He shivered against the cold and the wind.
Best case scenario: stay here, keep watch.
He could take out the two rich dudes easily. The pilot and the three dogs were an unknown, but he’d risk everything for Sarge, even his life. But for some strange reason, he now valued it and wouldn’t give his life up easily, especially not since he’d just met Amy.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Stuart walked around the edge of the parking lot, and then sure he couldn’t be seen from the lodge, stepped onto the main road. Fifteen minutes later he trudged up the steps to the main lodge doors.
“Meg,” he yelled, and knocked loudly.
The rain had started up again and the skies were black and ominous to the east. This was the third time he’d been drenched in the past twenty-four hours. He needed a hot shower, warm clothes, and his sweet Meg.
“Meg,” he yelled again, and thumped on the door. Had they gone into the cellar? He pressed his palm against the doorbell. He banged louder on the door knocker. Why the hell would they have locked the door? A light came on over his head.
The door opened with a flourish. Meg’s face changed from radiant smile, to perplexed, to…what was that, fear? Why would Meg be fearful of him? She should recognize him. “It’s me, Meg. Stuart.”
She continued to stare at him through the screen door like she’d seen a ghost. Her father and mother came rushing up behind her, chattering about someone coming back safely.
“It’s Stuart,” Meg said.
“Oh, well, come on in then,” Mr. Thompson said, and held the door open. “What brings you here at this hour, and in these conditions?” The old man stepped out onto the verandah.
“I’m a bit wet,” Stuart said. He’d peeled off his blood stained raincoat, balled it up and tossed it into the forest. He took off his drenched sports jacket. “Can I hang this somewhere? I’ll take off my shoes, too.”
Mrs. Thompson bustled around him, helping him. “Get some towels, Meg,” she said. “Poor man needs to dry off.”
Meg finally moved and went into another room. She came back with two huge towels and offered them like he was going to bite her. It wasn’t right. She should have been worried, should have hugged him, kissed him, even if her parents were there. They were engaged, damn it. He was so damn cold and wet, he couldn’t think clearly, but something was very wrong.
“Um, would you like to shower and change, and then we can sit and talk,” Meg finally said, as if she’d snapped out of a coma.
She still didn’t smile. “That would be great,” Stuart said. “Coffee would be good too, if you’ve got some. Don’t want you to go to any trouble, though.”
Mrs. Thompson seemed flushed and nervous. Every cell in his body told him to stay calm, play up the charm. He’d pretend everything was okay until he could find out what was really happening. Had the P.I. and the other bloke gotten to Meg? Hadi had been captured and most likely was in custody somewhere. Did he squeal? He doubted it. The guy was tough as nails. Whatever, everyone else had left because of the cyclone. There were only the three of them. He could handle two women and one old guy. Whatever it was that was wrong, they were afraid of him. So he’d act like he suspected nothing.
“You look wonderful, Meg,” he said softly and smiled. “It’s good to see you. Don’t want to give you a kiss or anything until I clean up. You must have hardly recognized me.” He gave Mrs. Thompson what he hoped was one of his dashing grins.
“How’d ya’ get here, mate?” Mr. Thompson asked as he came back in from the verandah. “Never heard a vehicle approach. No extra cars in the lot, either.”
“I hitched in from Cooktown, with a trucker. He let me off at the turn-off.”
“Ya’ walked in this bloody weather?” Mr. Thompson said. “And carryin’ a friggin port? It’s five kilometres.”
Stuart chuckled. “Yes, I know. I’m sure there isn’t a stitch of dry clothing inside. But if you don’t mind I’d love the offer to clean up.”
“Oh, sure,” Mrs. Thompson said. “There’s a staff shower off the kitchen, and there are shirts in there for the restaurant crew. Help yourself. Bathroom’s clean, but it isn’t fancy. Other than that I can take you over to the house.”
“No, no. I insist on the staff shower,” Stuart said waving off the other offer. “I won’t be long, and we can all catch up.” He walked into the bathroom but left the door ajar. He waited a few seconds then crept back up the hall and stole a quick glance into the kitchen. The old couple spoke in hushed voices, while Mrs. Thompson bustled around making coffee. Meg walked in from an opposite doorway and said something like, “I’ll be back in a minute, I’m going to try and patch through a call.”
