Authors: Beverly Barton
Dead By Nightfall (28 page)
“What about the others?” Nic asked. “There’s another woman over there and she looks awfully young and scared and she’s about half my size.”
Jonas’s expression hardened as he grasped her shoulders. “When the hunt begins, you can’t worry about anybody except for yourself and your partner. Staying alive until nightfall is your only goal. It doesn’t matter what happens to anyone else. If you forget that fact for one minute, you’re in trouble.”
For a split second Nic hated Jonas for what he’d said. He’d sounded so cruel and heartless. But common sense quickly replaced sentiment and she understood the necessity of setting aside human decency and compassion. Today she would become an animal being stalked by human predators determined to kill her. At the end of the day, no matter what she had to do, she had to be among the survivors, she and her baby.
“I understand,” Nic said.
He nodded and loosened his tight grip on her shoulders.
A few minutes later, Vartan entered the barn and, speaking Spanish, issued orders to the guards. They quickly rounded up the four teams and herded them into the central courtyard in front of the house. Nic kept her gaze down as she stood by Jonas, her hands clammy and her pulse racing.
When she heard York’s voice, she glanced up, but kept her head lowered. Two men flanked York, both relatively young, one tall and fair and handsome, the other short, stocky, and dark, with the face only a mother could love. Each sported a shiny new rifle. Nic thought they were Ruger M77s, no doubt provided by York, but she’d need to inspect the weapons more closely to be a hundred percent sure. And she sure hoped she didn’t get close enough to either hunter to find out anything else about his weapon.
York and his guests chatted, their laughter at odds with the impending horrors the eight captives would soon face. At that moment, Nic thought about Griff and what it must have been like for him on Amara before each terrifying hunt. How had he managed to survive for four years?
Suddenly, Vartan shouted as he held up a revolver, aiming it toward the cleared pathway that led into the dense forest. “The hunt begins now.” He fired the gun.
Without hesitation, Nic followed Jonas onto the pathway, running as fast as possible. He stayed several feet ahead of her, but within sight at all times. The other six captives lagged behind, but two of the men were catching up quickly. For what seemed like days but was probably only an hour or so, Nic ran until her lungs ached, her feet throbbed, and her mouth felt parched. Jonas had kept them on the narrow pathway that snaked crookedly through the forest while the others had veered off into the jungle.
When she reached the point where she doubted she had the strength to continue, Jonas slowed his pace, reached back, grabbed her arm, and brought her to an abrupt standstill. Staring at him, she opened her mouth to speak, but he slapped his hand over her mouth and shook his head. She nodded, understanding that she shouldn’t make a sound.
Jonas led her slowly through a dense thicket of verdant foliage, their bodies pressing against the limbs, stretching them to the breaking point. Smothered by the oppressive heat and the cocooning coppice, Nic tried to ignore the panic rising inside her. Sunlight shimmered randomly high above them, the majority of light blocked by the towering trees, with only shards of shadowy illumination dotting the undergrowth beneath their feet.
Nic struggled to keep up as Jonas took her farther away from the cleared pathway. Just as she began to wonder how long they would be trapped in the lush tropical weald, the thicket gradually cleared enough so that she could see the savage beauty all around her and hear something other than her own frantic heartbeat. Forest insects hummed, the unique sounds blending together to create background music for the jungle. In a nearby tree, a couple of colorful parrots fluttered their wings and higher up a spider monkey swung from one limb to another.
Jonas slowed as he approached a shallow stream trickling smoothly over large slick rocks. He motioned silently to her and then knelt down on the muddy ground by the stream. He cupped his hands, delved them into the water, and brought the water up to his mouth. Nic joined him, grateful not only for the chance to catch her breath, but to be able to quench her thirst.
Without warning, Jonas grabbed her upper arm, hauled her to her feet and placed his index finger in the center of his lips, signaling silence. Her gaze shot from side to side as she listened for whatever sound had alerted Jonas to danger. The crackle of breaking limbs and the dull thud of footsteps plodding over the gray, mud-soaked earth warned them that someone was nearby. Was it a fellow captive running for his life or one of the hunters tracking his prey?
Jonas pulled her along with him away from the stream and through a small grove of Podocarpus trees, several reaching over sixty feet high. As the approaching footsteps drew closer, Jonas pushed Nic up against the three-foot-round tree trunk, fluted and twisted with age. With his lean body pressed protectively against her, her chin touching his shoulder, they waited. Silently. Barely breathing.
The footsteps halted.
Oh, God, had one of the hunters tracked them and now knew where they were? Was it only a matter of minutes, perhaps seconds, before he aimed his rifle directly at them? Once he had them in his sights, running would be futile. You couldn’t outrun a bullet.
The explosive rifle shot thundered through the jungle. A single human cry followed. And then another gunshot.
Nic clamped her teeth together, effectively trapping the scream vibrating in her throat. It took her a full minute to realize that neither she nor Jonas had been hit. She snapped her gaze up and connected with his. They shared an unspoken “poor soul” thought and yet at the same time she knew he was as grateful as she that they had not been the targets, that they were still alive.
