Pilot Error (26 page)

Micki grimaced, feeling an alien cold slither into her bloodstream.

As Dirk pressed home the plunger, their eyes met and held. "I'm sorry, sweetheart. It's for the best."

Go to hell.
She wanted to say it but couldn't.

By the time he had withdrawn the syringe, Micki had already begun to feel herself float free of reality. Without warning her entire body went as limp as wet newspaper and, as she began a slow motion slide to the distant office floor, Dirk caught her and lifted her up.

Part of her knew she must have blacked out for a few minutes, because the next hazy thing she was aware of was being lowered into a jumpseat on the sloping floor of the C-46, surrounded by tall stacks of crates that were secured for flight behind green cargo nets. There was someone on the floor beside her, someone who didn't belong to the hands that were busy fastening the safety harness around her, but who was propped haphazardly and unrestrained against one of the crates. She realized it was Luke at the same time the hands left her and their owner—Dirk—headed 'uphill' toward the cockpit.

As consciousness began to dwindle for a second time, Micki defiantly fumbled to undo the harness that Dirk had just strapped her into. The buckle finally released and, woozy as she was, she fell out of the jumpseat and landed on the cargo bay floor in a heap.

Sitting, she reached out to pull Luke's limp body to her. Despite the closing blackness, she was appalled to find that he was still ruthlessly handcuffed. The warmth of his breath against her skin brought relief of another sort. He was alive—unconscious but alive—and she cradled him into her arms as a pair of radial piston engines sputtered into life somewhere nearby. Fighting the fuzziness in her head, she still had enough awareness to realize it would be a rough and tumble flight without the restraint of the safety harness, so she wedged her back against the crate as best she could and hooked an elbow through the loop of the cargo net.

Micki's last thoughts, before the gentle sensation of forward motion swept her away like a dandelion seed on a spring breeze, were for Fizz, for Razor, and for the drugged man she held so protectively in her arms.

It played like a scratchy old black and white movie, reeling and clanking its way across the projector in her mind.

"And just what am I supposed to do with him when he gets bigger?" Micki asked, trying not to look at the tiny pup nestled in the crook of Dirk's arm. He sat across from her in the living room of her one bedroom trailer, petting the puppy he had rescued from a ditch and brought to her door.

She endeavored to keep her eyes on Dirk and not the little bundle. He was a cutie, all right, a black and white ball of fluff. But if she didn't look at him, or pet him, or reach out to take him from Dirk, then he couldn't wiggle his way into her heart. And her home.

"C'mon, Micki, he'll be good company for you when I'm not here," Dirk responded. "And unless you change your mind and let me move in—or you come live with me—then you need a dog around. For protection."

"I told you before, I don't need you, or any watchdog, to protect me. I can look after myself." She looked at the puppy and smiled despite herself. "He is kind of cute, though."

As if he knew her resolve was weakening, Dirk sat forward to put the pup on the floor, mindful of the half-full beer glass left by his ankle. "He needs a home, and you need a guard. You were made for each other."

Gently, he rolled a brand new squeaky ball, purchased just an hour ago, a few inches away from the bright-eyed little border collie. With a playful bark, the puppy pounced on the rubber ball that was half as big as himself. Clumsy like all puppies are at six weeks, he misjudged his aim and rebounded off the ball like he'd been dropped on a trampoline.

Micki laughed, even when the antics took him against Dirk's beer glass. The next thing she knew, she had beer frothing and fizzing all over her trailer floor... and yet somehow it was all right, a memory made for a lifetime rather than a nuisance forgotten in a moment.

Undaunted, the pup reclaimed his feet and attacked the ball with gusto.

"I should call that little pipsqueak 'Fizz,'" she said, going to the kitchenette for a towel.

"Perfect," Dirk agreed, now playing tug-o-war.

Micki stopped as she came back into the living room with her cloth, watching as the man she had let into her life, and her bed, got down on his knees in the spirit of play. There was friendly growling on both sides, before human finally relinquished possession of the ball to a very determined canine.