What did patch through a call mean? Did they have some kind of CB radio?
Even if Meg had found out he was a con man and was calling the authorities, it was no big deal. With what he’d seen in Cooktown, nobody was dispatching any officer to Bungumby to bring in an embezzler. Hell, they didn’t have enough officers to get to the people who were in desperate need.
Besides, he needed to clean up and change. And eat and drink something. And get a decent night’s sleep. There was no guarantee Meg would get through to anyone anyway, not in this weather. No worries. He was golden. He stole down the hallway, slipped back into the bathroom and closed the door. The hot water felt good, and he lathered his hair with shampoo. Best feeling ever, he thought as he rinsed and turned off the faucets.
If the jig was up he’d have to protect himself first. Meg he loved, but Meg he could live without. Outside the shower stall, he dried off, and then opened his bag. His clothes were damp, even the inner layers. Everything was creased. He’d have to live with that. Maybe Meg could iron them for him later. And she would if she had just been shocked to see him, but somehow he knew it was wishful thinking, the ironing and Meg’s devotion. Anger roiled in his gut. This whole damn deck of cards was collapsing.
He pulled on clean damp underwear, socks, and blue jeans, and reached for a black staff T-shirt. He tossed a couple of items of clothing over the towel racks to dry out, left the bag open, and walked out to the hall in his socks. His intuition had never failed him before, and he was right. The old guy stood to one side of the doorway with his back to him, a rifle in his arms.
Stuart eased further along the hall praying no floorboards would give him away. He wasn’t sure how he would take the old guy down, he had no weapon. He’d seen people on television crack guys on the back of the head with their bare hands but he didn’t have karate training. He saw the heads of Meg and her mother reflected in the mirror on the sideboard. They were seated. Good. A table was between them. He had the advantage.
“What should we do?” Meg asked her father.
“Don’t worry, I’ve got the rifle. I’ll question him,” Mr. Thompson said softly.
Stuart advanced stealthily. He sprang and grabbed the rifle. The old guy struggled, he was damn strong. Stuart kneed him in the crotch, wrenched the rifle from his hands, and hit him once on the head. Old man Thompson fell to the floor as someone screamed. He righted the rifle, as Meg ran toward her father. He pointed the rifle at her face.
“I think I’ll hang on to this,” he said grimly, and indicated she should step back. “You ladies stay where you are. Meg, pour me some coffee. I think you need to tell me about a certain phone call.”
****
Amy tried to open her right eye, but it had stuck together. She couldn’t lift her head, and her body was wracked with pain. It was dark, pitch black, dead of night, and the wind howled around the windows. It must be a really big storm.
Had the electricity gone out? Where had she stored the candles Daddy had sent in that care package? Her dorm room seemed different, and she must have partied too long last night. She tried to sit up. Must have an awful hangover. Did she have exams tomorrow? She tried again to sit and threw up onto the floor. Disgusting. She swiped at her mouth. Everything spun until it resembled a tiny space like a cocoon. Her head throbbed and she could barely focus.
She felt the mess of sticky goo around her temple and the stiff matted hair above. Something wasn’t right. She reached out, felt the cold glass, her hand trailing down to…what? An armrest, a handle, a…she tried to sit up…remembering the puddle on the floor. She peered through her one good eye and felt toward the dark shape in front of her. Was it a couch? The ceiling was so low, almost pressing in on her. It couldn’t be her dorm room.
Leather. She moved forward, touching the top of the leather item. Beyond there was a panel of…instruments. A car, she was in a car. Amy lay down again, as everything spun around her. She felt dizzy, but she forced herself to concentrate. Her head started to clear. Fray…no that wasn’t right…Firth, yes, Firth had hit her. She’d seen his face, they were outdoors somewhere. She’d felt the impact, then blackness welled up and swallowed her.
Where was she? She struggled to sit up again and common sense warned her not to move. Not yet. She lay back down on the seat. She had a head injury. The stickiness was blood for sure. And if it was sticky it meant she was still actively losing blood. It wasn’t gushing though, so that was a good sign. She felt gently around the area and winced at the tenderness, almost cried out as pain that shot like a raw exposed nerve down her neck. Nausea rose in the back of her throat, and she willed herself to lie still and breathe through it. Jake, oh my god, Jake.
