Baby, Don't Go Page 25

  A fist came out of nowhere and smashed into his chin, sending him flying. Sitting up on the sidewalk, he grasped his jaw and gingerly worked it side to side. Okay. It seemed to be intact. He looked into the face of the head honcho of Douglass’ goon squad.

  Blunt Face leaned down and offered him a hand, hauling him onto his feet. “Hey, there, asshole—long time, no see,” he said. “Got a news flash for ya, bud: we’re through playin’ around with you. So you, me, and my friend here”—he indicated No-Neck, a refrigerator-sized shadow behind him—” are gonna take us a little ride.”

  24

  DAISY turned the corner just in time to see the two bruisers manhandle Nick into a black Firebird. “Shit!” She smacked the steering wheel with the heel of her hand. “Shit, shit, shit!”

  She stood on the brakes and the rental car rocked to a halt. Fortunately its abrupt stop didn’t attract the thugs’ attention. Hitting the lights to prevent the beams from acting like a spotlight, she slipped the gearshift into reverse and backed into a driveway where she’d be less conspicuous, yet still be able to see what was going on.

  Dammit, this was all her fault. If she hadn’t allowed her feelings to get in the way, Nick never would have been left vulnerable. Fear for him hit her hard. Her heart raced and sickness roiled in her stomach, and she took several deep breaths to get herself under control. Acting like a lovesick girlie-girl would benefit absolutely no one.

  The Firebird headed down the block in the opposite direction, and she eased onto the street to follow in its wake. She kept the headlights off until they hit the main arterial.

  She followed the Firebird down Divisadero, and turned left behind the Exploratorium and the Palace of Fine Arts until the street ran into Doyle Drive. They passed the Yacht Club on the right and the Presidio on the left, and the next thing she knew, she was several car lengths behind the black car on the Golden Gate Bridge, headed for Marin County.

  Oh, man, where were they taking him? The wine country, maybe? She didn’t like that idea at all. There were far too many miles of unpopulated countryside where anything could be done to him without a soul to bear witness…or where a body could easily be dumped.

  Douglass would be more than happy to slit my throat, especially after tonight.

  Oh, God, and she’d said, Good.

  But instead of continuing along 101, the Firebird turned onto Highway 1 long before it came anywhere near the wine country. They drove along the coast, and a short while later the black car pulled off onto a tree-lined drive that led to an imposing mansion on a bluff overlooking the Pacific.

  Daisy, who had dropped back to avoid detection, drove past the closing gate and slowed down to catch a glimpse. All she could see, however, was the red blink of taillights disappearing down the drive.

  She found a spot to pull over and parked the car, then checked her Glock and strapped on her knives. She tucked the Beretta in her boot and, killing the interior lights, eased the door open and climbed out.

  The stone wall that divided the estate from the road was merely ornamental and she scaled it easily. Please, God, don’t let there be dogs, she prayed fervently as she slipped along the row of wind-shaped trees that lined the driveway. She’d had the unhappy experience of coming face-to-face with a vicious security dog once and had no desire to repeat it.

  She encountered neither man nor beast, however, and a few moments later she crept up the set of shallow steps that lined the mansion’s stone terrace. A light shone in a single window partway down the terrace, and she slipped to one side of it and eased her head around to peek into the room.

  It was empty.

  She whispered a mild curse and tried to think what to do next. The rest of the mansion was dark and Mrs. Douglass was probably asleep upstairs. That made the main floor her best bet, or the cellars, if there were any. Then she heard a muted crash come from around the back and, slipping from one shadow to the next, she ran lightly toward the sound.

  Nick picked himself up off the floor, where he’d landed when the chair Blunt Face had thrown him into had careened over from the momentum of his landing. Above him, bottles clinked and clattered as the rack holding them resettled on the floor. He was damn lucky it hadn’t toppled over on him, considering how hard he’d struck it with his shoulder. Damn—his barely healed shoulder. He resisted the urge to feel for new injury, knowing the less weakness he showed this crew, the better off he’d be.

  Climbing to his feet, he brushed himself off, pausing when his fingers encountered a separation in the shoulder seam of his tux. “My tailor is not going to be happy,” he said coolly as he righted the chair. He swung it around and straddled it, folding his arms nonchalantly across the back.