Sopping up the spilled beer, Micki wryly asked, "So does this make us parents?"

Dirk smiled up at her, pleased she had accepted the dog. "Definitely."

And all was right with her world.

But when she returned from taking her cloth and Dirk's empty glass back to the trailer's small kitchen, something had gone horribly, unpredictably wrong. Fizz was still growling, but he was older, full grown, and this time he was growling at Dirk, not with him, and it wasn't in play.

"What's going on?" Micki asked, certain the smell of spilled beer still lingered.

In answer, Luke's Beretta materialized in Dirk's hand. "I'm sorry," he said. "I'm sorry it has to be like this." Despite his words, a smile curved his lips, the ruthlessness of it transforming him into some sort of monster.

Reynolds walked out of her bedroom, grinning as he delighted in ripping one of her nightshirts to shreds with his switchblade.

Two hands floated up out of her floor toward her, followed by elbows, arms, a body, a face. "It wasn't 'pilot error,'" Razor told her, his skin white and puckered by interment in saltwater.

He smiled at her, too, was transformed by it, and suddenly she was looking down at Luke. "I'm looking for a bulldog."

Micki's hands rose to cover her ears. "No!"

"I love you," Dirk proclaimed, then swung his gun back to Fizz and pulled the trigger...

***

She woke with a jolt, in an unfamiliar bed, with her breath catching in her throat and the echo of a gunshot ringing in her head. As it faded to merciful silence, Micki raised a hand to wipe the sweat from her eyes and the loose hair back from her face. Instead of being neatly self-contained in a braid, her dark locks now tumbled loose and wild about her shoulders. Still gripped by the horror of her nightmare, she ignored them.

Nightmare. That was all it had been. A nightmare—one with more truth to it than she wanted to acknowledge. Fizz was dead because of Dirk, indirectly or otherwise. So was Razor. And possibly even—

Luke! The terror that hadn't quite receded crested again. Where was Luke?

On reflex, she rolled over to look for him, but the movement brought a groan and a wince from limbs too heavy to move; the side effects of whatever drug Dirk had pumped into her. Luke was not beside her, even though she had truly believed he would be, still handcuffed and unconscious.

But the evidence that Dirk had been in that spot was obvious. The clothes he'd been wearing the last time she saw him lay discarded on the arm of a large soft chair adjacent to a pair of tall French windows. The sheets beside her were rumpled from someone having slept there, and the faint, familiar spice of his aftershave left no more room for doubt.

Slowly, Micki sat up and regarded the healing welts on her palms caused by the rowing. They had been cleaned while she slept, the bandages Luke had so tenderly bestowed removed but not replaced. Looking at her empty hands gave her a sinking feeling, as if she had lost something far more vital than bandages, some tether to Luke Hardigan that she had secretly cherished.

Next she regarded the slinky white negligee clinging seductively to her slim form. It was exactly the sort of 'girlie girl' thing she never wore, and the same sort of thing Dirk had always insisted she should. She still remembered the time he had bought her lingerie like this, and how she'd told him—firmly—that she preferred to sleep in knit shorts and an oversized t-shirt. Now it seemed that she had no say in the matter. Dirk had always wanted to control her, possess her...

Micki's cheeks burned from indignation rather than embarrassment. Dirk had taken advantage of her. Scowling, she launched herself out of his bed, too late realizing that such a move was a bad idea. Lethargy landed her on all fours on the accent rug covering the porcelain tile floor, and when she picked herself up to begin an unsteady climb back to her feet, she made sure she did it a little less brazenly.

Micki took serious stock of her new surroundings. The bed was huge in comparison to the small double she was used to in her trailer, fitted with ivory silk linens and adorned with plump feather pillows. A full canopy hung overhead, the decorative hand-tatted lace held up by four cherry wood columns. But apart from the visual evidence that she was in a bedroom, she had no clue
whose
bedroom. Certainly this wasn't Dirk's place, unless he'd done some serious remodeling.

