CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

“Then tell me what happened,” Murphy demanded somewhere off in the ether. “Because no one—NO ONE!—should’ve been able to find this place. It’s not on any maps, damn it! Not a one!”

Cuss, cuss. Swear, swear. Murphy was one angry son-of-a-bitch. He kept stabbing at Jordan’s chest. Jordan kept backing up. Didn’t seem to matter. Murphy clearly wanted to fight someone. “Pull your head out of your ass, Hannigan. Are you a black operator or not! You were supposed to keep her safe, not let them get her.”

Eric lifted his head, dizzy, and not sure why it felt as if it had split wide open and all his brains were poured out. He pushed up from the bed, needing to know what had pissed Murphy off. His words kept rolling in Eric’s skull like a penny in one of those department store games that goes around and around.

Keep her safe.

Keep her safe.

Keep her safe.

“Shea!” He jumped to his feet. Not a good idea. The floor bucked beneath him, but he stayed upright. Clinging to the wall, but good enough. “Where is she?”

Murphy turned on him. “Why the hell did you have her outside? What are you, Superman? Hell, I almost lost you, too. Could’ve lost all three of you damned stupid kids! What were you thinking?”

Eric had no answer. Murphy needed to pick a spot and hold still. Jordan, too. The two of them kept bobbing like prizefighters. It took a few seconds to realize that he was the problem. Dropping to his knees, Eric rolled to his butt before he fell down. He’d been shot, his hard head grazed. Upper left quadrant. Stitches. Ice pack. Painkillers.

“Where is she?” he bellowed until his head split wider at the sound of his own roar.

Murphy crouched at his side. “Now, take it easy, son. You’ve been shot and—”

“Where is she?” Eric demanded more quietly, sick of the bullshit. “Tell me.”

Sucking in a deep breath, Murphy let it go in a huff. “She’s gone, damn it. I’m sorry, but she’s gone, and I don’t have a stinkin’ idea where they’ve taken her.”

“Who did it?”

Murphy lowered his gaze to the floor. “I don’t rightly know, son. Jordan tried to stop the car. Mercedes. SUV. V-8. Bronze.”

“You get a plate?” Eric knew better than to ask.

Jordan hadn’t yet shaken off the effects of the truth serum overdose. He shook his head, his eyes wide with guilt. “I got to her as soon as I heard the gunshot, but he already had her inside the car.”

“Who, damn it?”

“A big guy. Mideastern. Dark skinned like… like…”

Shit. “Like Abdul-Mutaal?” Eric asked, his voice thin and brittle.

“Yes,” Jordan croaked. “Only I don’t think it was him. Look.” He handed Murphy a dried piece of a branch and Murphy passed it to Eric.

Something tan smudged one whole side of it. “What is this?”

“Grease paint. You know. Make-up,” Jordan answered. “Whoever that bastard is, he just wants us to think he’s Mideastern. Whoever killed your wife’s friends staged it. He’s not the real ISIS leader.”

“Their deaths sure as hell weren’t staged,” Eric snapped. “Neither were the tortures.”

Jordan shoved both hands over his head and down the back of his neck. “God, I’m sorry. It all happened so fast. I shot at the driver, but bulletproof glass, man. Elsa fired, too. These guys were prepared. The back windows were blacked out. No license plates, either. They knew exactly how this had to go down.”

And now that bastard has Shea.

“Elsa?” Eric asked, his brain throbbing.

“Miss Day. The nurse,” Jordan answered.

Another sledgehammer coursed through Eric’s hard head. He lowered his chin to his clenched hands, both elbows on his knees. Weary as hell. He did the only thing a desperate man could do. Eric pushed up off the floor, dizzy and spent, but focused on getting Shea back.

Breathing hard, he planted his feet to shake off the nausea that accompanied the minor concussion of a head wound. A man kept going, damn it. Cocking his head at Murphy, he growled, “I need one AR, and an eight-inch blade. Extra ammo. You got ’em?”

Murphy knew better than to argue. He opened what looked like a basement door just off the kitchen and disappeared through it.

Eric held out his palm to Jordan. “My pistols. Extra mags. Now.”

Jordan scooped them up from the floor, the pistols already tucked in a double holster. “I’m coming with.”

“I was hoping you’d say that,” Eric growled as he slid the holster over his shoulders.

Murphy was back by then with more weapons than what Eric had requested. Apparently he thought he was part of this op, too. He spread them on the kitchen table with an apology to Miss Day and a curt, “I’ll be in touch.”

She nodded, but didn’t obey. “You’d better have a holster there for me.”

Eric looked at her then. Diminutive, but athletic. Close to the same height and weight of Shea. Bright blonde hair. Blue-eyed. A dimple in her right cheek. Drab gray scrubs. She’d taken a shot at the getaway vehicle?

