Echoes (28 page)

“Dude. Seriously?” Mac protested. Consistency was key.

“On the ground!”

Mac complied.

“Face in the dirt, hands on the back of your head!”

“Shit, man, Lewis is gonna be pissed. I bring him fish and stuff all the time.”

“Shut up!” Mac heard the guy pull zip cuffs from his belt and felt the man's fingers on his wrists as he leaned over to attach them.

The problem with cuffing, as Mac knew, was that it was damned hard to do with a gun in your hand. And the guard had no backup. So when Nash came flying over the lawn to tackle him, he was down in a second. A minute later, he was unconscious and cuffed with his own zip ties, arms behind him and a belt and more zip ties used to attach him to the trunk of a slender palm.

Mac and Nash took off for the kitchen door, which they figured would be less well guarded than the front. Nash retrieved a set of lock picks from his bag and made short work of the deadbolt, and they were in. Mac headed straight for the basement, but as he laid his hand on the knob, movement flickered in his peripheral vision and Nash shouted, “Gun!”

Mac hurled himself backward, diving for cover behind the island, where Nash had already taken a spot just as the corner of the door where he'd been standing splintered away.

“She's not downstairs, Brody.” Lewis's reasonable tone grated against Mac's already raw nerves. “You'll never find her without my help, and if I don't get back to deactivate the bomb she's wearing around her neck, she'll die.”

Bomb? What could he possibly want badly enough to tie explosives around Callie's neck to be sure she didn't escape? But at least she was still alive. As long as she stayed that way, they could get her out.

“What do you want, Lewis?”

The minute the panel clicked into position behind John, Callie began to rock the center of her body, the only part she could move, from one side to the other. Long minutes passed as tiny vibrations along the table became visible unsteadiness. She rocked harder, pushing the right side, next to the instrument tray, more forcefully than the left. And then she was falling, the table crashing to the ground, bringing the tray with it.

The sound deafened, paralyzed. Surely, he heard it. He would come back. She'd seen him in a fury when she'd accused him of being crazy. What would he do when he saw she'd disrupted his carefully laid-out laboratory? But he didn't return and her muscles unfroze. The soundproofing of the room had protected her.
Score one for the good guys.

Now what? Her forearms, like her calves, had been duct-taped into place on sidebars attached to the table, but her hands remained free. Unfortunately, while the impact had snapped the locking mechanism on the leg extensions, allowing her legs to meet, her hands were still too far apart to use one to free the other.

A variety of surgical instruments lay strewn nearby. The scalpel was the obvious choice, but no matter how Callie stretched her fingers, she couldn't reach it. She picked up a pair of curved forceps and tried to grasp the scalpel's handle. On the third try, she got it, only to have it slip out again when she tried to lock the forceps, the force pushing it even farther away. She could have cried. Almost did. Then she tried again. This time the forceps held the scalpel better, and she didn't risk trying to get a lock.

She eased the scalpel toward her until she could touch the handle with her fingers, then began attempting to find a way to slice through the duct tape without accidentally puncturing a vein in her wrist. Nothing doing. The blade skated across the slick surface of the tape, and the only motion she could achieve was horizontal, nothing that would cut against the tape's fibers and enable her to free herself.

She pulled up hard against the tape, trying to create a space between the table's extension and her arm where she could insert the scalpel. Nothing happened near her wrist, but Lewis must have become a little more casual by her elbow. Unfortunately, the handle of the scalpel wasn't long enough to allow her access to that spot.

Once again, she reached for the forceps. Careful not to allow the handle of the scalpel to slide out, she locked the jaws of the forceps around it, giving her extra length and a measure of flexibility. She slid the blade of the scalpel into the tiny space between metal and skin and pushed down.

And screamed in pain.

Ohhellohdamnohfuck
. Somehow, she'd gotten it wrong. She'd cut into her own flesh rather than into the tape. She could feel blood oozing, dripping, and she began to shake in reaction. Gritting her teeth, she twisted the forceps so the scalpel's blade would face the tape and once again dragged it forward, applying as much pressure as possible. When it broke free, she pulled up on her arm as hard as she could and heard the satisfying rip of duct tape.

Of course, that, too, was accompanied by pain, and when she brought her newly freed arm up to her face, she saw that the tape had taken large swath of skin with it, leaving raw patches behind.