Chapter 28
The Powell jet took off shortly after one that afternoon, their final destination Amara. The small South Pacific island had once been the scene of bloody, inhuman atrocities perpetrated by a group of extremely wealthy, supercilious monsters. Now the island was a vacationer’s paradise, with a luxury resort complex overlooking the ocean.
Even though she had not been included in York’s invitation, Yvette had insisted on going with them to Amara.
“Whatever he has planned for you and Sanders, I should be there with you, to help you if possible,” she had told Griff when he’d tried to talk her out of coming with them.
Realizing how important it was to Yvette, Griff had finally allowed her to join them; but he suspected that her presence wouldn’t be required. York had already put her through her trial of fire in England where her hopes of finding her long-lost child had been brutally destroyed. So now it was Sanders’s turn. Griff didn’t know what York had planned for Sanders, but he suspected it would somehow involve the two women he loved. Yvette’s child was her Achilles’ heel; Sanders’s weaknesses were his memories of Elora and his affection for Barbara Jean.
Griff opened his laptop, intending to spend the next few hours going through all the updated information from Powell headquarters concerning their ongoing search for Nic. But before he tapped the first key, Sanders sat beside him.
“Barbara Jean is napping,” he told Griff. “She has not been sleeping well lately.”
“I’m truly sorry that she’s being dragged into my fight with York.”
“Our fight,” Sanders corrected him. “If this man is intent on avenging Malcolm York’s death, then Yvette and I are equally guilty of his murder. Perhaps I am more guilty than either of you since I formulated the plan to kill him.”
“But I’m the one who chopped off the bastard’s head.”
“Enough guilt for all of us, right?”
“More than enough.”
Neither of them spoke again for several minutes. Griff thought of Nic. Always Nic. And he knew that Sanders was thinking of Elora. Always Elora.
Finally breaking their silence, Sanders said, “If only we could figure out who the fake York really is.”
“If only,” Griff agreed. “But knowing that he has to be someone with a connection to the real York, someone who knew him and admired him, perhaps even loved him, hasn’t helped us discover his true identity.”
“Is it possible that someone actually loved such a monster?”
“Another monster.”
“All of York’s closest friends are dead now, everyone except Yves Bouchard,” Sanders said. “But we’ve ruled out Bouchard. Rafe has seen the man recently. Whoever is impersonating York has gone to the trouble of having cosmetic surgery to alter his appearance.”
“He has York’s face.”
“And I suspect he is as psychotically evil as his namesake.”
“Kroy Enterprises was formed five years ago,” Griff said. “Harlan Benecroft and Yves Bouchard were two of the major investors.”
“Along with Malcolm York.”
“Which probably means that the pseudo-York came into existence around that same time.”
“I thought so, too, but so far no evidence has come to light to substantiate that theory,” Sanders said. “Benecroft and Bouchard could have simply used York’s name when they founded Kroy Enterprises. But we have nothing that irrefutably proves the reincarnated York came into existence precisely five years ago. He could have been around years before that or—”
“Or he could have come to life only a couple of years ago when we first heard the rumors about Malcolm York being alive.”
“There are too many variables in the York equation. The only thing we know for certain is that he is not the real Malcolm York. We do not know this man’s true identity and we do not know how he was connected to York. We can speculate about when he became the resurrected York, but we cannot pinpoint a year.”
“And we don’t know whether he is the man in charge and is the one pulling the strings or if someone else is the mastermind and he simply chose a willing participant to undergo facial reconstructive surgery and take on the role of Malcolm York.”
“If that’s the case, then the man’s true identity is relatively unimportant.”
“What does your gut tell you?” Griff asked.
“The same as yours, I imagine—that this York is no one’s puppet.”
“I think he really wants to be Malcolm York.”
“Yes, I agree,” Sanders said.
“Maybe he already believes he is the real York.”
The deserted thatch-roofed hut looked inviting, a place to escape from the oppressive late-afternoon heat, but Nic knew it was a deadly trap. Without slowing down, she kept pace with Jonas as he avoided the partial clearing and stayed inside the relative safety of the woods. Every muscle in Nic’s body screamed in pain, reminding her how badly she needed rest. The blisters on her feet had burst, leaving raw flesh rubbing against her cotton socks. Even though she had reapplied the native mosquito repellent, dozens of the bloodthirsty little beasts had left red marks on her skin, itchy bites that begged to be scratched. Pausing long enough to catch her breath, she gazed straight up, searching the patch of visible sky through the canopy of treetops. She couldn’t see the sun, but she did see streaks of scarlet and fuchsia overlaying the azure blue and suspected that daylight would soon be fading. Wildflowers grew in profusion in the jungle. Patches of orange, red, white, and yellow blossoms had flashed by in her peripheral vision while she’d been on the run for what seemed like days on end. Jonas had known which flowers, which plants, which berries were edible and they had stopped several times during today’s hunt to eat and replenish their strength. When he had eaten a variety of insects, Nic had passed on the offer to join him. She didn’t think Baby Powell wanted nourishment from such wild delicacies.
