Deadly Dance (36 page)

“I’ve got people checking the security cameras now,” Avery said. “Although there’s not a camera around back, and the one on the street has limited angles. But maybe we’ll find something.”

“And if he came in by vehicle,” Harrison said, “he had to pass through one of the checkpoints, right?”

“Yeah,” Avery agreed. “I’ve got them looking at that, too. And after Tina’s abduction, I closed the dorms, so there’s only essential personnel left on campus and no students.”

“But?” Harrison prompted, hearing something else in the big man’s answer.

“But as we know from previous experience, there’s no such thing as airtight security. And on top of that, Draper had special forces training.”

“Meaning he’s good at subterfuge,” Drake said.

“Right, and he’s already proved he’s determined.”

“So she could be anywhere.” Harrison blew out a breath, still fighting for control.

“What about Hannah’s computer?” Tracy asked. “Maybe there’s something there. If he follows pattern, he should have sent her an email. Maybe you can pull something from that.”

“All right,” Harrison said, already moving to sit in front of her laptop—typing in her password, grateful that he’d had the foresight to ask for it beforehand. He’d actually been honored when she’d surrendered it without any hesitation. At the time, he’d only thought to have it in case she was out of pocket and he needed to access her databases. But now…

The computer’s operating system came to life, displaying her program files. And he scrolled down to the email program, clicking twice to open it. The list of emails were mostly routine. Answers from queries to Langley and Quantico, along with a couple from Tyler and one from Annie, which he didn’t open, figuring she wouldn’t want him perusing her private emails.

He scrolled further down, the messages in descending order, until he reached the newest ones. There were three that had arrived this morning. The first was from Annie. It simply read “You deserve to be happy. Go for it,” and his heart twisted, no doubt at all as to what it was Hannah had been discussing with her friend.

The second message was from someone at Fort Hood
sending additional information on Draper. He sent it to the printer to read later.

He moved to the last one, the skin on the back of his neck crawling as he saw the title. “Gotcha.” Drake swore as he read over Harrison’s shoulder. And Avery and Tracy moved closer as he clicked the file to open it.

The picture was of Tina. Tied up and stuffed in the closet.

Hannah woke up with a start, something dripping on her head. She tried to wipe it away, but she couldn’t move her hands. Memory came rushing back. The explosion, the man in her house. Draper. She had no recollection of his taking her from her kitchen to wherever the hell she was. Only of him jamming something in her arm, the drug ultimately knocking her out.

She tried again to move her arms, peering through the semidarkness to try to assess her situation. Best she could tell, she was lying on a single bed, the mattress sour smelling. Her arms were tied to each side of the headboard, a metal affair that seemed strangely familiar.

Her feet were tied together with some kind of narrow rope, then secured to something either at the end of the bed or on the floor. From this angle, it was impossible to see. A single bulb burned from a socket hanging from a wire on the ceiling. It was rusted and damn near burned out but it gave off enough light for her to see that there was a door. A huge metal affair. The walls were brick and old, bits of the masonry visible on the little bit of flooring she could see to her right. The bed was wedged into a corner, the length of it running along the back wall opposite the door.

She shivered as another droplet fell from the ceiling onto her neck. Please, God, let it be water. She tried to shift, the mattress ticking rough against her skin—the thought grinding home as she glanced down and realized she was naked.

A scream bubbled up inside her, memories from a lifetime ago surfacing to mingle with this new fear. But Hannah had survived then, and she’d survive now. She clamped down on the terror with the single-minded determination that had been the cornerstone not only of her career, but of her life.

This, too, would pass.

She closed her eyes and counted to ten, concentrating on her breathing. Then opened them again, this time examining the room with a more professional eye. It was impossible to see much detail, the light was simply too dim. But all four walls were brick, the floor made of cement, and the ceiling plaster of some kind.

None of it was new, and none of it had been maintained. Except the door, which seemed newer. And definitely impenetrable. Even if she could free herself, she doubted she’d be able to break through the door. At least not without some kind of help.

But high up on the wall to the right, there was a tiny window, too small to crawl through—and at the moment, not admitting any light—which made her wonder how long she’d been unconscious. Still, it was an opening. Although it might as well have been in Nigeria for all the chance she had of reaching it.

In the far corner to the left of the door, there was a stack of boxes. Several with writing. But she was too far away and the room was too dark for her to be able to
read them. Something yellow stuck out of the top of one of them. But beyond the color, it was impossible to tell anything else about it.

Another drop fell, hitting her just above the eye, and she rolled her head trying to avoid a second one, the movement making her wince, sharp pain shooting through her head. Draper had hit her. Unable to check the wound, she rolled as far as her restraints would allow, checking the mattress for blood. A small spot close to where her left ear would have been indicated that she’d been bleeding, but the stain was almost dry—telling her that the cut wasn’t serious and that she’d been here awhile. Long enough at least for her wound to clot and the stain to begin to dry.

An hour—maybe two. Jasmine had been killed in the first eight hours. The number rang through her head, threatening to swamp her grim determination, but she clamped down on it, concentrating instead on the restraints holding her arms. Maybe if she were lucky, she could find a way to pull herself free.

She twisted her wrists experimentally, frustrated to find that neither of the ropes binding her had much give. Clearly, Draper was good with knots. Still, if she closed her fingers tightly, it was possible to slide her left hand down a little bit, the nylon cording cutting into her skin as she pulled harder.

She managed about another inch or so, but when the rope reached the broadest point in her folded hand, it refused to move any farther, instead slicing into her hand, resulting in a stream of blood dripping down her arm. She slid her hand back up, waiting to make sure she hadn’t cut into a major vessel. But the stream turned to a trickle, and in short order, stopped.

