Nanny (28 page)

chapter
34

G
abe's wrists were on fire. Cursing, he opened his eyes and squinted into darkness. He was facedown, his cheek pressed against vinyl, his wrists bound at his back.

He twisted upright, and pain shot through his head. A little gift from the gas in the lab, he figured.

“Summer?”

No answer.

He had a knife secured in his boot, but his legs were bound, too. He would have to—

Something bumped his shoulder.

“Gabe?” Her voice was unsteady, inches from his head.

“Right here. Keep talking.”

“I feel like throwing up.”

He had to smile. “Me, too, honey. Feels like the mother of all hangovers, believe me.” Gabe felt her leg and then rolled sideways, working his hands upward. The movements were difficult because his wrists were bound. “Are you hurt?”

“My head feels like a merry-go-round on fast-forward, and my elbows ache. Otherwise, I'm just chipper. Where in the heck are we?”

“I think we're in the backseat of a truck.” Gabe refused to think about the grinding pain at his knee. “Are your hands tied?”

“Tight.” Summer laughed grimly. “Duct tape, I'm afraid.”

“No problem. I've got a knife stashed in my right boot, but I can't reach it with my hands bound behind me like this.”

Summer wriggled closer. “Okay, I can feel your boot.” Her bound hands covered his leg, digging beneath his boot. “No luck. I can't get any lower. I had a razor and a nail file in my purse, but it's gone now. How about your belt?”

The prong, Gabe realized. “I knew there was a reason I liked hanging around with you. Other than your great legs, of course.” He grimaced as her fingers slid upward, digging at his waistband. “Watch where you're jabbing, honey. You may want that part of my anatomy fully functional sometime soon.”

“Promises, promises.” But Summer's voice was grim as she struggled to free his belt from its clasp.

Gabe vowed it was no idle promise. Once they got the hell out of Mexico alive, he'd prove that to her, preferably until they were both sweaty with exhaustion.

Metal clanked somewhere nearby. Was it machinery? Before Gabe could be sure, the sound faded and Summer went back to work, driving her taped wrists onto the prong of his belt. Each time her hands scraped against his groin, Gabe savored a few choice mental curses.

“Pass go and collect two hundred dollars for not complaining,” Summer said tightly. “That's got to hurt.”

“I'll live.”

“How's your knee?”

Gabe didn't want to think about it. “Not a problem.”

“How about the truth this time, Morgan?”

“Okay, it's pretty stiff.” The truth was, his whole leg hurt like something important had pulled loose, but there was no point in telling her that.

“What happened to you?”

“A training exercise. My parachute screwed up.” Gabe didn't elaborate. How did you describe the shock of plunging out of the sky in a dead drop, with your chute damaged and your guts knotted in terror?

“HALO?”

So she knew about high-altitude, low-opening jumps? Points for the Feeb. “Bingo.”

“If you weren't fully recovered, why did you agree to come and handle this situation for the senator?”

“This is a piece of cake compared to what I usually do. Besides, I couldn't turn down Tate Winslow. I owe him and his family too much for that.”

“Anything you care to discuss?”

As Summer's hands slid back and forth over his belt, Gabe felt her breath, warm and moist on his cheek. “I'm not sure.” He cleared his throat. “By the way, it's a good thing you aren't married or I might have had to arrange a mercy killing.”

“Mercy for whom?” she whispered.

“For me, damn it.”

“Homicide won't be necessary.” Summer took a breath. “I'm not married. Never even came close.”

All they had to do was stay alive for the next few hours, Gabe thought. When they didn't check in on time, Izzy would initiate an immediate search, using the imbedded transmitters in Gabe's regular cell phone and the small backup phone, which was hidden inside his boot.

No way to reach it with his damned hands bound.

Wedged together as they were, he felt Summer's heart pounding against his chest. “Any luck?”

“Not yet. The tape is too thick. Your belt prong keeps slipping.”

Gabe glared into the darkness, with something hard pressing at his back. He wanted to help her, but his hands were useless.

“Okay, I just made a small hole at one edge,” Summer said quietly. “How about telling me how you know Senator Winslow.”

There was no noise or movement around them, and Gabe decided distraction was a good idea, considering the current position of her bound hands. “My father and Senator Winslow's father met in the army. My dad saved his life a couple of times, and Randall Winslow never forgot. Afterward, Randall set my parents up on their first fifty acres.” Gabe shifted restlessly. “Can we stop talking now?”

“No. Are you married?”

“Not now.”

