Unlawful Contact (5 page)

“I know.” He pulled her toward the door, almost lifting her off her feet. “And now you’re helping me.”

He heard a key in the lock, and every muscle in his body tensed, ready for whatever came through the door. He knew he had one chance—one chance to convince the guards he was serious, one chance to escape, one chance to find Megan. He was ass betting on this one. If he fucked up, if the guards didn’t buy it, his sister would pay the price.

The door flew open.

Russell, Hinkley, and Slater filled the doorway, weapons drawn.

“Drop the steel and back off, or I’ll blow her the fuck away!” Marc yelled it like he meant every word of it.

Russell’s nostrils flared, and a muscle clenched in his jaw. “Ain’t going to happen, Hunter. You might as well let her go and drop—”

“Do it!” Marc’s shout made the guards jump and drew a terrified shriek from Sophie, who trembled, almost legless, in his arms. “Do it now!”

“P-please do what he says!” Sophie’s voice quavered, barely audible above the harsh blare of the alarm. “I-I don’t want any of you t-to get hurt!”

A knife twisted in Marc’s gut. He ignored it. “Listen to the pretty lady, boys! You don’t want to make this harder on her than it already is.”

Russell glanced at Sophie, and Marc could see that the old man was fond of her, a weakness that would make him easier for Marc to control. Marc watched the shifting emotions in Russell’s eyes as the guard weighed his options—and broke.

“You win, Hunter.” Russell bent down, put his weapon on the tile floor, then backed away, shouting over his shoulder. “You heard him! Lay down your weapons! Clear the hallway! We’ve got a hostage situation!”

The other officers followed Russell’s example.

But Marc knew he hadn’t won—not yet. “Get on your radio and have them order the snipers out of the towers. I don’t want to see a single uniform between here and the highway. If I do, she pays the price. And have someone kill that fucking alarm!”

Russell did as he asked, conveying Marc’s demands via the radio clipped to his shoulder. “Done. No one is going to stop you. But if you hurt her, so help me God…”

The alarm fell quiet, the silence almost startling.

Marc nudged Sophie forward, took a step toward the door. “You’re a good man, Russell. You may have saved her life. Now back up, lie facedown, head toward the wall, hands behind your head. You know the position.”

Russell stepped backward, got down onto the floor. “Think about this, Hunter. You don’t want to hurt her. Let her go. Take one of us instead.”

“Are you kidding? No offense, but she makes a much prettier hostage than any of you. Mmm—she even smells good.” Marc took another step, Sophie moving unsteadily with him.

“You’ll pay for this, you son of a bitch!” Hinkley lay down, his face a red scowl.

Marc laughed, a harsh sound that echoed in the hallway. “What are you going to do? Lock me in prison for the rest of my life? That’ll suck.”

“There’s still time to rethink this.” Russell lay on his stomach now. “Let her go. You’ll still have the weapon, and we’re unarmed now.”

“When I’m safely away, I’ll let her go, but not until then.” Marc glanced out into the hallway, saw no one. He reached down, grabbed a second Glock off the floor. “Come on, sweetheart. Visiting hours are over. And don’t forget your purse.”

C
LUTCHING THE ARM
that imprisoned her, Sophie struggled to keep up as Hunter pushed her down the empty, silent hallway, gun near her cheek. Her mouth had gone dry, and her heart beat so hard it hurt, her sense of unreality growing with each forced step.

This couldn’t be happening. It couldn’t be real.

It was only too real.

His breath hot on her temple, his hold on her never letting up, Hunter half dragged, half carried her toward the security checkpoint where only thirty minutes ago she’d overheard Sergeant Hinkley saying something to Lieutenant Kramer—she couldn’t remember what.

Dear God, what if Lieutenant Kramer is dead?

They reached the gate, found it locked.

“Crappy hospitality.” Hunter hit a button on the control panel with the butt of the gun, and the gate clicked open. “I guess we’ll have to show ourselves out.”

“They’ll catch you sooner or later.” She barely recognized the sound of her own voice.

“I’m hoping for later.” He didn’t sound worried in the least. “Now hush your pretty mouth, and keep moving.”

