going to kill you or torture you or sell you as a sex slave. Right now, I’m going to take care of that cut on your leg. It’s jagged and dirty, and it will get infected if it’s not cleaned. Understand? After that, I’ll see about untying you.” He nodded into her face, his eyes meeting hers, just looking, with that same pressure on her head and shoulder. She felt a strange sense of relaxation and took a shuddering breath.

“Okay.” She nodded. “You promise you won’t hurt me?”

“This might hurt a little, but I need to see how deep the cut is. How did this happen?” He examined her leg, then touched her other foot. “You did this to yourself? With your toenail.”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. It must have happened when your friend kidnapped me and hit me in the face and dumped me into the car.”

“You were marking the car with your DNA. Clever idea, although a savvy captor would sterilize the car. But I like the way you think.” There was a note of admiration in his voice.

Anger and fear bubbled up. “Fuck you. You have no right to like the way I think. Who the hell are you and why am I tied up here? Did Carlo Mancini pay you to—take care of me? You’ll never get away with this. People will find me and you’ll go to the electric chair.” Bargaining didn’t work, and her emotions were all over the place. Maybe threats were empty, but they were all she had.

He didn’t answer. Gloves snapped and he swabbed her skin with a moistened piece of gauze. She sucked her breath at the sting, and steeled herself for the uncomfortable repetition as he wiped the wound over and over.

“You don’t need stitches,” he said finally. “But it’s a messy cut, and it will hurt while I clean it out completely. I’ll give you a shot of lidocaine and it will just take a few minutes.”

“You’re a doctor, too?” She twisted her head in disbelief.

“No. I’m not.”

“I’d bet you’re not a financial analyst, either.”

“You’d be right. I’m not. If I untie you, will you listen to me so I can fix your leg?”

She stated at him, numb, unable to process the words.

“Kate. I’m going to flip you onto your stomach. Then I’m going to put a clean towel under your leg. I’ll clean it with antiseptic and then I’m going to bandage you up. You need to hold still. Will you do that?”

She nodded, jerky movements, her neck going down too far, too much to the left. Her muscles were shooting wildly. He skillfully arranged her body, somehow keeping her arms tied while releasing her legs and laying her down. His movements were fast and spare, like he’d done this before.

She turned her head to watch what he was doing, still stuck between relief and panic; her brain, unable to decide which to settle into, kept shuttling her back and forth.

He ripped open the syringe and stuck it into her flesh with a practiced, easy move. She winced as the fluid surged in, the ache subsiding to a dull tingle, then to nothing.

“I’m going to touch your leg now. Don’t kick at me with it; you’ll only make the injury worse.” She nodded. While he worked on her leg, she felt only tugging pressure. The heat of his body reached out to her as he bent over her torso. When she smelled the antiseptic, felt his light hands, it was almost possible to believe she was in an ER, or at her doctor, far away from this mess.

“Who are you, and why am I here?” She snuck a look up at him.

“I’m a FBI agent. I’m part of a team that’s working undercover.” He put down his wipes and smoothed a piece of gauze over the cut. “My team has been working to infiltrate Mancini’s organization for the past year.” He ripped a long piece of white tape and attached the gauze at top and bottom. “There. That should hold you for a while. I’ll put some healing gel and gauze on your wrists, too, as soon I undo your hands. I’m sorry about the rope burns, and your face.” He winced as he looked at her, and brushed his fingers across her cheek. “Connor told me he slapped your cheek so he could tie you up.” He hesitated, and his voice was low when he spoke again. “You’re damn lucky that Mancini called on one of our men to take you out.”

“This is lucky?” Her voice rose and cracked with scorn. “I’m tied up here, bruised, injured, in pain, maybe ready to have a heart attack out of fear, and I’m lucky? How the hell is that lucky?” Tears started anew. “I want to go home. I want my mom.”

“You’re lucky because you’re not dead.” His voice was short, and he helped her to a sitting position, her hands bound in front of her. “Connor—the man who brought you here—saved your life. I’m sure he’s not glad he had to hit you and dump you in the car.” His fist clenched. “It’s—” He shook his head. “But it’s better than what they wanted him to do.”

“To kill me?” Her voice quavered.

“He’s going to tell them he did it, and he’s putting his own life in danger. They can smell a lie and a fed like sharks. Connor’s good, but I…” His voice trailed off, taut. “He needs to pull this off.”

“He convinced me.” Shudders started in her body and she tried to push the memories away with distraction. “Where are we?” She looked around her, wincing at the pile of bloody gauze and wipes on the floor, noting the wooden walls, plaid curtains. A cabin. Her sandals, tossed together by the door—that must be a good sign?

Lightning pulsed and thunder crashed on top of it, and she flinched away. “Is this place safe?”