Who the hell had kidnapped her? How long had they been driving?
Bomb scare?
Fear spread through her. Whoever had grabbed her had tried to kill Elizabeth.
What would they do to her?
She fought to control her breathing as her heart sped up, thumping in her chest. It was still light, she saw as she turned under the blanket. Sunshine was seeping under its folds. She bent her knees, poised to kick the thing off, then paused. Maybe she should stay quiet, listen to her captors. Get a sense of what was happening before she let them know she was awake.
There were two of them, judging by their conversation. Americans. Their voices had no discernable accent, not even a country twang. She wondered what they planned to do with her. By the sound of it, they were wondering the same thing.
“Step on it. We’ve got to go to ground. They’ll be out looking everywhere for us.”
“Then what?”
“Then we make the call. Tell Blaine exactly what she’s got to do.”
Avery held as still as she could, listening, but a moment later, the vehicle swung hard and parked. Two doors opened. Someone whipped the blanket off her, and the barrel of a handgun pressed against her temple. It was a Glock, she recognized. Walker had one of those.
“Don’t scream, don’t fight, don’t do a damn thing to call attention to yourself. You’re going to get out of the car and walk inside with me. Don’t be stupid,” a middle-aged man with the build of a retired boxer told her, his blue eyes searching hers. “You know what this is about. You know we’ve been trying to silence your friend. You know we failed. Trust me when I say I’m in a very bad position right now, which means you’re in a very bad position. Got it?”
She got it. Someone had put a lot of effort into stopping Elizabeth from testifying. Whoever it was wouldn’t scruple at her death.
“Come on.”
The man pulled her from the car, wrapped the blanket around her and hustled her up the steps of the house. Her updo was spilling apart, and she nearly tripped over the hem of her wedding dress. She struggled to shake the hair out of her eyes and almost yelped in surprise; they were still in Chance Creek, right in town, in fact, across from the Whispering Pines motel. A snatch of music filled the air. That was the Dancing Boot down the block. It was early, but from the sound of things they were gearing up for a good night.
“Inside,” the man growled. His friend, Owen—a tall, muscular man with shaggy blond hair—was right behind them, shielding her from sight of anyone on the street. The man holding her seemed to be the brains of the operation. Owen was the muscle.
She just had time to spot a small plaque by the door as the man pushed her past it. The Cozy Cottage Guest House. This was a vacation rental.
They hurried her up the stairs and tossed her onto a bed decked out in cheerful yellow, daisy-patterned linens, where she curled up on her side, her wrists aching from the tight ties binding them. Someone had put a lot of effort into this room, she noticed. If she’d chosen the place herself for a vacation, she’d be very pleased with how pristine it was.
“I need a bathroom,” she said. Maybe there’d be something in there she could use as a weapon—or to cut the ties that bound her wrists.
“For God’s sake,” Owen said. She noticed a bandage visible under the stretched-out neckline of his T-shirt—large enough to cover most of his shoulder. Had he been the one taking shots at Elizabeth? The one Gabe hit?
“Take her.”
Owen hauled her to the bathroom, cleared the counter of anything useful and shut her in. “Hurry up,” he said through the door.
She wished she knew how to concoct a weapon from the deodorant and bar soap near the sink, since that was all that was left, but she really did need to use the facilities, so she took care of that first. It wasn’t easy to wipe with her hands tied behind her back, especially in a wedding dress, but she managed it. She flushed the toilet out of habit and then wanted to kick herself as she realized she’d just lost any time she’d bought to be alone. The door swung open again.
She had to give it to the guy; Owen helped her wash her hands before hauling her back into the main room. A true gentleman.
But then he spoiled it by looping another length of rope through her arms and through the spindles of the headboard, tethering her to it.
“Sit down, shut up and watch the television,” he told her.
“You’re Owen. Who’s your friend?” She wanted to establish she wasn’t afraid of them, but it was a lie. She was terrified. One of these men had shot at Elizabeth. They’d probably shoot her soon.
Her throat was dry. She was a moment from panicking. Should she start screaming?
She eyed the weapons holstered on both men’s hips. No one would save her before she was dead.
“You can call me Mr. Smith,” the other man said. “Now keep quiet.”
She perched on the bed as best as she could with her wrists tied behind her back, scanning the room, trying to make some sort of plan to escape, but she couldn’t see any way to get past them, even if she could get free.
She braced herself for whatever might happen next, but Mr. Smith simply grabbed the wooden desk chair, moved it so he could see through the sliding doors onto the balcony outside and down to the street. Owen stood on the opposite side of the room, bouncing on the balls of his feet. Mr. Smith turned on the TV, found C-SPAN and grunted when he took in a screen that said, “Please stand by.”
“At least something’s gone right. They’ve cleared everyone out of there.”
“How long do we have?” Owen asked.
Mr. Smith
