Make Me, Sir
Page 55

You bastard.
“We gonna have some time before the boat shows?” Jang asked.
“You think your dick's going to work by then?” Cesar gave a nasty laugh.
Jang touched his crotch gingerly and growled something foul.
Please let his cock stay limp. She stared at his crotch. As long as she was wishing, let it rot and fall off too. Please.
Cesar stepped into the cargo area, sliding a pistol into one overall pocket. He pulled the washing machine labels off the sides of the box, leaving only THIS SIDE UP markings. “Let’s get her loaded.”
He grabbed Gabi under the shoulders, Jang grabbed under her thighs, and they hefted her up. They lowered her most of the way into the box, then dropped her the last couple of feet, knocking the air out of her. Lights danced in her vision until she managed a breath.
“Tape it shut?” Jang asked, leering down at her, lips pulled back to show yellowing teeth.
I’m so glad I kicked your balls into your throat.
“Slap on a couple of strips to keep the top closed. I don’t want to fuck around with peeling tape off between loads.”
The flaps shut, leaving her in darkness. Her heart hammered, and blood pounded in her veins so loudly she barely heard Jang apply the tape to the top.
“Fucking shitheads, if they got delayed, they should have called.” Cesar’s voice came faintly through the box.
Take your time, boat. Gabi arched backward until her spine felt as if it would snap, and managed to touch the duct tape wrapped around her ankles. She inched a finger along the tape, swearing silently. The chain holding her wrists to her ankles had rolled much of the tape over, rendering it untearable. Dammit. I only need an inch or two—and a little time.
A cell phone rang. “Yeah.” Cesar’s voice. “Got it. Be right there.”
“They’re here?”
“Tying up now,” Cesar said, satisfaction thick in his voice.
Boots thumped into the cargo area, and Gabi heard the rattle as the back of the van slid up.
“Get the ramp. I’ll take her and tell them I got an extra,” Cesar said. “Have Blondie ready to go for when I get back.”
Dammit. Gabi wanted to groan—she’d just found an uncurled area of the duct tape. She ripped at it.
The box tilted, dislodging her grip. They’d put it onto the hand trolley, Gabi realized. She frantically tried again as things scraped on the box—straps securing it. The floor of the box came up, sliding her sideways, as the trolley thumped down the ramp. She heard a metallic rattle as someone pulled the van door down.
Soft tapping noises confused her. Rain? She twisted to reach the tape again. The cart rolled erratically, ruining her grip.
Eventually the grating of wheels on the street changed, and she heard the lapping of water. They’d reached the dock.
God, she was out of time. The cart bumped over something, tilting slightly, and she blinked. Maybe…
Motion stopped. Low voices.
Gabi squirmed until her feet faced forward, then rolled over her cuffed hands to hit the side of the box with her knees and head. The cart rocked slightly. She rolled back to thump harder into the other side.
The box dented. Cesar cursed.
* * *
The Clearwater Downtown Docks were way too big. Cursing under his breath, Marcus wiped rain out of his eyes. Thunder rumbled, drowning out the hum of traffic on the Memorial Causeway Bridge that loomed high over the waterside. He could feel time disappearing, and his gut knotted more with each unrecoverable minute.
How the hell was he supposed to differentiate a boat doing the pickup from an innocent one? Despite the weather, the place was busy—mostly Sunday sailors and those that knew a good rainstorm helped fishing.
A yacht chugged away in a billow of blue-gray smoke. He stiffened. What if Gabi was on board? If they were too late?
He saw Vance and other agents on the adjacent docks. He and Z had already been prowling the wharf when the FBI had arrived. Accepting the inevitable, Vance had given them assignments. Z to the south parking lot, another agent to the north to search for the cargo van among the daunting number of vehicles. After seeing the size of the waterfront, Galen had gotten back in his car to call in the Clearwater police.
Glancing at craft after craft, Marcus kept walking. At the end slip, two men in dark green slickers and jeans finished tying up their fishing boat. One stepped onto the dock and leaned against a concrete post, arms folded.
Marcus studied the vessel for a minute. Lower hatch open. Nothing showed inside. No noises. And he knew anything and anyone might be stashed in there. With a growing sense of despair, he headed back.
A man in overalls, pushing a box on a hand trolley, veered around him.