  His gaze flashed past his two captors to the open door beyond them. They were in the mansion’s wine cellar. Pristinely maintained bottles reposed in rack after freestanding oak rack, and he had a view straight down an aisle between two of the racks to the wide-open doorway. He could smell the salt air, and weak light from a crescent moon illuminated a set of concrete steps that beckoned the way to freedom.

  A freedom that he very much desired…but feared he wouldn’t attain anytime soon.

  “Listen up, asshole,” Blunt Face said. “We can do this the easy way or we can do it hard. It’s pretty much up to you.”

  Nick shrugged. “I choose easy.”

  “Good. Where’re the photos?”

  “In a nice, safe place.”

  The blow to his jaw snapped his head around, but he maintained his seat.

  Blunt Face slapped the leather sap he’d used to hit him against the palm of his free hand. “I’m not in the mood for cute, buddy boy. Where are the fucking photos?”

  “I’ve got them safely on ice. In a place where Douglass will never get his hands on them.” He accepted the next blow stoically. Licking a trace of blood from his split lip, he stared up at Blunt Face. “What are you going to do, man, beat me to a pulp? Kill me? Over some frigging photographs?” If he truly believed that, he’d be a hell of a lot more apprehensive than he already was, but he didn’t think it had come to that. Not yet, at any rate. “I can’t stop you, obviously, so knock yourself out. But that won’t get Douglass his photographs.”

  “Perhaps this will.” J. Fitzgerald himself stepped out of the shadows. He had changed out of his formal wear into a pastel polo shirt and casual slacks. His silver hair was immaculately brushed and he looked like a wealthy magnate at his leisure.

  A leisure he spent satisfying a passion for gardening, if the large pair of hedge clippers he held was any indication.

  For the first time, No-Neck stirred from his position against one of the wine racks. “Like I told ya earlier,” he said flatly, pushing upright and dropping arms that had been crossed over his massive chest, “I don’t want no part of this shit.”

  “Then leave,” Douglass replied. “But as I told you, if you want part of being paid, you won’t get in my way.”

  Nick looked from the light reflecting off the blade of the clippers to the muscle-bound goon-for-hire. No-Neck returned his look, then shrugged. He turned on his heel and walked away, and as Nick watched him stalk down the alleyway and out the door, uneasiness coiled like a snake in his gut. The man didn’t strike him as particularly squeamish…or even the kind of guy who would draw the line where most folks might.

  Dammit, this was all Daisy’s fault. If she’d been doing her job like she was supposed to, he wouldn’t be about to have God-only-knew what done to him.

  Remembrance of the look in her eyes when she’d discovered he’d been lying to her pulled him up short. No—the fault was his own. He’d made some really dumb-ass decisions this week, not the least of which was underestimating how far Douglass was prepared to go to get that ambassadorship. He should have set up precautionary measures to safeguard himself from this very situation.

  “Hold his hands,” J. Fitzgerald commanded Blunt Face.

  No! No one was messing with his hands! His entrails turning
to ice, Nick started to shove to his feet, only to have Blunt Face muscle him back down. Bracketing Nick in place with his body, the goon gripped him by the wrists and thrust his hands forward.

  Nick clenched his fists.

  “Open your hands,” Douglass said.

  Was he out of his fucking mind? “I don’t think so. My hands are my livelihood.” Not to mention how much pleasure he got out of using them on Daisy.

  J. Fitzgerald smacked the gleaming, curved business end of the hedge clippers between the tendons of Nick’s right hand, and the resultant scream of nerves caused his fingers to uncurl. “You should have thought of that before you started poking your camera where it didn’t belong.” He grasped Nick’s index finger and straightened it. He then tried to maneuver what was intended to be a two-handed implement with his free hand. “Give me some help here, Autry.”

  “Are you insane?” Nick tried to pull free, but he was firmly pinned. Shit! Why hadn’t he set up a plan that would’ve automatically sent Douglass’ photos to the tabloids or to Uncle Greg if anything happened to him?

  “Where are the photographs?” Douglass demanded. “Tell me right now, or I’ll snip your finger off like a fucking twig.”

