Cold steel bit into his wrists. Sam shifted where he sat—which is where, exactly?—and felt the cuffs make another greedy imprint on his arms. He gritted his teeth, noting the sound of chains scraping against metal. The vibrations worming through his entire body and the deafening roar of massive engines combined with the hollowing of his hearing warned him he was on a plane. In fact, his fourth one. If he’d been counting right.
Then again, could be the same plane, refueled and they’d placed him in different locations to confuse him. Aboard the first aircraft, he’d been strapped into a cushioned seat. They’d progressively gotten worse from there. Now, he’d been placed on a Globemaster in a strap seat on the uncomfortable-as-possible transport.
They’d cuffed him on scene, stuffed him in the SUV—but not before he spotted a glimpse out the heavily tinted windows of Solomon’s car hidden down the road. As soon as the door closed, he’d been hooded and taken to a chopper—a private one, he guessed—that ferried him to an airstrip. Nobody talked to him as they secured him into that first seat.
He knew two things from this little seek-and-find game: One, they didn’t want him knowing his location or destination. But this wasn’t the first time Sam had been a hostage. He had survival skills beyond most men, probably even more than those holding him. And two, patience would deliver him to whoever was behind this kidnapping. Patience would help him connect the dots of this incident to Ashland.
Ash. . .
Faced with the very real possibility of seeing her again, maybe even face-to-face, fear streaked through him. Stabbed his confidence. Mutilated his courage.
What if she didn’t want to see him again? What if she was some sick psycho who used men and loosed them?
Sam snorted and shook his head. She might’ve been able to hide her real name, but there was so much about Ashland she hadn’t been able to hide. The meticulous attention to detail that spoke of someone aware. . .very aware of her environment. Of threats. The hunger in her eyes for companionship and understanding. The way she responded to his kiss. That wasn’t faked, not simply because she’d kissed him back or how she’d done that. But because of the heat of passion in her face. That wasn’t something a person could fake.
Distinct and obvious, the descent pushed aggravation through his veins. Would this stop be one of many more? He’d tolerated a lot already but his fuse wasn’t endless.
Tires screeched against the tarmac, jolting him forward as the engines and the reverse thrusters slowed the aircraft.
Ashland. . .sure hope you’re at the end of this journey. The thought of her not being there lit that fuse. All he’d put up with. All he’d endured. The punches. The way they’d walked him into a wall more than once.
As the craft taxied, boots thudded across the steel floor.
Sam stilled, focusing on his environment. More than one person coming. His mind played a quick mini-movie of him yanking free of the chains and breaking some noses then sprinting off into the sunset. Right. That would work in Hollywood. Not so much in real life. As the plane quieted, the chains around him rattled and a heavy whine filled the air. He guessed that a rear-loading door had been opened.
Grabbed by each arm, Sam was hauled to his feet. It was too much to hope they’d remove the hood. They guided him, steel vibrating through his shoes as he shuffled like a maximum security prisoner. No light filtered through the hood, so he used that to guess darkness had fallen. The familiar whine of a rear-loading tail filled his ears.
“Step,” someone said gruffly.
Sam went a little more tentatively and felt himself on a decline—the ramp he’d predicted. Shards of light stabbed through the fabric. Not sunlight, but bright lights emanating from certain locations. Had to be dark.
“Watch—”
Sam struck something. Tangled his feet. Hands chained to his feet, he pitched forward unable to break a fall. Hard grips yanked him backward, along with a chuckle.
He had the distinct feeling he’d been tripped—intentionally. Clenching his jaw, he pulled himself straight. For Ashland. I’m doing this for Ash. . . . Wind tugged at his clothing and pressed the hood against his face.
“Where is he?” someone shouted, their voice muffled by the dying engine noise.
“He’ll be here,” the man holding Sam’s right arm said. Voice gruff. “Eyes out.”
“Spend too much time and there will be questions. Can’t stay much longer.”
“You will if you want to get paid.”
“Since when have you been someone’s lapdog?”
The hand around his bicep tightened; the talkative guy was ticking off the thug.
“Hey,” someone said just before Sam was guided to the right. The engine noise quieted some more, both as they cut it off and as the distance grew.
The hood was yanked off, along with a clump of hair that felt like fire prickling his scalp. Sam winced and cringed, then immediately devoured his surroundings. Yes, it was dark. Sun had gone down. Lights on the tarmac revealed things that stepped into its beams but shadowed that which stood between Sam and the source. Taking in everything, he did his best to gain orientation. In the distance a smattering of multistoried structures stuck out of a semi-mountainous terrain. Thick copses of trees lined the hills. Far away but still visible, a hillside was lit up with golden lights. Sam’s gaze rose to the top of the mountain that towered over the rest to the ruins.
No way. The Acropolis? What the heck am I doing in Greece?