The Millionaires' Club: Ryan, Alex and Darin: Breathless for the Bachelor
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She’d tried to concentrate on what he was saying…tried to connect with some semblance of time and distance, but the blindfold had skewed her perceptions. Adrenaline had ratcheted up her heartbeat. And fear had her mind reeling with possibilities too horrible to fathom.
Still, she tried to focus. As best as she could figure, they’d traveled for around twenty minutes before he’d finally stopped and dragged her out of his car. The hollow ring of the doors he slammed behind them as he’d led her through what felt like a laby rinth of halls and stairways made her think of cavernous spaces.
It had to be a warehouse, she finally decided. Abandoned, most likely, if the absence of heat was any clue. Yet…something…the smell…it was right there…but not quite. She knew that she knew what she was smelling…but like a bubble that burst just as you reached out and touched it, recognition kept eluding her.
“Get up,” he ordered abruptly.
She did as he asked, using the wall at her back for leverage and balance since she couldn’t see, couldn’t use her hands to assist her.
“We’re going to have a little chat with your brother. All you have to tell him is that you’re all right and that he’s to do what I ask or I’m going to kill you. Got it?”
Or I’m going to kill you. She got that part loud and clear.
She nodded, his cold-blooded words echoing in her mind as her heart jackhammered inside her chest.
“What’s his cell phone number?”
She thought, swallowed. “I…I don’t know. It’s programmed into my cell phone but I don’t remember the number.”
She flinched when he swore.
“It’s in my purse,” she added hastily. “My phone. It’s in my purse.”
She heard things hit the floor as he rifled through what she assumed was her purse. “How do you access your phone book?” he asked finally, and again she assumed he’d found her phone.
She had to think, really think about it, but finally remembered and told him. She heard the electronic beep of buttons being pushed, then waited, not knowing whether to breathe a sigh of relief or dread when it became apparent he made a connection with Trav.
At this point there was only one thing she did know. He had no intentions of letting her live. Whether Travis came for her or not, there wasn’t a reason in the world compelling enough for Birkenfeld to keep her alive.
Oddly, it wasn’t herself she was worried about as much as she was worried about Travis and Ry. They’d feel responsible. If something happened to her, they would feel responsible for the rest of their lives.
And she’d never once told Ry—knot-headed Victorian-minded throwback that he was—that she loved him. That realization finally galvanized her resolve. She decided she wasn’t going to just cower like a frightened animal and let Birkenfeld kill her.
Animal. That was it! That was the odor milling under the scent of antiseptic and dust that she hadn’t been able to place. My God. She knew where she was.
Trav was in his car, heading for a meeting at the club when his cell rang. He checked the digital readout, saw it was Carrie’s number. “Hey, bear, what’s up?” he said cheerily when he answered.
“I’ve got something you want, Whelan.”
Travis almost rear-ended the car in front of him. “Who is this?” he demanded, an uneasy punch of foreboding lurching through his blood stream.
“Roman Birkenfeld.”
Unease gave way to panic. “Birkenfeld? What the hell are you—”
“Shut up,” the man on the other end of the line demanded, giving Trav no choice but to obey. “Just listen. It’s like I said. I’ve got something you want, and you’ve got something I want. I’ve got your sister.”
“You son of a—”
“Yeah, yeah, you’re one tough Texan, but I’m in control here. You want her back, you’ll do exactly as I say. No questions. Do you understand?”
“I want to talk to her,” Trav demanded, breaking out in a cold sweat.
He heard a muffled cry—of pain, of surprise—and it damn near ripped his heart out. And then he heard her voice. And the tremor in it undid him.
“Trav.”
“Carrie. Oh, God, bear. What’s he done to you?”
“N-nothing. Yet. I’m…I’m okay. I’m…I’m tough. Come from good…stock.”
His heart clenched at her bravado. “Where are you, sweetie?”
“I…Nathan…I mean, Roman…he blindfolded me. Trav…I love you. Always…remember Fort Worth—”
Birkenfeld yanked the phone from her from her hand. “This is all very touching,” he broke in, cutting her off, “but now we’ve got business, Whelan. And so you know…she’s dead or as good as if you don’t follow my instructions to the letter.”
“You put so much as a bruise on her—”
“You are not in a position to be issuing ultimatums!” Birkenfeld yelled, sounding on the edge and on the brink of toppling over. “One more word and you will never see her alive again.”