  Nick’s mind spun as Blunt Face straightened his finger and held it steady, while J. Fitzgerald slid the bottom blade beneath it and grasped the uppermost handle to bring the top blade down. Bluff, you fool! Start talking before it’s too late. He opened his mouth—

  And heard Daisy yell, “Drop it, Douglass, or I’ll drop you where you stand.”

  Nick looked down the aisle and saw her standing in a two-handed shooting stance, her gun aimed steadily at J. Fitzgerald. His very own avenging angel, blue combat boots, crazy-cut hairdo, and all. Love for her burst like champagne bubbles in his bloodstream; it exploded in his heart, suffusing him with warmth clear out to his endangered fingertips.

  J. Fitzgerald let the hedge clippers drop to his side. Blunt Face released his hand.

  Then Nick felt the thug’s body shift against his back as Autry reached behind himself with his right hand. Assuming he was going for his gun, Nick yelled, “Blondie!”

  She swung her Glock a few inches and Nick felt Blunt Face freeze. “Take your weapon out nice and slow,” she advised the goon. “My trigger finger feels mighty itchy, so I’d advise you to keep your hands where I can see them. And you, Douglass, hand those clippers to Nick. You okay?” she asked him.

  She barely spared him a glance, but that was fine with him—she had more important matters on her mind. He flashed her a huge grin as he relieved J. Fitzgerald of the hedge clippers and only winced a little at the pull to his abused lip. “I am now, doll face.”

  “You’re making a big mistake, young woman,” Douglass said with authority, and he took a step toward Daisy. The look she leveled on him halted him midstride.

  “No, you’re the one who’s made the mistake, mister. I have a real low tolerance for hypocrites and liars, and you’re about the worst of both I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet. And I’m acquainted with some damn proficient liars.”

  Nick winced at the reminder that he wasn’t out of the woods with her yet. But right now, he just wanted to get them the hell out of here. He collected Blunt Face’s gun.

  “I’ll tell you what’s even more insulting,” Blondie told Douglass, while gesturing for Blunt Face to come stand where she could cover both of them without dividing her attention. “You’re not even a particularly worthy opponent. I could at least respect intelligence. But you were too stupid to realize Nick would’ve destroyed the negatives if you’d just left him alone. And how on earth did you plan to explain his blood all over your cellar floor? You can’t honestly believe you could disfigure him and not have him go to the police.”

  Douglass gave her a malevolent glare. “I don’t like your tone or your attitude, young lady.”

  “Well, gee. How ever will I bear up under the strain?” Her dark eyes flashed fire. “You don’t get it, do you, gramps? You aren’t the final arbiter of acceptable behavior, what makes you think you would be?”

  “Listen, you no-account little bitch, I’ll have you know that I’m—”

  “A criminal. You’re nothing but a thug with a decent bank account and an inflated sense of his own importance. Which reminds me…” She tossed Nick her cell phone. “Call the cops. Let’s get this clown behind bars where he belongs.”

  “I don’t think so,” rumbled a new voice from behind the wine racks, and No-Neck stepped into view. He had a gun in his hand and it was trained on Blondie.

  Dammit! Daisy turned to face the new menace. Talk about inexcusably sloppy. She should have called the cops immediately instead of stopping to berate Douglass.

  “Drop your gun, sweet thing.” The man grinned at her when she complied. “So, we meet again. Kick your weapon over here—there’s a good girl. No, don’t come any closer,” he warned when she edged in his direction. “I remember your kung fu skills real well. You were pretty damn good.”

  “Yeah, I excelled in Goon-tossing 101.”

  “Funny girl. You sure got a mouth on you, don’tcha?”

  She shrugged.

  “You better watch what you say with it, or someone might take exception.”

  She almost said, Wow, a three-syllable word, but caught herself in time. No-Neck was so busy lording it over her, he wasn’t totally on guard. No sense in putting him there by pissing him off.

  “Wow,” Nick said. “How about that? He knows a three-syllable word.”

