threw her suitcase onto the bed, then began opening drawers and pulling out articles of clothing.
He was standing between her and the hotel phone, but maybe she could use her cell. If she could somehow slip into the bathroom for a minute…
Her gaze slid back to the corner of the dresser, to her purse with the phone inside it.
She continued shoving clothes into the case, as if she was as anxious as he to get out of this room, away from this hotel. The knots in her stomach tightened painfully, but she couldn’t let him see her fear, couldn’t let him suspect that she knew.
“Ready?” he asked.
She realized the last drawer was empty.
“I need some things…from the bathroom.”
His gaze narrowed.
Could he hear the tremor in her voice?
“And…I should go…before we go.”
It would give her a reason to close the door, to implement her plan. She scooped up her purse, turned toward the small room that was her last hope of escape.
She hadn’t gone two steps when he caught her arm.
“We can’t afford to waste any more time.”
“But I really need—”
It was all she managed before she felt the prick of the needle in her arm.
Chapter 2
Where the hell was she?
Mike banged on the door again, more than loud enough to wake her if she was sleeping.
There was still no response.
He’d been gone twenty minutes—fifteen minutes longer than he’d intended. But his phone had been ringing when he’d stepped into the room and he’d automatically picked it up. It had been Romeo Garcia, a detective with the Miami P.D. and a friend of Dylan Creighton, calling to update him on the situation with respect to Conroy’s connections in Florida.
According to Garcia, word on the street was that certain key players in Conroy’s organization had a new quest: to avenge their leader’s death. Although Natalie was the most obvious target for retaliation, her relationship with Lieutenant Creighton made another attempt on her life risky. As a result, Garcia believed Shannon could be in danger for no reason other than that her sister had been involved in the altercation that had cost Conroy his life.
Armed with his new information, the back-up battery in his cell phone, and his Glock, Mike had returned to Shannon’s room. But in the twenty minutes he was gone, something had happened.
He turned back to the stairwell, racing away from the memories that haunted him as much as he was racing to find her.
He was on his way toward the manager on duty at the registration desk, to demand to be let into Shannon’s room, when he spotted her. She was outside the front doors of the hotel, being helped into the passenger side of a late-model silver-colored Mercedes sedan.
He started to run.
The car was pulling away from the curb before he’d even made it outside.
Damn. He’d been an idiot to expect that she’d stay put in her room until morning. Now, everything was FUBAR.
He considered getting his own vehicle, but it was parked at the back of the hotel. By the time he got to it, Shannon would be long gone. Instead, he jumped into the back of a taxi parked beside the hotel and directed the driver to follow the Mercedes.
He tried to convince himself that there was no reason for the humming of his nerves, no rational foundation for the escalating feeling of dread. But he knew better. After Brent was killed in Righaria, Mike had stopped fighting his instincts, and he was cursing himself now for ignoring the intuition that had warned him against leaving her alone—for even a few minutes.
But he’d been so caught up in wanting her, he’d been unable to separate his personal desires from his professional instincts. Mistakes were made when impulse was allowed to overrule reason, and mistakes could cost lives. Brent’s death had taught him that more effectively than any training exercise ever could.
He pushed the memory to the back of his mind. He didn’t have time to deal with the ghosts of the past; he couldn’t let himself be paralyzed by grief and guilt—not if he was going to protect Shannon.
Protect her from what?
The question nagged at him, unanswered, as he pulled out his cell phone and dialed the number Garcia had given him. From what he could see, Shannon had gotten into the vehicle willingly. She certainly hadn’t appeared to be in any danger.
But Mike knew that things weren’t always what they seemed, and what Garcia told him confirmed this suspicion. The registered owner of the Mercedes was Andrew Peart, a suspected illegal arms dealer and member of Conroy’s organization.
Again his instincts hummed. The information had been too readily available. If Peart was abducting Shannon, why wouldn’t he have taken more care to cover his tracks? Why would he have used his own vehicle? What kind of game was he playing?
The taxi driver signaled to turn onto the private drive leading to the exclusive Tradewinds Marina. Mike ordered him to stop. If Peart caught sight of another vehicle on this road at this hour, he’d know he was being followed. He shoved a fistful of money at the driver, then slipped out of the vehicle and into the shadows to continue his pursuit on foot.
He followed the taillights of the Mercedes, conscious of the growing distance between himself and the vehicle. Again he thought of Brent, about the obstacles he’d failed to overcome to save his friend. He couldn’t fail again. He ran harder, refusing to believe that he would be too late.
He had to save Shannon.
Shannon shifted in her seat, turning to press her cheek against the cool leather. She blinked, but her vision remained fuzzy. She tried to think, but her mind was even fuzzier.
She was conscious of only two things. The first she accepted with overwhelming relief: she wasn’t dead.
At least, not yet.
The second caused trepidation rather than relief: she was going to vomit.
Whether it was fear of imminent death that had churned up her insides to the point of nausea or a reaction to whatever drug had been injected into her system, she only knew that she was going to throw up.
Drew braked abruptly, threw the gearshift into Park.
It was the final straw for her heaving stomach. She felt the bile rise up in her throat, groped frantically for the door handle. Her fingers finally closed around the metal but seemed unable to interpret the command from her brain to pull.
Then the door opened from the other side.
She fell out of the car, the rough concrete abrading her palms and her knees. She tried to swallow, gagged.
“What
