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Cecily struggled to sit up, no easy feat with her hands bound behind her, pain shooting through her head and ribcage every time she moved. Whoever was on the other side of the wall had seemed friendly—or at least not another of her captors—and she inched herself off the mattress, hunched along like a caterpillar toward the wall. During her pauses waiting for the pain to ease, she worked on the tape across her mouth.
Was it loosening? Breathing through her mouth seemed to be getting easier. Without her hands or any other tools, loose or not, pulling it off wasn’t going to happen. Wriggling her wrists or jerking her legs hadn’t given her even half an inch more mobility. Damn duct tape. She was so not going to watch “MacGyver” reruns ever again. Getting her hands in front of her hadn’t worked—her reward had been a pulled shoulder muscle.
She inhaled, then resumed her caterpillar crawl toward the wall. How long had she been at this? The wall hardly seemed any closer.
Rapid footfalls down the stairs sent her into a heart-pounding panic. Should she sacrifice every bit of progress she’d made, get back to the mattress so she’d appear compliant? God, she didn’t want to make them mad again.
Voices rumbled, getting louder. She couldn’t grasp the words, but the anger was obvious.
Please. She didn’t know if she could take another beating.
What was she thinking? Giving up? No way. She would find these creeps and make the rest of their lives a living hell.
The door opened. The big bald brute grabbed her and flung her over his shoulder again. The blood rushing to her head intensified the throbbing. She blinked away tears. Crying in front of these creeps was not an option.
She was carried into the garage, and abruptly dumped into the trunk of a car. Again. Baldy didn’t close the trunk. He didn’t leave, either. People approached. She strained to see. Two men. A stocky Latino. Rico? A tall Asian. Chang? A smaller one supported between them, unsteady on his feet. Hairless. Duct tape across his mouth, hands behind his back. Big Baldy shoved Cecily to one side of the trunk as the other two men paused. One stepped away for a few seconds and returned with a roll of duct tape. Once they’d bound the little bald guy’s ankles, they hoisted him into the trunk.
Cecily struggled, for all the good it did. The tall Asian guy winked at her, grabbed her arm. A quick, sharp pain. The trunk slammed. Darkness. What had he drugged her with? Odds were her trunk mate had already been drugged.
A calmness flowed over her, but she was still conscious. As if everything was far away. Floating. Drifting.
The car wasn’t moving. Were they going to be left here to die? Made no sense—they could have left her in that room with the same result.
Their heated discussion continued, carrying through the closed trunk. Cecily fought the drug, struggled to hear the distorted voices.
“We need to go. The cops will be here, no thanks to Ray.” Flesh hitting flesh. A grunt. “You are most fortunate I have friends where it matters.”
“What are we doing with them?”
“Dump them. The usual place.”
“Too many bodies together is not good. What if they are found?”
“They are bound. It will not look like an accident.”
“Shut up. All of you. We will take them to Rampart, but not near the other site. We throw them in the reservoir after we take off their bindings. They will drown. It will look like an overdose.”
“We shouldn’t kill them first?”
“You are an idiot, Ray. I wonder if I should let you meet the same fate.”
Cecily felt herself losing consciousness. Would the cops get here before these three finished arguing?
The garage door rumbled. The car’s engine thrummed beneath her.
The car moved backward, then stopped with a jerk.
“Fuck,” one of the voices said. “Someone’s coming.”
The car moved forward. Stopped. Cecily was battered against the trunk, colliding with her limp companion. Another rumble from the garage door.
Bryce eased from the curb, resisting the urge to peel away and barrel down the road. Frank’s voice came through his earpiece. “Divert to front. Cottonwood entrance. Targets trying to escape.”
“Do not engage,” Derek said. “We’re seconds away.”
To hell with stealth. Bryce floored it, took the turn on two wheels, and spotted the For Sale by Owner sign two houses in. He spun into the semi-circular drive. Frank moved from behind a tall clump of ornamental grass, stepping toward the pickup. The garage door stopped mid ascent and reversed course. They’d been spotted.
To hell with waiting. Bryce had done enough of that for one day.
He leaped out of the car and, blasting past Frank, ducked and rolled under the gap.
