“Are we clear?” he repeated, jerking hard on her arm for good measure. He relished her wince of pain. The confusion clouding her face was almost comical.
“Yes,” she whispered finally, and he could see she’d finally figured it out. He wasn’t playing around here. “I won’t scream. I… won’t run.”
“Because you know who will get hurt if you do.”
“Yes. I know. Nathan…I don’t understand. Why are you doing this?”
“My name is not Nathan. It’s Roman Birkenfeld, and other than that, the only thing you need to know is that I’ve had it with this Podunk town, this situation and the fact that thanks to your future sister-in-law, everything in my life has turned to crap.”
“Natalie? What does Nat…wait. B-Birkenfeld? But Roman Birkenfeld is the doctor who—”
“I know who I am,” he growled, heard the barely controlled hysteria in his voice and forced himself to stop, compose himself. “You are all so gullible,” he added, feeling another small power surge over that fact. He’d fooled them. He’d fooled them all into believing he was Beldon. He’d even fooled Beldon into believing he could trust him. He was superior to every one of these country bumpkins. But he was also as dead as he’d left Beldon if he didn’t get his money.
The phone call he’d received last night was very thorough, detailing exactly what was going to happen to him if he didn’t pay up within twenty-four hours. He had no idea how they’d found him, but the fact that they had was telling of the gravity of the threat.
Until a few minutes ago, he’d still been counting on Stokes and Carter to come through with the half mil Natalie had taken from him. But Tommy Stokes had just called. He and Carter had bungled the job of stealing his money back from the Cattleman’s Club—bungled it so badly that Carter was in jail, and Stokes, after telling him to stick his grunt job where the sun don’t shine, was headed for parts unknown.
That made Carrie Whelan his last resort. Big brother would come running with his money now if he wanted to see his sister alive again. Of course, he’d have to kill her now regardless, but Whelan didn’t have to know that until it was too late.
“Let’s go,” he said, tucking the gun back into his jacket pocket, then positioning his body beside and a little behind her so he could prod the snub-nose barrel into her ribs. “Just follow my lead. If anyone asks, we decided to go have a cup of coffee and talk things out, got it?”
She nodded jerkily.
“Your friend’s life depends on how convincing you are,” he reminded her for good measure and pushed her toward the door.
He was insane. Carrie was certain of it as she sat on the floor in the corner of a room that was cold and damp and from the echoing hollowness of every sound, empty. She’d decided they were in a warehouse…or a garage. Maybe. She wasn’t sure. Couldn’t tell. Once Birkenfeld had gotten her into his car, he’d blindfolded her, then taped her hands together behind her back and driven.
Her questions had gotten her nowhere. He’d just ranted on and on to himself about getting his money, damning Natalie and her interference, swearing how he was going to make her pay. How he was going to make everyone pay.
Natalie’s name was the only connection Carrie had been able to make. Natalie’s and Roman Birkenfeld. And that was enough to tell the tale. She’d overheard Natalie and Travis talking. She knew that Birkenfeld was the doctor from Chicago who had tried to steal baby Autumn. What she didn’t understand was how she fit in. Of course, considering that she was scared out of her ever-loving mind, there was a pretty good possibility she might have missed something. Something vital. Something that might save her life…and she had no doubt about it, her life was definitely on the line here.
She’d tried to concentrate on what he was saying…tried to connect with some semblance of time and distance, but the blindfold had skewed her perceptions. Adrenaline had ratcheted up her heartbeat. And fear had her mind reeling with possibilities too horrible to fathom.
Still, she tried to focus. As best as she could figure, they’d traveled for around twenty minutes before he’d finally stopped and dragged her out of his car. The hollow ring of the doors he slammed behind them as he’d led her through what felt like a laby rinth of halls and stairways made her think of cavernous spaces.
It had to be a warehouse, she finally decided. Abandoned, most likely, if the absence of heat was any clue. Yet…something…the smell…it was right there…but not quite. She knew that she knew what she was smelling…but like a bubble that burst just as you reached out and touched it, recognition kept eluding her.
“Get up,” he ordered abruptly.
She did as he asked, using the wall at her back for leverage and balance since she couldn’t see, couldn’t use her hands to assist her.
“We’re going to have a little chat with your brother. All you have to tell him is that you’re all right and that he’s to do what I ask or I’m going to kill you. Got it?”
Or I’m going to kill you. She got that part loud and clear.
She nodded, his cold-blooded words echoing in her mind as her heart jackhammered inside her chest.
“What’s his cell phone number?”
She thought, swallowed. “I…I don’t know. It’s programmed into my cell phone but I don’t remember the number.”
She flinched when he swore.
“It’s in my purse,” she added hastily. “My phone. It’s in my purse.”
She heard things hit the floor as he rifled through what she assumed was her purse. “How do you access your phone book?” he asked finally, and again she assumed he’d found her phone.
She had to think, really think about it, but finally remembered and told him. She heard the electronic beep of buttons being pushed, then waited, not knowing whether to breathe a sigh of relief or dread when it became apparent he made a connection with Trav.
At this point there was only one thing she did know. He had no intentions of letting her live. Whether Travis came for her or not, there wasn’t a reason in the world compelling enough for Birkenfeld to keep her alive.
Oddly, it wasn’t herself she was worried about as much as she was worried about Travis and Ry. They’d feel responsible. If something happened to her, they would feel responsible for the rest of their lives.
And she’d never once told Ry—knot-headed Victorian-minded throwback that he was—that she loved him. That realization finally galvanized her resolve. She decided she wasn’t going to just cower like a frightened animal and let Birkenfeld kill her.
Animal. That was it! That was the odor milling under the scent of antiseptic and dust that she hadn’t been able to place. My God. She knew where she was.
Trav was in his car, heading for a meeting at the club when his cell rang. He checked the digital readout, saw it was Carrie’s number. “Hey, bear, what’s up?” he said cheerily when he answered.
“I’ve got something you want, Whelan.”
Travis almost rear-ended the car in front of him. “Who is this?” he demanded, an uneasy punch of foreboding lurching through his blood stream.
“Roman Birkenfeld.”
Unease gave way to panic. “Birkenfeld? What the hell are you—”
“Shut up,” the man on the other end of