The Bride Wore A Forty-Four (5 page)

So apparently, someone was involved with
criminals. Armed men with automatic weapons who kidnaped people
from weddings equaled criminals, right? They couldn't have been
cops or feds or anything, she thought, because if they were, they
wouldn't have brought their victims here. They'd have taken them to
some official place "for questioning" or whatever.

So that meant the men in the suits were bad
guys.

Apparently Anita was involved, though not on
the criminals' side. Anita must be a good guy.

So why had the criminals taken Peter and
Marshall? Were Peter and Marshall good guys, or bad guys?

More importantly, what about me?

Her black boot kicked something that
scurried, and she didn't even wince. It was odd to expect to react
and then feel nothing. She just kept moving and found a set of
stairs leading upward. She took them, and when she reached the door
at the top, she pushed it open slowly, peering around into a dimly
lit hall. Sun filtered by a dirt-streaked window at the far end
gave enough light to make her blink. Seeing no one, she stepped
into the hall and started along it, pausing near each and every
door to listen.

And hearing only silence.

She came to another set of stairs and crept
up to the first landing, around it and up farther, but when her
head reached above the floor of level two, she ducked quickly,
pausing on the steps.

Someone was standing in front of one of the
doors up there.

She dipped a hand into one of the numerous
pockets of her jacket and came out with a little mirror. Then she
placed it on the floor above her, facing the man, adjusted it until
she could see him, left it there, and settled in for the wait.

Patience, she told herself, was as important
as stealth or skill or smarts. And it only came with
experience.

Must be I've been at this awhile,
then...whatever
this
is
.

It took time. And during that time, she found
herself marking exits. The stairs that continued up. The window, at
the far end of this hall, just like the one below. Probably within
jumping distance of the ground. And the stairs back down again.
That was about it, not counting any escape route inside the
apartment itself. Number 207, she noted. And the guy standing
outside the door was armed, and smoking, and flipping through a
flesh magazine so old the pages were swollen.

Good. Take a good look, she thought.

She decided to hell with patience and crept
up the stairs, making not so much as a sound. When she got to the
top, she moved into the hall, in the opposite direction from where
he was standing, and ducked into a door well. She had to press
herself flat to do it, but hell, it was shadowy. He wouldn't see
her.

Then she dug a coin from her pocket and
tossed it toward the stairs. It flew perfectly, heading down a long
way before hitting and pinging and bouncing the rest of the way
down.

The guy's head came up fast. He dropped his
magazine, lifted his gun, and started down the hall toward her. She
pressed flatter, almost melding into the wood at her back.

He didn't see her. He moved down the stairs,
rapidly.

Kira pushed off from the wall and ran up the
hall, her feet landing like cat's paws, until she reached room 207.
There was no time to hesitate or think it over. In a moment, the
guard dog would be back. She twisted to the side, drew her knee to
her chin and kicked, then burst into the room, gun pointed.

Marshall wasn't there. Instead it was Peter,
standing in the room surrounded by the other men. She lifted the
weapon, had the drop on all of them. "Don't even move. Not one of
you."

Peter looked shocked, stunned as he searched
her face. And then she said, "Come on, Peter, I'm taking you out of
here."

His brows went up. "You're...rescuing
me?"

"No time to explain, come on." She gripped
his arm and tugged him with her as she backed toward the door.
"Where are they holding Marshall?" she asked, glancing once,
quickly behind her, and still not seeing the guard back in his
place.

"Marshall...is one of them. He's in on this,"
Peter said.

She frowned at him, shaking her head slowly.
"That...doesn't make sense." It made as much sense, she knew, as
anything else did right now. But if Marshall were a bad guy, then
didn't that mean she was, too?

She pressed her fingertips to her forehead,
images burning in her mind. Marshall, touching her, kissing her,
undressing her....

"Are you all right, Kira?" Peter asked.

"Watch behind us " she snapped. "There's a
guard."

"He's coming!" Peter shouted.

She spun around, but there was no one there.
And now, Peter was pressing a cold gun barrel to the back of her
neck. "My hero," he whispered. "It's kind of cute, actually, that
you don't even know which side you're on. Tell me, Kira, just how
far were you willing to go to get me? Hmm? All the way to the
actual vows? To the wedding night? How many times would you have
let me fuck you before you sprung your trap? Hmm?"

"I don't know what the hell you're talking
about," she muttered, standing motionless and stiff.

He reached to her hand and took the .44, then
slid its mate from the holster at her hip, and the bowie knife from
its sheath on the other hip. "Don't you?"

