Pilot Error (29 page)

"I can't get my dress zipped all the way," she crooned.

When she reached behind her back, pretending to struggle with the zipper, his eyes widened in attention. Clearly it wasn't the movement of her hands that he was watching, and Micki bit down hard on her instinctive reaction. The slimeball deserved everything that was coming.

Covering her disgust with a sweet smile and a coy turn of her head, she said, "Do you think you could help me? Please?"

Just like it had worked for every brunette, blonde, and redhead tramp in Marathon, it worked for her.

"'Course I can, luv." He gave her a lecherous smile and came into the room, leaving the door open a crack behind him. "Turn around."

Aware the vanity mirror in front of her reflected her every move, Micki maintained her smile. She tried not to flinch when his hands skimmed along her bare shoulders down to where she had left the zipper undone a couple of inches. His fingers were warm on her back, making her skin crawl, and it was all she could do not to shove him away. If a girlie girl could do this, then Micki Jacinto sure as hell could.

Turning the moment his hands left her, she smiled at him, estimating his reaction time for his gun if he felt threatened.

"Thank you so much." Deciding that fluttering her eyelashes would be overkill, she smiled again instead. It seemed all men melted for girlie girls who smiled a lot. "I could never have managed that on my own, and I didn't want to ask Dirk to do it. It sort of dilutes the mystery, you know? I don't want to make it too easy for him."

Mentioning Dirk was a mistake because the guard took a step back toward his post. "Then we'll just keep this our little secret, right luv?" He gave her a wink. "Anything else you need, you just ask your old mate Jerry, okay?"

Micki quickly followed up on that one, remembering to keep her voice breathy. "Well, there is one more thing." She moved back to the vanity, and he followed automatically, answering the potent, ingrained response of male hormone. "Could you help me with my necklace? I—oh!" The silvery chain slipped between her fingers, spilling into a pile of lacy apparel at her feet. "Oh, dear..."

This had to look good. Timing was everything, and Micki had zero practice in using feminine wiles. Luckily, instinct seemed to kick in. She glanced down at the chain, bending her knees just slightly as if preparing to pick it up, when Jerry came to the rescue.

"I'll get it," he volunteered with a glance just short of a leer. "You'll never be able to get down there in that dress."

And you
, she thought in disgust as he knelt to reach for the necklace, his shoulder brushing against her bare legs,
just want a chance to enjoy the view.

Leaning forward, he groped a hand through the pile of silk and lace. Perfect. Micki took a quick step backwards and caught up the heavy silver fruit tray she had placed on the vanity for just this use.

The stunned expression on Jerry's face, as he realized something was wrong, was priceless. Micki clobbered him with the tray, feeling a great sense of satisfaction. When he went down on all fours, scrabbling dazedly for his sidearm, she pulled back her fist and slugged him in the jaw. Jerry went cross-eyed, and then took a nose dive into the slinky undergarments, out cold.

"Enjoy that view, mate," she spat, shaking out her fist.

Tossing aside the tray, she knelt to take the handcuffs from his belt. Moving quickly, Micki dragged the unconscious man a few feet through the piles of girlie girl clothes. She cuffed his hands around the bedpost, and then stuffed a black negligee in his mouth to gag him should he wake up before she had enough of a head start. Smiling slightly at the poetic justice in the act, she relieved him of his Glock semi-automatic pistol and his key card.

Catching up a silk blouse that she had fashioned into a makeshift backpack and hidden under the bed, she added the gun and key card to the fruit and the paring knife already inside. Vehemently kicking off the hateful high heels, Micki headed barefoot to the door and the chance for freedom.

***

Slipping down the hallway was relatively easy. Micki saw no one, and to her relief there were no closed circuit television cameras watching her every move. Well, none that she could see anyway, she thought, as she hovered at the top of the stairway leading to the first floor. Whoever Dominic Van Allen was, he evidently didn't like to advertise his surveillance measures to his guests.

