“Wonderful. Around four.” With a sweet smile, the old lady put her car in gear and continued down the road.
Vance strolled back to the house. Before he’d opened the front door more than a crack, Glock darted out onto the porch.
“Have a good day, buddy.” Must be pretty urgent feline business. Flipping through the junk mail, Vance stepped inside…and the world fell in on him.
* * * *
Why was he lying on his side on the floor? Vance wondered. Hangover? Hell, his head felt like an overinflated balloon, ready to pop.
His jaw clenched as memories trickled back in a slow returning tide. Mailbox. Cat. Letter. Nothing. Something was really wrong.
His heart sped up, increasing the throbbing inside his skull. Swallowing, he fought nausea silently. Blocked his urge to call for help. Didn’t move, didn’t groan, didn’t touch his head. With his eyes opened only a slit, he tried to assess, even while cursing the slowness of his brain. His thoughts moved hopelessly slow, like bubbles fighting to rise through a thick swamp.
He recognized the game room flooring. God knew, he’d spent enough time putting it in.
He listened, hearing nothing except the painful roaring in his head.
Fingers felt numb. Ah, fuck, his wrists were cuffed behind him.
Dread burst inside him at the sight of the heavy iron shackles on his ankles. Shackles. The chain connecting the shackles was looped around a two-by-four—part of the built-out bar Galen was constructing in a corner of the room.
The ugly realization worked through the murk in Vance’s head. Jesus fuck, he’d screwed up.
Somerfeld wasn’t in New York; he was here. But how the fuck had he gotten past the stakeout teams?
Please, don’t fucking let Sally or Galen walk in unknowingly.
Footsteps. In his narrow field of vision, he spotted the legs entering the room. A five-gallon container of gasoline was set down. The bastard was consistent, wasn’t he?
Vance felt his stomach clench. Burning was dead last on his list of ways to die.
The man made another trip out and back into the room. After Somerfeld ran upstairs, Vance kicked the two-by-four holding him. And again. And again. The fucking chain kept him from exerting much force.
And Jesus, his head might split before the post did. Half-blind from the pain, he halted when he heard footsteps coming downstairs.
Somerfeld dropped bedding in a corner of the room and went back upstairs.
Kick. Kick. Kick.
This time, Somerfeld came down with a full laundry hamper. After tossing the clothing into another corner, he walked into the hall leading to the office.
Once Somerfeld disappeared, Vance slammed his foot into the post again. This time he felt a slight give in the screws holding the post in place. Or maybe it was his knee fracturing.
Footsteps. Humming to himself, Somerfeld set a can of paint thinner on the floor and tossed crumpled paper against the walls. He was rigging enough flammables to ensure the building would burn completely. Wonderful.
The legs approached. Vance closed his eyes.
Pain burst in his low back; the bastard had kicked him.
“Wake up, asshole, or I’ll put a bullet in your leg.” The voice was raspy with a New York accent.
Not worth pretending. Vance groaned and blinked—and got backhanded across the face.
His head exploded with pain again, and lights danced in front of his eyes. Bad treatment if he had a concussion.
Hell, he probably wouldn’t live long enough to be diagnosed.
Meeting Somerfeld’s eyes set off the crazy bastard like Vance had lit a firecracker. “Fucking Fed. I should just—” A pistol barrel jammed against Vance’s cheekbone. “No. No, I want to hear you scream. And burn. Drew would want me to burn everything. Leave nothing behind.”
Somerfeld stepped back, and Vance released the breath he’d been holding. Looked like he’d live another minute or two. As his vision cleared, Vance stared at the arsonist. What the hell?
A long blonde wig curled over the man’s shoulders and down his back. He had on a frilly, long-sleeved top—something Sally might wear over her swimming suit. Nothing else was feminine.
His facial structure was like his twin’s, but thick white scarring ribboned down his face like a waterfall. One eyelid was shriveled, the lower part drooping.
“How’d you get in here?” Vance slowly sat up.
“Sailboat.”
But they’d had two agents fishing not far from the dock.
The scars twisted the bastard’s smile. “Your watchdogs let us come right up to their boat. All they saw was a pretty brunette in a bikini sailing with her pregnant blonde friend.” After patting his ruffle-covered gut, he pulled the wig off, revealing a shaved skull.
