The Royal Elite: Mattias (19 page)

His gaze landed on the main door again. As close as Mattias had watched the keypad entry, the silver haired man knew better than to leave it wide open to Mattias's gaze and had obscured most of it with his hand. He shifted his wrists against the thin but strong wrap of rope. Earlier he had tried to squeeze his hands out to no avail. The rope was too snug, his hands too broad. If he got his hands in front of him, however, he knew he could get free with no problem.

Flattening his feet against the ground, he shoved backwards as hard as he could, using his body to help with the momentum. Made of wood, older rather than newer, the chair couldn't take the pressure and several slats across the back cracked. Rolling right, bringing the remains of the chair with him, he slammed the legs against the floor next, destabilizing the seat even further. From there it was a matter of strong arming his way clear of the wood and tucking his legs to slide his hands under his body, up over his feet to the front. Being agile had its advantages.

Glancing up, he checked the cobbled walk. Clear. No guards in sight.

On his way to the bathroom, he twisted and pried at the ropes, rubbing the skin of his wrists raw in the process. Dropping into a crouch by the sink, he finally removed his bonds and threw down the rope. Gripping a pipe connecting the sink to the wall, he strong-armed it loose, twisting and turning until it came free. The threaded end would do nicely for his next job.

Carrying the pipe across the pagoda to the main door, he braced the threaded end up against the rim of a hinge and banged the other end. That the hinges were located on the inside rather than the outside suggested this space had never originally been intended to hold prisoners. Likely, the silver haired man put him here, not realizing Mattias's skill in escaping. It also blocked site of whatever other structures might be on the property, an advantage his captor seemed to need.

The hinge popped out and hit the floor with a metallic twang. Two more followed suit. Mattias removed the door and set it to the side, the pipe tucked under one arm. Not as deadly as a gun by far, but a better weapon than none.

Just as dusk gave over to night, Mattias hit the cobbled path at a run, determined to find Alannah before it was too late.

If Alannah thought the evening had been tense when the man threatened to slice off an earlobe, it was nothing compared to the new, dangerous sensation that made the hair on the back of her neck stand on end.

Someone was outside the bedroom door.
Correction.
Someone was
inside
the bedroom. Past the rush of blood in her ears that reminded her of roaring waterfalls, she heard the creak of the floor and a footstep that sounded less muffled than a moment before. Whereas the older man had come in without hesitation, without attempting to hide his intent,
this
entrance smacked of sneakiness and subterfuge. She suspected if the other man found her like this, clearly attempting to rid herself of the binds, he would have immediately threatened and blustered.

Whoever this was did no such thing. Hands grasped the toppled chair and righted it, leaving her plenty of time to get her feet beneath her so her arms weren't twisted toward dislocation. Perched on the edge of the seat as the intruder moved behind her, Alannah hoped she hadn't just been positioned into a better posture for execution.

“Hello? What do you want?” she asked, hating the edge of fear in her voice.

No answer.

Muscles tightening with anxiety and stress, Alannah debated her options. Before she could think of a way to fight back, the intruder touched her wrist. Not just her wrists but the bindings that held them in place. The sour smell of sweat mingling with a subdued, masculine cologne suggested to Alannah that the man might be nervous. Nervous about what? Orders to kill her? Chop her into small pieces to be fed to the fish? Used as garden fertilizer?

Radical, morbid thoughts like those were useless, she chided herself, even though she understood that stress was the culprit.

The bindings eased and her range of motion increased. Snared by a strong hand under her elbow, the intruder hauled her to her feet. With the bindings still around her wrists but detached from the chair, she thought she might be able to fend him off. If only he had removed the blindfold.

“Don't think about it,” a masculine voice, thick with a Spanish accent, said. The door opened and closed after he led her into what she suspected was a hallway.

“Are we leaving? Where are you taking me?”

“Shhh.”

“But--”

“
Shhh.”

