Leaving the flat was too risky, so the groceries they’d bought would be saved for tomorrow. So why were they asking her now if she was hungry? What kind of game were they playing? If they thought they were going to surprise her into saying something so they would have a reason to kill Katherine or Elizabeth or Buck, they were wasting their time. She wasn’t saying a word.
“Who cares if she’s hungry or not,” the other kidnapper snapped. “My stomach feels like my throat’s been cut, and I’m not waiting until tomorrow to eat.” Sneering at Priscilla, he said, “Cook us something to eat, bitch. And don’t even think about trying anything fishy. We’ve already got orders to kill you tomorrow. We’d just as soon do it now as then, so don’t push your luck.”
Nodding silently, she kept her eyes down as she headed for the kitchen so he wouldn’t see the anger she knew was reflected there. If she acted meek and afraid, maybe they would drop their guard and relax enough for her to put something in their food. Surely there had to be some kind of pesticide or drain cleaner under the sink. Something…
Her eyes suddenly landed on the prescription bottle that one of her captors had set on the windowsill above the kitchen sink. She’d seen him take a couple of pills right after breakfast. What was he taking? Was it something that she could drug both men with?
Fighting the urge to hurry to the sink to check out the prescription, she reminded herself that her every move was being watched. So she headed for the refrigerator, instead, for the groceries that Baldy had deposited there, bag and all, that morning after he’d gone shopping.
Her heart pounding, she set the groceries on the kitchen counter and cast a quick glance at the prescription bottle that was less than three feet away. She only saw two words before she turned her attention back to the food, but it was enough. Blood pressure.
Elated, she almost laughed out loud. Yes! If she gave them enough, it would lower their blood pressure and knock them out, wouldn’t it? She could mix it with…roast beef?! Swallowing a groan, she blinked back tears. What was she supposed to do with canned roast beef and potatoes? At least there was tea, too. She could make it extra strong, then lace it liberally with the medication. It wasn’t much of a plan, but it was the only one she had. First, however, she had to get her hands on the medication without anyone noticing.
The opportunity came much quicker than she’d anticipated. She’d just found a saucepan and a can opener when what sounded like a shot exploded on the dark street down below.
“What the hell!” her bald captor swore and ran to the bedroom to check the view from there.
“What is it?” the other man yelled to his partner as he took up a position at the living room window. “Was that a shot? I can’t see anything for the fog.”
Taking advantage of the distraction, Priscilla grabbed the prescription bottle, popped the lid and sent up a silent prayer of thanks when she saw the bottle was nearly full. Hurriedly pouring pills into her hand, she pocketed them, capped the bottle and returned it to the windowsill in four seconds flat.
“I think a car backfired,” Baldy said in disgust. “It must have been amplified by the fog.”
Afraid to look over her shoulder to see if either one of the men had seen her, she tried to act as casual as possible when she found a can opener and opened the roast beef; but it wasn’t easy. Her heart was slamming against her ribs, her fingers were trembling and she was sure they only had to look into her eyes to know that she was up to something. She needn’t have worried, however. Her captors were too concerned with what was going on downstairs on the street to pay any attention to her.
Then, with no warning, there was a knock at the door.
Priscilla whirled to face her captor by the living room window, only to find him glaring at her like she was somehow responsible for the knock at the door. Pale, she took a step back. His expression furious, he made a sharp silencing motion, then strode over to the door.
The visitor knocked again, this time louder. “Mr. Smith? Are you in there?”
“You’ve got the wrong address,” Baldy growled through the closed door. “Go away.”
If the man on the other side of the door heard him, he gave no sign of it. Instead, he knocked loudly on the door again and shouted, “Mr. Smith? I’ve got a package for you. The postman delivered it to my place by mistake this afternoon.”
“I told you you’ve got the wrong place! Get the hell away from my door or—”
He never had a chance to finish the threat. A split second later, the door was kicked open and he found himself confronting a tall man with a ski mask pulled down over his face. Before Baldy could even think to yell for his partner for help, he was shocked with a stun gun and went down.
Donovan stepped over the man and took in the rest of the flat in a single, all-encompassing glance. Priscilla was in the kitchen and was pale as a ghost as her eyes met his. He didn’t have time to reassure her—not when the second kidnapper was already charging toward him, reaching for his gun. Donovan had two seconds, at the most. Rushing him before he could pull his gun completely free, Donovan hit him with the stun gun and sent him to the floor.
There was, after that, no time to waste. Lightning quick, he handcuffed first one man, then the other. Then he slapped duct tape over their mouths and tied their feet together. That would hold them long enough for him to get Priscilla out of London, where he could keep her safe until he was able to hand her over to her brother.
But when he turned to grab her and hustle her out of the apartment, she was gone and the door to the flat was standing wide open.
“Son of a bitch!”
Running after her, he practically threw himself down the stairs, taking them two at a time in the darkness and nearly breaking his neck in the process. He couldn’t lose her, dammit! If she disappeared into the streets of London at this time of night, he’d have a devil of a time picking up her trail again.
The second he took the last step, he hit the steel door that opened onto the alley and burst outside, only to stop in his tracks as fog slapped him right in the face. “What the—”
The fog had slipped in like a thief in the night while he was waiting in the stairwell, sliding down alleys and streets and into darkened doorways, and with no effort whatsoever, he could imagine himself in Victorian London, when Jack the Ripper walked the streets. Visibility was down to fifty feet, and if Priscilla Wyatt was out there somewhere, there was no sign of her.
When he got his hands on her, he was going to give her a piece of his mind. But first he had to find her, and his task had just become nearly impossible. Where the hell could she have gone? The van he’d rented blocked one end of the alley, but squeezing past it would have slowed her down. Making a snap decision, he turned and ran in the opposite direction.
Sounds carried in the fog, and as he reached the cross street at the end of the alley, a car screeched to a stop half a block away. He turned sharply…just in time to see someone dart right in front of an oncoming car that suddenly seemed to appear out of nowhere. In the watery light of the vehicle’s headlights, he caught just a glimpse of a woman running like the hounds of hell were after her. Almost immediately, she was swallowed by the fog again, but not before he recognized Priscilla Wyatt.
“Dammit, where is she going?” he said as he tore off his mask and took off after her.
Darting across the street, he just barely missed being