Trav bit his tongue and swore that he’d rip the bastard limb from limb when he found him. If he found him. Until he did, he had little choice but to play Birkenfeld’s game.
“Better,” Birkenfeld said. “Now, this is what’s going to happen.”
Nine
Ry had felt helpless before. When you were flat on your back on a rodeo arena floor, waiting out your fate as a thousand pounds of pissed-off bronc bucked and rolled above you and one hoof strike could end your career—or worse, your life—you were on intimate terms with helpless. On one or two dicey TCC missions, when he’d been caught in a wait-and-see situation while his brain screamed for decisive action, he’d understood the power of that seemingly benign word.
But he’d never breathed helplessness, tasted it, lived it like he had in the moments since Travis had called together him and the two other TCC members involved in Natalie’s case and broken the worst possible news.
Roman Birkenfeld, the man they’d all thought was Nathan Beldon, the man who had tried to kill Natalie and steal her baby, was holding Carrie hostage.
Carrie. The little girl he’d watched grow into a beautiful woman. The woman he’d wanted and tried to keep away from. The woman he’d finally made incredible love with. The woman he just might damn well be in love with.
“Go over it again,” he demanded of Trav as he, Alex Kent and Darin ibn Shakir gathered, grim-faced around a conference table in a private meeting room in the back of the club. “There’s got to be something…something we’re missing, damn it, that will lead us to her.”
Darin exchanged a look with Alex that relayed what all four men were thinking. Birkenfeld had lost it. He’d kidnapped Carrie and then contacted Travis, demanding Travis deliver the half million in cash the men had recovered the night Natalie and baby Autumn had literally fallen into their arms at the Royal Diner. He wanted the money in exchange for Carrie’s life. Trav was waiting for a call back from Birkenfeld that would tell him when and where to leave the money.
“The bastard has a real penchant for trading in human lives,” Darin said aloud.
Alex worked a hand over his jaw, his brows drawn tight. “Someone who steals and sells babies is about as warped as it gets.”
“He has no intention of letting Carrie go,” Darin pointed out grimly as he looked from Travis to Ryan. “You understand that, don’t you?”
All too well, Ry thought as he rose from the table to pace the room, out of his mind with rage and concern and drowning in that damnable sense of helplessness. “Tell me again exactly what she said,” he demanded of Trav.
Trav drew a deep breath, closed his eyes and concentrated. “She said he’d blindfolded her. That she didn’t know where she was. She said…she said, Trav…I love you.” He had to stop, as emotion lodged in his throat, choking him. “And then she said something…something about…remember Fort Worth.”
“Fort Worth?” Ry planted his hands on the table in front of Trav, leaned in close. “She was trying to tell you something. Does it mean anything to you?”
Trav shook his head, baffled. “Vacations. We sometimes took family vacations in Fort Worth. But that’s too obvious. Besides, he couldn’t have taken her that far…not this soon. When I talked to Stephanie, she said they left the library together a little over an hour ago.”
Ry pushed away from the table, paced the room.
“So what did you do on your vacations?” Alex asked, prodding further for some clue that would help locate Carrie before it was too late.
“Mostly, we went to the stock shows. Wait,” Trav said, stopping abruptly. “I remember something else now…when I asked her if she was okay, she said she was tough…something about coming from good stock.”
“Fort Worth—stock show. Good stock. Stock.” Ry mulled the information around in his head. Then he swore and headed for the door. “She handed it to us on a platter. He’s got her at the abandoned stockyards on the edge of town.”
Alex caught up with Ry, grabbed his arm, then released it immediately when he saw the deadly intent in his friend’s eyes. “Look, man. You can’t head out there half-cocked. You don’t even know for certain if that’s where he’s holding her.”
“I don’t know she’s not there, either.” He looked over his shoulder at Trav. “When Birkenfeld calls again to set up the exchange, stall him so he’ll stay put. And if you come up with a different location, call my cell. Leave Vincente out of it for now. I don’t want the Royal PD barreling in there with sirens screaming and spooking Birkenfeld into doing something really stupid.”
“Ry—” Darin tried one last time but Ryan was already out the door.
The three men exchanged concerned looks, but none of them tried to stop him. If he was right, he might be Carrie’s best shot at getting out of this in one piece. If he was wrong—then they were back at square one and Carrie’s life might not be worth the phony birth certificates Birkenfeld issued for the babies he’d stolen.
“I’ll get ahold of David and Clint and have them standing by,” Alex said, pulling out his cell.
Darin rested a hand on Trav’s shoulder. “Now we wait.”
