Heart Wounds (A Miranda and Parker Mystery) (29 page)

No barbed wire
here.

She hurried to the fence, shoved a pointed toe into a link and pulled herself up.

“Damn, Parker,” she grunted under her breath. “Next time do me the courtesy of packing a pair of jeans and tennis shoes.”

Up she crawled. Hand over hand. Toe over toe. Until she reached the top.

The fence swayed with her weight as she swung one leg over, and she nearly let out a cry. Hold it together. Hold it together. Somehow she did.

Other leg over. Now down. Down. Jump.

She was on the ground.

Every nerve a
lert, slowly she turned around.

A
high row of windows stretched along this side of the building. Light flickered through them. Someone was in there. But the windows were too far up to climb through.

There was a door on the
other side where the rental car was, she reminded herself. They’d seen Shrivel and the others use it before. Something told her that wasn’t the way to go.

She stood for a long moment listening to the sound of her own breathing and backfire in a far away
street.

She made her decision.

Hoping a rabid Doberman didn’t come barreling around the corner, she headed for the back.

She was there in seconds, peering around the rusty siding into the shadows. In the dim light she could make out a row of
unkempt bushes and a worn dirt path leading to a back door.

Bingo.

Three quick steps and she was there.

She laid her palm carefully over the handle. Her heart banging in her ears, she turned it. The door opened. Unlocked.

Luck? Or a trap? Didn’t matter. She had to take the chance. But she would take one precaution.

Her breath hitching, she pulled out her cell and dialed emergency.
999 it was here, she’d learned somewhere along the way. As softly as she could she described the place to the dispatcher. The woman on the other end said they’d send someone right out. Yeah, maybe in an hour. She couldn’t wait that long.

Hoping that call hadn’t been a mistake, s
he put her fingers back on the handle, inched the door open, peered inside.

Darkness.

She listened hard and heard an odd rumbling sound over her own rapid breathing. In one fluid move she swung open the door, stepped inside, noiselessly shut it behind her.

Light rippled through a low internal window.

She shot down to a crouch, held her breath as her eyes adjusted to the dark.

Old wooden chairs lined up against the wall. A desk. Filing cabinets. She was in some sort of waiting room.

Another door on the opposite wall led into the main area.

She duck-
walked to it fast as she could, trying not to choke on the dust and moldy smelling air. The inside window was close to the door. She dared to raise herself a few inches and peek through a grimy corner.

Her arm gripped her stomach as it clenched with horrific pain. She slapped her other hand over her mouth to stifle a cry. She heaved as she fought the panic, the sheer terror
scraping through her with razor sharp teeth.

A vehicle, an old van
or something, was parked and running in one corner of the shop, not far from the room she was in. Its headlights were on. The only illumination in the large, open space.

Three dark figures stood
in the light, their backs to the van. She recognized the body shape of one of them. Shrivel. All three faced a chair where someone was bound.

The prisoner
was turned toward the light so she had no trouble making out his face as he blinked in the glare and glowered at his captors.

It was
Parker.

This couldn’t be happening. It just couldn’t be.

How
the hell did Parker get himself in a mess like this? But she knew the answer. He was being noble. The police would never catch up to Shrivel. So he had to lure him in somehow. He must have nearly done it. It was a miracle he’d even found the bastard. But something had gone wrong.

Now what?

Her head spun with nausea as she fought back the rush of emotion. There had to be something she could do. Something. Anything. She forced herself to think.

In the
thirteen years before she met Parker, she’d regularly picked bar fights with men and won. But those were mostly drunken slobs who’d underestimated her. Could she take on three ruthless criminals at the same time?

She had to try. If she
could just get to Parker, get him out of here somehow, no matter what happened to her she’d consider it a win.

She scooted over to the inside door and pressed it open.

The engine sound grew louder. Still crouching, she squeaked through the door and into the main repair area. The running van was about three yards away. Breathing in the grease and oil fumes, she crouched along the perimeter.

She heard Parker’s cavalier laugh.
“You can’t want the death of an American on your hands.” His voice sounded funny.

“’O
o says it will be on my hands?” Shrivel sneered. “We know how to get rid of bodies.”

Dear God.

“You didn’t dispose of Lady Gabrielle Eaton’s very well.”

“That was a message.”

A chill went down Miranda’s spine. Shrivel had murdered her to send a message to Jewell.

She felt her way along the wall. It was made of
big cinder block bricks, cold and clammy. In the shadows, she nearly banged into a table shoved against the wall. She looked at the figures. No one had heard it.

She dared to crane he
r neck and peer into the light.

Oh, my God. Parker’s face was bloody and bruised.
Red stains were all over his dress shirt and coat. One of his eyes was swollen shut.

But he acted as
nonchalant as if he were in the dining room back at Eaton House. “A message, was it? Apparently it was unclear.”

“Where’s the fucking dagger, septic?”

Parker managed another laugh. “Funny, I was going to ask you the same thing.”

Shrivel reared back and hit him hard on the face. Blood shot into the air.

Grasping the table leg to steady herself, it was all Miranda could do to keep from lunging forward and beating the daylights out that creep. But that would only get her in the same spot.