“Too slow to catch on.” Somerfeld mimicked shooting with his finger—one, two—and blew the smoke from the imaginary barrel.
Two women? One had been Somerfeld. “You have someone else here?”
Somerfeld jerked his thumb toward the corner behind Vance.
Gagged and hog-tied, a young woman lay on her side almost on a flammable pile. Her blank gaze showed she’d gone past terror into resignation. She knew she’d die today.
“Kouros is at work?” Somerfeld asked.
The bastard had been all over the house…but he probably hadn’t seen the isolated cabana. “Yeah.”
“Give me his phone number.”
Vance hesitated. Should he? Think, Buchanan. But his thoughts turned helpless circles as if lost in a forest.
Somerfeld turned the pistol toward the girl. “Wanna see her kneecapped?” A sickening hunger showed in his face.
“No.” God, no. But someone was going to die. Let it be me, not Galen. Not Sally. Could he manage to shout a warning or— “It’s 555-8023.”
“Good. When he answers, you tell him I’m here.” Somerfeld tossed the phone in the air and caught it. “Oh yeah, indeedy yeah.”
* * * *
Sitting on the edge of the bed, Galen cursed as his cell phone rang. Sally was in his lap. Her halter top was down around her waist, and he’d cupped a plump breast in his hand. All was right with his world and about to get better. Poor Vance, having to stay on guard.
Sally nipped his chin. “You better answer that.”
“Ayuh.” Shifting her over to sit beside him, he pulled his phone from his pocket and checked the display. The house phone? Maybe Vance had heard from the office. “You do realize I’m busy here,” he said into the phone as he ran his knuckles over the prettiest nipples in the world.
Sally made a hungry sound.
“Galen, I can’t join you at the field office. I’m still at home. I got jumped by Somerfeld. ” It was Vance’s voice. Thin and tight with pain and warning. “He has me shackled to the game-room bar, pistol to my head—when he isn’t pouring gasoline around the walls. Got his slave here too. Hog-tied.”
Christ. “Vance—”
He heard his partner give a low, painful grunt.
“God fucking dammit.” Galen stood, anchoring the phone to his ear. “Vance.”
“You killed my twin, asshole.” The grating whine of the unfamiliar voice sounded like a tile saw. “So I’m gonna kill your partner. I’m going to burn him.”
Galen took two steps toward the door and stopped. Don’t charge your ass into the kill zone. Need more information. “You’re at my house?”
Somerfeld’s voice had been controlled…barely. Now his laugh went over the edge into insanity.
Close enough to hear, Sally turned white.
“Buchanan’s got oh, about five more minutes before I leave and toss a match behind me. Yeah, by the time you get here, your good buddy will be black and crisp. And dead.”
The phone went silent.
Galen’s mind went blank as fear rushed through him, permeating every cell. God, Vance. No. And then his brain kicked in.
Sally had pulled her own phone out and tapped 91. Holding it up, she waited for his nod before punching in the final 1. A second later, she was talking fast. “I need the fire department and the police. An FBI agent is being held hostage by an arsonist.”
She had a good head in a crisis, Galen noted as he carefully cracked the door of the cabana. He heard her give Vance’s name and the house address as he checked outside. He saw only the thick growth of lakeshore plants.
Vance had provided the essential facts. One crazy man. Armed. In the game room. Two hostages. Vance wouldn’t be of any help. Gasoline. And less than five minutes? He punched in the number for the ones on the lake.
No answer. His jaw tightened over the grief. He’d known those men.
The lakeshore road took time to drive. The agents on the road stakeout wouldn’t make it in five minutes.
Think, Kouros.
Somerfeld thought Galen was at the field office in Tampa.
“No, sorry, but I can’t remain on the phone,” Sally said to the emergency dispatcher and swiped the display to hang up her cell. “What now?”
“My weapons are in the office. Can’t get to them—can’t cross the dining room without being spotted. Windows are locked. Vance can’t help.” Galen rubbed his face, thinking bitterly of the handcuffs in his pocket. Wishing for anything else. Pepper spray even. “Give Somerfeld time to react, and he’ll light the place up. I need a diversion.”