“Yeah,” Trav echoed, staring bleakly at his cell phone, willing it to ring. “Now we wait.”
Carrie sat huddled on the floor. She was cold. Her butt hurt. So did her knees from when Nathan…rather, Roman Birkenfeld had pushed her down on the rough concrete. Minutes, hours…or it could have been days that had passed since he’d placed the first call to her brother demanding money and then the second call to set up an exchange location.
The part of her that had remained focused knew it had been less than an hour since he’d brought her here. Less than fifteen minutes since he’d hung up from talking to Trav a second time and arranging to make the exchange. The part of her that had always been pragmatic also knew it might be her last hour. Birkenfeld was crazy.
Between calls he’d ranted and raved even more about how Natalie was going to pay for ruining his nice, orderly little business. And how Travis would never see his child again when he was through. He’d even brought Ry into his lunatic ramblings, vowing to kill him for humiliating him.
She had no illusion that she was also on his short list of murder candidates.
And she had to do something…soon. She was still blindfolded, but oddly, her loss of sight had turned into an advantage. Her other senses were keener. Like her sense of smell that had helped her figure out what that odd mixture of antiseptic, leather, cow manure and whitewash was. Now, if only Trav had picked up on her stockyard clues when she’d spoken with him.
She could also hear things now she wouldn’t normally hear. Birkenfeld was rooting about in her purse again, like a squirrel digging for nuts. He evidently found the emergency candy bar she always carried because she heard the tear of paper and the sounds of him chowing down. Creep.
Then she heard something else…just the tiniest inkling of a sound…and immediately started talking to cover what she prayed were stealthy footsteps approaching the door.
“I have to go to the bathroom,” she said in a loud, desperate voice.
“And you think I give a fig?” Birkenfeld actually snorted out a laugh. “In about two minutes it won’t matter what you have to do.”
“You’re going to kill me, aren’t you?”
“It’s not that difficult, you know. Taking a life.”
Oh, God. Carrie swallowed and forced herself to keep him talking. “You’ve already killed someone?”
“It won’t go as easy for you as it did for Nathan Beldon,” he said, answering her question without actually addressing it. “Sadly, sweet Carrie, I’m fresh out of pharmaceuticals so I can’t just give you a little injection and send you off to never-never land. No, it’s going to be a little messier for you. Unfortunately, that makes it messier for me, too.”
“It…doesn’t have to be this way, you know,” she said, swallowing back her terror. “We have money. Much more than a half a million dollars. My brother is loaded. And I’ve got a trust fund that will make your stolen money look like loose change.”
“I didn’t steal that money,” he shouted, infuriated suddenly. “I earned it…not legally, of course. Certainly not ethically, but finding babies for willing buyers takes a certain amount of finesse and skill.”
“I repeat,” she said, swallowing back bile, “you can get much more in ransom from my brother if you will actually let me go.”
She heard the unmistakable sound of an ammunition clip sliding home.
“I’m really a little sorry about this,” he said, and she heard him walk toward her, his breathing heavy. “But…what must be done, must be—”
A loud crash split the air like a freight train. The unmistakable crack and snap of wood shattering…like a table breaking followed, then the thudding grunt of fist hitting flesh. A shot rang out.
Carrie screamed and pulled herself into a tight little ball, shielding her head with her hands, not knowing what might come flying at her—knowing only that she and Birkenfeld were no longer alone and if there was a God, it was the cavalry who had arrived just in the nick of time.
She didn’t know how much time passed as a struggle raged around her. Something hit her arm, and she curled tighter into herself, her heart beating so loud it drowned out any other sound.
Her world was reduced to a tight knot of fear…when a pair of strong hands cupped her shoulders. She flinched and tried to skitter away.
“Baby…it’s okay. It’s Ry. I’ve got you.”
Gentle hands worked at the knot on the blindfold then pulled it away from her face with tender care.
It was dark, both inside and outside the room that appeared to have once been a storage area of sorts. Her vision was blurry—from the pressure of the cloth, from tears of terror—but she finally put it all together and recognized the voice, recognized the scent and the strength of the man who pulled her carefully to her feet and into his arms.
“Ry.” She threw her arms around his neck.
“I know, baby. I know. It’s over. That son of a bitch is never going to get his hands on you again.”
She clung to him, felt moisture wet her cheeks and Ry’s shirt where she pressed her face into his chest. From the corner of her eyes, she saw Birkenfeld in a crumpled heap by the door.
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