Up ahead near the riverbank, Jonas stopped unexpectedly. From where Nic stood several feet away, all she saw was the flickering sunlight dancing on the water. Jonas glanced over his shoulder, held up his hand in a Stop signal, and then stepped back far enough for her to see the body lying facedown in the mud.
It’s the young woman she had seen earlier that day.
Forcing herself to stay put instead of rushing forward to find out whether or not the girl was dead, Nic waited to see what Jonas intended to do. Using the tip of his boot, he nudged the small body. No sign of life. He inserted his foot under the woman’s midsection and turned her over. Nic’s stomach lurched when she saw that part of the pretty girl’s face had been shot off.
Jonas motioned for Nic to back up and away from the river. Just as she took the first tentative steps backward, repetitive blasts of gunfire erupted downriver, probably less than a quarter of a mile away. Apparently one of the hunters was zeroing in on the dead woman’s partner.
Every instinct Nic possessed urged her to help the other captives, but logic dictated her actions. There was nothing she could do to help anyone else. She would be lucky to end the day alive.
Nic turned and ran for her life.
Jonas caught up with her a few minutes later as they headed away from the direction of the gunfire. Without speaking, communicating with expressive looks and easily understood hand signals as they had done all day, not even a whispered word between them, they slowed their pace and trudged deeper into the forest. Nic longed for rest, but rest would have to wait. Jonas would let her know when he felt it was safe enough for them to stop.
She wondered how many captives were dead. Two that she knew of, one from this morning and the woman by the river. Possibly three or more were dead now, after the recent shooting spree. Without any set rules to follow and no limit to the prey they could kill, the hunters wouldn’t stop until the end of the day.
A two-word prayer replayed over and over in Nic’s mind.
Hurry, sundown.
As darkness descended, the hum of the jet engines lulled Griff into a quiet, reflective state of mind. He glanced across the aisle where Sanders sat with Barbara Jean, his arm draped around her shoulders. Over an hour ago, Yvette had reclined her seat, closed her eyes, and was now either in deep meditation or she had fallen asleep.
Tomorrow morning, they would arrive on Amara. Griffin had visited the island on a number of occasions during the construction of the resort complex, but he had not been back there for more than five years. He had leveled York’s spacious, sprawling mansion overlooking the ocean as well as the dungeonlike prison where the slaves had been kept. Every semblance of Malcolm York had been wiped off the face of Amara. Everything except the graveyard.
After killing York and escaping sixteen years ago, neither Sanders nor Yvette had ever returned. Each of them dealt with the past in their own way. Griff had chosen to face the demons and dared them to destroy him. He had fought the debilitating memories, had conquered his fears, and had found happiness with the woman he loved. Ironic that York’s “ghost” possessed the power to take away the one thing he now treasured above all else.
Without Nic, he had no life.
When he found her and brought her home ... ?
He would take her to his island where they had spent their honeymoon, where earlier this year, they had made love day and night, reaffirming their commitment to each other. But even then, rumors circulating in Europe about Malcolm York had concerned him.
Six years ago when Griff had purchased the Caribbean island, both Sanders and Yvette had questioned his reasons for doing so. He wasn’t sure either of them would ever understand. Owning the island, remodeling the old manor house, and creating good memories there had been one way in which he had tried to overcome the past. What happened on Amara had taken away a part of his soul that he could never recapture. In some odd way, being able to enjoy spending time on another island, one that he owned, that he controlled, proved to him that he could conquer the horrific memories of Amara.
Either you conquer the bad memories or they conquer you.
When he found Nic and brought her home, would she ever be able to conquer her memories of being York’s captive?
Falling in love with Nic, refusing to give her up, and then marrying her had put her at risk. Only at the time, he hadn’t known just how terrible that risk would be. From the very beginning of their relationship, he had been selfish. He had never been in love before, had never needed a woman the way he’d needed Nic. If only he had known then the price she would pay for loving him, for being his wife, he would have given her up for her own sake.
He could still hear York’s voice taunting him.
“I’m afraid your wife is unavailable at the moment. She’s still in bed with her lover.”
“I’m afraid your wife is unavailable at the moment. She’s still in bed with her lover.”
If Nic had been forced to have sex with another man, Griffin knew they were not lovers, no more than he and Yvette had been. But he also understood that, in time, Nic might bond with this man, as he had bonded with Yvette. The thought of another man touching her, having sex with her, sharing the horrors of captivity with her enraged Griff.
Now he truly understood how Nic must have felt when he had finally told her the complete truth about his relationship with Yvette.
If you’re out there, God, please listen.
This man, whoever he is, help him protect Nic.
Griff ached deep inside. Deeper than his heart. Soul deep.
York had sent Nic out today, to be hunted down as if she were an animal.
I don’t want her upset, not today of all days. She and her partner are participating in her first hunt. It should be quite an experience for her.
I don’t want her upset, not today of all days. She and her partner are participating in her first hunt. It should be quite an experience for her.
Nic was smart. She was in excellent physical condition. She was a survivor. And York wouldn’t want her to die this soon. Griff had to believe that all those pluses added up to Nic having a damn good chance of surviving the hunt and being alive at the end of the day.
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