CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Finally! Heavy footsteps sounded from the other side of her prison door.

Shea tucked her gut in and held her breath. If this ruse worked, it’d be the biggest miracle ever. Her arms trembled so hard, because the ledge was so narrow that she had to physically brace her body in the tight space between the joists. All her abductor had to do was tip his chin up, look directly overhead, and she’d be caught.

Sweat dripped around her neck, trickling between her breasts. She blinked the sting of it out of her eyes, daring to believe in miracles.

Something heavy slid over the wooden door, maybe a bar. The distinctive clack of a metal chain. The door lifted. Cool night air filled her cell. Then the stark bright beams of a flashlight invaded her creepy, crawl space.

“No, no, no! She can’t have gotten out of here!” an angry baritone voice boomed as a sleeved arm extended into the doorway. A large male body concealed in a black robe followed. Every cell in her body shrank from the evil just inches below her. It was him. Abdul-Mutaal. But why was he speaking with a clipped British accent?

The beam searched the far corners of the cellar. Top right. Top left. Back to the floor once more. Tucking the flashlight under his arm, he fumbled with his robe until he drew a cellphone from its folds. “They’ve taken her.” He paused. “I know it can’t be, but it is! Someone’s been here, chap. Believe me. I’m looking at a room full of nothing!”

A drum roll exploded in her chest. Yes, yes, I’m gone. She hoped. Now leave.

He did, mumbling again in English. Not Arabic. How very un-Mideastern of him.

She stilled in her ceiling hiding space until the sound of him walking away diminished.

Then the clock really started ticking.

Shea rolled off the ledge and cleared those five steps. Into the chilly night air she went, running for her life. Across the crisply mown lawn. Over a low hedge. She hit the wrought-iron fence next, the thing topped with sharp spikes that cut the palms of her hands. It slowed her down, but it didn’t stop her. Nothing could. She was on her way home!

“There she is! Quick. She’s getting away!” the same clipped English voice bellowed behind her, but Shea had the fear of death on her side. She balanced for a precarious second at the top bar of the fence, one bare foot between two deadly spikes before she pulled the rest of her weight up enough to clear it.

An engine rumbled to life in the courtyard behind her. She dropped to the other side of the fence, her knees punching her chest and momentarily knocking the breath out of her. Go! Go! Go!

Fighting for air, Shea pushed off. The forest across the dark road offered escape and she took it, intent on distance and speed. Her feet suffered the abuse of thorns and rocks, well, let them. She could heal later. Run. Run. Run!

“Don’t let her get away!” Okay, that voice belonged to someone else. It sounded almost American. She logged that insignificant detail and kept going.

“What do you think I’m doing out here?” Abdul-Mutaal growled.

She almost stopped to see who had spoken to him. One of those voices seemed so familiar, but a four-wheeler had already cleared the gate, and it could definitely catch her. Deeper into the trees she ran. Zigzagging like a fox and barely seconds ahead of her pursuers.

The taste of blood filled the back of her raw throat. Pain as sharp as a knife stabbed her side. Barreling into the wide trunk of a tree, she dashed behind it, struggling to catch a breath. “I can do this,” she whispered as she aligned her body to the far side of the tree, needing just a few more seconds of airtime. Licking her lips, she froze in place, not willing to break cover unless that bastard got off his ATV and came looking for her on foot.

Quietly panting her fear away, she stilled. She’d seen the size of that arm of his, though. What were the odds that a guy his size was also light on his feet? She willed herself to remain calm and find out.

The vehicle stopped yards from the tree she’d hidden behind, but the engine continued to idle. A laser-bright beam cut the forest around her. Searching. Probing.

Flattening her shaking body even more, Shea became one with the tree. She stopped breathing, scared to death Mutaal knew right where she was.

Footsteps approached. A man’s heavy breathing. God, he’s right behind my tree. She cringed, sure that her jackhammering heart was loud enough to give her away.

“I know you’re out here,” that same British voice declared, so close that she jumped. “Just so you understand how this will go down. You can’t get off this estate, Shea or Finn or whoever you are today. I’ve activated all of the electrical fences. Next, I’ll call the boys, and I promise you’ll not like what they’ll do to you.”

She gulped, steeling her throat muscles to keep it quiet. I don’t like what you did to me, either.

“Or maybe you’d rather I spoke,” a distinctly Arabic voice chimed it. She dared peak around the tree trunk. Only one man stood there, his hand on his hip and the flashlight in his hand pointed away from her. Like Finn, Abdul-Mutaal was a fraud, a Brit hiding behind a black robe. Wasn’t Karma a bitch?

But he hadn’t seen her yet. He turned to his left, the beam bouncing over scary looking ferns and ghoulish bumps in the wooded glen. She held herself perfectly rigid, barely breathing. This was what Eric did. He hid in plain sight. If he could do it, so could she. Keep on keeping on.

