This part of the dim, L-shaped cellar was empty. She heard nothing, no voices. She tiptoed forward, one timid step at a time, past the long walls filled with bottles. The cool air washed across her hot cheeks, and she took big breaths to ease the constriction in her lungs. Nothing helped; the closer she got to the second cellar, where the wine barrels lined the walls, the more afraid she was.
At last, at the left-hand corner where the two cellars met, she knelt and contemplated what to do next. She could go forward, creep along the wall behind the wine barrels, look between and below the stands that supported them, assure herself no one was there, then return to the kitchen.
But her jangling nerves told her someone was there … and she should get out as fast as she could. She was about to back away when from somewhere unseen, Mr. Gracie said, “Dash, I’ve been meaning to speak to you about your performance last August.”
“Oh. Yeah, Mr. Gracie.” Dash sounded alert, concerned, ready to report.
Taylor relaxed. This wasn’t a hit. They were discussing Dash’s showing in arena football. These guys were doing nothing down here except chatting and tasting wine. Taylor had made a big mistake.
But this mistake was not fatal. All she had to do was escape without being detected. She started to ease away, back around the corner, toward the door and back to the kitchen.
Then Mr. Gracie said something that froze her in her tracks.
“So, Dash, tell me again about how you lost track of Taylor Summers.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
At the sound of her own name, Taylor’s mouth dried. She slid down until she squatted on the balls of her feet. Pure instinct told her she needed to make herself as small a target as possible. Because the world had just tilted on its axis.
“What? Why?” Dash sounded wary. Concerned.
“Because none of the reports said anything about Taylor Summers being a self-defense expert.” Mr. Gracie’s voice was coolly interested.
Taylor slid, inch by wary inch, toward the shadow under the closest of the wine barrels.
“The reports all said she was a crazy bitch,” Dash said.
“They did that,” Mr. Gracie acknowledged. “But you said she was a karate expert. You told me that’s how she got away from you.”
Taylor put her cheek on the floor, and looked through the spindly supports of the barrel stands. She could see men’s shoes, five pairs, all black, all shiny, and the hems of black, pressed, suit pants.
“She attacked. I was surprised. Maybe she wasn’t an expert, but she took me out and escaped.” Then Dash turned aggressive. “Anyway, why do you care? I fixed her car up good, and she died in the blast.”
“That was a smart move.” Mr. Gracie sounded approving.
He approved of Dash killing her.
Which meant … he had hired Dash to kidnap and kill Miles McManus.
My God. Taylor had made such a mistake. The biggest mistake of her life. Maybe the last mistake of her life.
She had to get out. Out of this cellar, out of this house, and no matter what it took, as far away and as fast as possible. She started to crawl backward.
Dash wandered into Taylor’s view, framed by wine casks.
She froze, a hunted animal that had roamed into the wrong den.
“I’m concerned that you didn’t check in that whole thirty-six hours. That’s not like you, Dash.” Now Mr. Gracie wandered into view, too.
Two men. One had tried to kill her. The other … the other now demanded an accounting of Dash’s failure.
As blood drained from her head, Taylor wobbled. She slid her hand up the leg of the cask support, and clasped it firmly to hold herself still.
Dash was a massive hulk who looked suddenly diminished by the tall, slender gentleman beside him. Yet Dash smiled, showing the gap between his teeth, and said, “Jimmy, my man, I told you. After she attacked me, I was unconscious until the next morning. Then I headed back down the road and found her car. I knew I didn’t have much time before the cops found it, too. So I came here, picked up the explosives, and did the job.”
Why was Dash calling Mr. Gracie … Jimmy? His name was Michael Gracie.
But of course it wasn’t.
Michael Gracie was a pseudonym. Michael Gracie was fooling the whole world about his identity and his activities.
Mr. Gracie—Jimmy—said, “Like I said, it’s not like you not to be in touch … how did you get to the house?”
Dash flexed his shoulders. “I hitched a ride with a rancher.”
“I thought you stole a pickup.”
“No! Who told you that?”