Summer's hands stopped moving. “But . . . you were?”

“A long time ago.” Gabe sifted through painful memories. “We met in high school and got married that same summer. We had a daughter by Christmas.” It hurt to remember, even now. He was sure it always would.

“And?”

“And it only took a shit-for-brains drunk driver twenty seconds to kill them both.” Gabe glared into the darkness, assaulted by bitter memories. “One moment they were laughing in the snow and the next they were caught in a ball of burning metal when the driver jumped the curb.”

He heard Summer's breath catch. “I'm so sorry, Gabe. I—didn't know.”

“Not many people do. Rosalita—well, she was full of joy and wonder, the hardest worker I ever met. I was young and reckless, but I loved her, and our baby girl was the most beautiful thing a man could ever hope to see. Both of them always loved the snow. Funny, I forgot that until now.” Frowning, he pulled his thoughts back from images of dark eyes and soft laughter. “Afterward, I got in my car and started driving, with no particular plan. Two weeks later I ended up in a beachfront bar in Mexico, stone drunk and robbed blind.” After a moment, Gabe went on. “That night Tate Winslow's dad came down and dusted me off, literally and figuratively. Three days later I was in basic training. If he hadn't tracked me down at that bar, I'm not sure where I'd be now.”

“Randall Winslow sounds like an interesting man.”

Gabe laughed softly. “Yeah, he was that, all right. The man just kept coming, working at you until you saw his way of thinking. He and Amanda, Tate's mother, always believed in getting involved and staying involved. When Tate needed my help, there was no way I could refuse.”

“Because it was personal.” In the cramped space, Summer dug her hands against his belt. “Sorry if this hurts.”

“Do what needs to be done. Forget about me.” Without warning, light burned into Gabe's eyes. As he'd guessed, they were inside the extended cab of a battered pickup truck, and two people were walking toward the truck.

The woman in front was the receptionist who'd argued with them at the clinic. The man beside her had been running cable.

“Company,” Gabe whispered. “Stay down.”

“Almost free,” she said breathlessly.

As the uniformed man headed for the driver's side door of the truck, light struck the revolver holstered beneath his shoulder. “Do it fast,” Gabe whispered. “Our options may be starting to dwindle.”

chapter
35

A
nswer your damn
phone,
Gabe.”

 Muttering, Izzy broke off his latest attempt to rouse either Summer or Gabe. When his pager was equally unsuccessful, he opened the big metal case on the car seat beside him and powered up his GPS, praying they still had their phones.

He'd watched them enter the clinic's main reception building, then emerge with a woman in a white uniform. From his vantage point in the loading area behind the lab, Izzy had seen them enter the lab building with Underhill. Ten minutes later they still hadn't reappeared, and a guard had come by, politely but firmly telling Izzy to return to the main parking area at the clinic entrance. Though he'd taken his time, Izzy had complied.

At twenty minutes, Izzy knew things had gone south, because Gabe hadn't answered his cell phone at the prearranged time. When he'd checked with the receptionist, he was told that Mr. and Mrs. Walker had taken a taxi back to their hotel.

Of course, they hadn't.

Now with his laptop open, Izzy tried to locate Gabe's phone. A digital map appeared on-screen, with an arrow flickering inside the lab. So Gabe was still inside.

Izzy sat back slowly. Or
was he?

He opened a new screen on his computer, taking a different tack. Senator Winslow had made it clear that the three of them would be on their own here in Mexico. There would be no consular backup, no cavalry charging in with guns blazing.

Izzy's face hardened.

Not that it mattered. He made a damned good cavalry regiment all by himself.

 

Summer's hands were on fire, her skin abraded and raw up to her wrists. Though she was bleeding, she kept twisting feverishly, trying to free the last remaining piece of tape. She felt the truck moving while the motor throbbed noisily beneath them, coughing occasionally.

“How are your hands?” Gabe said, his mouth near her ear.

“I felt another piece of tape break,” she whispered back. “My hands are slippery, which should help.”

“Slippery from what?”

“Sweat.” And blood, Summer didn't say. She bit back a curse as another layer of skin tore free.

A bump sent them flying a foot into the air, then slammed them back down.

“As soon as I can, I'm going for the driver,” he whispered.

“How?”

The truck backfired, swerving hard. Tree branches scraped the metal body like clawing fingers.

Gabe didn't answer. Silently, Summer reached up to check her door, but the latch was frozen, rusted all the way through.

No chance of getting out that way.

