No One Left to Tell (37 page)

The van finally came to a stop. In the dark, Raven listened for sounds of her captors as she wrestled with the duct tape binding her wrists. The damned tape hadn't budged the whole trip. She wrenched her jaw again, hoping to open her mouth, but nothing.

The intensity of the rain dwindled to a faint tapping on the outside of the vehicle. Tensing her muscles, she rolled to face the door, prepared to kick it open. With her legs bound, she had no idea what she'd do next. But by the sound of things, more of McBride's men had gathered outside. She wouldn't stand a chance.

As the van door opened, she stared into the grim faces of three men, then heaved a sigh. She had to be patient, pick her spot.

"Look what Logan gift-wrapped for us." One man laughed, his bristly face twisted to a sneer. "Prime hunting stock."

She wanted to respond, but her instincts warned her to play it smart. A hand gripped her ankle and tugged her effortlessly to the rear of the van. As she cleared the darkened interior, a man grabbed the edge of the tape covering her mouth and jerked it free, with no regard for her skin underneath.

"Hey, watch it."
So much for playing it smart.
She moved her jaw and lips, making sure everything still worked before she mouthed off again. "Aren't you afraid I'll scream?"

"Counting on it." His offhand remark sent chills along her skin.

To regain control of her emotions, she focused on her surroundings, ignoring the manhandling of her body. Hoisted over a man's shoulder, she hung upside down. Strands of hair blocked her view. She craned her neck to see anything that would help. And adding insult to injury, the bastard carrying her stroked her ass like he'd discovered Aladdin's magic lamp.

"You cut me out of this duct tape, and I'll show you my idea of foreplay."

The man laughed and gave her one final squeeze from his meaty hand. "Not on your life, sweetheart."

As far as she could see, shabby red brick buildings extended into the darkness, with only a small section of them illuminated by the headlights of the van and Christian's SUV. One of the delivery bays was open. Voices echoed inside. From the belly of the largest structure, several flashlights cut through the darkness. They cast an eerie glow, elongating the shadows of McBride's men. No electricity told her the buildings had been abandoned long ago.

None of this place looked familiar. The only signs of life were the vehicles parked in front. And she had a suspicion they'd be pulled into the old building, out of sight. When that happened, not a trace of her would be left behind. The decayed warehouse would swallow her whole.

Now she would know firsthand what Mickey had experienced.

Once inside, the stale smell of mildew stifled her breath. It was difficult enough to breathe upside down. Sparingly, she sampled the air as if it were toxic. But the sound of McBride's voice made her stomach lurch.

"Fresh meat for the slaughter." He grabbed her hair and gave it a tug, straining the muscles of her neck. "But first, I propose a little reunion."

Enlisting the aid of one of the hangar crew, Fiona found a phone in the office. Behind a closed door, she gripped the receiver and stared at the buttons. Her chair creaked as she shifted her weight, her nerves getting the better of her.

Months had turned into years and the years spun into decades—and still she'd resisted making contact with Nicholas Charboneau. Now her pulse raced in anticipation of hearing his voice again, so soon after she'd seen him in Versailles. He had instigated that encounter, a complete surprise. This time, she would be reaching out to him, asking for a favor.

Her focus drifted in and out as her trembling fingers hovered near the numbers. But she must swallow her pride. Much more was at stake. Slowly, she punched in the number she had committed to memory long ago. She'd locked it away in her heart.

Nicholas answered on the third ring. "Yes?"

Fiona felt certain he had caller ID and would screen his calls. But the number would only show Dunhill Aviation—and that might pique his interest. For an instant, she weighed the consequences of her actions and considered the risk. Once she spoke, he'd know she was Stateside. What other torturous games would he launch against her?

"Nicky. It's Fiona."

Dead silence—as cold as the stern glare from his violet eyes.

"You've come home." A long moment ticked by. "Why have you called?"

No games. No feigned cordiality. His tone scared her. He held the advantage. All she could do was—

"I need your help," she pleaded.

A low rumble of laughter ridiculed her. He wasn't going to make this easy. Fighting back tears, she tightened her lips and choked down a sob. Her Nicky had grown so cold.

