Secret Agent Heiress
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Julie Miller
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13
Chapter One
“We’re here, Romeo.”
Agent Vincent Romeo opened his bleary eyes and studied his surroundings before ever lifting his chin from the pillow of his chest.
The Lonesome Pony Ranch looked pretty much the way his pilot escort had described it. Low, sprawling hills nestled between two mountain ranges. Horses grazing in snow-spotted pastures. A log house perched on top of a hill, surrounded by ranch buildings and guest cabins. Clear blue sky.
And not a skyscraper in sight.
Vincent unfolded his long legs from the tight confines of the chopper and stepped onto the concrete helipad. He rolled his cramped shoulders and tested the air by inhaling deeply. Nice. No trace of smog. His city-trained lungs would probably rebel.
He swiped his hand down his face and jaw, trying to shake the lingering fatigue. He could use a shave and a few hours of uninterrupted sleep.
But when the President of the United States summoned you at one in the morning for a special assignment, you didn’t say no. Even if twenty-four hours earlier you were finishing up a weeklong stakeout that ended in a messy gun battle, leaving one agent wounded and a hit man dead.
That could have been you, Vinnie. He could hear Melissa’s tearful voice in his head, even five years after she’d dumped him at the altar with that grand speech. Yeah, his job was dangerous. He put his life on the line every time he strapped on his badge and gun. But somebody had to walk the line between the good guys and the bad guys. Somebody had to make the world a safer place.
His father had walked that line. He’d known the risks long before that bullet had claimed his life.
Vincent knew the risks, too.
He strapped on his badge and gun, anyway.
“You coming, Romeo?” The dark-haired pilot who had picked him up at the airport, Frank Connolly, was already striding down the hill to a battered tan pickup truck.
Obviously fit and strong, Connolly’s uneven gait piqued Vincent’s curiosity. Like his father, had Connolly, too, been struck down in the line of duty?
Vincent didn’t ask. He wasn’t here to indulge his curiosity or to make friends.
He was here to do a job.
Tucking memories and philosophizing neatly away where they couldn’t distract him, Vincent reached behind his seat to retrieve his gear. He traveled light. He already carried the important stuff, either on his person or inside his head. But it paid to be prepared for any contingency. He slung the black nylon duffel bag over his shoulder, and joined Connolly in the truck.
As they pulled up in front of the ranch house, a blond-haired man opened the screen door and stepped onto the porch. The weight of authority he carried on his shoulders easily identified him as the boss of this operation. He crossed to the top of the steps and waited for Vincent to approach.
By the time Vincent had set his bag on the wooden bench beside the front door, the boss had been joined by Connolly and two other men, who introduced themselves as Court Brody and Patrick McMurty.
The boss introduced himself last. “Daniel Austin.”
Vincent unzipped his black leather jacket and reached inside. He pulled out the wallet that carried his badge and ID and flipped it open. “Vincent Romeo. National Security Agency.”
Daniel glanced at the identification and returned it. His firm handshake welcomed him and urged him to get down to business all at the same time. “The war room is downstairs, but I think we can do this right here.”
Vincent handed him an envelope sealed with a stamp marked POTUS. “President of the United States, huh?” Daniel recognized the eagle logo, then slipped his thumb beneath the flap. “He wants to oversee this mission personally, is that it?”
“The hostage is of personal importance to the president.”
Daniel paused. His clear brown eyes sent an unmistakable message. “She’s important to us. And we call her Whitney around here.”
Vincent acknowledged the warning with a silent nod. He folded his arms across his chest, distancing himself from the palpable urgency of this unusual business meeting. He made no apology for studying the group of men as closely as they scrutinized him. Each man seemed at ease with his surroundings, at ease with the type of job they’d been asked to do for their country. Daniel, Frank, Court—even Grandpa McMurty.
Patrick McMurty was some kind of retired sheriff or military officer. The upright carriage and balanced stance of an alert man ready for trouble were recognizable to Vincent’s trained eye. According to the briefing he’d received on the plane, McMurty had been recruited to run the ranch and provide the cover necessary for the operatives to blend in with this part of the country.