Fudoshin
. She recalled Parker teaching her to use it the first time they spared together. Calm and control in the midst of a storm. Serenity. Okay. Good time to review the lesson.

She drew in a deep,
motor oil scented breath and gathered her wits.

She looked around
. There were all kinds of tools strewn everywhere. Wrenches, tire irons, screwdrivers, hammers, all kinds of machinery. An engine block. Overhead those hoses for oil changes hung from the rafters.

Any of these tools would work as a we
apon, but would they be enough?

She studied Parker’s
three captors. Tall, lean Shrivel with his spiky black hair. He was wild and unpredictable, maybe the easiest to take out. A big guy she hadn’t seen before stood beside him.

Following the outline of curly hair
that was shaved at the sides, she studied his bulky mass. Maybe two-fifty, three hundred pounds. He’d be tough to beat.

And
finally a shorter, stocky guy. Had to be Scorpion himself. The boss had to be here to oversee things. Maybe he thought Shrivel had screwed up. Maybe he thought Shrivel had tried to screw him over. Maybe Shrivel was screwing with Parker’s face to prove to his boss he hadn’t.

Didn’t matter why. She had to get Parker away from them before they killed him.

Sure. Take down two hoodlums and a notorious London gang leader the cops couldn’t bring in, all by herself. Piece of cake.

She had to get closer.
Still squatting, she dared to scoot across the front of the long table. Dangling along the floor her fingers touched something that wasn’t concrete. Leather. Was that really what she thought it was? She squinted at it, grinning in the dark. Hell, yes. A tool belt.

As quietly as she could she picked it up and pulled it around her waist. It was loaded. Screwdrivers, wrenches, a hammer.
If only she could find a nail gun.

She
hustled around the table’s far edge and turned in at the end of it. She spied a familiar shape in the darkness and sucked in a breath. Now there was a real weapon.

Leanin
g against the wall was a long, beautiful sledgehammer.

She moved over to it and dared to grasp the handle near the base. Gently she pulled it away from the wall. She glared over her shoulder. No one had noticed her. Testing the hammer
, she lifted it an inch or two. Had to be twenty pounds or more.

This was her
equalizer.

Summoning
all the strength she had, she rose. She grasped the hammer with both hands and turned around.

“Why’d ya tell us you
’ad the dagger, then, you fuckin’ Yank?” Shrivel screeched.

“Yeah, why?” The big guy stepped forward and socked Parker
in the jaw. Her stomach lurched as she heard him grunt in pain.

You’re first
, Miranda decided. She hoisted the hammer over her shoulder and crept forward.

The thugs were focused on their prisoner. Didn’t see her
creeping up in the dark. But she knew that wouldn’t last long.

She had to strike now.

She took two long steps, planted her feet, and swung the hammer like she was making a grand slam in the ninth inning of the World Series.

A loud
squishy crunching sound rang out as she hit the big guy square on his temple. Blood spewed from his large head and he crumbled to the floor. He didn’t move.

One
down for the count. She stepped over the body. Who was next?

Shrivel spun around, the look of shock on his ugly face made her want to laugh. But he didn’t give her time.

He lunged forward, screaming like a wild goat in heat.

She swung the hammer at him
as hard as she could, but he was already too close. She missed. His palms smacked her hard in the chest and the hammer flew out of her hands, clattering to the ground as she stumbled back and lost her balance.

She hit the floor
hard. Ribbons of pain shot through her body.
Keep your head. Keep your head.

Shrivel was coming at her. She rolled under a nearby table, grabbed onto its frame
. She forced herself up, tools clanging and banging to the floor as she hefted the table and swung it at her attacker.

The tabletop struck
Shrivel full across the abdomen, the force of the blow swatting him away like a dirty little fly.

He stumbled back but kept his footing. More agile than she’d figured.

Heart pounding, she scanned the floor for the sledgehammer. Couldn’t find it. She looked up.

Shrivel had a tire iron in his hand.

His black eyes glowing with rage, he came at her fast as a panther.

She danced away.

Moving faster, he caught up, swung at her head. She ducked. He swung the other way. She ducked again. She was about to throw her leg back for a kick to the face when he lunged, slammed her, knocked her against the hood of the running van.

The blow took her breath. Struggling for air she
felt the rumble of its engine ripple through her torso as Shrivel leered over her.

He
brought up the tire iron, pressed it against her throat. She caught it with both hands, pushed back.

Blood pumped through her brain
as she strained and grunted through gritted teeth. It was just a glorified version of arm wrestling, she told herself. She could hold him off until she got her feet into position.

His fishy breath
batted against her face. His long, crooked nose hovered over her like a vulture about to devour its prey. Sweat rolled down the length of it and dripped onto her cheeks.

And suddenly, all she could think of was Lady Gabrielle and how terrified she must have been alone in her car with this crazy bastard.

You sonofabitch
, she thought as her foot went between his feet.

She thrust her knee up with all her might. Got him right in the balls.

Yelping like a wounded hyena, Shrivel dropped the iron and hobbled away, cradling his crotch.

More where that came from. But she needed another weapon. She scanned the floor for something
, anything…and took a little too long.

Somehow Shrivel’d recovered.
He flew at her and knocked her to the ground. Before she could think, his fingers were around her throat.