“I found a police report saying a pickup had been stolen, then found a couple of days later in town. I thought that sounded like you.”
The two men were slapping words back and forth at each other.
The other three men were ominously quiet. She had been right about them. They were bodyguards. Or assassins. But they didn’t work for Dash. They worked for Michael Gracie, and she thought—no, she knew—Dash was in trouble.
“Okay. Yeah. That’s what I did.”
Mr. Gracie acted bewildered. “Why lie?”
Dash answered swiftly, “You wanted it clean. I hated to admit it got messy.”
“Stealing a car isn’t messy.” Mr. Gracie threw an arm around Dash. “We used to do it all the time.”
Dash looked him in the face, and visibly relaxed. “Yeah. Yeah, we did, when we were kids back in Chicago. Good times, huh?”
“Good times,” Mr. Gracie agreed. “And you pulled off this robbery without leaving any evidence.”
“Didn’t do anything to that pickup except use some gas,” Dash muttered.
“That’s using the old noggin.” Mr. Gracie grabbed Dash’s chin and forcibly waggled his head.
Dash let him do it.
Dash was afraid of Michael Gracie.
That made Taylor afraid, too. More afraid. She gripped the barrel support even harder.
What was she doing here? Hadn’t she learned her lesson even yet? Michael Gracie was the big bad, he had his own hit man, he ordered the murder of children—and she was trapped here in the shadow of a wine barrel, praying no one looked her way.
Dash spread his hands palms-up in appeal. “I’m sorry, Jimmy. I can’t believe that bitch ruined your kidnapping. That kid should be dead, and Kennedy McManus should know it was his fault. If you give me another chance, I promise I won’t … I promise nothing will go wrong.”
Mr. Gracie looked into Dash’s eyes.
Dash stared back, sweating, pale.
Mr. Gracie smiled. “I was pissed that you screwed up, Dash, but this was the first time ever. Right?”
“First time.” Dash sounded breathless. “I’ve never failed you before.”
“Never. Too bad, but I can’t try the same trick—stealing the kid—because McManus is on the lookout. So let me think of what I should do next.” Mr. Gracie walked away, out of Taylor’s line of sight.
“Thank you, Jimmy. You’re good to me,” Dash said humbly. “You’ve really got it out for McManus. What did he do to you, man?”
Mr. Gracie paced back toward Dash. “I gave him my friendship. I gave him my trust. And he betrayed me.”
Dash laughed incredulously. “No one does that. The bastard is dead meat.”
“No. That’s too easy. I’m going to destroy his family, his friends, his business, everything he’s fought for and loves.”
Mr. Gracie’s unemotional voice chilled Taylor to the marrow.
Dash nodded. “I get it. You want him to suffer.”
Mr. Gracie paced away. “If he was a friend, I’d still kill him for what he did. But he wouldn’t ever see it coming.” He paced back. He shook his head as if surprised. “Dash, did you hear that?”
“Hear what?” Dash glanced around.
“I thought I heard something moving…” Mr. Gracie gestured toward the empty part of the cellar.
Taylor bent her head down to hide her pale face. She p
eered up through her lashes, held her breath in terror. She hadn’t moved. She hadn’t heard anything. But she was going to get caught.
Mr. Gracie relaxed. “It was probably a rat. I’ll get the exterminators out here…” He cocked his head again. “No! Listen!”
Dash turned his back to Mr. Gracie. He looked around the cellar. He glanced toward Taylor, crouched twenty feet away, a small dark ball of dread and nerves. He didn’t see her. Then he looked again, and he did. He raised his arm to point, and said, “Jimmy, there’s something—”
At the same time, Mr. Gracie lifted his hand, the one holding a Glock, and fired a bullet into the back of Dash’s head.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The blast ripped through the silence of the cellar.
Blood and brains spattered.
Taylor jumped so hard she slammed the wine barrel support with her shoulder.
The gunshot echoed back and forth against the bare stone walls and floor.
Dash crumpled, nothing but a body and an empty skull.