Mattias avoided the brightest spots on the torch-lit path, sticking to the shadows wherever he could. He knew sentries walked the property, sometimes alone, often in pairs. If he was lucky, the silver haired man might have light security rather than an army waiting closer to the house. It all depended how threatened the man was—or felt. It also depended on what he had to protect within the walls of his home: people, money, vaults full of valuable things.

Two curves in the path later, he caught sight of a house through the dark foliage. Slowing to a walk, on alert for security patrolling the perimeter, he found a small clearing off the path to step into. He had a better vantage of the homestead from here. The sprawling mansion, with similar architecture as House Morano, let him know he was still in Spain. His attackers hadn't crossed the border after removing him and Alannah from the hotel last night.

Thus far, no guards made themselves known. Mattias knew there were at least two—the same ones who had roughed him up this morning—but their current whereabouts were a mystery. Maybe they were inside, providing more personal protection to the silver haired man.

Using trees and bushes for cover, Mattias moved closer, crossing the cobbled walkway to another patch of dense trees. A balcony ran the length of the upper floor, with many doors giving access to the interior. Assessing the low wall at a corner near the balcony edge, Mattias broke cover at a dead run, the pipe still in hand. He tucked it into his waistband between one stride and the next.

Hitting the low wall, he used a hand to brace and pivot, getting his feet up there with him. Then he stood upright, using his forward momentum to jump for the balcony wall, teeth clenched with effort. He was
just
tall and agile enough to succeed.

Hooking his hands over the edge, he pulled himself up. One leg swung over, then the other. Many pieces of furniture lined the balcony, along with several round tables and potted plants. Hugging the outer wall, he pulled the pipe from his belt and stalked silently toward the first french door. The lights in the room beyond were dark, indicating either this was an empty guestroom or that whoever lived there wasn't currently in residence.

He tried the curving handle. Locked. Some of the other doors along the balcony further down sported light spilling through the panes, making him think people might be within. Entering one might put him face to face with guards or guests or even the silver haired man himself. Not willing to risk confrontation until he knew more, Mattias shucked his shirt with a quick movement, placed it against one of the panes in the french door, and gave it a solid tap with the end of the pipe. The shirt created a buffer that muffled the sound of cracking glass. Shaking the shirt out, he put it back on, reached through the opening and unlocked the door. Stepping inside, he closed it behind him and let his eyes adjust to the gloom. He was in an expensively decorated bedroom, with a canopy bed and a masculine color palette of blues, browns and creams.

Aware that he might have tripped a silent alarm, he crossed to the regular door and swung it inward. One look up and down the hallway showed him it was empty—for now. Mattias gripped the pipe and walked toward the center of the house, listening for voices or footsteps. At every doorway he came to, he paused outside first, then peered around the corner. Two bedrooms, both dark, and one library with mahogany accents bathed in low lights turned up nothing. No Alannah, no silver haired man.

And no guards.

Moving on, anxious to locate Alannah, he came to yet another open door. Following identical protocol, he secured his grip on the pipe, taking a moment to center himself, and glanced in.

Behind a broad, impressive desk, the silver haired man typed on a laptop. Smoke leaked from a cigar sitting cockeyed between his lips and slithered toward the ceiling. French doors open at his back exposed part of the balcony and the tops of many jungle-like trees. Mattias knew the view would be spectacular, just from what parts of the 'garden' he'd glimpsed so far. This room looked to be more of a private office or study, with luxurious couches offsetting the desk and enormous bookcases stuffed with legal and personal looking tomes. A large, framed map of the world decorated one wall.

Mattias only needed one quick scan to know the man was alone. Rounding into the study, he made short work of advancing on his adversary. Considering the desk faced the doorway, the man became aware of his presence within seconds. The cigar tumbled end over end to the floor when the man scrambled for the top drawer, shoving the chair back in the process.

Giving the stranger no time to pull out a weapon, Mattias flipped the pipe across the room, striking a forearm. Howling, the man pitched backward. That was all the time Mattias needed to circumvent the desk and engage the older man physically. In a matter of moments, Mattias had him in a choke hold, one arm squeezing snug around the man's throat.

