Extraction Point (Ricochet #3) (2 page)

“I traced the plate to a rental agency near the airport. It’s listed to a Travis G. Hardy. I’m going to scan the area’s DOT cameras to see if we can pinpoint which direction they went in. The man in the car, Rick… it’s definitely Hardy even though facial recognition software algorithm detected a dissimilarity on part of his face. Quinn isn’t visible, but she could be on the back seat or in the trunk—”

“Great, Tucker.” Mack interrupted, probably hoping to stop what he could see was going to be another meltdown by Rick if Tucker began to describe Quinn sitting in a madman’s trunk. Social niceties weren’t Tucker’s strong point. Mack slapped Tucker’s back approvingly as Rick ground his teeth together. “We’ll finish up here and I’ll let you know the plan.”

Tucker nodded and left the room without another word as Rick paced like a madman in front of the whiteboard, his agitation nearly suffocating him. He pulled at the collar of his T-shirt as if it were a rope around his neck.

“So we need to figure out where he brought her.” Dane said. “Should we assume he has a hotel room somewhere?”

Mack nodded. “That’s a good start. Xav, why don’t you join Tucker in Mission Control and search all area hotels from North Atlanta down to the airport. Start nearest to the rental car agency.”

“Will do boss man.” Xavier turned to Rick. “We’ll get her back, Ricochet.”

“I know, Xav, but she’s already been gone six hours.” Rick’s voice nearly broke from the sheer amount of pain that was constricting his chest.

Rick knew every man in the room was thinking the same thing he was. What was Travis doing to Quinn while they were wasting time tracking him down? What condition would she be in when they found her and would it be something she could survive? Something she would
want
to survive?

Quinn woke to the shock of freezing cold water hitting her directly in the face. She gasped, inhaling water and choking on it. The sudden movement and the coughing spasm sent agony through her bruised ribs where Travis had repeatedly kicked her.

She tried to sit up, but her body was too weak and her hands were still tied together in front of her.

“Time to get up!”

An icy chill spread over her skin, making every hair stand on end. Quinn wanted to blame it on the cold water, but she knew it was that voice.
Travis
. A shiver wracked her sore body.

“Ouch!” A bolt of pain shot across her scalp when Travis gripped her hair and yanked her head up. Brutally, he pulled her off of the bed, dragging her by her tangled brown ponytail as she kicked out her legs, trying desperately to get her feet under her.

“Owww!”

Quinn’s protest was short-lived when Travis kneed her in the gut to shut her up. Her breath left in a whoosh, making her lungs burn from lack of oxygen. The sharp pain caused her to stumble and fall as he continued wrenching her down the hallway.

Tears of pain and humiliation started flowing down Quinn’s cheeks. As much as she was hurting, she was furious for looking weak in front of her ex-husband, hated that he could literally bring her to her knees.

“How dare you try to divorce me, Annie! You think you’re gonna leave me?” Travis scoffed. Tired of waiting on her limping steps, he bent down and slung her over his shoulder, carrying her down the wooden staircase. Quinn bit her lip at the excruciating pain she felt from being bounced down the stairs so carelessly. At the bottom, Travis dropped her like a bag of garbage onto the sofa in the family room.

Matted and dirty, her hair hung over her face, keeping a dark curtain between her and the man she hated more than anything else in the world. Using her bound hands, Quinn rubbed at sore eyes, still gasping to catch her breath.

“You think you’re so fucking smart, huh? Leavin’ me, changin’ to your middle name and droppin’ mine? Not usin’ any banks or computers or nothin’?”

She could see him pacing in front of the couch. Those damn cowboy boots of his going back and forth, his Texas drawl getting more and more pronounced the more agitated he became. Quinn stifled a sniffle, hoping Travis didn’t hear it. He always used to get off on her cries for help. Every muffled sound he drew from her would make him more excited, would cause him to hit her harder or for longer. Sometimes he’d even choke her until she passed out.

“Answer me, Annie!” Travis boomed, grabbing her face and wrenching her head up until she looked at him. Nauseated, she squeezed her eyes shut tight, not wanting to ever see him again or give him the satisfaction of meeting his cold, evil gaze.

A hand whistled through the air, making contact with her cheek. White-hot pain exploded in Quinn’s face, snapping her head sideways. Without the use of her hands, she couldn’t stop her body from tipping over on the couch, landing on her bruised ribs.