"After all these years, Fiona? You know any help from me comes with a price. Are you willing to pay it?"

By his tone, she knew he flaunted his superior position, presuming she'd never yield to him.

"For God's sake, haven't we both paid that price?" Her question rhetorical, she didn't wait for his sarcasm. "What do you want, Nicky? I'll do whatever you ask. Just stop this vendetta of yours."

Silence. Only the sound of his breathing filled the emptiness.

She needed him to understand. "You've won. But this killing must stop. You don't know what you're doing." She regretted her poor choice of words the instant she'd said it. And desperation seeped into her voice. It couldn't be helped.

The face of her son flashed in Fiona's mind. She knew Christian. If Detective Mackenzie was in danger, he'd protect her, without regard for his own safety.
Damn it!
All those years ago, her cowardly actions and poor judgment had come full circle. And it might cost the life of her only child. She'd have gladly taken the retribution upon herself, being the guilty one. But Christian deserved none of it. He'd already suffered too much for her sins.

"Oh? Then enlighten me, my dear," he taunted, still the cagey player. "What exactly am I doing?"

Even now, her instincts stopped her from blurting out the truth. Nicholas would never find out from her that Christian was his son. She'd have to find another way to get him to listen to reason.

"If death is all that will appease you, then I am offering myself." Closing her eyes, she filled her lungs and let her breath out slowly, allowing fear to wash over her. She swallowed hard, then spelled it out for him. "Kill me. It's what you really want, isn't it? Tell me where I can meet you."

Once again, he fell silent. Startled for a moment, she thought he'd hung up the phone. Fiona tightened her grip on the receiver and listened for any sound at all. As she opened her mouth to speak, he broke the stalemate.

"It's out of my hands, Fie. We'll both have to live with the aftermath."

His words stabbed her heart.
No! It couldn't be over.
Her mind wouldn't accept such finality.

"Nicky,
please
—"

A dial tone mocked her. He ended the call, bitterness in his voice.

It was too late.

Nicholas stared blankly into the crackling fire, his eyes mesmerized by the only light in the room. The flames cast eerie shadows along the stone hearth and into the cavernous study. Sitting amidst his fine collection of books and artifacts and rare paintings, he'd come to the realization that none of it meant a thing. Echoing in his mind, Fiona's frightened voice bedeviled his dubious sense of morality.

His gaze drifted toward the crystal snifter in his hand, its contents a fine family blend of Cognac. Slowly, he swirled the amber liquid along the inside of the glass and watched it coat the rainbow prisms with its ambrosia.

If he placed a call to Jasmine now, he might endanger her, placing his bodyguard at risk with the sound of a cell phone that might give her position away. Most probably, her phone would be switched off altogether.

Trust. It all came down to trust.

His soft chuckle invaded the silence.
Trust?
Irony was a self-inflicted wound, its own brand of torment. Was he truly trying to convince himself that he trusted Jasmine—trusted anyone at all?

"You arrogant fool," he chastised himself. The sound of his voice echoed in the hollow space of his heart. He tossed back the fine Cognac. His throat burned with its honey.

His grand scheme had lost its luster. Nicholas had seen Mickey Blair as a loose end, one that needed his attention. Fiona would never have taken care of the man on her own. Even now, Nicholas wasn't sure why he had stepped in the middle. Was he protecting her, or in his arrogance, did he want to be the only one who knew her secret?

None of that mattered now. He had set this whole fiasco in motion. Now he would live or die with the aftermath.

It looked like a dead end.
Bad choice of words.
The beam from a flashlight was her only guide through the long, dark corridor. One man carried her and another walked beside Logan McBride. Three savage men. Raven would soon find out what McBride meant about a
reunion.
Her stomach twisted into a knot of fear, her mind filling with the horror of rape or some other brand of torture. She steeled herself for any outcome. No matter what they did to her body, she vowed to come out of this alive. She had to believe that. Giving up wasn't in her nature.