It seemed to her she watched from outside herself as he drew her through the checkpoint, down the hallway, and through Lieutenant Russell’s station with its metal detectors, ink pad, and black light scanner. She felt an absurd impulse to hold out her hand and run it under the scanner as she always did on her way out.

You’re in shock, Alton.

That must explain why she couldn’t think straight, why she was stumbling along with Hunter like a puppet, why she hadn’t tried get away from him. Well, that—and the fact that he’d threatened to kill her and had a gun to her head.

And to think she’d come here to help his sister.

Rage, hot and sudden, burned through Sophie’s panic and fear. She twisted, kicked, scratched, brought her knee up hard. “Let…me…go!”

“Son of a—!” His curse became a grunt as her knee met his groin.

In a heartbeat, Sophie found herself pinned up against the wall, the hard length of his body immobilizing her, her arms stretched over her head, his forehead resting against hers.

His eyes were squeezed shut, breath hissing from between his clenched teeth, his face contorted in obvious pain. He drew a deep breath, then opened his eyes and glared at her, his expression shifting from pain to fury.

“I’ll give you that one because, God knows, I deserve it. But
don’t
try to play rough with me, Sophie! You’ll only end up getting yourself hurt!”

He seemed to hesitate for a moment, then his gaze dropped to her mouth.

For a split second, she thought he might try to kiss her, and a completely new fear unfurled in her belly. “Don’t!”

He thrust her in front of him and pushed her down the hallway. “I’m a convicted murderer, not a rapist! Besides, now isn’t the time. Move!”

Her rage spent, she did as he demanded, trying not to trip, trying not to cry, trying not to throw up. Just ahead lay the lobby and beyond it the front entrance and visitors’ parking lot.

When I’m safely away, I’ll let her go.

His words came back to her, and she latched onto them, clinging to the hope they offered, repeating them in her mind like a mantra.

I’ll let her go
.
I’ll let her go.

They passed the abandoned registration desk where Sergeant Green had checked her in and hurried through the now vacant lobby. And then they were outside.

Sophie barely noticed the cold wind or the fat snowflakes that had begun to fall or the fact that the sun had set, her thoughts riveted on Hunter and what he would do next.

He surprised her by stopping just outside the door and drawing her back against the brick wall with him. “Give me your keys! Which one is yours?”

“Wh-what?”

“Which car?”

“The blue Toyota. But you can’t—”

“There’s no time for this!” He covered her mouth with his hand. “Listen close, Sophie. The moment we step away from this building, a dozen snipers with high-powered rifles will sight on my skull. Perhaps that idea pleases you, but it makes me a little nervous. I don’t have time to call a cab, so we’re taking your car. Understand?”

He lifted the hand from her mouth.

She nodded, her pulse skyrocketing. “Y-yes.”

He was
kidnapping
her!

No! No! Please, no!

She swallowed a sob and fumbled in her purse for her keys.

Marc heard Sophie’s breath catch, felt her body jerk, and realized she was crying.

Goddamn it! God
damn
it!

He fought the urge, so instinctual, to reassure her. He couldn’t afford to think about what she was feeling. Not now. Not yet. One mistake out here, and he’d be a dead man.

She drew her keys from her purse and held them out for him, metal jangling. “P-please just take my car and leave me!”

“No can do, sweetheart.” He grabbed the keys from her hand, glancing from the parking lot, which was flooded by searchlights, to the lobby, where a dozen COs had gathered, waiting for him to slip and offer them a clear shot. “Go!”

He realized his mistake as soon as they hit the parking lot. Dressed in those ridiculous heels, she could barely walk on the ice and snow, much less run. She skittered and slipped, more than once nearly toppling them both to the ground. If she fell, she’d give the snipers the clear line of fire they were waiting for.

“Jesus Christ! It’s winter, woman, or hadn’t you noticed!” Marc lifted her off her feet, held her hard against him and ran, his prison-issue tennis shoes offering little more in the way of traction, the skin on his back prickling with the imagined heat of red lasers. He’d worked the other end of the rifle for too long and could almost hear the snipers’ thoughts in his mind.

Slip. Drop the girl. Raise your head up just an inch, you bastard!

Her car was parked nearby—the first space in the second row. He fought for footing, skidded into the door, his knees crashing against metal as the first shot rang out.