Not completely broken yet, Eyes still closed, Quinn grit her teeth, the metallic tang of blood filling her mouth. “Don’t. Call. Me. Annie.”

I’m not broken yet, you asshole. You may have me, but you don’t own me.

“Look at me, bitch! I’ll call you whatever I want!”

Defiantly, Quinn opened her eyes. Without letting out a single cry of pain, she struggled back into a sitting position. Once there, she met Travis’ hostile, maniacal stare— and spit a mouthful of blood all over his face.

“Fuck you, Travis!” she hissed.

Travis backhanded her cheek again, this time, so hard that Quinn’s ears were ringing and her vision went fuzzy.

He snarled in frustration, using the hem of his denim shirt to wipe off his face. Quinn stared up at him, her eyelids drooping, and a trickle of blood running down her chin. She took a good look at what she had done over a year ago to his previously handsome appearance and smirked.

“Looking good, Trav.” Giddy and nearly delirious from exhaustion and endorphins, Quinn giggled.

He roared with rage. The last thing she saw before blacking out was his hands spreading open to clench around her throat.

Chapter 2

“Come on, Clint! It’s been hours already!” Rick barked from his seat in Mission Control, Tucker on one side, Clint on the other. Sweat had soaked through another one of Rick’s shirts, a physical reminder of the extreme anxiety he was experiencing. Fuck, he would have to go to the locker room to change again.

Clint swiveled his chair to face his friend. “Rick, keep it together, man. There’s dozens of hotels around the airport, hundreds if you count the entire metro Atlanta area. We’re all working on it.” The big man eyed his distressed friend cautiously before returning to his computer screen. Rick’s fuse was so short he was wired to blow at any moment.

“Jesus Christ. Fuck!
Fuck, fuck, fuck
!” Rick roared, yanking off his Bluetooth headset and hurling it across the room. “That sick asshole has probably already—” he forced down a sob. The thought of Quinn at the mercy of a man so horribly cruel that she left without money or a means of support made him physically ill. How anyone could harm such a gentle, tiny thing like Quinn? Rick ground his teeth against the nausea. “We’re never going to find her like this!”

He was just about to leave to get sick in the restroom— again— when Tucker’s excited shout made him jump.

“I got something!”

Rick scrambled over to Tucker’s workstation, grabbing the back of the man’s chair. “What? What do you have?” Hope shot through him, his heart clenching in his chest.

“Here,” he pointed at one of the computer screens, “the sedan getting on Georgia 400 at Lenox Road.” Tucker twisted his head around to face Rick. “Headed north.”

“North?” Clint asked, his brow furrowed. “So not towards the airport. We’ve been looking in the wrong direction? All this fucking time!” Clint’s voice began to rise in anger.

Rick rubbed his eyes, the brief moment of hope shattered. Fear bled its way back in, coating every surface of his body, inside and out. Hardy could be headed anywhere—fuck —he could be in North Carolina or Tennessee by now.

“So what next?” he asked Tucker.

“Now, we check every camera we can find going north on 400 to see where he got off.” Tucker’s fingers flew over his keypad. The images on various screens flicking by at warp speed.

Rick pinched the bridge of his nose between two fingers. “Are there anymore traffic cameras up that way?”

“Not until the junction with 285,” Tucker said unemotionally. Then he grinned, his wide, mischievous,
I’m going to break the law now
grin. “Not
publically
accessible cameras, that is.”

Clint smiled, thumping Tucker on the back proudly. He turned to Rick. “We’re gonna get her, Ricochet. Just have faith.”

“Yeah,” Rick scowled, “faith.” That wasn’t something Rick had a lot of. Today, he needed to find some, and fast.

Quinn dozed on and off for a while— minutes, hours, days? It was light outside, but she had no idea if it was still Sunday or if it was Monday morning. All sense of time had stopped for her. Once in a while she heard Travis stomping around her father’s house and she feigned sleep every time he came into the family room. She knew damn well that physical pain wasn’t the worst thing Travis could inflict on her. Pretending to be unconscious was the best way to avoid his explosive anger. Travis only enjoyed raping her when she was frightened or fighting back. It excited him, got him off, the sick, twisted, bastard. She was honestly surprised he hadn’t done it yet.