Vance strolled back to the house. Before he’d opened the front door more than a crack, Glock darted out onto the porch.
“Have a good day, buddy.” Must be pretty urgent feline business. Flipping through the junk mail, Vance stepped inside…and the world fell in on him.
* * * *
Why was he lying on his side on the floor? Vance wondered. Hangover? Hell, his head felt like an overinflated balloon, ready to pop.
His jaw clenched as memories trickled back in a slow returning tide. Mailbox. Cat. Letter. Nothing. Something was really wrong.
His heart sped up, increasing the throbbing inside his skull. Swallowing, he fought nausea silently. Blocked his urge to call for help. Didn’t move, didn’t groan, didn’t touch his head. With his eyes opened only a slit, he tried to assess, even while cursing the slowness of his brain. His thoughts moved hopelessly slow, like bubbles fighting to rise through a thick swamp.
He recognized the game room flooring. God knew, he’d spent enough time putting it in.
He listened, hearing nothing except the painful roaring in his head.
Fingers felt numb. Ah, fuck, his wrists were cuffed behind him.
Dread burst inside him at the sight of the heavy iron shackles on his ankles. Shackles. The chain connecting the shackles was looped around a two-by-four—part of the built-out bar Galen was constructing in a corner of the room.
The ugly realization worked through the murk in Vance’s head. Jesus fuck, he’d screwed up.
Somerfeld wasn’t in New York; he was here. But how the fuck had he gotten past the stakeout teams?
Please, don’t fucking let Sally or Galen walk in unknowingly.
Footsteps. In his narrow field of vision, he spotted the legs entering the room. A five-gallon container of gasoline was set down. The bastard was consistent, wasn’t he?
Vance felt his stomach clench. Burning was dead last on his list of ways to die.
The man made another trip out and back into the room. After Somerfeld ran upstairs, Vance kicked the two-by-four holding him. And again. And again. The fucking chain kept him from exerting much force.
And Jesus, his head might split before the post did. Half-blind from the pain, he halted when he heard footsteps coming downstairs.
Somerfeld dropped bedding in a corner of the room and went back upstairs.
Kick. Kick. Kick.
This time, Somerfeld came down with a full laundry hamper. After tossing the clothing into another corner, he walked into the hall leading to the office.
Once Somerfeld disappeared, Vance slammed his foot into the post again. This time he felt a slight give in the screws holding the post in place. Or maybe it was his knee fracturing.
Footsteps. Humming to himself, Somerfeld set a can of paint thinner on the floor and tossed crumpled paper against the walls. He was rigging enough flammables to ensure the building would burn completely. Wonderful.
The legs approached. Vance closed his eyes.
Pain burst in his low back; the bastard had kicked him.
“Wake up, asshole, or I’ll put a bullet in your leg.” The voice was raspy with a New York accent.
Not worth pretending. Vance groaned and blinked—and got backhanded across the face.
His head exploded with pain again, and lights danced in front of his eyes. Bad treatment if he had a concussion.
Hell, he probably wouldn’t live long enough to be diagnosed.
Meeting Somerfeld’s eyes set off the crazy bastard like Vance had lit a firecracker. “Fucking Fed. I should just—” A pistol barrel jammed against Vance’s cheekbone. “No. No, I want to hear you scream. And burn. Drew would want me to burn everything. Leave nothing behind.”
Somerfeld stepped back, and Vance released the breath he’d been holding. Looked like he’d live another minute or two. As his vision cleared, Vance stared at the arsonist. What the hell?
A long blonde wig curled over the man’s shoulders and down his back. He had on a frilly, long-sleeved top—something Sally might wear over her swimming suit. Nothing else was feminine.
His facial structure was like his twin’s, but thick white scarring ribboned down his face like a waterfall. One eyelid was shriveled, the lower part drooping.
“How’d you get in here?” Vance slowly sat up.
“Sailboat.”
But they’d had two agents fishing not far from the dock.
The scars twisted the bastard’s smile. “Your watchdogs let us come right up to their boat. All they saw was a pretty brunette in a bikini sailing with her pregnant blonde friend.” After patting his ruffle-covered gut, he pulled the wig off, revealing a shaved skull.