She felt Gabe shift, then pull his hands apart, slamming her on the chin in the process. “How'd you do that?” she whispered, her voice barely audible above the hammer of the old motor.

“I found a rusted nail on the floor, caught in an old piece of rope. Thank God for garbage.” Gabe dug into his boot, then pressed a knife against her fingers. “Use this. I'm going for the driver.”

Summer gripped the knife awkwardly between her knees. She was still bleeding and the knife slipped, cutting her thumb. Ignoring the pain, she went to work while Gabe snaked his arm around the driver's throat, squeezing hard.

The driver yelled Spanish curses and the truck twisted. Summer heard a hissing noise, and Gabe's body went tense as he took a burst of pepper spray directly in the face, but even then he didn't let go of the driver's throat. She shoved the knife down again, and the tape on her hands broke free. Gabe was struggling blindly with their frenzied driver. She lunged over the seat, pulled up the driver's door latch, and pushed open the door. Gritting her teeth, Summer pulled the man sideways, and with a brutal shove from Gabe that knocked the revolver to the seat, they pushed the driver outside.

He hit the road with a cloud of dust and an angry yell.

As the truck kept moving, Summer saw that Underhill was slumped down on the passenger seat, still in his rumpled suit. The driver's revolver was on the seat next to him. Gabe was still half-blinded by the pepper spray, and the truck was fishtailing wildly as they twisted along a narrow mountain road.

Summer leaned over the seat, grabbing the wheel. “I doubt we'll see the driver again anytime soon,” she rasped.

“Fine by me.”

Summer managed to climb into the driver's seat without letting go of the steering wheel. Underhill gasped out a tortured breath and began to struggle, his arms striking her in the head.

Summer tried to dodge Underhill's flailing arms. “Hold him. He's waking up.”

Gabe managed to grip the scientist from behind and hold him steady. “Terence, can you hear me?”

The scientist gasped an answer, and the next swerve pitched him hard against Gabe's arm.

“Blood on the Armani. I hate it when that happens.” Gabe shifted to find a better grip while the scientist twisted, oblivious. “Terence, hang in there, pal.”

Summer tried to decipher Underhill's guttural ranting. “What's he saying?”

“Can't tell. Something about a panda?”

Summer saw a green van racing through the dirt behind them. One of the men in the front seat looked like the driver she had tossed out of the truck minutes before.

The road was dangerously narrow now, with almost no room to maneuver, but the van kept coming, and slammed hard against her back fender.

Summer veered to the left, racing along the very edge of the road, fighting to hold the truck steady with the van right behind her, ramming her bumper.

Below her she saw a flash of silver from the ocean, and then the road twisted sharply. To the north, weathered stucco houses dotted the hillside, and after a steep descent the road split in two.

The van hammered them again. Summer's head snapped backward and she nearly lost control of the truck. Dust swirled through the window and she coughed hard, spit out a mouthful of grit, then drove the accelerator back to the floor. “Can you see yet?” she shouted to Gabe.

“Still blurred as hell.”

“The driver's gun is on the seat.”

Underhill was muttering brokenly, but Summer couldn't look away from the road.

Something struck the rear window, cracking the glass.

“We're taking fire here. Give it some juice.”

Trying to ignore the van riding her bumper and the sheer drop to her left, Summer floored the accelerator again while Gabe knocked a hole in the cab's rear window.

Squinting, he squeezed off four shots and then cursed. “You need to hold us straight! I'm guessing here already.”

Summer gritted her teeth. “In case you hadn't noticed, this road is bumpy as hell.”

“I noticed, trust me.”

A bullet cracked against the roof.

“There's a split in the road ahead.” Summer measured distances and calculated speed. “Get ready, because I'm turning hard.”

“Hold on.” Gabe's first shot shattered the van's windshield, and their pursuers slowed abruptly. As Summer barreled into the turn, a mother and three children walked onto the road, directly in front of the truck. Breathing a silent prayer, Summer jammed the brakes hard and spun the truck ninety degrees. With dust flying wildly, they careened into a skid.

She flipped on the wipers, half-blinded, watching the van roar past her with no break in speed. Amid a stream of curses, the driver swerved into a rock, and the van soared into the air, crash-landing against a huge cottonwood tree.

Before Summer had time for relief, the road twisted sharply to the right and she saw a cement overhang twenty feet away, part of a new irrigation canal. They were headed directly toward the unfinished edge.

Summer stared grimly down the hill, her options fading. “Brace yourself, because this is going to hurt like hell,” she shouted.

Then there was nothing but brown, rocky soil stretching out below her.