No One Left to Tell (39 page)

"With or without your cooperation, that's done. If I don't make a call saying my friend inside is safe and sound, my man has been instructed to call the cops"— he glanced at his watch, illuminating the dial with the push of a button—"in thirty minutes. But I can't wait for the cavalry, not knowing what's happening inside."

The woman quit rifling through her belongings and stiffened at the mention of police.

"I can't be a part of this if the police come. Once I see flashing red cherry, I don't care what's going on. I'm out."

"Not a part of this?" He found her eyes in the dark. "Then why are you here?"

"I have my reasons." Her voice low, she focused on her bag once again.

"Not good enough, lady." He didn't appreciate her evasive response. And time had run out. The urgency of his predicament tested his tolerance.

"You don't have a say in what I do." She narrowed her eyes in defiance. "I scouted this location, and I know another way in. It will take longer to get into position, but you will like the advantage. As I see it, you need me."

"Need you for what exactly?" He didn't wait for an answer. "I'm gonna ask you again. Why are you here?"

For a moment, he thought she would refuse to answer. But eventually, she explained. "I am only after one man. Once I have acquired my target, you are on your own. I have no interest in the woman or the little priest."

"Priest? What priest?"

Part of him wanted to understand her involvement, another part wanted to leave her behind, bound and gagged. He resisted the latter. She might prove to be useful. But who was this man she wanted to kill? He realized he made an assumption she would kill him. From what he'd seen, the woman didn't come to chat. And who the hell was this priest?

Damn it!
He had to remain focused. Raven needed his help.

"They took a priest from St. Sebastian's, used him as bait to lure the pretty detective. Who knows? Maybe the men inside felt the need for confession."

Her smile lacked any real humor, no doubt spawned more from a perverse nature.

"How do you know the woman is a detective? And that the priest was abducted from St. Sebastian's?"

He remembered Bill giving him the coordinates for the church. He'd recognized the address from his frequent visits to the cemetery. But according to his security man, the SUV didn't stay long. Now, things were beginning to make sense.

"I know a lot of things." Her only reply.

"Just do what you came to do, then get out. I can take care of the rest." He knelt by her, gazing down at the canvas bag. "And I don't want any casualties from friendly fire. What kind of firepower did you bring?"

Friendly?
The more he knew about this woman, the more the word "friendly" failed to apply. She wasn't the warm and fuzzy type. Far from it. He watched as she powered up a small flashlight. She held it in her teeth to free up her hands, shining the small beam into the black rucksack. To his astonishment, the light reflected onto a small arsenal.

"Flash bangs, grenades— Who the hell were you intending to fight? A small third-world country?" He touched her shoulder to get her attention. "They've got hostages. You can't use the grenades in such tight quarters."

She took the flashlight from her teeth, switching it off. "I will admit the hostages do pose a complication. Just think of my preparedness as . . . overkill. Besides, I had no intention of being a hero. I only want the one."

If Christian thought she would help, that hope crumbled into a thousand pieces. With the woman's only goal being her mission, he'd be on his own.

Detecting his reaction, she liberally dosed him with sarcasm. "Butch and Sundance. Good movie, but I work alone. Now what can you use? We're running out of time."

"I'll take the knife . . . and a flash bang." His hand retrieved what he needed, then he stood. "That's it."

Mentally preparing for the next step, he held the flash bang in his hand. More of a diversionary device used by police tactical teams, the weapon would be useful to render night vision useless for a time. A fuel-air explosive, the device ignited particles of aluminum powder through small holes in the bottom of the canister, reacting with oxygen to produce an acoustic pulse and a brilliant flash of light. Once it was activated, detonation would occur within two seconds. The device would set off a deafening explosion of blinding light, leaving anyone within range of the blast dazed and seeing stars for up to six seconds, his hearing temporarily out of commission. Perfect for what he had in mind. But he'd have to pick his spot to use it. The effects of the blast would be temporary.

Diversion. His plan centered on it. He would stall until the police arrived.