As she placed one foot on the top stair, the sound of voices coming from the hall below drove her back into the shadows of the upper hall. They stopped and began a discussion. From the snatches that Micki could catch, it was two of the maids debating heatedly whose fault it was that the sheets on Mr. Van Allen's bed had not been properly pressed.

Micki rolled her eyes. Did people actually live this way? Worrying about ironing sheets? If that was all she had to be concerned about then—

Footsteps approaching from the lower hall ended the maids' conversation. One of the women headed up the stairs and Micki needed to get out of sight. Moving quietly on her bare feet, she retraced her earlier path. Maybe this wasn't going to be as easy as she thought.

Brushing past the closed door of her room, she heard no stirrings from within. That, at least, was good. Micki ducked into the first door that didn't bear a lock, and was pleasantly surprised to find she had entered a stairway; a servant's stair from the look of the worn, bare wood steps. Cautiously she eased the door open a tiny crack to check on the progress of the maid. If the woman noticed the guard was gone from his post, then her escape attempt was going to be very short lived.

Pressing against the crack, Micki drew a deep breath of relief when she saw the other woman's back. She was headed quickly down the other end of the hall, as if she had no more desire than Micki to meet up with whoever had been coming in the downstairs hall.

Very carefully, Micki pulled the door completely closed and turned to start down the servant's steps. They were steep but adequately lit by early evening light spilling through several tall, rectangular windows. She paused to cast a glance through one of them. From this level, she could no longer see over the perimeter wall, only the lush gardens within. She recalled the guard she had seen patrolling earlier. Once outside it was going to be tricky to get out of the compound, but she would deal with that when she got there.

One step at a time
, she thought, the makeshift survival pack clutched in her hand. That's what her father had taught her.

The stairs ended in another closed door, which she opened a cautious crack to peer out. The industrial-sized kitchen beyond made her smile. She was on the first floor! Through the kitchen door and she was onto the next phase of her escape plan!

The only problem was that the kitchen hummed with activity. They were preparing dinner, she realized, the meal she was supposed to be eating with Dirk and the felonious Mr. Van Allen in less than an hour. Despite salivating at the wonderful aromas wafting her way, Micki vowed that was one dinner date with Dirk that she was going to break.

Sneaking another look, she checked out the obstacles before her. Most of the activity was at the far end of the kitchen, at a huge stove and a long counter that ran at a ninety-degree angle to her hiding place. Unfortunately, that meant in order to move in the direction where intuition told her was the exit, it would put her in full view of everyone for several seconds.

Damn. The only safe options were to wait until the meal was cooked and then make a fast break for the outside before Dirk went upstairs to collect her. Either that, or head back up the steps now and try an alternate route.

As if to thwart that plan at the very instant it was formed, she heard the door at the top of the servant's stairway open and footsteps start down it. Trapped again, Micki grimaced and decided she was going to have to make a move now and hope for the best. Even if it meant she was forced in the wrong direction, at least she was on the right floor.

Checking the activity at the far end of the kitchen once more, she slipped out the door and to the right, which afforded her with the least amount of time in public view. In three quick steps she was into a hallway where the angle protected her from prying eyes. When no hue and cry went up from the staff, she knew she hadn't been seen. Yet.

Micki cast a glance over her shoulder. Whoever was coming down the servant's steps would be sure to see her if she remained in the open hallway, so she made another hasty choice. Opening a door to her right, she slipped inside. Leaving the door ajar was a necessary risk, for the space about her had no windows. All she needed was to trip over something in the dark and raise a clatter that would give her away.

Drawing a breath for what seemed the first time in several moments, Micki took stock of her situation. At eye level, canned and dry foods were lined up in neat rows, with a wealth of other household supplies stacked on the shelves below.