Her second arm came free more easily, as did her legs. Pushing the table away, she looked around the room. She needed clothes and some kind of bandage for her arm. She'd missed any veins, but the bleeding didn't seem to be slowing down, and she felt nauseous and light-headed. She located a roll of gauze and a tube of antibiotic in a cabinet and awkwardly dressed the wound. She doubted any of John's “patients” needed such things. He probably kept them around in case the women fought back.

Her clothes she found in a trash can in the corner. Unfortunately, though her sneakers and socks were whole, he'd cut the rest of her attire from her body, so there wasn't much point in putting it back on. She reached up to slide her fingers beneath the collar she still wore but hesitated before attempting to rip it off. She'd seen several of its capabilities. Might it not also be booby-trapped? What if attempting to remove it caused another electrical shock—or something worse? She couldn't afford to be incapacitated. Not now.

Her fingers found a narrow band of metal at the back of the collar, resting against her neck. So that was how they'd shocked her. She grabbed the roll of duct tape from the counter where John had left it, pulled off a strip, and did her best to cover the metal. Then, remembering the knockout gas, she went further, covering as much of the collar as she could in tape.

She had to get out of this room, but first she needed a weapon. John had brought her up from the basement alone, but that didn't mean he hadn't ordered guards to the door once he'd left her. And her nudity made her more vulnerable, both physically and emotionally. Her best option appeared to be a large pair of shears, so she took them in her right hand, grasped the lever of the door in her left, and cautiously stepped out into the library. She was alone.

Where to go? The front door was mere steps down the hallway, but she had no idea what lay outside. She needed clothes. Her best bet for that was upstairs, so she pressed herself against the wall to keep the steps from creaking and headed up.

The first door at the top of the stairs led into a guest bedroom. The bed had been made up, but no clothes hung in the closet or lay folded in the drawers. She moved on. Three steps down the hall, she stopped, heart in her throat, when an old board creaked under her weight. Oh God, that was loud. He would have heard it anywhere in the house. He'd know she'd escaped. She tried to listen for him, but her pulse was pounding too loudly in her ears.

Nothing for it but to keep going. Maybe whatever had attracted his attention had taken him outside.

The next door opened into John's room. The thought of putting his clothes on her body after what he'd done sent a shudder through her, but she couldn't afford to be fastidious. A thick carpet covered the floor, so she moved quickly, without fear of being heard. Dress shirts filled the closet, but she found workout attire in a drawer in the massive dresser opposite the bed. She dragged on a black tee and a pair of gray cotton sweatpants, grateful for John Lewis's slim build. Automatically, her mind flashed to Mac's broad shoulders and long legs. If the clothes had been his, she'd have swum in them, but these were actually tight across her hips and breasts. At least the pants had elastic at the bottom of each leg, so she didn't even have to worry about tripping over the excess length.

She tucked the shears into a pocket and searched the room for another weapon to add to her arsenal.

***

John stiffened at the creak of the floorboard above him. Someone was upstairs. But who? He darted a quick glance into the kitchen, then strafed the room with gunfire to keep Brody and his buddy from following him. He slammed the kitchen door shut and ran through the dining room into the living room and took up position behind a heavy leather couch where he could keep an eye on the front hall and anyone coming down the stairs while tracking his former brother-in-law if the man came out of the kitchen.

He had to think. He should have stayed in the lab with the woman. They'd never have found him in there, and he could have dealt with them once he'd completed the work, completed
himself
. But he'd been afraid of Brody from the minute Nicole had brought him home. He'd treated the man with disdain to cover up the sour quaking Brody inspired, but he'd always worried someone would see through the facade. Glimpsing Brody and his companion on the security screens, watching them disable one of the guards, had brought all that back, and he'd reacted irrationally.

He poked his head around the edge of the sofa. Could he make it across the entry hall to the office and into the laboratory without anyone seeing? What if they saw the door open? They'd know where she was. No, better to let her stay hidden until he needed her. He patted the reassuring bulk of the remote control in his front pocket.

***

Callie was standing at the top of the steps when she heard the shots.

Now or never. Whoever John had seen on his security screens—she refused to allow herself to dream it might be Mac, not this soon—was keeping him occupied. Trying to keep a balance between speed and silence, she headed down the stairs.

She'd almost made it to the bottom when the front door crashed open. The thugs had returned. With friends. She turned to flee back up, but the smaller one tackled her on the top step. She wedged her heel into his groin and kicked back like a mule, knocking him down a few steps. He came back up angrier, but a clatter indicated he'd lost his gun. Still, he was blocking her path. If she stayed upstairs, sooner or later he'd find her.