Montana Confidential had put together a pretty fair team of counterterrorist agents. Having outside help to retrieve one of their own probably wasn’t sitting well with any of them.
Vincent shrugged off the observation, only momentarily concerned about treading on another man’s turf. His job was to rescue Whitney MacNair, not win any popularity contest. He focused his attention back on Daniel, who had finished reading the official letter. “Everything clear?”
“We’re to provide you with whatever backup you need. But you’re point man on this mission.” Daniel stuffed the papers back into the envelope. “Name it and you’ve got it.”
Vincent knew his list already. “I need a map of the terrain and I need to talk to the girl. I have everything else I need.”
Frank Connolly shook his head and stepped forward. “You mean we have no part in this? Kyle Foster’s cutting short his honeymoon to help get Whitney back. He and Laura will be here by this afternoon.”
Vincent recognized the name of another agent and his new wife, who’d been recruited to help expose collusion between the Black Order and an American contact who worked at her father’s research facility.
The Black Order was no ordinary adversary. Like any terrorist group, they despised the United States and its global domination. But their insidious attempts to influence and undermine the American government, as well as corrupt and frighten its citizens, weren’t his concern at the moment.
He had to bring home a kidnapped society girl. Let Montana Confidential handle the terrorists.
Daniel Austin understood that. He laid a placating hand on Frank’s shoulder. “President’s orders. The Confidential group is to play a support role only. Gerald MacNair, Sr., Whitney’s father, seems to be an old family friend. This is being handled out of Washington.”
Court Brody swore, clearly as frustrated by the red tape as Frank. “This is our territory. We know it better than any hotshot from the East Coast.”
“Chicago,” Daniel corrected him. Court, a former FBI man who probably understood the politics of Washington better than anyone there, seemed unimpressed. “And you do know this land better than any of us.” The command was clear.
Vincent absorbed the brunt of Court’s steely-eyed glare before he excused himself to do Daniel’s bidding. “I’ll draw up a map.”
Frank, seemingly a respected voice of reason among the men, turned his argument to Daniel. “You’re letting him go in solo? Chilton’s a desperate man. No telling what he’s willing to do.”
Vincent handled his own defense. “There’s one hostage, one kidnapper.” He added the next without false modesty. “I only need me.”
Daniel pocketed the orders. “What Frank’s trying to say is that Chilton’s unpredictable. He may be on his own right now, but he still has a U.S. contact we haven’t been able to uncover. If he somehow managed to make that connection, he may not be alone. You could be walking into an ambush.”
Just like Dad. His father had gone into that warehouse to save a little girl’s life. And because of his sacrifice, his partner had been able to bring the girl out alive.
Without betraying the wandering path of his weary brain, Vincent acknowledged Daniel’s advice. “Thanks for the friendly warning. But I’ve been briefed on Chilton.”
Daniel swept his gaze across the rugged skyline of snow-tipped mountains to the east. “Court’s right. This is Montana wilderness we’re talking about. You don’t strike me as a country boy.”
He’d had enough survival training and experience to handle just about any weather and terrain. But he wasn’t interested in sharing his résumé at the moment. Time had been wasted already. He pushed up his sleeve and checked his multitask field watch. “She’s been gone twenty-four hours. I think one night in Chilton’s company is enough for Ms. MacNair.”
Frank raked his fingers through his hair and turned away, taking the length of the porch in his measured stride. Daniel’s acceptance of the situation was more amiable. “If you need breakfast, Dale’s in the kitchen.” He shifted his glance to Grandpa. “Patrick?”
Patrick McMurty straightened from the porch rail where he’d taken a seat and adjusted his straw cowboy hat on top of his head. “Jewel’s at the corral. I’ll take you to her.”
Vincent followed him down the steps. When they rounded the corner, out of sight of the others, the older man wrapped his fingers around Vincent’s forearm and stopped him. “You hurt my granddaughter—you scare her in any way—I’ll turn my wife, Dale, on you with her frying pan.”
