Focus, Olivia. Focus on anything you can so you can remember.
She was a teacher. Nothing special. And she was too weak to try to overpower these two and still live. But she’d watched enough crime movies to know that when she got out of this—if she got out of it—she needed to pay attention to every detail if she wanted them to be caught.
The man carrying her stopped. Words were spoken—more she couldn’t make out—then a car door opened, and the man holding her set her down on her feet.
He let go of her for a split second, and her legs wobbled, but she braced a hand on the edge of the white van to steady herself.
Then she realized he’d let go of her.
The flight response kicked in without her even searching for it. She shoved her arms hard into the cargo door. It hit one of the men, knocking him off balance. She turned and pushed her legs forward as hard as she could.
She was a runner. She might be weak from days in isolation and very little food, but she dug deep for the strength she’d gained from hours and hours running trails back in Boise.
“Dammit. Get her!”
She darted around a car. Didn’t even care that her feet were bare or that gravel was digging into her soles. She pumped her arms and ran as fast and hard as she could. Away. She had no idea where she was going—just away.
She scurried behind a truck and turned to her right. A body slammed into her hard. She grunted, sailed through the air, and hit the packed gravel on her side, sliding through rocks and dirt that embedded into her skin.
“Stupid fucking bitch.” A man—not the same one who’d carried her, this one was smaller—grabbed her by the front of her blouse with both hands, lifted her upper body inches from the ground, and then slammed her back into the gravel.
Blinding pain ricocheted through Olivia’s skull, and she gasped.
“You’re gonna pay for that.” Chest heaving, he yanked her from the ground and tossed her over his shoulder.
Stars fired off behind Olivia’s eyelids. And the pain . . . She groaned as he jostled her bruised and bleeding body.
When they reached the van, he tossed her into the back. She hit the floor with a grunt and tried to pull her legs up to her chest to alleviate the burning pain in her hip and shoulder. Only nothing helped. She breathed through her mouth and cradled her aching arm close, but then he was there, climbing into the back, pulling the cargo doors closed, and yelling, “Let’s go!”
The van’s engine turned over, and Olivia braced herself as the vehicle whipped around and bounced over the uneven ground, but it did nothing to stop the pain thrumming through every cell in her body.
“Stupid bitch,” the man growled. “We were nice to you before because of your sister. But not anymore.”
Olivia’s eyes tore open, and she stared up at his dark face, twisted in a fury she’d never seen before.
“My—my sister?”
He chuckled, a dark, menacing sound that condensed into a knot of terror in her belly. “What? You thought this was all for fun? No. You’re leverage now.”
He dropped to his knees and leaned over her, and his scent—sweat, spice, and danger—filled her nostrils. A scent she’d never forget. “Too bad she won’t find you in one piece. Not after that little stunt.”
It took Landon longer to locate Archer’s warehouse than he’d thought. The ferry system had been shut down, which meant he had to drive all the way down to Tacoma and back up and around. Then, when he’d finally made it back to Seattle, the damn traffic was being rerouted all over the place because of the ongoing investigation.
Frustrated, he climbed out of the rental car he’d picked up on Bainbridge Island after leaving Archer and slammed the door shut. An abandoned warehouse stood to his right, the skeleton of a building under construction on his left, and between the two a tower crane sat unmoving, its long arm angled out toward the waters of Puget Sound in the distance.
Damn, but the guy really was a moron to bring her here, not even three miles from the bombing site.
Landon rubbed his aching forehead as he moved for the warehouse doors. Obviously, the dumb fuck hadn’t been thinking. But then, when it came to a woman, he wasn’t the first man to lose all common sense. Landon knew that lesson well himself. The difference was, he’d never repeat his stupidity, and after seeing Archer this morning, he knew the idiot was bound to repeat every single stupid-ass thing he’d done because of Evelyn Wolfe. Archer might not be able to see it, but Landon could. Up close and personal. The idiot was still in love with her.
The door handle didn’t turn, but picking the lock was easy enough, and Landon was inside in a matter of minutes.
The warehouse was cut in the middle by a long hallway and doors that led to what looked like large storage units. Uncovered, dim bulbs hung from the ceiling every twelve feet. Landon paused to listen. Hearing nothing out of the ordinary, he moved for the metal stairs that ran up to the second and third floors.
He knew when he’d found the right loft. The steel door was cut in two, as if whoever had wanted in had used a buzz saw to get inside. Landon pushed the right side open the rest of the way and moved into the loft.
His gaze scanned the empty room. A chair was turned over on its side. A broken table sat upside down. A metal tray and three hypodermic needles lay scattered across the floor. His gaze strayed to the bed against the far wall. To the mattress stained with blood and other things he didn’t want to focus too much on. Then to the metal handcuffs hanging from the metal headboard.
“Stupid-ass dumb fuck,” he muttered. Oh yeah, Evelyn Wolfe had every reason to kick Archer’s ass from here to Mount Rainier, and at the moment, Landon kinda hoped she did.
He shook his head as he turned away and looked around for the purse Archer had told him he’d brought back with him. Whatever happened between Archer and Wolfe was not his problem. The only thing he cared about was finding Wolfe’s sister. Then he was taking a monthlong vacation, and his boss Ryder could suck it if he didn’t agree.
He checked cabinets along the wall and finally found a woman’s black purse hanging behind what had to be Archer’s denim jacket on a hook in the bathroom.
He set the bag on the dirty counter and pawed through it until he found a cheap cell phone. He powered it on and saw a video on the home screen. His fingers hit Play, and he watched as a woman, her hands tied behind her back and her face covered by a black sack, thrashed on the floor of what looked like a van. The purple butterfly tattoo on her ankle was clearly visible as she struggled.
There was no sound. Landon replayed it three times, looking for anything that might help him identify the van. Fury rolled through his gut. He didn’t have a problem taking down anyone who deserved it, but he had a major-ass problem when innocents were drawn into the mix. He knew that was why he’d washed out at DIA. Not because he couldn’t stomach what he was asked to do, but because he refused to do it to civilians.
He clicked the video off and paged through the contacts. Nothing showed on the phone. He turned it in his hand and remembered Wolfe’s explanation of what had happened at that outdoor café. This was the phone her contact—Smith—had slid across the table to her.
He tucked the phone into his pocket and resumed searching her bag, looking for another one. He finally found it—an iPhone, the most recent version—and turned it on. A white apple appeared on the screen, followed by a tropical image of a beach, hammock, and swaying palms. Apps appeared, dotting the screen. He waited until service clicked in, then hit the Phone button and paged through her recent calls. DC numbers. One he recognized belonging to Langley. Another that was labeled “Olivia Wolfe.” And a few blocked calls he’d have to try.