Travis’ footsteps were somewhere in the kitchen so she used the opportunity to think about his appearance Quinn hadn’t seen him since the day she left, thank god. She always wondered how badly she’d injured him, but not even in her best fantasies had she done so much damage to his handsome face. Now he looked like the monster he was, hideous inside and out.

Quinn lay on the couch, her entire body sore and aching, and remembered the events leading up to that day as if they had happened yesterday.

One and a half years ago

Travis rolled off of Quinn’s battered, abused body. Standing over her, he zipped up his fly. “Get up!” He nudged her leg with the pointed toe of his cowboy boot. “Move bitch!”

Sniffling, Quinn moved to sit, the tinkling of glass beneath her. She moaned at the sharp pain from dozens of tiny cuts on her back. The red, white, and blue material of a flag shifted as she moved. Her hand was dripping blood from a gash across her palm.

He broke my daddy’s flag case.

Disrespectful bastard!

Quinn glanced around at the remnants of the display case for her father’s American flag, everything blurry through her tears. Bits of splintered wood were scattered around the broken pane of glass. Travis had raped her right on top of the shattered pieces and on top of the flag. The shards had sliced right through the heavy material and dug into her back and legs as he relentlessly drove into her.

Holding in a sob, Quinn realized she was still exposed from the waist down and Travis was towering over her, waiting for her to get up.

She yanked her dress down. “I—I’ll get the dustpan and broom.”

Quinn stood up on shaky legs, gathering her father’s torn flag in her hands. When she turned to leave, Travis grabbed her arm, wrenching it behind her back. She gasped at the pain that shot through her shoulder, but managed to bite back a cry.

“Go get cleaned up for dinner. You think I’m stupid, bitch? That I’m gonna let you alone with these sharp pieces of glass and wood?” He snarled in her face, his hot breath gusting over her. Quinn had to hold back the urge to vomit.

Travis shoved her towards the hall bathroom where Quinn stumbled and fell, landing on her hands and knees, the flag still balled up in her fist. A sharp stabbing pain shot through the deep cut on her hand.

“That’s better. You look good like that, Annie. Now go get cleaned up!”

Quinn staggered to her feet, entering the bathroom and locking the door. Putting the ripped flag on the countertop, she went through the motions of turning on the shower and getting a towel out, avoiding her reflection in the mirror above the sink. Trembling, Quinn went to get an Advil from the medicine cabinet and accidentally caught a glance of her bruised face.

She froze, horrified at the sight in front of her. One eye was swollen shut and purple. There was an angry red welt along her left cheek, along with a dark bruise. Her lip was split, a dried smear of blood across her chin. Below was a deep black and blue slash across her neck where Travis had stepped on her throat. Quinn lifted a trembling hand to her neck, her eyes filling with tears again.

This is my life. He’s going to kill me someday.

Quinn frowned, the movement eliciting a hiss when it pulled at a cut on her lip. She carefully pulled her dress over her head, wincing at every sharp stab of pain it caused. Staring at the flag, Quinn reached into the pile of material, retrieving the precious item she had slipped into its folds when she had gathered it up in her arms.

Smiling, she held it up to the bathroom light, turning it side to side, watching the fluorescent light glint off of it at different angles. Quinn grinned at her hard-earned prize. Her smile fell and she put the glass to her wrist. It would be so easy to get out, to end her pain. One quick slice is all it would take. With determination, she stared at the broken face in the mirror, taking in every bruise, every cut, every piece of her soul that Travis carved out and used for his pleasure… and it gave her strength.

No! You finally made a mistake, Travis. I’m going to get out of here or die trying.

Quinn buried the jagged shard of glass in a box of tampons under the sink. Travis was too macho to touch women’s things. He would never think to look there.

Soon
, she thought.
Very, very soon
.

“Rick, we spotted him!”

Xavier called out from Mission Control, yelling down the hall to the conference room where Rick was sitting with Clint, drinking coffee to stay awake. Clint had forced him to take a break from the search, telling him he was useless if he was going to be so agitated and easily angered. He was able to calm himself substantially after Clint talked him down from the ledge he was hanging onto by his fingertips, but Rick was still scared as hell they wouldn’t reach Quinn in time.