Her Three Protectors [The Hot Millionaires #3] (Siren Publishing Ménage Everlasting) (21 page)

“Thanks, but with all due respect, I have no idea what your word’s worth.”

“Okay, where do you want to meet?”

They agreed on a place on South Beach. There was less chance of an ambush in a crowded place.

“There are three of us,” Troy said. “I don’t expect to see more than three of you.” He paused. “And believe me, we
will
see. We’re good at what we do.”

“Not that good,” Woollard responded acerbically, “or you wouldn’t have lost Mrs. Gonzalez.”

“Ouch,” Troy said, grimacing as he hung up. “I guess I deserved that.”

“Do you trust him?” Beck asked.

“Not an inch, but we’ll never get into Sanchez-Punto’s stronghold without his help. I
do
think we both want to rescue Porcha, even if we have different agendas. Best pool our resources and worry about the fallout afterwards.”

“Be careful, Troy,” Adam warned. “I don’t like the sound of this guy.”

“Me neither, but he’s a better option that Sanchez-Punto, that’s for sure.”

“He’s our only option,” Beck reminded them.

“The way I see it,” Troy said after they’d traveled several miles in tense silence, “either Woollard wants Porcha because he doesn’t know where the diamonds are either and thinks she does—”

“Or we got it wrong and he’s just trying to do the right thing by his boss’s widow,” Adam finished for him.

“We know from Porcha what he wanted to do to her.” Beck thumped the heel of his hand against the steering wheel. “And I’m damned if I’ll stand by and let it happen.”

“I’m not ecstatic about it myself.” Troy expelled a fractured breath. “We’ll just have to play it by ear, get a feel for the guy when we meet him, and take it from there. Not that my instincts are serving me too well right now. I was convinced Woollard would show up at that mall today. I stupidly rushed in instead of taking the time to check things out more thoroughly. If I’d done what I usually do, we’d have been there with her today and she’d still be safe.”

Adam, seated behind Troy, slapped him on the shoulder. “We let you think you’re the boss, but if we hadn’t agreed with you we’d have let you know soon enough.”

“Yeah, well, we ain’t gonna fuck up again.”

“Damn right we’re not,” Adam and Beck said together.

* * * *

“Get out.”

It was late afternoon by the time the Cadillac pulled up at a waterside warehouse in a downbeat part of Miami. The fact that the driver backed up his command by openly waving a gun in Porcha’s face told her all she hadn’t already figured out for herself about the area she was in. The chance of any law-enforcement officials happening along were precisely zero. What few people she did see were minding their own business and certainly wouldn’t risk helping her.

She was on her own.

With no other choice available to her, she slid her legs out of the car and struggled awkwardly to her feet with her hands still taped behind her back.

“Inside.”

The gun was jabbed painfully in the small of her back. She stumbled toward a side door at the back of the warehouse and stood in front of it. The goon with the gun was obviously as stupid as he looked, because he didn’t seem to understand why Porcha didn’t open it.

“Oh for fuck’s sake!”

The boss reached past her and slammed it open. Porcha tried to memorise everything she saw in the few seconds she had to get her bearings. There was a huge space with tables running its full length and merchandise stacked neatly in boxes down one side of the wall. Some sort of retail supplier, presumably. Since the place was devoid of human presence, it was impossible to see what was in the boxes, so it didn’t help her figure out where she was.

“This way.”

She was jabbed by the gun again and forced away from the main part of the warehouse, along a short corridor. There were bathrooms on one side and then the door to a room at the back, which she was pushed into. By the looks of things, it was some sort of sickroom.

“Thoughtful of Mr. Sanchez-Punto to have medical facilities on hand in case his employees are taken ill,” she said, the strain of pretending to be unconcerned about her situation really starting to tell on her.

“Shut up and get inside.”