As much as she wanted to try again, she didn’t dare push it any harder. While she didn’t give a damn about her hand if it bought her freedom, she couldn’t risk incapacitating herself. At least not until she’d examined her other options first. She tried lifting her feet, but there was no give there at all, and she only managed to get them an inch or so off the mattress.

But when she tried lifting her body, she was surprised to see that the rope on the right side of the headboard slid upward with her motion. Craning her neck, she realized that the headboard was solid metal with two large posts on each side. The cord was attached to the posts.

On the right, he’d also run a second line to the bottom of the headboard. But on the left, that line had come loose. Either from her thrashing around or because he’d never tied it in the first place. Never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, Hannah started to rock the small bed frame, using the momentum of her body to tip the entire thing as far to the left as she could manage. Each time the bed moved, her arm went slack, and she was able to slide the rope a tiny bit farther toward the end of the post and freedom.

She jerked harder, rolling to the left, the tension stretching her right arm, pain shooting from shoulder to fingertips. But like her hand, her shoulder was dispensable. And there was little threat of permanent injury. Worst case, if she pulled it out of the socket, she could probably jam in back into place herself. So with clenched teeth, she summoned all of her strength and began rocking harder, the bed frame actually pulling away from the floor on the right side.

The pain excruciating now, she sucked in a breath,
eyeing the rope. Almost there. Once more, and she ought to be able to obtain enough force to pull it free.

One. Two. Three.

She rocked back and forth several times to start the momentum and then jerked her entire body to the left, rolling into it, the bed frame coming with her. Like jumping rope, she had to move at the exact right time, with only seconds before gravity pulled the bed back into place again, so as the bed teetered on two legs, she ignored the pain and flung her arm upward, flicking her wrist, freeing her left hand.

It seemed to take forever to release her other hand, the rope tied so tightly that she broke her nails to the quick fighting to get it off. But finally, bruised and bloodied, she had both hands free, and, in short order, had loosened the rope around her feet.

At first she was afraid to move, certain that he was watching, but gradually she gained confidence and pushed to her feet, the room swaying around her, her stomach threatening revolt. But after a moment, and a hell of a lot of determination, everything stabilized, and she climbed up on the bed, reaching up for the little window. It was too high.

For a moment, defeat rushed through her, then she remembered the only one she could truly count on was herself. So she managed to climb onto the headboard, propping one foot on the adjacent wall to keep balance. Outside the window there was nothing but earth. It looked like some kind of museum exhibit. “See the way the ants live.”

She dropped back to the mattress and then stepped off the bed, moving like a cat, keeping low, back arched as
she moved forward. But still nothing moved, and slowly she straightened, heading to the door. Not surprisingly, it was locked from the outside. And as it was made of metal, there was nothing she could do to break it down. So she walked over to the boxes, thinking that maybe she’d find something there that could help her jimmy the hinges.

Most of the boxes were, unfortunately, empty, or their contents had long ago turned to rotting piles of mildew. There were two barrels, the sort often used as trash cans, and an old oar, stained at the bottom with something she wasn’t certain she wanted to identify. Behind the rotting boxes and the barrels, there were remnants of an old yellow sign.

But the words had long faded, the letters G, H, and S the only thing remaining legible.

With a sigh, she reached into the muck in one of the boxes, praying for a screwdriver, but the only thing she found was a paint-stained stake of some kind, the sharp end blunted with age. Still, the wood was solid, and it was better than nothing. Using the handle of the oar as a mallet, she hit it against the stake, which she held beneath the bottom hinge.

After working for a good long while, she stopped, exhaustion threatening, to examine her progress. The hinge pin had only moved a fraction of an inch. Hannah’s heart sank. But she tried again, knowing that doing something was better than letting her mind get the better of her.

When he came back, and she knew that he would, she’d be behind the door, which should give her a chance to hit him with the oar. So one way or another, she’d make
it outside. Altogether, it seemed as good a plan as any, so she returned to work on the hinge. Avoiding the little voice in her head constantly reminding her that there were two more hinges after this one.

She’d managed to knock the first pin out almost three-quarters of the way when she heard something moving outside the doorway. Dropping the stake, she sprang to her feet and grabbed the oar. Taking a deep breath, she waited, arms shaking as the lock rattled and the door began to open. Adrenaline flowing, she sprang out, swinging the oar with all her might.

It connected with a thwack, but Draper managed to turn away in time, avoiding the brunt of the blow, one hand snagging the end of the oar as she tried to swing it again. In any other situation, it would have been comical. Draper was a huge man, and Hannah wasn’t very hefty. He literally lifted her up along with the oar, his arm closing like a vise around her waist.

He threw her across the room, her head slamming into the concrete floor. She fought to clear her head, but before she could do so, he was on her, picking her up like a sack of potatoes, slapping her hard enough to send her mind scrambling again.

With swift moves, he retied her hands and then her feet, his glowering face filling her foggy vision. “Try that again, and I’ll kill you,” he said, his breath hot against her skin, his eyes burning into hers.

“You’re going kill me anyway,” she said, bucking up to slam a knee into his hip.

He hit her again, this time hard enough that her teeth cut into her upper lip, but she thrashed out again, knowing that she had to try.

Once again, he slammed his fist against the side of her head, white-hot pain robbing her of clear thought. The edges of her vision turned black, consciousness fading, but for a moment she could see Draper at the end of the bed. He was setting up a tripod next to a small table with a laptop attached to a camera, the bed broadcast front and center on the screen.