Sophie screamed, and for one terrible moment Marc feared she’d been hit. Then he felt it—searing pain in his shoulder.

“Shit!” He slipped the key into the lock, jerked the door open, then shoved Sophie through the door and piled in behind her. “Scoot over!”

An explosion of weapons fire.

A barrage of bullets.

The driver’s side window and mirror shattered, glass spraying through the air as rounds shredded the door where he’d been standing a split second ago.

Keeping low, he slammed the door, slid the key into the ignition, and gunned the engine. Then, both hands on the steering wheel, he fishtailed out of the parking lot and toward the highway. “Put on your seat belt, sweetheart. This ride is likely to get rough.”

T
RAPPED IN A
nightmare, Sophie sat, shivering, a prisoner in the passenger seat of her own car, barely able to breathe as her kidnapper sped west on Highway 6 through the darkness and swirling snow. Freezing air blasted through the shattered driver’s side window, blowing away the warmth of the car’s heater and carrying in fat flakes that melted on her skin and clothes, leaving her damp and chilled to the bone.

The road behind them was a river of squad cars—state patrol, county sheriff, city police—their red and blue lights flashing through the storm and glinting off the rearview mirror. They’d long since cut the banshee shriek of their sirens and were running silent. From overhead came the choppy beat of a helicopter, its searchlight flooding both the road and the car’s interior, illuminating the whirling snow and turning night into surreal day.

The highway was eerily empty, no headlights coming toward them, no taillights ahead of them. Had the state patrol closed the highway? They must have. They were trying to clear the way, to prevent an accident, to keep people safe.

She glanced at the speedometer again and felt her stomach lurch.

He was going
sixty-five
. In her car. In a fricking blizzard. At night.

How could this man be the brother Megan loved so much? If he was afraid, he didn’t show it, his face expressionless. He wasn’t even shivering, though he ought to have been much colder than she was. After all, he was right next to the window. His face and beard were beaded with moisture, his prison smock damp.

He isn’t human, Alton. He has ice for blood.

The car slipped, its rear wheels skidding as the road curved to the north.

“Oh, God!” She squeezed her eyes shut, gripped the door handle tighter, her heart kicking against her breastbone.

But as quickly as he’d lost control, he regained it. “Relax, Sophie. It’s not time to start praying—not yet.”

“Re-relax?” She opened her eyes and gaped at him, fighting the hysterical laughter that bubbled up inside her. “H-how about y-you slow d-own?”

“Why?” He glanced at the rearview mirror, then back at the road. “Do you think they’ll give me a speeding ticket?”

Ass! Bastard! Son of a bitch!

She wished she were brave enough to shout all the four-letter words she was thinking. Did he really think he would get away with this? What did he possibly stand to gain?

He’s LWOP Alton. Life without parole.

Unless he murdered someone, they couldn’t do anything to him beyond locking him in solitary in the maximum-security wing. He could steal, maim, rape and be no worse off when they eventually caught him. Every moment of freedom would be a holiday for him, a vacation from the boredom of prison, a reward for breaking the law.

He had everything to gain and nothing but a life of misery to lose.

Terror settled like a block of ice in her stomach, the full extent of her peril suddenly horrifyingly clear.

A chill that had nothing to do with the weather skittered down her spine.

Ignoring the bitter cold and the pain in his shoulder, Marc glanced into the rearview mirror and was almost blinded by the chopper’s searchlights. They were pacing him, watching him, waiting for him to spin out of control, run out of gas, or give up. But it wasn’t going to happen. Too much was at stake for him to fuck up.

“Y-you might not m-mind if you d-die tonight, b-but I do!”

He heard the barely suppressed panic in Sophie’s voice and realized she was trembling. Was she
that
afraid of him? He thrust aside his sense of guilt. “I had no idea you cared.”

“I-I meant
I
don’t w-want to die tonight! Y-you can g-go to hell f-for all I c-care!”

And then it hit him. She wasn’t trembling out of fear. She was shivering.

He glanced over at her, saw that she was shaking almost uncontrollably. He’d thought that, seated on the passenger side with the heater on, she’d be spared the worst of the cold and wet, but he could see droplets of icy moisture on her face and realized her clothes were almost as saturated as his. But she had a much smaller body mass than he did. She wouldn’t be able to withstand the cold as long as he would.