Gray eyes waited with deadly serious intent. Vincent could respect a man who guarded his family so zealously. He had brothers and sisters of his own he’d fought to protect. And nobody, but nobody, could say a thing to hurt his mother and not receive a visit from him.
“I have to do my job, Mr. McMurty.” Vincent made a rare concession. “But you can stay and give me a high sign if I overstep your boundaries.”
The older man released him. His sun-weathered face crinkled into a smile and he winked. “You could outrun Dale, anyway. C’mon.”
Vincent lengthened his stride to catch up with Patrick. He filed away that last remark to be laughed at later.
DANIEL AUSTIN WATCHED Patrick and Vincent Romeo until they disappeared around the side of the house. Romeo acted like a big bad loner and looked as if he should be guarding the door at the local tavern. What he lacked in verbal skills, he made up for in intimidation factor. In jeans and leather, he looked more at home on the back of a motorcycle, roaring down the highway, instead of hiking deep into the mountains.
But he checked out. He had to be the best, or Washington be damned.
Whitney might have been an annoying pain in the butt at first, with her self-indulgences and pouty moods. But she’d grown on Daniel like a kid sister these past months. She’d proved that she had some real gumption beneath that superficial veneer. He didn’t know what made her hide behind that bored society girl routine. But something was hurting in that big heart of hers.
Daniel didn’t like to see anyone in his family—real or adopted—hurt in any way. If he couldn’t fix it himself, then he’d do whatever was necessary to make things right. He’d walked away from his wife and son to keep them safe, to keep them from worrying and wondering if he’d come home in a box after one of his missions.
And he would step aside and let Vincent Romeo bring Whitney home. Because he was the best man for the job.
He looked to the far end of the slatted pine porch and saw Frank Connolly standing with both hands braced on the railing. He understood the kind of tension radiating from his shoulders, that inability to let go when you wanted to take action instead. This particular family crisis he could handle with a bit of older-and-wiser advice.
Daniel knew the sound of his boots revealed his presence, even though Frank continued to stare at some distant point on the horizon. “Don’t stress about this, Frank. We’ll get the job done. We’ll get her back. Why don’t you go home and check on that pretty new wife of yours. Don’t let this job come between you and C.J. the way I let the work consume me when I still had Sheridan.”
“Had?” Frank straightened and turned, the frown on his face reflecting his concern. “I thought Sherry and your son, Jessie, were coming from Maryland to visit you this weekend.”
Daniel propped his foot up on a bench and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knee. “I called and canceled this morning. There’s no sense bringing them here and talking second chances when I can’t promise her the time we need to work things out.”
“You still love her, don’t you.”
“I’ll always love her. I loved her when I married her, and I loved her when the divorce papers came through.” Just thinking of her long chestnut hair and sweet, trusting smile brought an ache to his chest. Frank had found the real happiness he deserved with C.J. Daniel didn’t want him to lose that. “I screwed things up with Sheridan. Don’t make the same mistakes with C.J. We’ll handle things here. Go home.”
WHEN THEY REACHED the circular corral, Vincent could understand Patrick McMurty’s concern. His granddaughter, Jewel, looked petite enough to blow away in a strong wind. Dressed in denim from head to toe, she stood just inside the fence, brushing the already shiny coat of a gray mottled horse. When she turned to greet her grandfather, he saw the unmistakable signs of red, puffy eyes. The girl had done her fair share of crying already.
Patrick climbed the fence and took a position on the opposite side of the horse, giving Vincent some space to interview the girl, but staying close enough to keep an eye on things. Vincent stayed outside the corral, suspecting his big size might frighten the girl. After an initial introduction, Jewel turned and kept her gaze glued on the horse, named Silver.
“Can you describe the man who attacked you?”
“I already picked him out of a book Daniel showed me.”
“Could you tell me?” he prompted. Surprisingly enough, the girl answered his question. Like a runner finding her stride, she warmed up to the idea of talking to him, and soon had no trouble carrying on a conversation. Her detailed description of the man and the attack fit the information he’d been faxed on Dimitri Chilton.