The barrel settled on Taylor’s hand. A thousand pounds of wood and wine crushed her little finger. Flesh, fingernail, bone, two inches of agony.
Taylor bit down on a scream.
Mr. Gracie lowered the pistol. He spoke to the body at his feet. “My friend, you should know I don’t tolerate even so much as a first failure.”
Taylor would not faint. She could not throw up.
One of Mr. Gracie’s bodyguards, a white guy with a barrel chest and a smashed nose, walked over and looked down at Dash. “Boss, that was real nice of you to let him think he had a second chance.”
“He was a friend,” Mr. Gracie said simply, as if he’d done Dash a favor, and he handed his bodyguard the pistol. “Barry, make sure you get rid of that.”
The two men walked away, out of Taylor’s sight.
Taylor tugged at her hand.
It wouldn’t come out. She was trapped by the first two joints of her littlest finger.
She tugged again.
She didn’t think she could make the pain any worse. But the tendon and muscles were still connected, and when she pulled, she felt everything move all the way back to her wrist.
She couldn’t get out.
She had to get out.
She braced herself and yanked.
Agony.
“Clean up the mess,” Mr. Gracie said. “After the dinner guests depart, I want to bring the overnight guests down here, give myself an alibi.”
“Right, boss.” Barry stood over Dash and asked one of the other bodyguards, “So, Norm, what do you want off him?”
Norm said, “His tie. Does it have blood on it?”
Barry used his size-fourteen foot to roll Dash over. “Tie looks pretty good. The shirt’s ruined, though.”
Terror beat in Taylor’s veins, in her ears. What were they doing?
“I don’t care about the shirt or the jacket, just the tie.” Norm knelt and stripped the tie away from Dash’s throat. Then he removed his own tie. He dropped it on the body, and casually knotted Dash’s tie around his neck. Taking his white handkerchief out of his pocket, he dabbled it in the blood, and held it to his forehead so that it half covered his face. He faced toward the door, toward Mr. Gracie. “How’s that?” His voice changed, blurred, became an intoxicated imitation of Dash’s voice. “I drank too much, tripped on the way back up … I’m a clumsy ox of a football player.”
“That’s good, Norm.” Mr. Gracie said. “Make sure the guests see you, and see the blood.”
“I know.” Norm nodded. “I’ll fool ’em.”
“Say your piece, then I’ll send you to the hospital for stitches.” Mr. Gracie’s voice was so matter-of-fact. “You’ll arrive in town, go to a bar, have witnesses … then Dash vanishes, never to be seen again.”
Taylor observed the scene through a glaze of pain and misery, and she understood. She understood.
This whole scene had been a setup. They had brought Dash down here with the intention of killing him.
Norm looked enough like Dash to be able to fake people out, at least from a distance. He was going to walk out of the wine cellar with Mr. Gracie, allow the guests to get a glimpse of him, claim he’d had an accident, leave, and then Dash would disappear, and Michael Gracie would never be suspected.
But if Taylor didn’t get herself free, she was going to disappear, too. These men … they were cleaning up the mess. They were going to see her, find her, kill her. She had to do something.
She couldn’t move the barrel. She couldn’t force her way free.
She was trapped. She was trapped.
Mr. Gracie asked, “Is the shipment ready to go to Washington?”
“Of course.” Norm sounded vaguely insulted. “We pulled the shit from one hospital in Pocatello and one in Salt Lake. We’ve got a physician who’s cooperating … he was stealing drugs before, selling them himself. He’s not anxious to have the law involved.”
“Good work.” Mr. Gracie allowed a note of approval to color his voice. “We have hallucinogens coming into the Washington coast from our cookers in Canada. We’ll make the exchange and fly the stuff into our airstrip in Ohio. Good market there, especially in the middle schools.”
Taylor wanted to gasp, to bring air into her lungs and drive away the fainting sensation, to gain control of her pain so she could think her way out of this trap. She did know a way. She did. But she couldn’t bear to think of it.
She had a boning knife in her vest. Sharp. So sharp. She knew how to wield it. Georg had taught her.