Wait, wait it out
. That’s what Jake would say.
Her memory came back in flashes. Bungumby, she was in the forest somewhere behind Bungumby Lodge. He’d said she should evacuate. She’d gone to pick up Diana and then she’d turned back, sure the gray-haired stranger was Firth. She’d been on her way to call Jake and warn him. Firth must have seen her and circled around.
A tiny whimper escaped her when she remembered the tree branch he’d raised, and recalled the sound, and the ensuing blackness. She pulled her arms tight around her chest. “It’s okay,” she said, needing to hear sound, the comfort of a voice. “He won’t come back for you. He’s gone to get Meg.”
Meg.
She tried to sit.
Hot and cold flashes followed by nausea engulfed her, and she slipped down, down, into a huge black well, slipping, sliding, until her cheek rested against something smooth and cold.
****
Jake swiped the rain from his eyes and came alongside the building Sarge was imprisoned in, inching his way around. The howling winds whipped around him and rain slashed at his face like needles. The place was engulfed in gray shadows. He was sure whatever security or surveillance cameras they had, would now be minimal. They’d have shut down or switched to a generator.
Still, he stayed low, moved carefully.
His heart pounded so loud he was sure he wouldn’t have heard gun fire. He reached for the doorknob.
Unlocked.
He hesitated, aware this could be a good, or a bad, sign. He was sure the goons, or at least one of them, had left on the yacht an hour before, along with the captain. Firth and Col and the pilot were up in the house.
Was Sarge inside alone? Alone and dead? He drew the Glock from the holster, turned the knob on the door. The wind whipped it open, almost out of his hands and he barely got control of it before it slammed into the wall. He crouched, gun drawn, and stepped into the room. Sarge straddled a chair, his body slumped, his head lolling forward. The room was lined with boxes and not much of anything else. Sarge was strapped in, his back exposed, and huge red welts criss-crossed his naked skin.
Poor bastard.
Jake closed the door behind him and locked it. The room went dark. He inched forward, trying to remember the layout from his initial glimpse. A glimmer of light filtered through two tiny slats somewhere near the ceiling. He couldn’t risk turning on a light. He moved forward and put a hand on Sarge’s shoulder and felt him flinch.
Good, he was alive.
“Sarge,” he said. “It’s Jake. I’ve got you, man. You’re safe.”
Hell, they were so far from safe he had no idea what the hell they were going to do next. The wind howled outside, reminding him they were on an island in the Pacific Ocean, in a cyclone, with an eighteen-foot tinny their only way of escape. And he had an injured man to save. And three criminals and three vicious dogs were in a building a short distance from them.
He kneeled in front of Sarge, pulled out his flashlight and took a quick look. Hell, his nose was broken, and both eyes were bruised and swollen shut. He untied him and placed him gently on the floor on his side to keep his airway open. Then he pulled Sarge’s shirt off the floor and onto his body and buttoned it up, pulled off his own windbreaker and slipped that on him. It was wet on the outside but warm and dry inside. He trickled water over Sarge’s face and dabbed at it with some gauze squares he found in the first aid kit in his backpack.
“Let your mouth go slack, Sarge. I’m gonna trickle a bit of water in. Got to take it slow, okay?”
Sarge nodded and lifted his head a little. Jake cradled him and poured a tiny amount of water. Sarge spluttered at first and coughed.
“Take it slow. I know you’re dry. But your nose is broken and there’s probably a ton of blood and crap in your throat. Hack it up if you can, and spit.”
Sarge nodded and did as he was told. Jake knew it had to hurt like hell.
“Ready for a drink?”
Sarge nodded and Jake tilted the water bottle and poured slowly, stopping at what he thought was a mouthful. Sarge grabbed for the bottle. Okay, a good sign. He knew what he could handle.
“I want you to lie still,” Jake said, once he’d managed to get the water bottle back. “Restore your energy as much as you can. I’m gonna take a quick look outside.”
Sarge nodded and tried to speak.
“No, don’t speak. I’ll be back.”
Outside the sky had turned black and the sea was crashing in on the island, leaving barely a sliver of sand visible in the cove. The dock hung limply, listing to one side. One huge wave and it would be history. There was a light in the main house at its furthest end. This end was in darkness. Was the house lit by candlelight, or maybe an emergency generator?