Helping herself to a flashlight, Micki tested it, and then eased the door completely shut. It was a small light, but it gave enough illumination to see her way about without the risk of light shining beneath the door. Hastily she stuffed some granola bars, a box of water crackers, and several pint-sized plastic bottles of spring water into her pack. With a shrug, she threw in a can of duck pâté with a pull-tab lid, just for the heck of it. Who knew how long she was going to have to keep up this game of hide and seek, especially after she got outside the compound?

Dirk had said this was an island estate. She needed to commandeer—

The word stopped her like a chill hand on her heart, calling up an intense memory of Luke when they had 'commandeered' the jon boat. Micki caught back a muffled sob. Luke had said these men were ruthless and he had been right. So right they had killed him for it.

Fighting back tears, she emptied a tin of butterscotch candy into the makeshift pack that was quickly growing heavy. Survival came first, Luke had said. She was going to survive, and she was going to make them pay for what they had done to him, and to Fizz, and to Razor.

Fretfully adjusting the neckline of her low-cut dress, Micki flicked off the flashlight and warily slipped back out into the empty service hallway. The kitchen still bustled with activity so that meant her options were limited. Staying close to the wall, she made her way a few feet down the small tiled corridor, detouring around a cloth-covered serving cart waiting to carry dinner to the dining room. To her right loomed a massive wooden arched door, which was incongruously fitted with an electronic lock such as the one on her vacated room.

It was the unexpected sight of the technological security on such an antique that caught Micki's attention—and alerted her to the fact that it was slowly beginning to open. Back-stepping, she ducked behind the serving cart and crouched down, holding her breath.

Daring to peer around the cloth corner, she watched the massive door swing out into the hallway, revealing another dark stairway leading down. Since she was already on the first floor, she surmised that these stairs must lead to a basement or cellar. 'Dominic Van Allen' sounded just the ticket for a snob with a cellar full of expensive wine.

Someone strode out, head down as he wiped his hands on a white handkerchief. He was obviously preoccupied and very angry, and Micki's eyes widened as she crouched in the shadows.

It was Dirk; she would recognize the Mr. Cool Tropics outfit anywhere. What could he have been doing in the basement?

He walked off, looking murderous, leaving the door to slowly swing closed behind him. If nothing else did, the look on his face terrified her. Dirk had finally shown his true colors, and Micki had no doubt of her fate if he ever got his hands on her again.

Since Dirk had just left the mysterious stairway, it was a safe bet he wasn't coming back soon, and all she wanted was to be as far away from him as possible. Impulsively, she scuttled forward as the massive door was about to close, catching it with her fingertips just before it caught on the latch. Tugging it open, she slipped inside and gently let it shut behind her.

The moment it locked she regretted her hasty choice. Snapping on her flashlight gave her few clues. Wide stone steps faded into damp and musty smelling darkness, with little hint of what was beyond her feeble circle of light.

Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all. Rummaging in her pack, and cursing the fact that the stupid slinky dress she wore didn't have anything as sensible as pockets, Micki located the key card she had taken from her guard. Listening at the door did her little good. The heavy wood and thick stone wall effectively blocked all external sounds.

Taking her chances, she slid the key card through the lock and tried the handle, but there was no response. Repeating the action twice more yielded the same result. The tiny light on the panel stubbornly stayed red, indicating she was locked in. Evidently being a guard didn't mean you were cleared for access to all areas of the compound. Van Allen had secrets, even from those who worked for him.

Turning, Micki regarded the stone steps with a healthy dose of skepticism. There was no help for it, unless she wanted to cower here until someone—like Dirk—came back to find her. Clenching her flashlight in her right hand and her improvised backpack in her left, she took her first step into the unknown.

***

Pain and darkness snarled the smooth passage of time. Luke was uncertain how long he had dangled in the lightless wine cellar, his hands tied above him with a coarse rope slung over a massive beam. His arms were numb, and the muscles in his back and legs were in agony from his physical exertion in the Florida Keys, Jurgensen's recent blows, and time spent trussed like a Thanksgiving turkey waiting for the holiday.