Good. If Chilton matched his profile, then Vincent’s plan was sound. “Why were you and Ms. MacNair up that far in the mountains?”
Jewel continued to brush the horse. “Whit and I like to ride. She’s good at it, though she says she prefers an English saddle. I saw a bear up there a few days ago. But mostly I wanted to talk.”
The quick shift from one topic to the next left Vincent with a need to pause to catch up. “What did you want to talk about?”
She looked up at her grandfather, seeking a reprieve on having to answer that question. Then she turned and climbed to the second rail of the fence, putting herself at eye level with Vincent. “It’s my fault Whitney’s gone. He couldn’t catch me, so he took her, instead.”
Vincent’s heart went out to the girl. She seemed to be carrying an awful heavy weight on those slim shoulders. He stated the truth, hoping to reassure her. “His intention was probably to kill you, and take Ms. MacNair, anyway. There was nothing you could have done.”
Patrick McMurty cleared his throat. A high sign. Vincent stepped back and tried to think of a better explanation. But he’d already missed his chance. Jewel’s eyes flooded with new tears. She jumped down from the fence and returned her attention to Silver’s bony hip.
Vincent took note of the way the horse balanced his weight on three legs, with the left back hoof barely touching the ground. From his inexperienced perspective, it looked as if Silver was standing on tiptoe.
“What’s wrong with your horse?” he asked.
“He’s old, almost thirty.” Jewel punctuated her words with a sniffle. “Oh, you mean his leg? He got hit on a farm road a few years ago. He has arthritis real bad. Gramps says I’m going to lose him soon.” Her shoulders lifted with another drawn-out sniffle. And then she buried her face in the horse’s side to hide her tears. “I don’t want to lose Whitney, too.”
She turned and wiped her tears away with her dusty fingers, leaving an endearing streak across one cheek. “You’ll bring her home, won’t you?”
Vincent looked over the back of the horse to her grandfather. Patrick’s grim expression challenged Vincent to hurt the girl any further. Vincent reached through the fence and stroked the horse’s nose, in lieu of touching the girl.
He’d do his job for his country, and for the twenty-six-year-old hostage he’d never even met. But most of all, he’d complete the mission for this tearstained girl who cared so much for her missing friend.
His promise was simple.
“I will.”
“I’M NOT DEAD.”
The observation squeaked through the parched ache in Whitney’s throat as she woke up. She tried to reach up to massage the bruised tissue at her neck, but a rough reminder pinched the skin at her wrist.
She breathed in stale, undisturbed air and opened her eyes to the dim morning light before remembering the source of the pain. Several layers of wide gray duct tape bound her wrists to the arms of a warped hardwood chair.
But knowledge didn’t necessarily bring comfort. Like a condemned woman strapped in for a primitive electrocution, her wrists and ankles had been taped to the arms and legs of the chair. She had no fear of being electrocuted, though. The ramshackle, one-room cabin where she’d spent the night hadn’t seen electricity or running water for years—if ever.
She breathed in deeply and winced at the burning in her chest. Combined with the rapid pounding inside her head, her achy body felt as though she’d been hit by a Mack truck…or thrown from her horse…or…
“Good morning, Miss MacNair.”
Whitney’s senses snapped to full alert at the crisply articulated greeting. The man in black.
Dimitri Chilton.
He lounged across the room from her in a battered recliner upholstered with ratty, mildewed plaid, with one leg draped carelessly over the arm of the chair. The front of his wool coat gaped open, revealing the steel gray butt of an oversize handgun sticking out of a holster beneath his left arm.
She’d attacked a man carrying that kind of firepower? Even the Department of Public Safety agents who worked at Montana Confidential didn’t walk around wearing weapons that looked like some sort of handheld mini cannon. The pockets of her jeans held nothing more dangerous than a tube of lip balm and a tissue.