He drew his weapon and scooted to the side of the garage, out of harm’s way should the car try to back up and crush him against the door.
Okay, now what? Assuming—never a wise move—their intel was right, Bryce was now in a closed garage with—he squinted into the car—three bad guys. Or, if their intel was wrong, he might be interrupting a Realtor showing a property.
A tall Asian man emerged from the passenger door, wielding a knife and a devilish grin, making Bryce’s first assumption the right one. The rings on the man’s fingers clinched it. “You must be Xiang,” he said.
“Who I am is of no concern of yours. Your concern should be for yourself.” Xiang raised the knife, running a finger across the blade. “Perhaps you would like to meet my friend.”
The vehicle between them put Bryce out of Xiang’s reach, and Bryce had no desire to revisit his last encounter with a knife-carrying nutjob.
“Don’t bring a knife to a gunfight,” Bryce said under his breath, and raised his weapon. He returned Xiang’s grin. “And perhaps you would like to meet mine. Put the knife on the car. Slow and easy.”
“You will be dead. You must know I am not alone.”
The side garage door easing open made Bryce smile. “Neither am I.”
Tim and Frank burst through the door. Frank had his handgun aimed at the backseat window. Tim had his rifle. Derek, Bryce knew, would be covering the front in case these dirtbags managed to get through the house and make a run for it—or if there was someone still inside.
Xiang set his knife on the roof of the car and raised his hands. Frank stepped in and cuffed his hands behind his back, threw him to the floor and secured his ankles, followed by throwing his hands up like a calf roper signaling for time.
Tim nodded to Bryce, who pounded on the roof of the car. “Driver. Weapons out of the car.”
Tim’s rifle pointed at the man’s head drove the request home.
“The windows will not open,” the driver said. “The engine is off.”
“Bullshit,” Tim said. “This is a new fancy-ass model. Press the accessory button.”
After a moment, the window burred down, and a Glock clattered to the garage floor. Bryce secured it. “Out of the car. Hands where I can see them.”
The man—Enrique, Bryce reckoned—stepped out, a smug expression on his face. As if this was all some routine game, one minor setback. He shrugged. “As you wish.”
Tim had him secured as efficiently as Frank had restrained Xiang, and Bryce dealt with the man in the backseat. The neighbor’s genie.
“Just like old times, right boys?” Tim said.
Not that Bryce wanted to revisit them, but yes, trussing bad guys did give one a rush.
The whole process had taken under two minutes, Bryce estimated. They lined their captives up against a garage wall. Frank radioed Derek that he and Tim would be coming through the house to make sure it was clear.
Bryce rested a hip on the trunk of the car, watching over the captives. He gave each of them a narrow-eyed stare. “Where’s Cecily?”
The three men exchanged glances. Enrique seemed to be the spokesman for the group. He returned Bryce’s stare, still with that smug expression. “I know nobody by that name.” Bryce caught the quick downward flicker of the man’s eyes.
Crap. After a rapid check to make sure all three men were secured, Bryce reached into the car and sought the trunk release. Why weren’t all vehicles required to put them in the same place?
Precious seconds ticked by before he found it, yanked it, and heard the pop of the trunk behind him. Weapon trained on the rear of the car, Bryce stood off to the side and raised the trunk. Nothing. Nobody emerged. No sounds. He stepped around and peered inside at two curled up bodies. Long chestnut hair and familiar clothes identified one for him. Cecily. The other, curled into a ball, he didn’t recognize.
Bryce hadn’t prayed in a long time, but he sent silent messages heavenward. Let them be alive.
He reached for Cecily’s neck, feeling for a pulse. He keyed his radio. “Call 911. We need an ambulance.”
Derek, Frank, and Tim appeared through the door from the house.
“It’s Cecily,” Bryce said, securing his weapon.
Derek rushed over and reached for his sister. “Who’s the other one?”
Bryce chastised himself for being totally focused on Cecily. He—reluctantly—let Derek attend to his sister while he checked on the other captive. A pulse. A quick thanks to the heavens. Bryce carefully lifted him from the trunk and set him on the garage floor, giving Derek room to work.
Tim gave a low whistle. “Well, I’ll be damned. What the hell happened to Grady?”