She closed her eyes for an instant, garnering her strength. But her mind grappled with one thought. For her to walk away from this, she would have to take lives. Like her father, most cops went through their whole career never actually faced with that dilemma. No such luck for her. She would have to decide. Would she kill to stay alive?

Her answer? A resounding
YES!

Through the murkiness, her eyes spied a door ahead. With the beam of light focusing on it, she felt certain it would be their destination. But what the hell was behind it? All too soon, she would know.

The door creaked open, rusted at its hinges. Before she got a good look, she was thrown roughly to the ground, her spine and shoulders punished by the concrete floor even through her coat. A beam of light blinded her. Squinting, she turned her head, her only defense. With hands tied behind her back, she couldn't shield her eyes. Catching only glimpses of motion, she counted boots, trying to decipher where her captors stood.

But a sound coming from the far corner of the dark room jarred her. Shoes scuffed the cement floor. A low moan. Who else was in the room?
Damn!
Were there more of them? Before she allowed her instincts to cloud with fear, she had to know.

"Detective? You remember Father Antonio."

She peered through the dark and caught a motion on the fringes of the light. The priest cowered in the corner. His hands covered his face. By the looks of him, he'd been beaten. Raven wanted to comfort the man, but McBride wasn't through with him.

"Father, don't be so uncharitable. If this woman beats the odds, she might just save your pathetic ass. Would that buy her a ticket into heaven?"

The priest gave no response. But that didn't stop McBride from dishing out more of his abrasive charm. He knelt by her side, amusement in his voice. "Got a challenge for you, Mackenzie. Just think of it like a game of Monopoly. If you get past Go, you win."

"I don't like games." She rolled to one side, her eyes searching the dark. The small room had only one door.

"All women like games, Detective. Besides, declining is not an option. Quite frankly, your life depends on it. And to up the ante, Father Antonio's life hangs in the balance, too."

"What's the objective?" she asked, stalling to better assess her options. The priest's hands and feet were unbound. If they were going to play a game, would she be cut loose?

"Oh, it's very simple. The objective is to stay alive."

McBride enjoyed his role as the demented master of ceremonies. And the men in the room laughed. The low rumble ridiculed her predicament and told her what these men thought of her chances. With these odds, even she wouldn't take the bet.

"You see, there is only one way out of this building. If you get by my men, and find your way to freedom, you live."

Backlit, his face was in the shadows. But she visualized his pompous grin as he shrugged and gestured his decree.

The bastard needed killing
—
bad!

But McBride wasn't done spouting his rules for survival. "I'm presuming, of course, that you'll take the good Father with you, not just leave him to my wolves. But that's your choice. Tell you what—extra bonus points if you escape with your guardian angel in tow. How's that?"

"And what do I get for taking you out?" She narrowed her eyes and searched for his in the murkiness.

"Oh, I want you to find me, darlin'. That's endgame— the center of the maze." His words raised the hair on her neck. "In the end, it's just gonna be you and me. I'm gonna be the last thing you hear."

His voice echoed through the room like the hiss of a snake. He slid a finger down the length of her cheek, his fingernail nearly breaking the skin.

"And my hands will take liberties with your body. But you won't care. 'Cause you'll be sucking down your own blood, drowning in it. Makes me hard just thinking about it."

The SOB had just dropped the temp in the room by twenty degrees. Her body trembled with the chill, her back against the cement.

McBride stood, staring down at her. "See you on the other side of this door. I'm sure Father Antonio can help remove your restraints. Once you cross the threshold, the game begins. There's no going back."

His men headed for the doorway. But McBride turned once more, finding her in the gloom. "Don't keep me waiting."

"McBride," she called out. As he turned, the flashlight cast an eerie glow onto his stern face. "Riddle me this, Batman. Why did you kill Mickey Blair? That was your handiwork, wasn't it?" The cop in her ignored the danger, wanting only his confession.

He laughed, the sound echoing through the room. "You are one stubborn bitch, Mackenzie. What the hell . . . Yes. I killed that arrogant SOB Blair. Was rather proud of that job. And as for the reason? Let's just call it professional courtesy."

She tensed her jaw, not fully understanding his cryptic comeback. But she wouldn't get another crack at him.