Her pulse rate kicked up a notch. He could have killed her on the spot with that thing. He could have brought down Jewel McMurty and both horses, too. God, she was an idiot. No wonder her parents and brothers, and the men she worked with, thought she couldn’t look after herself.
With very little effort, she’d made a mess of things again.
A flash of white teeth in the shadows, and the bemused laugh that accompanied the smile, brought her back to the present. Whitney forced herself to breathe calmly, in and out through her nose.
Second-guessing herself now wouldn’t help. She had to keep a clear head. She dredged up the stiff-lipped pride that had seen her through tough times before. She refused to bend her spirit to her captor, even though he clearly had the upper hand.
“Where are we? What time is it?” She squinted through the shadows, trying to bring his face into focus. “Have you called my father yet? I know who you are.”
“I know you as well.” His crisp Mediterranean accent bespoke a man of education and culture. But the bruises on her body gave testament to his penchant for violence. “Your father will be contacted when the time is right. He paid good money to silence your embarrassing little scandal, no? You were whisked away from an important job in Washington to become a ranch hand in Montana. And you had such a promising career ahead of you.”
Whitney withered at the false sympathy lacing his voice. So much for pride. Even a terrorist from the other side of the world had heard of the pampered rich girl’s shame. “So you read the newspapers, too.”
“I wouldn’t be doing my job very well if I wasn’t informed, now, would I. I must make sure your father wants you back before I ask for ransom money.”
Chilton had hit her at her most vulnerable spot. For the moment, she conceded victory to him.
“Then what do you want with me?”
He slowly unhooked his leg from the chair and leaned forward into the dusty shaft of sunlight streaming in through a lone, cracked windowpane. Dark, intelligent eyes studied her with superior indifference. She relished a brief satisfaction at seeing the dark purple blotches beneath both those eyes. She’d broken the bastard’s nose with one of those kicks yesterday.
But satisfaction was brief. Something about his unblinking stare made her suddenly conscious of how vulnerable she was.
“You are my ticket to freedom and…revenge.”
“What?” For a few breathless seconds, she pitied whoever had been foolish enough to cross him. He spoke so matter-of-factly, as if he had already planned his enemy’s death a thousand times, in a thousand different ways.
And then she began to wonder just who his target for revenge might be. Montana Confidential? Her family?
Whitney sank back into the chair, unable to ward off the chill that assailed her. Every bruise and scrape on her back and arms cried out, each wound a tiny little voice reminding her of who she was and what she was supposed to be. Gerald MacNair’s little girl. She was simply a pawn in this madman’s game. Not Whitney. Not a woman. Not even a human being.
A pawn.
The first sting of tears pooled in her eyes. She turned her chin into her shoulder, not wanting to give Chilton the satisfaction of seeing her succumb to his taunts.
But he held all the cards. She could hide nothing from him. When she heard his footsteps on the dry, warped floor, she quickly blinked and tried to erase any signs of crying.
With the tip of his finger he touched the point of her chin and traced a line around the curve of her jaw. She cringed at the provocative touch. Violence encased in butter-soft leather was still violence. Her chest rose and fell in quick, panicked breaths. She felt the skin at the top of her breasts burn beneath his knowing gaze. “Is something not to your liking?” he asked.
Standing this close, she could smell the smoke and pine on him. She even detected a hint of musk and sweat. He’d been living outdoors for a few days, away from anything resembling soap and a shower. She gritted her teeth against the smell, and tried not to squirm beneath his scrutiny.
Whitney searched for an appropriate comeback, one that would make him remove his hand and gaze and smell without triggering his anger. Since she couldn’t very well ask for her freedom, why not try the next best thing? Escape. But she had no chance unless she could get herself free from this chair. The full discomfort in her bladder suddenly felt like a blessing.
Her heart still pounded, but now a surge of hope instead of fear spurred it on. “I need to go to the bathroom.”
He took his hand from her face and gestured around the cabin. “Do you see any facilities here?”
“I’m not too proud. I can go behind a bush outside.”
“Not too proud?” He laughed, a mocking, derisive sound completely at her expense. “I never thought I would hear that from an American. Very well. I will take you.”