“Who are you?” He had to know.

Her chin lifted as she stared him in the eye. “Miss Day to most people, but Elsa Finnegan to my friends. Uncle Murphy’s my dad’s brother. You didn’t think I was just a nurse, did you?”

Eric looked to Murphy, but the old guy just shrugged. “I told you I like to be prepared.”

That actually explained a lot. Eric stiffened his spine for the chore that lay ahead. He needed Shea’s tech-savvy skills now more than ever. Using the landline, he called one of the only other hackers he could think of.

Mother picked up on the first ring.

“Find Hugh Carlson for me,” he ordered.

“Yes, Eric,” she replied without her customary nosy questions. “Hold please.”

“What are you thinking?” Jordan asked. “That Carlson tracked us here?”

“No way,” Murphy groused. “I checked before we left the castle. He couldn’t have. My truck is clean. There was no tracking device stuck to it anywhere. Check it again if you don’t believe me.”

Eric nodded once at Jordan to go and do just that. A tracking device would pin Carlson’s ass to the wall. “Take a flashlight. It’s dark out there.”

Elsa took the hint and grabbed a flashlight out of the kitchen drawer and tossed it to Jordan. He caught it in midair and left through the front door.

“Carlson’s at Shannon Airport,” Mother reported in his ear.

Murphy stabbed the speaker button on the phone so all could hear.

Eric’s chest squeezed off. “Do you have any way to view Shannon’s security monitors? What flight’s he on? Is there a way to stop him?”

“Ember’s online with their security system now. They may not like it, but they’re about to be—”

“Hack ’em, damn it.” Eric’s patience evaporated along with his opinion of hacking.

Ember’s voice came on the line. “Hey, Eric. Don’t worry. I’ve got him on my monitor. He’s standing at an Air France gate. It boards in ten, oh, wait. It’s been cancelled, darn it. Wow. I don’t know how that happened.”

Eric could’ve kissed mother’s genius assistant. She’d just manipulated Shannon’s scheduling system and cancelled Carlson’s flight. “Thanks,” he murmured. “Keep his ass in Ireland ’til I say he can leave.”

“What’s going on?” Ember asked, her tone filled with genuine concern. “Does he have Shea?” God, the woman was psychic. Alex must’ve updated his team, at least his two techies.

“Yes,” Eric ground out. “I think. Is anyone with him?”

“No female. Just a beefy bodyguard in a beret and desert cammies. I’m checking the cargo hold, just in case.”

He hadn’t a clue how she could do that, but good on her. Thermal imaging came to mind. Ember had a world of resources at her fingertips. Assholes were known to smuggle children and women in trunks after they’d drugged them for the sex trade. He squeezed his heart closed at the other things criminals did to their victims.

“All clear in the cargo hold,” she said after a couple of endlessly long minutes. “I’ve tagged him for constant surveillance, though. Don’t worry. We’ll find Shea. Mother needs a word with you.”

“Eric, I’m rechecking all satellite imagery from last night and today. Give me your global position and tell me the last time you were with your wife.”

My wife. God, he’s got my wife! Eric gulped, this conversation getting tougher with every personal question asked.

Murphy offered precise coordinates quickly, giving Mother what she needed to hone in on Eric’s location on those satellite images, and hopefully, Shea.

“This might take a second…” Mother drew out her last word, and Eric knew without a doubt he had The TEAM at his six.

“I can’t believe she fooled me all these months,” Mother murmured. “Ember just input her pretty face into our facial rec program, too. We will find her, Eric.”

He couldn’t speak. He’d seen the fake Abdul-Mutaal’s work. What would that bastard do to a woman as sweet as Shea?

“Thanks,” Murphy spoke up, his voice gruff and no nonsense. He read off a list he’d written on his hand. “Those are burner phones. Keep us informed, you gals.”

“Eric,” Mother called out before he hung up.

“Here.”

“Shea’s a very intelligent woman. She’s the only reason you’re there now. Remember that.”

He clenched his jaw. Tell me something I don’t know.

“Keep your phone in your shirt pocket. It won’t take long to run back through these images now that I know who I’m looking for. I will be contacting you soon.” Mother hung up just as Jordan returned. He slumped into the house. Gray-faced. Holding one hand to his chest.

“What now?” Eric snapped.

“I was under the truck looking for any tracking devices when I saw it.” Jordan blocked the entrance with his arm. “W-w-watching me. Don’t go out there.”

Murphy made it to Jordan first, but Eric pushed past them both, needing to know what the hell his buddy was talking about. He didn’t get far. There on the ground behind Murphy’s truck…

Facing the cottage…

Staring…

Fuck! That damned Aishling was right. Gordie Mikkelson was back. At least, his missing head was.