use her hands to assist her.
“We’re going to have a little chat with your brother. All you have to tell him is that you’re all right and that he’s to do what I ask or I’m going to kill you. Got it?”
Or I’m going to kill you. She got that part loud and clear.
She nodded, his cold-blooded words echoing in her mind as her heart jackhammered inside her chest.
“What’s his cell phone number?”
She thought, swallowed. “I…I don’t know. It’s programmed into my cell phone but I don’t remember the number.”
She flinched when he swore.
“It’s in my purse,” she added hastily. “My phone. It’s in my purse.”
She heard things hit the floor as he rifled through what she assumed was her purse. “How do you access your phone book?” he asked finally, and again she assumed he’d found her phone.
She had to think, really think about it, but finally remembered and told him. She heard the electronic beep of buttons being pushed, then waited, not knowing whether to breathe a sigh of relief or dread when it became apparent he made a connection with Trav.
At this point there was only one thing she did know. He had no intentions of letting her live. Whether Travis came for her or not, there wasn’t a reason in the world compelling enough for Birkenfeld to keep her alive.
Oddly, it wasn’t herself she was worried about as much as she was worried about Travis and Ry. They’d feel responsible. If something happened to her, they would feel responsible for the rest of their lives.
And she’d never once told Ry—knot-headed Victorian-minded throwback that he was—that she loved him. That realization finally galvanized her resolve. She decided she wasn’t going to just cower like a frightened animal and let Birkenfeld kill her.
Animal. That was it! That was the odor milling under the scent of antiseptic and dust that she hadn’t been able to place. My God. She knew where she was.
Trav was in his car, heading for a meeting at the club when his cell rang. He checked the digital readout, saw it was Carrie’s number. “Hey, bear, what’s up?” he said cheerily when he answered.
“I’ve got something you want, Whelan.”
Travis almost rear-ended the car in front of him. “Who is this?” he demanded, an uneasy punch of foreboding lurching through his blood stream.
“Roman Birkenfeld.”
Unease gave way to panic. “Birkenfeld? What the hell are you—”
“Shut up,” the man on the other end of the line demanded, giving Trav no choice but to obey. “Just listen. It’s like I said. I’ve got something you want, and you’ve got something I want. I’ve got your sister.”
“You son of a—”
“Yeah, yeah, you’re one tough Texan, but I’m in control here. You want her back, you’ll do exactly as I say. No questions. Do you understand?”
“I want to talk to her,” Trav demanded, breaking out in a cold sweat.
He heard a muffled cry—of pain, of surprise—and it damn near ripped his heart out. And then he heard her voice. And the tremor in it undid him.
“Trav.”
“Carrie. Oh, God, bear. What’s he done to you?”
“N-nothing. Yet. I’m…I’m okay. I’m…I’m tough. Come from good…stock.”
His heart clenched at her bravado. “Where are you, sweetie?”
“I…Nathan…I mean, Roman…he blindfolded me. Trav…I love you. Always…remember Fort Worth—”
Birkenfeld yanked the phone from her from her hand. “This is all very touching,” he broke in, cutting her off, “but now we’ve got business, Whelan. And so you know…she’s dead or as good as if you don’t follow my instructions to the letter.”
“You put so much as a bruise on her—”
“You are not in a position to be issuing ultimatums!” Birkenfeld yelled, sounding on the edge and on the brink of toppling over. “One more word and you will never see her alive again.”
Trav bit his tongue and swore that he’d rip the bastard limb from limb when he found him. If he found him. Until he did, he had little choice but to play Birkenfeld’s game.
“Better,” Birkenfeld said. “Now, this is what’s going to happen.”
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