  Daisy laughed and, scowling, No-Neck swung around to face Nick. “No one’s talkin’ to you, pretty boy, so if I were you, I’d mind my own fu—”

  Daisy’s kick hit his gun hand and the weapon went flying. She bent to draw her Beretta out of her boot, but No-Neck caught her shoulder with the toe of his shoe, sending her reeling. He grabbed her up in a bear hug while she was still midspin.

  Dangling off the ground, facing away from No-Neck as his brawny arms squeezed the breath out of her, she saw Nick grab a wine bottle off a rack and bring it down across Blunt Face’s wrist. It sent her Glock, which the goon had snatched from the floor, tumbling back down.

  With dark spots beginning to crowd the edge of her vision, Daisy drew one of her knives and reached over shoulder and pressed it against No-Neck’s jugular.

  “I’ll be darned, you do have a neck,” she wheezed when he froze. His grip loosened and she drew in some much-needed air. She realized she had the blunt side of the knife pressed to his carotid and quickly reversed it before it dawned on him, too. “Now set me down nice and gentle and I won’t have to slice your throat.”

  As he did as she bade him, Blunt Face dived for the gun Nick had knocked loose. Nick laid him out with one blow from the bottle of wine. He looked in amazement from the unconscious thug at his feet to the bottle in his hand.

  “Good year,” he murmured.

  Daisy grinned and stepped away from No-Neck, whirling to face him, her expression once again menacingly serious as she brandished the knife.

  He held his hands up in surrender, and she stepped back out of range of those long arms. From the corner of her eye she caught a glimpse of J. Fitzgerald, whom she’d momentarily forgotten. He had something black in his hand and was headed for the door. Thinking it was a gun, she was already bending for her Beretta when she heard him say excitedly, “Hello, police? Send someone quick. I’ve got burglars in my house and I think they’re armed.”

  “Ah, sh—Nick!” She turned to tell him they had to get the hell out of there, but he’d obviously heard for himself, for he was already loping toward her. She had one confused moment to notice he still held the bottle of wine in his hand, then she snatched up her Glock from the floor and they ran for the cellar door.

  “The old goat’s smarter than I thought,” she said as Nick boosted her over the estate wall and vaulted it in her wake. “If the cops catch us they’ll probably shoot first and ask questions later. By beating us to the punch, he pretty muc
h guaranteed they’ll never believe that you were brought here against your will.” They skidded to a halt at the car and she slammed her hand down on its roof. “Damn! It just fries my bacon that he’s going to get away with this.” She shoved the key in the lock as clouds scudded across the slivered moon, turning Nick into an indistinct shadow across from her.

  “He’ll probably never go to jail,” he agreed as they climbed in the car. “But he’s not going to skate on this, either.”

  She turned over the engine and punched the accelerator and they sped down the coast highway. But she took her gaze off the road long enough to lift a skeptical eyebrow at him.

  “I mean it, Daise,” he said. “He’ll probably send the goons to my place to intercept us, so pull into the first motel you see. We’re going to get a few hours’ sleep. Then I’m going to do what I should have done in the first place.”

  25

  saturday

  DAISY awoke to the sound of Nick’s voice requesting a conversation with the senator. She squinted at the clock on the motel nightstand and saw that it was six-fifteen. Yawning, she slid her pillow against the headboard and eased upright to lean against it. The room was cool and she worked a hand out of the blankets to reach for the pink cardigan she’d discarded only a few short hours ago.

  “Yes, I’m sure he’s extremely busy,” Nick said in his most reasonable, trained-at-the-best-schools-money-can-buy manner. “But tell him all the same that Nicholas Coltrane is calling and he says it’s quite urgent, won’t you?”

  He sat on the edge of the bed with his back to her, dressed only in black silk boxers. The phone receiver tucked between his ear and one shoulder, he worked the opposite arm in slow rotations to get the kinks out of his abused shoulder.

  Daisy leisurely tracked the bunch and flow of the muscles bracketing the shallow groove of his spine. Against her will she remembered the way he’d felt when he’d ignored the extra bed last night and crawled into hers. He’d snuggled up behind her as if he had a perfect right, wrapped an arm around her waist, and pulled her close. Then, before she could even draw breath to demand what the heck he was doing, she’d felt him go lax against her in heavy, instantaneous sleep.