He pulled a long, slender knife from inside his boot and slipped it between the bottom of her right wrist and the chair. With just the slightest shift in position, he could slit her veins wide open. Whitney sobered a moment. She wasn’t free yet.
But in a swoosh of gentlemanly style, he flicked the blade neatly through the tape, releasing her arm. As she flexed her fingers to bring circulation back into her hand, he snatched the loose end of tape stuck to the top of her arm and ripped it off, taking hair and skin with it.
“Ow!” she screamed, instinctively dragging her arm into her chest to protect herself from further pain. Purplish red welts immediately popped up on the top of her wrist.
“I’m sorry,” he mocked. “Did I hurt you?”
“You bastard,” she seethed.
But his dark eyes danced in gleeful retribution above the marks of pain she had inflicted on him. “I have been called worse. You may call me worse before our time together is done.”
With that ominous promise to dull her temper, he repeated the sadistic release on her other arm. Her leather boots protected her ankles from a similar fate, so she was able to stand without much difficulty. Walking out the door ahead of him proved a greater challenge. With the knife slipped neatly into his boot, he pulled the gun from beneath his coat. Square-angled and lethal-looking, it fit the length of his forearm and tucked into his armpit. With its snub-nosed tip jabbing Whitney between the shoulder blades, she lurched to the door and stumbled down onto the gravel that passed for a front porch outside.
Regaining her balance, she followed the point of his gun to a nearby bush. Once outside, she could see that the dilapidated cabin had once been a pioneer’s homestead or a miner’s shack. An area around the house had been cleared of the towering lodgepole pines that surrounded them. Over the years, brush and smaller trees had grown into a wild garden of sorts, covering any path or road that might indicate the way off this small rise.
Whitney rubbed her hands up and down her arms, adjusting to the damp morning chill, and made an easy decision. Anyplace was better than here. When she got the chance, she would simply take off. It couldn’t be more than twenty yards to the woods. She could easily lose Chilton in there. Then, once she was beyond the range of his knife or fist or gun, she would worry about finding her way back to the Lonesome Pony Ranch.
“Do you mind?” she asked, turning her back to him and unhooking her belt. He had stopped her at a shoulder-high stand of scrub pine.
“Yes. I know what you’re thinking. I will not take my eyes from you.”
The blood rushed from her head down to her feet. Whitney wondered if her shock at the accuracy of his guess reflected on her face. So much for escape. Holding on to what little dignity he’d left her, she dropped her jeans and took care of business, feeling the blush of embarrassment flood heat into her cheeks.
But while she zipped her jeans and tucked in the hem of her jewel-necked sweater, a new opportunity presented itself. The pocket of his coat chirped with a telltale ring. A cell phone! And if it was ringing they weren’t as close to the middle of nowhere as she originally thought. They had to be near a cell tower for Chilton to be receiving a call. Whitney slowed her movements and took great care to snap her jeans and fasten her belt.
“Yes?” The other party seemed to be equally brief and to the point. “I have her.”
Whitney snuck a peek over her shoulder, as if seeing him on the phone would help her understand his conversation.
“You’ll make the arrangements, then?” What arrangements? she wondered. She watched his nostrils flare with an impatient breath. Sensing his growing distraction, Whitney quickly finished dressing. “Fine. No. I’ll call you.” With the next pause, she sized up the shortest route into the trees. “We have an agreement, you and I.” Chilton’s voice rose with tightly controlled anger. “Don’t cross me in this.”
The instant he turned his face into the phone to make his point, Whitney took off running. She dashed through the bushes and clambered up and over a pile of rock before she heard the rapid fire of bullets behind her. She dropped to her haunches and scooted off the other side. Either he was a lousy shot, or he hadn’t been aiming directly at her. She doubted the first was true.
“Stop her!”
Chilton’s command made no sense. But she’d hit the low brush now. She hurdled a shrub and lengthened her stride, closing in on the treeline. More shots jarred her eardrums. The bullets slapped the earth beside her feet. Whitney stumbled, touched her fingers to the dirt and righted herself.
