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Men who killed in cold blood were bad. Men who followed orders and killed without asking why were evil, no matter how beautiful.
If she hadn’t had the gun she might not have considered it. Without it she was essentially powerless— all she could do was run and hide.
With it she had at least a tiny chance to save him. And she’d never be able to live with herself if she didn’t try.
She squared her shoulders, pushing her long, tangled hair behind her back, and started toward the open door. He’d told her every exit, every door and window in this sprawling place was equipped with an electric-shock system that might very well kill her. The schematics outlined the security system, but there was no sign of any electrical addendum, and she didn’t dare try to mess with it.
All she could do was step through that door, into freedom, and if she died trying, so be it. She was dead either way.
Just to be on the safe side, she jumped over the threshold, careful not to let any part of her body touch the door frame. She landed in the soft dirt on the other side, unscathed. She took a deep breath, hoping for the pure air of freedom, but the rotting tropical vegetation was heavy and strange. She needed to be away from boats, the ocean and islands. If she made it safely back to her apartment in New York, she wasn’t leaving again.
Of course, Manhattan was technically an island. But it didn’t feel like one—it felt solid and safe, where you only had to worry about rapists and muggers…
And crazy people coming out of the sky, crashing airplanes into buildings. Maybe she’d been living in a fantasy world, thinking anything was safe.
She’d have time to figure that out, God willing. In the meantime she needed to get to the place where they were keeping Harry and see if he was still alive. If he wasn’t, then she could run for cover with no guilt.
It was the best she could hope for.
12
Genevieve moved through the jungle, trying to envision herself as a stealthy cat, afraid she was more like a water buffalo in a china shop. First off, the white T-shirt had been a mistake—she should have gone for something darker, less conspicuous, something that would blend in with the background. She just wasn’t used to subterfuge outside the courtroom. Never in a thousand years could she have imagined herself on the run for her life, a loaded gun tucked in her waistband, ready for use. What if she actually had to shoot someone?
What if she had to shoot Peter?
She’d do it, no questions asked. She wouldn’t hesitate, wouldn’t think about it. Not until later.
But that wasn’t going to happen, she decided grimly. Life had handed her a series of difficult choices, but having to kill Peter Jensen would be too cruel, even for a patently sadistic universe.
She couldn’t waste her time with what-ifs. There wasn’t enough time left.
She had the gun drawn as she crept up toward the back of the storage shed where Harry was being held, assuming she could believe the schematic. There was no noise—not the muffled sound of someone breathing a deep, drugged sleep. Was it too late?
She edged around the corner, cautiously. There was a small window in the side of the building, but it was blacked out from the inside, and she could see nothing. She waited, long, breathless moments, and unwillingly the memory returned of hiding on the boat, only to face her nemesis after what should have been sufficient time.
If nemesis was what he was. He’d been her lover— what had gone on between them physically, emotionally, made that fact undeniable. No, scratch that. He had no emotions—it had all been on her side.
But his heart had been pounding, his strong body trembling as he’d held her. It made no sense, he made no sense, but she had no time to figure it out right now. If she survived she’d have more than enough time to dissect the madness that had afflicted her during the last thirty-six hours.
She couldn’t wait there forever. The shed was still and quiet, and she took a deep breath and rounded the corner, to find the door open and no one, neither Harry Van Dorn nor his captors, in sight.
There were drag marks in the dirt—someone had hauled Harry’s limp body in the direction of the main house. He was either too drugged to walk on his own, or…
There was no blood in the tiny shed, and no blood on the ground. But that proved nothing—there were bloodless ways to kill people, and Peter would know all of them.
Genevieve glanced over her shoulder. The path to the far side of the island, the hidden bunker, was still clear enough in her mind.
But Harry was being taken back toward the main house. And that was where she had to go, whether she liked it or not.
She heard the noise first—the grunting, groaning sound of a man struggling with too heavy a load.
Make that two men. Their voices came back to her, and she breathed a small sigh of relief that neither of them was Peter.
They were too busy arguing to even notice anyone was approaching. “You told me my job was done once I set the charges.” It had to have been Hans speaking. “I’ve already done enough shit work on this assignment.”
“You’re the one who gave him too much of the drugs,” Renaud snapped. “And you can’t expect his lordship to bother with old Harry, can you? He’s the brains of the operations, and if we know what’s good for us we’ll do what he says without arguing.”
“I just don’t like the fact that he got to spend the last day in a billionaire’s love nest with a decent piece of tail while we were camping in the jungle. I’m half covered with bug bites.”