“Brody's here! In the kitchen!” John's shout drew Lizard Eyes' attention for a moment, and she launched her body at him like a rocket, taking him down the rest of the stairs even as her heart leapt with the knowledge Mac had come for her.

More shooting downstairs, but she couldn't focus on it, too busy grappling with Lizard Eyes. As they rolled, she felt the shears in her pants pocket and cursed herself for forgetting them. They thumped down a stair, and as his arm came around her neck she got her hand on the scissors. She couldn't release them from the pocket where they'd tangled, so she didn't bother, merely pushing them backward into her assailant's leg.

“Bitch!” His arm tightened while his other hand went to his leg to try to remove the shears. But she kept her grip on them, despite the panic threatening to rise as he cut off her oxygen. She slammed her head back as best she could. It didn't give her much space, but he flinched slightly, giving her room to twist.

Then, miraculously, he let her go and sprang away from her. Too late, she realized his intention. The gun he'd lost in their first scrap rested on the floor a few feet away, and he grabbed it. She turned, intent on getting out of the way, but he was on her in seconds despite the blood dripping down his leg.

“Enough!” He shifted the gun briefly, aiming down to the base of the wall, and fired, showering them with plaster dust. Then he aimed it once again at her head. Movement on the floor below ceased. One man lay dead, facedown in a spreading pool of his own blood. The air smelled foul, rank with blood and plaster and gunpowder and odors she couldn't define and didn't want to think about.

Mac stood frozen in a grappling hold with the big blond goon. He, too, was bleeding, both from his arm and from his face. As soon as he saw her situation, he raised his hands and stepped back. The blond used zip ties to cuff his hands behind his back, then forced him to his knees and zip-tied his ankles. The Hispanic thug—the one left alive—held a gun on him the whole time.

John stood off to the side, watching.

“Lewis,” said Lizard Eyes, “you want the woman alive. Our deal hasn't changed. You will escort Pablo to the hotel and help him acquire the merchandise. Once it is safely in our possession, we will release her to you.”

“What a load of crap,” Mac scoffed. Callie admired his nerve but wished he'd shut up. His husky voice scratched with pain, and goading the men seemed an unwise choice. Especially when Blondie took the opportunity to kick him in the side, hard enough to bring tears to Callie's eyes. “You can't believe they'll let you—or Callie—go. You screwed up, Lewis, and now you're only useful as an object lesson. Falcone's got plenty of guys on payroll who'll be happy to show the rest of the organization what happens to those who can't get their shit together.”

“Shut up, Brody.” Blondie kicked Mac in the ribs this time, and Callie heard a distinct crack. Mac's face went white, and he fell over onto his side. He scooted back out of the man's way until his back rested against the wall. “You're lucky the boss has a hard-on for your buddy Nash, or I'd put a bullet in your brain right now. If you're smart, you'll give him up sooner rather than later. I know you Army types are all about honor, but you have no idea how dedicated some of Falcone's enforcers are. And it's usually not the primaries they go to work on.” He jerked his chin at Callie and her stomach clenched.

Incredibly, Mac laughed. “You think I give a damn about either of them? Nash Harper deserted me in the middle of a fucking firefight. Typical fucking executive officer. Hundred percent pure bureaucratic candy-ass.” He struggled to a kneeling position, every move a visible agony.

“Yeah? Well, what about her?” John countered. “You came all the way back here to rescue her.”

“Damn, Lewis, you always were a moron. I don't care about this one any more than I cared about your sister. I wanted in on the action. Do I look like the kind of guy who's cut out to spend the day catering to the whims of trust-fund babies at some fancy resort?”

It had to be an act. Had to. She couldn't have misjudged him so badly, could she? But, God knew, her judgment sucked. She'd misjudged her father, misjudged herself, misjudged John Lewis . . . Why should Mac be any different? He'd told her about his addiction to adrenaline, how he'd married for it, lived for it. He hadn't lied in that respect. And yet, she'd allowed herself to believe he might feel something for her, even if it was just responsibility.
Stupid, Callie. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
She forced herself away from that line of thought to pay attention to the men.

“I'd never have let you in on my operation!”

“Let me? Boy, who do you think you are? You're entirely expendable. I married your sister. Once I'd made contact with Falcone myself, I'd have knocked you off and inherited both the hotel and the side business.”

“In that case,” her captor interjected smoothly, “why don't you tell us how to access the secure space in the wine cellar in which Mr. Lewis is keeping Mr. Falcone's merchandise. I am sure it would be seen as an act of good faith.” John's face reddened and Callie tensed. If they didn't need John, they didn't need her.