She pulled up short as another man, taller and thinner than Chilton, emerged from the woods, holding the same type of boxy gun, pointed directly at her.
Whitney heard her own startled breath rasp in her lungs. She shifted direction, splitting the distance between the two men, and ran the way she had in high-school track. She pulled away from her pursuers, hearing the static of bullets, coming close but never hitting her, like shouts from the crowd, urging her on.
She could see the big trees now, rushing closer. She put her hands up in front of her face and shoved her way through a stand of baby pines.
And smacked into the unyielding chest of a third man. Short and stocky. Dressed in black and armed like the others.
Feeling the burn of muscle in her thighs now, she backed up into the pine branches, spun, and returned the way she’d come. Five strides. Ten.
Another man in black rounded a granite boulder and blocked her path.
Four men!
Her abductor was not alone in his abandoned hideout.
Tears of shock and unwilling surrender mixed with her panting gasps, making deep breathing impossible. She turned. The stocky man walked through the pines. She jerked another ninety degrees. The tall man. One more turn and she faced Dimitri Chilton.
The circle closed in on her. Whitney’s gaze darted from one man to the next. Helpless as a rabbit trapped in a snare, she could only wait for her inevitable demise.
With a wall of men surrounding her, Chilton snatched her under the jaw, lifting her up onto her toes. His hard fingers dug into her cheekbone on one side, while his thumb left its bruising imprint in the other side.
“I grow tired of your defiance.” The refined breeding she’d noticed in his voice earlier was eclipsed by the thick accent of his native tongue. “I am not always a patient man.”
He threw her to the ground. The wrench on her jaw and the impact of dry, hard dirt left her ears ringing.
“Tape her and gag her.”
Whitney gathered her senses long enough to realize what was happening to her. She was aware of every hard touch and unkind word. One man bound her wrists, another taped her at the ankles. The third shoved a handkerchief into her mouth, thrusting her tongue back and pinching her lips against her teeth. He rolled her face into the dirt and tied the handkerchief behind her head, catching a few strands of hair in the knot and plucking them from her scalp.
“Wait.” Chilton punched in a number on his cell phone and knelt beside her. He ripped the gag from her sore mouth and pressed the phone to her ear. “Say hello to your father.”
Fearing some kind of trick, but brutally aware of the four guns trained on her, she obeyed his command with a dutiful whisper. “Daddy?”
“Whitney? Is that you?”
Hope surged through her at the sound of her father’s voice. “Daddy!”
But hope was snatched from her as quickly as it was given. Chilton shot to his feet.
“Mr. MacNair. It’s so nice to finally meet an American powerbroker like yourself. I think I have a deal you will be interested in…”
With a succinct hand signal, Chilton walked away, carrying all thoughts of rescue with him. Before Whitney could make a plea, the gag was shoved back into her mouth.
Without the blessing of unconsciousness, she endured the gut-wrenching dizziness of being tossed over the stocky man’s shoulder and carried back to the cabin. Inside, he dropped her with an unceremonious plop onto a dusty mattress in the corner.
Moments later, Chilton filled the doorway, an ominous shadow blocking out the sunlight. He snapped shut his cell phone and smiled at her in a way that made her skin crawl. “Your father sends his best.”
Then he looked to his men. “Return to your post.” Chilton gave the word and they disappeared into the vast and varied camouflage of Beartooth Mountain.
More fearful than ever, too confused to do otherwise, Whitney didn’t move away when Chilton knelt on the floor beside her and spoke. She decided she preferred his anger over this deceitful guise of civility.
“Now, if you are very good, and do not defy me again, I will give you water at sundown and take you outside to relieve yourself.” She closed her eyes against the hateful caress of that soft glove on her cheek. “But, if you make a noise, if you move without permission…I will kill you.”
Whitney nodded her understanding. When he slammed the cabin door behind him, she turned onto her side and buried her nose in the moldy ticking. She curled up into a fetal position, and let her own silent tears keep her company.