She was shoved so hard this time that she stumbled and almost fell. The boss caught her arm and saved her at the last moment. The room was about the size of a prison cell—pretty apt, given her current circumstances. There was a hospital-type examination bunk down one wall with a thin pillow and blanket, an uncomfortable-looking upright chair, and a door that led to a toilet. That was it. Absolutely no other furniture or cabinets with locks she could pass the time trying to pick. Perhaps this wasn’t a sick bay after all. In which case, Porcha didn’t want to think about what other purpose the room might serve.

She took a second look around, just to take her mind off such unpleasant musings. The small window had sturdy-looking bars across it, and there was no other means of escape that she could see.

“Make yourself comfortable, Mrs. Gonzalez,” said the goon, leering at her breasts as he cut her hands free.

The boss was standing in the corridor, talking in a deferential tone to someone on the phone. Porcha caught some of what he was saying.

“Yes, sir, she’s here now. No, no we definitely weren’t followed.” He listened. “Well, we were taken by surprise. We lost Pablo, and Luiz has a broken arm. We’re taking him to get it fixed right now.” He listened some more and then spoke again. “Yes, it was unfortunate. There were several of them that we didn’t know about, you see, and they jumped us.”

Porcha raised a brow at him and smiled. The boss glowered right back at her, realizing when it was too late that he shouldn’t have let her hear his excuses. She’d sure as hell set Sanchez-Punto right when she saw him.

“They got away I’m afraid, sir, but we managed to hold onto the woman. Right, okay then, we’ll do that.”

“You’ll be spending the night here as our guest,” he told her, walking fully into the tiny room and making it feel pretty crowded. “Mr. Sanchez-Punto will come and see you first thing in the morning.”

“Tell him not to put himself out on my account.”

“She’s got a real smart mouth on her,” the goon said, raising a hand.

“Leave her be!”

“She needs to learn more respect.” He dropped his hand with obvious reluctance. “I hate mouthy women.”

“Any chance of something to eat?” Porcha asked sweetly. “And some stuff to clean up my injuries.” She waved her arms about, giving them an up-close view of the caked blood on her forearms.

“Let her fucking bleed to death,” the one she’d heard referred to as Raul grumbled.

“Oh, I’m sure your boss’ll be pleased if you let that happen.” She rolled her eyes. “Moron!”

“Raul will come back later with something.”

Raul’s expression told her what he thought of that suggestion, and this time Porcha agreed with him. The last thing she wanted was quality one-on-one time with Raul. Then again, perhaps she did. He was a follower, not a leader. He was also a bully, and he was mad at her. Porcha sat on the edge of the bunk and waved her fingers at them as they left, turning several locks as they went.

Fighting the reaction that had crept over her following the violence of the last few hours, Porcha wanted to curl up in a ball and let the world pass her by. But sleep was a luxury she couldn’t afford. She needed to prepare herself to fight back. If she couldn’t use Raul’s weaknesses to her advantage then she might as well cut her own throat right here and now, because one thing was certain. Even if she did possess the information this Sanchez-Punto wanted, the moment he got it out of her, she’d be dead.

* * * *

The guys arrived at South Beach half an hour ahead of schedule. They scoped the area out but couldn’t see anyone that didn’t look like they belonged. Skaters, dog walkers, babes in miniscule bikinis, posers, grifters, the loud music that accompanied cocktail hour—welcome to Miami.

“It’s hard to be sure if anything’s off,” Beck complained. “Everyone down here dresses like a wannabe gangster.”

“Except the real deal, presumably,” Adam suggested, mildly amused.

As satisfied as they could be that the area was clean, Troy took a conspicuous table at the outdoor bar they’d agreed upon as a meeting place. Adam and Beck were situated within sight of Troy and could see in both directions down the street.

“He’s here,” Adam said into his wrist mike ten minutes ahead of time. “Just three of them, far as I can make out.”

“Let them get closer and then intercept,” Troy said. “Beck, stay on the other end of the street, just in case they have reinforcements coming that way.”

“You got it.”