“Too slow to catch on.” Somerfeld mimicked shooting with his finger—one, two—and blew the smoke from the imaginary barrel.
Two women? One had been Somerfeld. “You have someone else here?”
Somerfeld jerked his thumb toward the corner behind Vance.
Gagged and hog-tied, a young woman lay on her side almost on a flammable pile. Her blank gaze showed she’d gone past terror into resignation. She knew she’d die today.
“Kouros is at work?” Somerfeld asked.
The bastard had been all over the house…but he probably hadn’t seen the isolated cabana. “Yeah.”
“Give me his phone number.”
Vance hesitated. Should he? Think, Buchanan. But his thoughts turned helpless circles as if lost in a forest.
Somerfeld turned the pistol toward the girl. “Wanna see her kneecapped?” A sickening hunger showed in his face.
“No.” God, no. But someone was going to die. Let it be me, not Galen. Not Sally. Could he manage to shout a warning or— “It’s 555-8023.”
“Good. When he answers, you tell him I’m here.” Somerfeld tossed the phone in the air and caught it. “Oh yeah, indeedy yeah.”
* * * *
Sitting on the edge of the bed, Galen cursed as his cell phone rang. Sally was in his lap. Her halter top was down around her waist, and he’d cupped a plump breast in his hand. All was right with his world and about to get better. Poor Vance, having to stay on guard.
Sally nipped his chin. “You better answer that.”
“Ayuh.” Shifting her over to sit beside him, he pulled his phone from his pocket and checked the display. The house phone? Maybe Vance had heard from the office. “You do realize I’m busy here,” he said into the phone as he ran his knuckles over the prettiest nipples in the world.
Sally made a hungry sound.
“Galen, I can’t join you at the field office. I’m still at home. I got jumped by Somerfeld. ” It was Vance’s voice. Thin and tight with pain and warning. “He has me shackled to the game-room bar, pistol to my head—when he isn’t pouring gasoline around the walls. Got his slave here too. Hog-tied.”
Christ. “Vance—”
He heard his partner give a low, painful grunt.
“God fucking dammit.” Galen stood, anchoring the phone to his ear. “Vance.”
“You killed my twin, asshole.” The grating whine of the unfamiliar voice sounded like a tile saw. “So I’m gonna kill your partner. I’m going to burn him.”
Galen took two steps toward the door and stopped. Don’t charge your ass into the kill zone. Need more information. “You’re at my house?”
Somerfeld’s voice had been controlled…barely. Now his laugh went over the edge into insanity.
Close enough to hear, Sally turned white.
“Buchanan’s got oh, about five more minutes before I leave and toss a match behind me. Yeah, by the time you get here, your good buddy will be black and crisp. And dead.”
The phone went silent.
Galen’s mind went blank as fear rushed through him, permeating every cell. God, Vance. No. And then his brain kicked in.
Sally had pulled her own phone out and tapped 91. Holding it up, she waited for his nod before punching in the final 1. A second later, she was talking fast. “I need the fire department and the police. An FBI agent is being held hostage by an arsonist.”
She had a good head in a crisis, Galen noted as he carefully cracked the door of the cabana. He heard her give Vance’s name and the house address as he checked outside. He saw only the thick growth of lakeshore plants.
Vance had provided the essential facts. One crazy man. Armed. In the game room. Two hostages. Vance wouldn’t be of any help. Gasoline. And less than five minutes? He punched in the number for the ones on the lake.
No answer. His jaw tightened over the grief. He’d known those men.
The lakeshore road took time to drive. The agents on the road stakeout wouldn’t make it in five minutes.
Think, Kouros.
Somerfeld thought Galen was at the field office in Tampa.
“No, sorry, but I can’t remain on the phone,” Sally said to the emergency dispatcher and swiped the display to hang up her cell. “What now?”
“My weapons are in the office. Can’t get to them—can’t cross the dining room without being spotted. Windows are locked. Vance can’t help.” Galen rubbed his face, thinking bitterly of the handcuffs in his pocket. Wishing for anything else. Pepper spray even. “Give Somerfeld time to react, and he’ll light the place up. I need a diversion.”