“Take the gun out of the drawer,” Mattias said. “Slowly. Set it on top of the desk.”

The man struggled against the hold, like he might fight Mattias off.

“I said, get the gun out. I won't tell you again,” Mattias repeated. He glimpsed a letter on the desk addressed to a Mister Franklin Carr. The name triggered a memory, but Mattias couldn't quite place where he knew it.

Grunting and gasping, Franklin fumbled for the drawer and opened it. A black handgun sat atop a pile of papers, pushed to the side as if it was an afterthought. Mattias figured Franklin kept it there for emergencies like this and, like most men who rarely got their hands dirty, found it more of a nuisance than not.

To discourage Franklin from thoughts of using it, Mattias tightened his hold. Satisfied when the weapon clattered to the desktop, Mattias reached for it with his other hand. He expended a few precious seconds to check the safety and the magazine.

“Good. Now we're getting somewhere,” Mattias said.

“I can't...breathe,” Franklin said with a gasp. Red faced, eyes watering from the pressure of Mattias's arm, Franklin coughed and wheezed for air.

“You can breathe enough to talk. Be thankful for that.” Mattias dragged the man's chair back far enough to close both french doors. He didn't like having his back exposed and vulnerable. Next, Mattias pulled Franklin and the chair to the side of the room, where no one would have a clear shot through the door panes from the garden.

“Now then. I want you to give
me
a list. A list of every single person involved in your little scheme. Was Cleary on it from the get go, or was he just a pawn, someone you used because of the tension with Mister Astbury? Who tipped you off to my whereabouts at the other hotel? I want answers, and I want them right now. Don't make me get nasty.” Mattias whispered the words next to Mister Carr's ear.

“Let go. Let...go.” Franklin pried at Mattias's arms. Precariously close to passing out, Franklin's grip grew weak, his breathing coming in labored rasps.

Loosening his hold a fraction, Mattias showed Franklin that he had possession of the gun—in case the man missed it.

“I'm waiting,” Mattias said.

“You've made...a grave mistake.” Franklin's words broke over a gravelly cough. “I can't give you that information.”

“Oh, I think you can. You
will.
Or I'll lean on you so hard you'll snap.” Mattias meant to convey that he would find every single one of Franklin's pressure points—family, the things most precious to him—and use them against him until he broke.

“You're a Prince, for God's sake. I know who you are, and now that you're on my
security tapes, so will the rest of the world when I release them. So go ahead and kill me. Torture me. You can't erase the proof because I have it redirected to a safe location. Men in my position learned long ago to protect ourselves from thieves who also have a predilection toward technology. Where they might have destroyed tapes in years past, now they'll have to go off site and find them first, before laying their hands on the evidence. Welcome to the twenty-first century,
Prince
Mattias.” Franklin wheezed a laugh.

Putting his mouth close to Franklin's ear once more, Mattias said, “You're lying. Do you know how I know? Because a man
in your position
makes all his deals behind closed doors,
these
doors, if I'm not mistaken, which means at least in this room, there isn't a security camera to be found. Did you think I wouldn't notice the wear on the edge of your desk, or the sag in the seat of your chair? You use this room almost exclusively for business, and I'm willing to bet there isn't even any audio hooked up in here because you wouldn't want your own conversations recorded and sent off site. So no, there won't be any video of me floating around media rooms or blasting on television channels. There
might
be the story of a suicide, though, of one Franklin Carr, and if you think for one second that I can't arrange your death to look like it came by your own hand, then you've grossly underestimated me. Now, the names.” Mattias felt Franklin stiffen under the loop of his arm. Inhaling a sharp breath, Mister Carr blustered incoherent noises before falling silent.

“We don't have a lot of time before your men figure out I'm missing from that neat little room in your garden. Start talking, Mister Carr, or the patience I'm normally known for will disintegrate right before your eyes.” Mattias pressed the muzzle of the gun against Franklin's temple, betting that the older man wouldn't risk being shot.