“Do you have a blanket?”

“A s-space blanket. In the t-trunk.”

“That won’t do you any damned good. Don’t go fucking hypothermic on me.”

Behind him, the cops slowed their pace and began to fall back.

What the fuck?
Were they giving up?

“Y-you don’t c-care what h-happens t-to me! Y-you threatened to k-kill me!” She glared at him. Then her eyes flew open wide. “Y-you…y-you’re b-bleeding! You’ve b-been shot!”

He glanced down, saw that he’d bled through his shirt and down his arm. “I know this will come as a disappointment, but I’ll live.”

“N-not if y-you pass out behind the whe—”

“It’s not as much blood as it seems. It’s just a deep graze.” That’s what he hoped, anyway. He hadn’t had time to check it.

“I h-have a first-aid k-kit in the b-back, too.”

But he didn’t hear her, his gaze fixed on the road ahead. “Shit!”

At least a dozen squad cars blocked the highway, creating a barricade of steel where the road forked off into Clear Creek Canyon. They were trying to keep him from doing exactly what he’d planned to do—use the narrow canyon walls and lack of visibility to lose the chopper before eluding the squad cars in the mountains.

So that’s why the cops had slowed down.

If he was going to avoid crashing into them, he needed to downshift now and start braking. But he’d be damned if he’d give up yet. He weighed his options—or, rather, his lack of options—and made up his mind. “Okay, Sophie, it’s time to start praying.”

Eyes wide, she had already braced her hands against the dashboard. “Oh, God, no! Pl-please don’t do this!”

Marc pressed on the accelerator, hurtling them toward the flashing lights.

Beside him, Sophie whimpered. “N-no!”

A hundred yards. Sixty. Thirty.

He jerked the wheel to the left, fighting to keep control of the little vehicle as it swerved off the road and hurtled toward the vacant tourist parking lot that marked the entrance to the canyon. The car fishtailed, jumped the curb, caught air.

He heard Sophie scream, her cry cut short when the car came down with a bone-jarring crunch. Breath knocked from his lungs, Marc fought to get the car out of a spin.

Shouts. The drone of the chopper. A blinding spray of snow.

“Hang on!” He gunned it, straightened the wheel, made for the dark slit of the canyon.

The car skidded, studded tires chewing ice, fighting for traction.

And they were away.

S
OPHIE HUDDLED IN
the emergency blanket Hunter had retrieved from her trunk, praying he would stop and let her out, praying someone would see them and call the police, praying the nightmare would end. As far as she could tell, they were now high above the casinos of Central City and Black Hawk, the car nosing through the dark and snowy streets of some nameless little mountain town, the police left far behind.

The helicopter hadn’t followed them into the canyon, probably because the wind, low visibility, and high, narrow rock walls made it too dangerous to navigate. But the squad cars had stuck with them—until Hunter had cut the lights and plunged her car down a small side road. Tears of rage and helplessness blurring her vision, Sophie had watched the flashing lights disappear around the bend and had realized she was alone—with a killer.

In that moment, she’d known it was up to her to protect herself, to escape, to survive.

If only she weren’t so afraid. And tired. And cold.

More of the heat generated by the heater stayed in the car now that they had slowed down, and the blanket helped her retain some warmth. But she was still freezing, her soggy clothes holding in the chill. Outside, the temperature continued to plummet, the wind howling, the snow blowing in gusts around them, making it almost impossible to see beyond the muted glow of the headlights.

Somehow, Hunter seemed to know where he was going. He turned a corner, then pulled into an empty parking lot, drove around to the back of a building, and killed the lights. It was a sporting goods store, one of those “last chance for ski rentals” places that were the winter mainstay of so many small Colorado towns.

“I need to get a few things.” He put the car in neutral, set the brake. “You stay here.”

He was leaving her in the car?

“Okay.” She avoided meeting his gaze, tried to hide her surprise.

As soon as he was inside, she would call the police on her cell phone and make a run for it. They’d passed a string of houses just down the street. Surely someone would be home. Someone would help her. Up here everyone owned guns.

He turned off the engine, pocketed her keys, and reached behind his back. “I hate to spoil the little plans you’re making, but I can’t have you running off just now.”