The footsteps and the beam retreated to the ATV. A radio crackled. “I know she’s right here under my nose. You don’t have to tell me that, but I can’t bloody well get her to run. Send the dogs. Let them drag her back. You don’t need this little rabbit in one piece to get what you want. All you need is that fucking laptop.”

Her stomach pitched acid up her throat. The boys were dogs?

“Nonsense,” the other voice spoke again, but not over the radio. No. He was there. He called to her because—he knew her. “Let me try. Finn Powers? Is that you?”

Professor Grover? How could this be?

“Come on in, Finn or Shea or whatever your real name is. No one will hurt you, dear. I’ll make sure of it.”

Shea rethought all she thought she knew. He’s not dead. He must be captured. Like me. Or is he? It felt right, but it made no sense. He’d had a stroke. She’d been sure of it. Those Legionnaire guys had burned his house down. Hadn’t they? Eric said they did, so that much was true. Still...

The sound of barking lifted through the dark from a ways behind the ATV. Crap. That meant the dogs were loose and she doubted they were poodles. There was no choice. Quivering with all out terror, Shea stepped out from her safe tree and peered into the glare of headlights.

The dark silhouette of the man standing near the ATV beckoned to her. “There she is. Come, Shea. Come to me.”

“Professor?” she asked, just to be sure.

“Yes, yes, it’s me. Come quickly now. The boys will be here soon.”

She held her position. But you’re here now. “He killed Phoenix and Gordie, or did you already know that?”

“Why don’t we discuss all of this over a nice cup of tea? I’m dying to hear how you managed to live in that fat suit all those months.” He certainly sounded like the professor she’d thought she knew.

“I thought you were dead,” she told him without taking a step forward, her hand still on the tree trunk. “Where’s your friend, Abdul-Mutaal?”

Professor Grover shrugged. “We can talk about that inside. Once the dogs get here, I can’t help you. Those two Dobies can be very mean.”

Yeah. Definitely not poodles. Shea took one step forward, her internal alarm roaring in her ears. And there she stopped. Dogs or not, she wanted answers before she would believe.

She never got them. A sharp sting hit the side of her hip, and down she went. Tasered.

Murphy’s truck only went so fast, not that driving one hundred kilometers an hour was a given on dark, narrow Irish roads that had once been old sheep trails. The truck’s headlights rarely offered more than a view of another twist in the winding road. Or the walled fence alongside. There were no shoulders, and nowhere to pull over if the need arose. It was no wonder Jordan was hanging out the rear side window.

Eric rode shotgun since Murphy knew the roads. Elsa sat behind him and next to Jordan, her window rolled down too, most likely to keep the air current fresh and steady.

Even if Carlson wasn’t behind Shea’s abduction, it all came back to the same thing: Dynamic energy displacement. Eric should’ve known. The reason Carlson badgered Mikkelson in the first place was to get the new technology. Shea’s abductor must want it as badly because, at this very moment, that bastard was less than three clicks from Murphy’s home north of Cashel, nearly where Eric had hidden Mikkelson’s laptop. Those were the coordinates Mother had given Eric. Imagine Murphy’s surprise that Shea was back at his cottage, or at least near it.

“It doesn’t make sense. An older British gentleman owns that parcel next to mine,” Murphy worried out loud. “I haven’t spoken to him in years. Why would he do this?”

Eric didn’t care. He just needed to get to Shea. Every turn in this crooked road spilled more fear into his gut and ramped up his adrenaline until he needed to hit something. “What’s his name?” he asked to zero his mind.

“Dang, I knew you’d ask, but it’s been so long since I’ve seen him. I can’t remember. Let me think.”

Eric faced straight ahead, willing his head to cease throbbing and his gut to stop churning. The road didn’t seem to bother Murphy. He drove like a professional stock car racer with brimstone on his six.

Eric fingered the grip of the pistol resting under his left arm. Before this night ended, it would be a damned hot piece of metal, just like the one under his right arm. He’d stuffed enough extra mags into his pocket to burn Hell down if it meant getting Shea back alive.

“Damn. I remember now,” Murphy growled, jerking Eric back to the business at hand.

“You remember what?” he had to ask because he’d forgotten what they’d been talking about.

“My neighbor.” Murphy slapped the steering wheel. “Don’t know why I couldn’t think of it before, but you know how it is with us old guys. Your memory’s the first thing to go.”

Eric sighed, not wanting to have to ask a second time.

“Morell Grover. The old gent’s name’s Morell Grover, and he’s quite the—”

“Say what?”

Murphy shot Eric a look. “That name mean something to you?”

“Grover was Shea’s professor in Amsterdam. He mentored Mikkelson and Berglund. Shit! If he’s behind this—” Eric punched the dash, his heart thrumming with an overload of fear.

“The bastard set his own house on fire. He’s behind the murders. Not Carlson. Step on it!”