“He’s limping quite badly,” Adam informed the others.

Beck glowered. “Not as badly as he will be if he hurts Porcha.”

“Okay, I see him,” Troy said. “Go introduce yourself, Adam.”

A short time later, Adam joined Troy, the three newcomers in tow. Troy stood up as they approached, sizing them up. Woollard had been beaten pretty good, and quite recently. His face was a mass of bruises, and Adam had been right about the limp.

“Woollard?”

“Yes, and you are?”

“Anderson. This is Cole.”

“This is Kevin—”

Troy quirked a brow. “Mrs. Gonzalez’s driver?”

“One of them.” Woollard mangled his lips, as though he’d just been reminded of something unpleasant. “Mind if I sit down?”

“Are we gonna play nice?” Troy asked, pinioning him with a hard gaze.

“We’re unarmed,” Woollard said. “Search us if you don’t believe me.”

“We’re
not
unarmed,” Troy replied, indicating the seat opposite him. “Come on in, Beck,” he said into his wrist. “You need to hear this.”

“Damn right I do.”

Beck joined them in seconds. Introductions dispensed with, they got down to business.

“I assume Georgio sent you to protect Porcha.”

“Did he?” Troy folded his arms over his chest, waiting to see what else Woollard had to say before he gave anything away.

“Look, I don’t know what she’s told you about me, but you’ve probably got a distorted view. Believe it or not, I’m only trying to keep her alive.”

“What happened to you?”

“I was with Sal when they got him.” He indicated his battered face by waving a hand, also bruised, in front of it. “The rest of my body looks even worse, and I took a bullet in the thigh.”

“But you got away and Sal didn’t?”

“It wasn’t me they wanted.”

“How do we know you didn’t kill Sal yourself, just so you could take over his operation
and
his wife?” Beck asked.

Woollard levelled an incredulous expression on each of them in turn.

“Why would I kill my own father?” he asked.

The goons had searched Porcha before they put her in the car. Her cell phone had been confiscated, but she had nothing else in her pockets for them to take. Raul, as she now knew him to be called—although she thought
goon
suited him better—had taken great delight in patting her down, but the fool had missed the lockpick and tiny device she’d shoved inside her bra. The ape was too busy feeling up the outside of her breasts to bother paying much attention to what was hidden in her cleavage.

“Idiots!” she muttered as she retrieved her treasures from their hiding place and set to work on the first of the locks.

“Damn!”

She threw the pick across the room half an hour later, with nothing more to show for her efforts than sore fingertips and a couple of broken nails to add to her scraped arms and aching jaw. The locks were more complicated than the ones she’d practiced her fledgling skills on back at the house, and she didn’t have a prayer of cracking even one of them. She really should have insisted on taking the full course.

Porcha refused to admit defeat. If she couldn’t open the locks from this side, she’d just have to wait until Raul came back and did so from his end. But then what? She needed a weapon. He knew she could take care of herself, and even he would have the sense to keep well out of range. She searched the small room, but there was nothing that wasn’t nailed down that would help her. The bars on the window were firmly cemented in. The base of the bed was solid wood—no convenient springs for her to pry loose and fashion into weapons. The chair was flimsy plastic.

Frustrated, but still refusing to play the part of victim, she tried the toilet. An ordinary, smelly toilet and a wash basin. This was hopeless! About to give up, she felt a surge of excitement when she tested the toilet-roll holder. It was old-fashioned heavy metal.

And it was loose.

“Thank you!” she cried aloud, setting to work on the screws with her other tool.

It was painstaking work, but she had plenty of time and even more desperation to spur her on. It must have taken an hour, but eventually, with a cry of triumph, the metal fell away from the wall. She hefted it in her hand. If she could just take the guy by surprise, somehow catch him off guard, she might just be able to whack him with it. It wasn’t heavy or jagged enough to do much damage on its own, but if she just got him off balance for a moment or two, she could possibly break a few of his limbs before she made a run for it.