But … oh, God … her finger.
Barry walked away.
She thrust her right hand into her pocket, wrapped her fingers around the handle of the knife. Then she hesitated. She didn’t want to do this. There had to be some other way …
Barry returned with a tarp that he spread on the floor next to Dash. He rolled the body onto it and wrapped it up, and tucked the top over Dash’s head like gift wrap, and fastened the loose ends with broad silver tape.
The third bodyguard came into view. He hoisted Dash’s body over his shoulder and headed to the other side of the cellar.
Barry pulled the end of a small barrel loose.
It was empty. Together they wrestled Dash’s body inside.
“Load the barrel on the plane. A visit to Washington State will be a nice change for Dash. After he’s been there for a few days, the helicopter can take him up and drop him into the Olympic forest.”
Taylor felt sick. She didn’t want to be dropped out of a helicopter over the wilderness area. All she wanted was to get out of here before they found her.
She faced facts. Her finger was ruined anyway, crushed beyond saving.
In one smooth motion, she pulled the boning knife from her pocket, pressed it against the mangled joint closest to her hand, and with swift, expert savagery, cut off her own finger.
Blood filled her hand, ran up her sleeve.
But she was free.
She kept the knife in her right hand, thrust her left hand into her pocket, hoping that would contain the bleeding. She rose slowly, slid back around the corner, and retreated, step by silent step, along the wall of bottles.
Had she made a sound? Had Mr. Gracie seen a hint of movement? Or did he sense an unknown presence?
Because she heard him say, “I’ll make a sweep of the cellar.” The hard snap of a man’s black dress shoe on the flagstone sounded in her direction.
She moved more quickly, reached the narrow exit door. Pushed it open a crack, slipped out, pushed it shut.
She wanted to lean on it, give herself a moment to recover.
No time.
She knew where to go. She knew what to do.
Still holding the knife like a weapon, she strode out of the anteroom, up the stairs, into the noisy, hot, steamy kitchen.
Allison called, “Are you okay?”
Taylor ignored her. Ignored the faces craning around at her. She slipped the knife into her vest. Picki
ng up a clean white dishcloth, she wrapped it around her fingers. She walked toward the outside door, then backtracked and grabbed two oven mitts.
As she pushed the door open, she heard Georg shout, “Summer, if you go out, don’t come back!”
But she never stopped moving.
She was in pain. She was without hope. She had hit rock bottom.
But she wasn’t afraid anymore. What else had she left to fear?
Adrenaline carried her out into the freezing weather, where the white stars shone in a heartless black sky and the temperatures hovered barely above zero.
About a mile behind the house was Mr. Gracie’s private airfield. She had spotted it from the hill. Now she headed in that direction, swift and sure, pulling on the oven mitts for warmth and trusting the black uniform and the dark night to hide her from curious eyes.
There on the field, she saw the two private airplanes. One was large, sleek, ostentatious. Obviously, that must be Mr. Gracie’s. It held his precious “shipment” and soon Dash’s body would join it in the cargo hold. No one stood guard; why would they? No one was crazy enough to be out tonight—no one except one woman fleeing mutilation and murder.
The other plane was a small Cessna huddled against the side of the runway. The stairs were down. Thank God.
Taylor crossed the runway. She climbed the stairs.
The plane was empty. Frigid. Her breath froze on the still air. And the bleeding slowed …
A few lights glowed in the cockpit. One single light lit the rear of the passenger compartment.
Toward the front of the cabin, two luxurious leather seats faced each other, backs to the windows. She passed between them, checked the lavatory, and figured no way she could hide in there—even if she was lucky and was undetected before the plane got off the ground, the pilots would sooner or later need to hit the head. On one side, metal storage lockers were stacked beneath the windows. They were various sizes, all locked. The top locker was long enough and wide enough for a corpse.
An ugly suspicion poked at her brain.
This was not a regulation Cessna. It had been customized for … for Mr. Gracie’s smuggling needs.
She glanced out the window.