The room was luxurious, with high arched ceilings, polished cherry furniture, and a second pair of French windows on the other side of the heavily carved headboard. These were open, admitting a gentle breeze that made the sheer curtains billow and dance.

Shrugging off her lassitude, she moved determinedly toward them. Outside was a marble balcony, which appeared to extend all the way across the outer wall to join the first windows.

Parting the curtains, Micki peered out. She was two stories up, overlooking a high-walled compound that was filled with subtropical gardens flowering in the sun. Three shirtless men toiled and sweated as they poured concrete for the foundation of what looked like it might someday be a gazebo. To the right, water babbled from a fountain that sat at the hub of four gravel paths leading to a pool, a tennis court, a huge lawn area with fruit trees, and, lastly, an ornate but formidable-looking iron gate. Beyond the gate and high compound wall was a rocky hillside that, in contrast to the manicured grounds within, grew wild and untamed as it ran down to a boat dock on the turquoise ocean.

Well, she decided, squinting at blue-green water that extended all the way to a horizon dark with yet another line of building storms, at least with that hillside she knew she wasn't in the Florida Keys.

When an armed guard patrolling the inside of the wall stopped to talk to the laboring men, Micki also decided that wherever she was, she'd definitely rather be someplace else.

The sound of the bedroom door opening drew her attention. She turned quickly, just in time to catch sight of another armed man in the hall beyond. Despite the wealth and luxury around her, it was obvious she was still a prisoner.

Dirk entered and shut the door behind him. The man she now and for always would know as 'Bulldog' was wearing white trousers and a white shirt, and looking like an advertisement for Mr. Cool Tropics. He carried a tray of fresh fruit and, noting she was up, threw her a friendly smile as he crossed to sit on the bed.

"I was just coming to wake you," he said, ignoring her glare. Picking up an apple and a knife, he began to pare the fruit. "How do you feel?"

"How the hell do you think I feel? You drugged me, kidnapped me, and..." She motioned toward the ruffled bed. "And I don't even want to think about what else you did."

"All I did," Dirk insisted, popping a slice of apple into his mouth, "was get rid of those unflattering clothes. They made you look like a vagrant."

The sight of him eating induced an empty rumble in her belly that surprised her with both its suddenness and its severity. She felt as if she hadn't eaten in days.

Almost as if it had been loud enough for him to hear, Dirk cut another slice and offered it to her on the blade of the knife. "Want a piece?"

Micki practically dove back to the bed, although ignoring the offered fruit. She didn't want anything from Dirk Jurgensen, much less to appear dependent on him. Instead, she snatched up a fresh peach and ravenously bit into it.

"I thought you might be hungry," he observed. "You've been out for over thirty-three hours."

Thirty-three hours. That meant...

"It's Sunday?"

Watching her in close silence, Dirk ate the refused slice himself. "Five in the afternoon."

A dribble of peach juice ran down Micki's chin as she greedily consumed the fruit. When Dirk affectionately reached out to wipe the drip, Micki firmly batted his hand away. "Don't touch me. Don't ever touch me again!"

Dirk scoffed. "I'll do with you whatever I like. You're mine now, Micki." He paused, masking his displeasure with another caring smile. "And I'm yours. I've made a new life for us. It's all going to be fine, you'll see."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?" Micki held the remains of her forgotten peach, now too furious to even eat. "Because it doesn't, Dirk, it doesn't even come close. I don't even know where the blazes I am!"

"Bermuda," he said, cutting another apple slice for himself.

She frowned. Bermuda was a good thousand miles from the Florida Keys. What on earth had possessed Dirk to go there?

"More precisely," he continued, answering her unspoken question, "we're on an island estate owned by a wealthy English aristocrat named Dominic Van Allen. I work for him—have worked for him for over ten years now."