Before she could react, he’d handcuffed her to the handle of her door.

“No!” She stared at her wrists in astonishment, adrenaline and outrage temporarily burning away her chills. “You
bastard
! You said you’d let me go as soon as you got away!”

He leaned in close, his face inches from hers, his voice silky, icy amusement in his eyes. “Do you believe everything convicted murderers tell you?”

Then he fished her cell phone from her purse, climbed out, and slammed the battered driver’s side door behind him.

Sophie watched him disappear into the swirling storm, desperation and rage swelling in her chest. Well, she’d be damned if she’d just sit here like some subservient little captive waiting for him to come back and shoot her in the head—or worse.

She jerked on the cuffs, twisted them, looked for some kind of emergency release. After all, he’d broken out of them in a heartbeat. There had to be a way.

“Come on, Alton! If he did it, you can do it!”

But if there were a quick way out, she couldn’t find it. Heart hammering, she stopped, closed her eyes and took several deep breaths.

“Think! Think! Think!”

The door handle!

If she could pull it off at one end or the other, she could slip free that way.

She shifted her position, braced one knee against the door, and yanked on the cuffs with all her strength.

The steel bit painfully into her wrists, but the handle didn’t budge.

“Damn!” She glanced into the storm.

No sign of him.

Knowing she might never get another chance, she tried again, this time pulling on the door handle itself, but still it held.

“Oh, come on!”

What she needed was room to maneuver, more leverage. If she could put her foot against the door and push with the much stronger muscles of her leg…

Sophie unlocked her door, opened it, and was almost jerked out of the car when the wind caught it and blew it back on its hinges. Forced by the handcuffs to bend down, she stepped out into the icy gale, sinking deep in cold powder, the wind sucking her breath away, snow biting her damp skin. She kicked off her heels, pressed one foot against the door, pushed with all her might…and slid feet-first beneath the door, her knees hitting steel, her cheek slamming the side of the car on her way down.

For a moment she lay flat on her back in the snow, the breath knocked out of her, her cheek throbbing, her arms stretched painfully over her head. Then she forced air back into her lungs, tried to draw herself upright and get back to her feet. But the snow was deep and slick, and she couldn’t get her footing, even without her heels. Again and again she tried, until she was panting for breath and painfully cold, her wrists raw and aching, her body shaking, her skirt riding up to her hips.

Good job, Alton. Any other brilliant ideas?

It was only then that she realized she was in real trouble.

If Hunter didn’t come back soon, she wouldn’t have to wonder whether he planned to kill her. She would already be dead.

M
ARC GRABBED AN
internal frame pack off the wall and began to fill it. There’d been no alarm on the store, which had made breaking in a piece of cake. But he couldn’t waste time. He had to get back to the car before Sophie got too cold. He could have brought her inside with him, but then he’d have been distracted by her inevitable attempts to run off or get to the phone or spear him with a ski pole. Better to get what he needed quickly and hit the road. He still had a long night ahead of him.

Head lamp. GPS receiver. Batteries. Waterproof watch. Pocket knife. Ice ax. Cook pot for water. Bivvy bag. Subzero sleeping bag. Rope. Instep crampons.

He’d been debating for most of an hour whether he should tell her who he was. She didn’t
need
to know. She could get through this without knowing. But some part of him
wanted
her to know. She might be less afraid of him if she knew, and he fucking
hated
scaring her. Besides, no matter how much he tried to pretend otherwise, it galled the hell out of him to think she’d forgotten him when he’d spent years carrying the memory of her with him like some kind of goddamned jewel.

How many nights had he reached for that memory to keep himself from going over the edge? How many times had he fought back desperation and loneliness by remembering what it had been like to talk with her, to hold her hand, to see her smile? How many times had he banged one out while imagining he was burying his cock inside her sweet, tight body?

No woman before or after had come close to touching him the way Sophie had, and she didn’t even remember him.

Snowshoes. Polypro glove liners and socks. Men’s and women’s long underwear. Thermal hat. Boots. Down mittens. Ski pants. Turtleneck. Merino sweater. Jeans.

So what was stopping him from telling her? Why hadn’t he just come out with it? Why hadn’t he forced her to remember him?