Something else was very wrong.
None of these men had made an effort to hide his face. Hell, McBride downright flaunted his ugly mug, not caring much how she recognized him. He even used Krueger's name without regard for secrecy. Raven felt certain they had no intention of letting her go. No doubt in her mind.
She'd have to use her brain and fight like hell if she hoped to make it out alive.
CHAPTER 15
The van finally came to a stop. In the dark, Raven listened for sounds of her captors as she wrestled with the duct tape binding her wrists. The damned tape hadn't budged the whole trip. She wrenched her jaw again, hoping to open her mouth, but nothing.
The intensity of the rain dwindled to a faint tapping on the outside of the vehicle. Tensing her muscles, she rolled to face the door, prepared to kick it open. With her legs bound, she had no idea what she'd do next. But by the sound of things, more of McBride's men had gathered outside. She wouldn't stand a chance.
As the van door opened, she stared into the grim faces of three men, then heaved a sigh. She had to be patient, pick her spot.
"Look what Logan gift-wrapped for us." One man laughed, his bristly face twisted to a sneer. "Prime hunting stock."
She wanted to respond, but her instincts warned her to play it smart. A hand gripped her ankle and tugged her effortlessly to the rear of the van. As she cleared the darkened interior, a man grabbed the edge of the tape covering her mouth and jerked it free, with no regard for her skin underneath.
"Hey, watch it." So much for playing it smart. She moved her jaw and lips, making sure everything still worked before she mouthed off again. "Aren't you afraid I'll scream?"
"Counting on it." His offhand remark sent chills along her skin.
To regain control of her emotions, she focused on her surroundings, ignoring the manhandling of her body. Hoisted over a man's shoulder, she hung upside down. Strands of hair blocked her view. She craned her neck to see anything that would help. And adding insult to injury, the bastard carrying her stroked her ass like he'd discovered Aladdin's magic lamp.
"You cut me out of this duct tape, and I'll show you my idea of foreplay."
The man laughed and gave her one final squeeze from his meaty hand. "Not on your life, sweetheart."
As far as she could see, shabby red brick buildings extended into the darkness, with only a small section of them illuminated by the headlights of the van and Christian's SUV. One of the delivery bays was open. Voices echoed inside. From the belly of the largest structure, several flashlights cut through the darkness. They cast an eerie glow, elongating the shadows of McBride's men. No electricity told her the buildings had been abandoned long ago.
None of this place looked familiar. The only signs of life were the vehicles parked in front. And she had a suspicion they'd be pulled into the old building, out of sight. When that happened, not a trace of her would be left behind. The decayed warehouse would swallow her whole.
Now she would know firsthand what Mickey had experienced.
Once inside, the stale smell of mildew stifled her breath. It was difficult enough to breathe upside down. Sparingly, she sampled the air as if it were toxic. But the sound of McBride's voice made her stomach lurch.
"Fresh meat for the slaughter." He grabbed her hair and gave it a tug, straining the muscles of her neck. "But first, I propose a little reunion."
Enlisting the aid of one of the hangar crew, Fiona found a phone in the office. Behind a closed door, she gripped the receiver and stared at the buttons. Her chair creaked as she shifted her weight, her nerves getting the better of her.
Months had turned into years and the years spun into decades—and still she'd resisted making contact with Nicholas Charboneau. Now her pulse raced in anticipation of hearing his voice again, so soon after she'd seen him in Versailles. He had instigated that encounter, a complete surprise. This time, she would be reaching out to him, asking for a favor.
Her focus drifted in and out as her trembling fingers hovered near the numbers. But she must swallow her pride. Much more was at stake. Slowly, she punched in the number she had committed to memory long ago. She'd locked it away in her heart.
Nicholas answered on the third ring. "Yes?"
Fiona felt certain he had caller ID and would screen his calls. But the number would only show Dunhill Aviation—and that might pique his interest. For an instant, she weighed the consequences of her actions and considered the risk. Once she spoke, he'd know she was Stateside. What other torturous games would he launch against her?
"Nicky. It's Fiona."
Dead silence—as cold as the stern glare from his violet eyes.
"You've come home." A long moment ticked by. "Why have you called?"
No games. No feigned cordiality. His tone scared her. He held the advantage. All she could do was—
"I need your help," she pleaded.
A low rumble of laughter ridiculed her. He wasn't going to make this easy. Fighting back tears, she tightened her lips and choked down a sob. Her Nicky had grown so cold.
"After all these years, Fiona? You know any help from me comes with a price. Are you willing to pay it?"
By his tone, she knew he flaunted his superior position, presuming she'd never yield to him.
"For God's sake, haven't we both paid that price?" Her question rhetorical, she didn't wait for his sarcasm. "What do you want, Nicky? I'll do whatever you ask. Just stop this vendetta of yours."
Silence. Only the sound of his breathing filled the emptiness.
She needed him to understand. "You've won. But this killing must stop. You don't know what you're doing." She regretted her poor choice of words the instant she'd said it. And desperation seeped into her voice. It couldn't be helped.
The face of her son flashed in Fiona's mind. She knew Christian. If Detective Mackenzie was in danger, he'd protect her, without regard for his own safety. Damn it! All those years ago, her cowardly actions and poor judgment had come full circle. And it might cost the life of her only child. She'd have gladly taken the retribution upon herself, being the guilty one. But Christian deserved none of it. He'd already suffered too much for her sins.
"Oh? Then enlighten me, my dear," he taunted, still the cagey player. "What exactly am I doing?"
Even now, her instincts stopped her from blurting out the truth. Nicholas would never find out from her that Christian was his son. She'd have to find another way to get him to listen to reason.
"If death is all that will appease you, then I am offering myself." Closing her eyes, she filled her lungs and let her breath out slowly, allowing fear to wash over her. She swallowed hard, then spelled it out for him. "Kill me. It's what you really want, isn't it? Tell me where I can meet you."
Once again, he fell silent. Startled for a moment, she thought he'd hung up the phone. Fiona tightened her grip on the receiver and listened for any sound at all. As she opened her mouth to speak, he broke the stalemate.
"It's out of my hands, Fie. We'll both have to live with the aftermath."
His words stabbed her heart. No! It couldn't be over. Her mind wouldn't accept such finality.
"Nicky, please—"
A dial tone mocked her. He ended the call, bitterness in his voice.
It was too late.
Nicholas stared blankly into the crackling fire, his eyes mesmerized by the only light in the room. The flames cast eerie shadows along the stone hearth and into the cavernous study. Sitting amidst his fine collection of books and artifacts and rare paintings, he'd come to the realization that none of it meant a thing. Echoing in his mind, Fiona's frightened voice bedeviled his dubious sense of morality.