"I've got night-vision binoculars with a built-in boom mic. You sure you don't want something more high-tech?" She pocketed what she needed in her tactical vest and gazed up at him. After zipping the bag, she stood and hoisted it over her shoulder.

"That'll only slow me down." He shook his head, slipping the canister in the pocket of his coat. "In the dark, muzzle flash will blind you, so be careful. If you have to shoot, no ricochets. Make damned sure of your target. I don't want anything to happen to the hostages . . . or me."

"Your skill in the dark is truly a gift," she observed. Standing by his side, she smiled again. This time, the humor reached her eyes. "If we both get out of this alive, perhaps you can show me more."

His mind already distracted by the hunt, he ignored the sexual innuendo in her voice.

"Just show me what you got, lady. Lead the way."

"Now remember, Father, stick close to me and keep your hand on my shoulder so I know where you are. It's going to be as dark out there as it is in here. I don't want to lose you."

"I'll remember, yes." His nerves were fraying. She heard it in his voice. For his sake, she fortified her own.

"If we get separated, just find a hole and hide until I find you." Raven held the man's shoulders, giving them a firm squeeze. Unable to see his face, she relied on her hands to convey the message. "Once we get out of this room, no talking. It'll only make us a target."

"I understand, Detective." The priest's voice quivered.

She spoke with authority, more for his benefit. In reality, she knew the odds weren't good.
A sucker's bet.

"And keep praying, Father. Silently. We're gonna need it."

The creak of the door heralded the start of the
game
for McBride. But for her and Father Antonio, it would be a fight for their lives.

Once she got into the corridor, she stopped to reconnoiter, waving a hand in front of her face. She couldn't see a thing. The staleness of the air stifled her breath. But any chance for freedom lay ahead. She had no choice but to move.

One hand along the wall, she felt for direction, then extended her other arm in front like a buffer. It would be slow going. She tried to visually recall the length of the corridor, to give it substance in her mind. Without a notion of up or down, vertigo played havoc with her senses, her equilibrium short-circuiting.

And with every step, the grip of the priest tightened. The man expected to be attacked at any time. And she couldn't argue the point. Being a sadistic bastard, McBride wouldn't play by any rules, so why not have a man stationed in the dark hallway, ready to pounce. To some degree, the priest's hand comforted her. She wasn't alone. But his grasp also served as a reminder that she held his life in her hands.

Cautious with each step, she moved forward. The grit on the wall caked her fingertips. She listened for any sound, but the priest's breathing would mask much of it. She prayed his fear wouldn't get them both killed.

Halfway. She believed half the corridor lay behind them. The real fight would soon begin.

Despite the chill, sweat trickled from her temples and trailed down her spine under her clothes. The sensation played on her nerves, feeling more like the uninvited touch of McBride's finger. His despicable sneer haunted her memory. And in the dark, that image loomed larger than she cared to admit.

As she neared the end of the corridor, she crouched low, pulling Father Antonio with her. Her mind tried to recall the layout of the place. She never got a good look. McBride said there was only one way out, but had that been a lie, too? Her gut wrenched with the weight of her decision. Once beyond the cover of the hallway, if she turned the wrong direction, she might seal their fate with the mistake. Her fingers found the edge of the wall as it crooked into the cavernous warehouse.

Time to fight or die. Her instincts would have to take charge. She didn't have the luxury of deliberating her actions. She tensed her muscles, ready to make her first move. But in that instant, her thoughts turned to Christian and his unique sensory gifts.

Slowly, she closed her eyes and trusted her inner voice—knowing that voice would be his.

Deep within the center of the labyrinth, in a spot especially made for him, Logan crouched with his night-vision headgear activated. A creak of a door warned that the hunt had begun. And from his vantage point, he would watch his prey move along the corridor, then into the maze, bodies edged in a kaleidoscope of pale greens and reds. The barricade construction only allowed his quarry to come toward him, tricking them into believing escape was possible.

