Page 61 of Taylor’s Warrior

Her heart was going to pound its way clean out of her chest.

Watching the jet taxi from the runway was one thing, but now it was right in front of her, and Taylor’s best guess was that the noises coming from it heralded the lowering of the door. She had to hand it to the pilot, though—if his objective had been to bring the plane to a halt with the door directly opposite her, he couldn’t have done much better.

She wiped her hands down the side seams of her jeans—not because her palms were damp, but as an attempt to tame the trembling. Livingston’s voice in her ear reminded her she wasn’t alone, but she had no idea where anyone was, apart from catching a glimpse of the legs of someone running into the hangar. She’d have given anything to hear her man’s voice again, even if all he did was recite the alphabet.

Taylor was also acutely aware of the miniature microphone taped to her torso. Trying not to move her lips too much, she informed the FBI special agent what was happening.

“Cruz, I think they’re about to open the door. It sounds as if they’re unlocking it now.”

“Good. Stay calm, and remember, we’ve got you covered.”

When a large man in a dark suit, his eyes concealed by mirrored sunglasses, appeared in the open doorway, Taylor silently repeated those words to herself. Several times. When he raised his arms to level a handgun in her direction, she repeated them faster. He descended the stairs and took up a position to the left, and was then joined on the right by a second man, also armed, who could have been his twin. If their plan was to intimidate her, they’d gotten off to a flying start.

Then a third man deplaned. By all appearances, he was unarmed, but the invisible, ruthless power emanating from him made him seem exponentially more threatening. The tiny part of Taylor’s mind that wasn’t trying to control the sheer terror screaming through her veins wondered who exactly he was. The air of arrogant authority about him was so palpable, she even wondered if he was a key figure in the executive hierarchy at KDT, despite what Rhys had said about their kind not getting directly involved in a transaction such as this.

“Ms. Lewis. Or should I say, Ms. Markham. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

His impeccably English accent could have cut glass, but the emotionless tone said it was anything but a pleasure. Taylor lifted her chin. “I wish I could say the same, Mr.…?”

“My name is unimportant. I believe you’re in possession of some… property that doesn’t belong to you. I must ask you to hand it over without delay.”

The large envelope on the passenger seat in the pickup popped into her mind. Although the man was tall, she doubted he’d be able to get a good enough view of the vehicle’s interior to catch sight of it. “Where’s my father?”

His mouth curved into an arrogant smile. “You do realize we have you outnumbered, Ms. Markham? That my associates are armed?”

Oh, she realized only too well, on both counts. Summoning every ounce of strength and courage she possessed, she asked again. “My father. Where is he? I’m not giving you anything until I know he’s all right.”

The man shrugged. “Very well. In an expression of good faith, I’ll let you see for yourself that he’s unharmed. Mostly unharmed.” He turned to the man to his right. “Get him.”

The bodyguard disappeared into the jet. The sounds of a short scuffle were just about audible, then Charles Markham appeared in the doorway. Hands behind his back—probably bound together—he stumbled down the steps. When he regained his balance, he looked straight at her.

Taylor’s heart banged against her rib cage. The image they’d sent, though accurate, hadn’t prepared her for the reality. Her father looked bruised and disheveled, haggard in a way that aged him beyond what she might have expected. That wasn’t all, though—in that moment, she realized she’d been expecting an ally, but instead, an arctic chill froze her spine.

She was looking into the eyes of a stranger.

“Taylor, I⁠—”

The man in charge cut him off. “Silence. Now, Ms. Markham. As you can see, your… father is in good health, if a little frayed around the edges. My employer’s property, if you please?”

The hard edge to that oh-so-cultured accent made Taylor feel sick. After a brief glance at her father, she turned her gaze back to the boss. Show no fear. “There’s a woman. You took her when you abducted my father. Where is she?”

Right on cue, sounds of a scuffle came from the jet’s interior a second time, and in the next moment a woman who looked no more than thirty at the most appeared at the entrance. She, too, had her hands tied behind her back. As she continued to stare in the woman’s direction, Taylor couldn’t help but wonder how her father had come to be involved with her. She might only have vague memories of her mother, but Taylor had seen photos of her. There was a world of difference between the woman in the images and the one at the top of the plane’s staircase.

And when Taylor saw the way the woman was looking at Charles Markham, she started to wonder how long they’d known each other. She couldn’t put her finger on the reason why, but Taylor felt increasingly uneasy.

“Right here, as you can see, Ms. Markham. Now, are you going to hand over my employer’s property, or do we have to do this the difficult way?”

Taylor listened to the voice in her ear piece, providing a prompt for her to repeat. “If I hand it over, what assurance do I have you’ll let us go?”

Her question was greeted with a predatory half-smile that fell far short of meeting the man’s eyes. “I’m wounded, Ms. Markham. Anyone would think you don’t trust me.”

Trust was the last privilege she’d grant this shark in human form. She straightened her spine and squared her shoulders. The voice in her ear was quietly encouraging, as Livingston assured her this would soon be over.

She lifted her chin in defiance. “I’d rather trust a rattlesnake.”

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Eyes narrowed, senses on high alert, Rhys watched as Taylor’s father almost tumbled out of the jet. The clumsiness of his descent wasn’t surprising, given his hands were tied behind his back. The woman who followed him was younger, objectively attractive, and there was a time in Rhys’ past when she might have been his type—for an evening, at any rate. She was restrained in a similar way, and would have fallen had one of the men standing by the plane’s staircase not made a grab for her arm to keep her upright.