Marcus nodded to him and stopped after a few steps. That’s a very big box. He turned.
The man from the fishing boat stepped forward to greet the delivery man. As they shook hands, the box on the trolley rocked slightly, and one side dented outward.
The man cursed and slapped his hand on the box.
Fury raged through Marcus, searing the blood in his veins. He hesitated—if he yelled, the boat would get away. But he couldn’t risk them loading whoever was in the box…
“Here!” he roared, the sound echoing across the water. “Vance, here!”
As the men turned, he slammed into both, knocking them away from the box. They staggered back. The hand trolley tipped over, landing right on the edge of the dock. A cart wheel caught, hung for a second, and the weight of the box dragged it toward the water below.
God. Marcus made a frantic grab for the wheel, seized it, and yanked the trolley and the strapped-on box back. The cart clanged onto the concrete dock. From the corner of his eyes, he saw a pipe swinging straight for his head. He jerked back. The metal grazed his skull. Pain exploded in his head, and his vision sheeted to red. He lurched sideways.
From instinct alone, he managed to block the next blow, spotted another incoming, and kicked the man in overalls to his knees.
* * *
“Here! Vance here!” Zachary spun toward Marcus’s shouts. Hope outraced the rush of adrenaline.
A man near the end of the parking lot stepped out of a van to stare at the docks. Tank top—tattooed arms. Zachary broke into a run.
The man spotted him. He swung back into the cab and slammed the door shut.
Zachary tore across the lot. “Galen! Over here!” Too far, dammit, too far. The van started with a roar and backed out of the parking space. Tires squealed as the truck accelerated toward the exit lane at the end.
Zachary cursed. He’d never catch it. Sirens wailed in the distance—too far away.
Nearing the end, the van swerved sharply, skidded, and rammed into a parked car. And stalled.
What the hell? Zachary raced toward the van. He heard the rrrr of an attempt to start the engine. Through the side window, he saw the driver. Blood trickled from his nose.
A foot materialized out of nowhere and booted the man in the face. Two people. One in the passenger seat.
Zachary slid into the side of the van with a hard thud. He pulled open the driver’s door.
The driver struck at him backhanded.
Grabbing the arm, Zachary yanked him out onto the pavement. The man staggered, caught himself. Spinning around, he punched.
Zachary blocked the incompetent blow, seized his arm, twisted up and back. A crunch of bone and gristle—dislocated.
Screaming in pain, the guy swung blindly. Taking a quick side step, Zachary buried his fist in a soft belly. With an explosive grunt, the driver folded in half. Zachary rammed his knee into the guy’s face.
Another crunch. Another scream. And not nearly enough.
His knee had straightened the bastard up sufficiently for another punch. Zachary was happy to oblige. He channeled his rage in a fist to the ribs. The satisfying crackle of bones breaking, caving in—and the way the man’s eyes rolled back in his head—dissipated Zachary’s fury.
The bastard fell. Out cold.
The harsh snapping of gunfire coming from the docks tightened his gut. Marcus hadn’t been armed. But Zachary’s job was here.
He stepped toward the driver’s side. Cautiously. He’d recognized those feet, and his kitten would be pretty upset.
Blonde hair in a tangle, Jessica lay half-sprawled across the passenger seat. Hands behind her back. Duct tape over her mouth. Green eyes blazing. Legs up, ready to kick a man into hell and beyond.
Damn, he loved her.
She saw him, and her eyes widened. The look she gave him—fury and relief and love…oh yes, there was love there—made his world right again.
He inclined his head and smiled. “Rough day, huh?”
She choked on a hysterical-sounding laugh, obviously recognizing the question from the night they’d first met.
Swinging into the cab, he helped her sit up. His fury ignited again at the bruises on her cheek, the ripped skin on her wrists. But she was alive. Safe. He buried his face in her hair for a self-indulgent moment.
* * *
Gabi’d heard Marcus shouting before her box had gone crazy, toppling and spinning and swinging. Her head still whirled. Her shoulder sockets felt wrenched from landing on her cuffed hands. The box lay on its side, and cracks of light showed through the torn flaps.
Was Marcus really here?
Must get out. She inched her fingers down the duct tape again. There, an intact edge. Fighting the handcuffs, she managed to get the tape between her fingertips and ripped. It tore—oh God, yes! The chain, looped around the cuffs and tape, came loose.