But nothing could be further from the truth. Raven and the priest would be served up, warm and breathing, delivered center stage, with him as the star of the engagement.
Perfect!

His fingers reached for the knife attached to his belt. His thumb stroked the handle, with the motion gaining momentum, matching his adrenaline rush. He loved the advantage night-vision gear gave him, but it deprived him of one very essential element of the hunt. He lived to see fear in their eyes and smell defeat oozing from the pores of their skin after they accepted their fate, giving their bodies to him. Every fiber in his being cried out for that sensation. It empowered him.

Even now, blood churned in his groin. His body hardened with his imaginings. His need to experience the intimacy of death up close compelled him to use a knife for the kill. He had no choice. It was an aspect of his nature he refused to ignore.

His thoughts fixed on Raven. The smell of her blood already teased his fertile imagination. He pictured her body writhing in death, thrashing against his grip. The flesh of his cheeks grew warm. Without the ability to control his impulse, he quit stroking his knife, a poor substitute. He shoved his hand into his pants, unable to wait for the release that only the kill delivered.

He focused on his need, his breathing urgent and shallow. Then she appeared. Raven being the smaller figure in front, she led the priest to the end of the corridor, then stopped. He would take her first, making the priest an easy target. Two kills nearly sent him over the edge. His efforts grew more frenzied until—

A motion to his right deprived him of gratification.

"Shit!" he cursed under his breath.

Someone else had joined the party—unannounced. Who the hell came without an invitation? And how had they gained access from that location? The intrusion fueled a slow, burning rage. Reluctantly, he pulled his hand free. A sneer warped his face. Whoever it was, they'd have to wait their turn to die.

He heard the paintball rounds slamming below, his men already launching an assault. But given the location of the intruders, the pellets would do no good. The meddlers had too much of an advantage. And to complicate matters, Raven and the priest had moved into the maze, with two of his men focused on them.

Switching to predator mode, he moved out of his bunker, howling like an animal into the void, his unique signal. The eyes of his men were on him. With a motion of his right hand, he gave the signal. Time to play in earnest. Time for Plan B.

Raven heard the paint gun blasts erupting from above, the sound reverberating through the hollow cavern.

What the hell were they shooting at?

Father Antonio gripped her shoulder, giving it a tug. Adhering to her rules about not talking, the man gave her the only sign possible. He wanted to know what was happening. And so did she. To reassure him, she fumbled for his hand. The token gesture would have to do, for now.

A barrage of paintball pellets hurled to the floor, McBride's men obviously targeting a spot across the room. That meant only one thing. Someone else had joined the fray, maybe providing a diversion for her and the priest to escape. Hands out in front of her, she left the security of the wall. She crouched low and moved right with the priest in tow, away from the altercation.

Thud! Smack!
Two rounds struck her in the arm and back, splattering liquid over her face and clothes. And by the way her companion reacted, he'd been hit, too. The smell familiar, she remembered her investigation at the church and her meeting with the ME. The odor of isopropyl alcohol choked her. Its vapor stung her eyes. She wiped her face, trying to relieve the burn.

Keep moving!
Don't make an easy target.

As she picked up her pace, the toe of her boot clipped something heavy. She fell to the floor, dragging Father Antonio with her. The weight of his body knocked the wind out of her. Her throat raw, she heaved to fill her lungs, taking a moment to recover.

Thwack!
She shielded her head with an arm, then rolled to her knees. Inching her way forward, she crawled on all fours, feeling along the cement with Father Antonio right behind her. Eventually, she found cover against some kind of barricade. She extended her arm across the priest to protect and reassure him.

Zing! Splat!
Dodging pellets, she kept her head down, shoving a shoulder into a wall of damp burlap, judging by the smell and the coarse weave. The moldy odor was tainted by the toxic vapor of the chemical.

From her investigation of the Blair murder site, she knew this point started the death maze. A cold reality hit. In his ordeal, Mickey Blair had no way out of his trap. McBride made sure of that. Why would her chances be any better? He dangled the carrot of hope, telling her a way out existed.