He was running his hands down her body now,
feeling for hidden weapons. He found none. Then he nodded, and two
of his thugs came forward, one gripping each of her arms. "Bring
her," Peter said.

They started forward, and Kira kicked one in
the shins, and the next thing she knew they each grabbed a leg as
well, and carried her that way, while she tried to wriggle
free.

They carried her up a whole other flight of
stairs, into a room on the third floor, where the first thing she
saw was Marshall. His tux was gone, except, for the pants. He was
shirtless, his face bruised and bloody, his arms and legs bound to
the straight-back chair in which he sat

He lifted his head when they came in, and his
eyes met hers. She felt the connection, felt the concern, but knew
those eyes betrayed nothing to anyone else.

"Get the jacket off her," Peter
commanded.

And the men did as he commanded, slinging her
jacket to the floor.

"Shirt, too."

They peeled the tank over her head, but they
had to let go of her arms to do so, and it gave her an opportunity.
She elbowed one in the rib cage and punched the other in the jaw
before they had her anchored again. She was wearing the white demi
bra that had been on underneath her wedding gown. She hadn't had
time to change, hadn't even thought about it.

"Here." Peter tossed them a rope. "Bind her
hands at the wrists, then sling them over that beam right there.
Keep her from breaking your jaw at least."

She twisted and resisted as they grabbed her
wrists, but her attention was caught by Marshall, who shouted,
"Jesus, leave her the hell alone. She doesn't know anything."

Peter smiled. "Maybe not. But you do."

She was still watching Marshall, though, saw
him look down, and followed his gaze to her own hands. And then it
was as if mists parted, letting knowledge seep through. She went
still, let them bind her hands, but she pressed her palms together
while keeping her wrists as far apart as she could. Even when they
yanked the ropes, she resisted letting them push her wrists
together.

Finally the rope's long end was tossed over a
visible beam in the ceiling, where most of the plaster had long
since crumbled. They pulled it until her arms were up high, and
kept pulling until she was standing on tiptoe. And then they
anchored it there.

"Boots," Peter said.

They bent, each toward one leg, and she drew
her knees up and kicked them so hard they both went down. Shaking
his head in anger, Peter lifted a blade and walked calmly over to
Marshall. He put the blade to Marshall's throat. Kira could see the
sweat on Marshall's skin, the corded muscles in his neck, the pulse
pounding there.

"Now, Kira, you give my men any more trouble,
and you can just hang there and watch your wedding planner bleed
out on the floor. Understand?"

She nodded rapidly.

He looked at the men who were dragging
themselves to their feet "Boots."

They got up and came to her, and she let them
take off her black boots. They tipped them upside down in case
anything was hidden inside, then tossed them into the corner with
her coat

Peter handed the knife to one man, who
quickly took his former position at Marshall's throat. Then Peter
himself came to her, put his hands on the front of the leather
pants, undid the snap. Slowly, he lowered the zipper. His palms
slid over her hips, pushing the pants down, and she knew he was
doing it slowly on purpose.

"Go on, fight me," he told her. "I'd love to
give my guy an excuse to slit loverboy's throat."

"Fuck you."

"Maybe."

He pushed the pants all the way off. And she
was hanging there in her bra and panties. Every man in the room was
eyeing her with a predatory hunger. And Marshall was no exception,
although the anger in his eyes outshone everything else. Peter put
his hands on her bra cups, squeezing, feeling for hidden weapons.
When he found none, he smiled and pinched her nipples as hard as he
could. Marshall lunged toward them, his chair coming up off the
floor, but one of the other goons decked him, knocking him onto his
side on the floor, chair and all.

She gritted her teeth, but didn't cry
out.

Peter wasn't finished. He moved his hands to
her panties and pushed one inside. She clamped her legs together,
but he forced them apart, and shoved his fingers inside her. "You
know damn well I don't have any weapons there," she growled.

"You can't blame me for being careful, Kira."
He withdrew his hand again, walked over to Marshall, and wiped it
on his chest. Then he righted the chair.

"So, Marshall, are you ready to tell me
exactly what evidence your friends in the Drug Enforcement.
Administration have on me, or shall I just tell the boys to make
use of Kira in whatever way they like until you're ready to
talk?"

The words
Drug Enforcement
Administration
were still ricocheting through Kira's brain when
Peter turned his attention to her again. "Let's start with
something simple, while your partner thinks about his options," he
said.

She tried not to let her confusion show on
her face, but her gaze shot to Marshall's all the same. Her
partner?

Peter clasped her chin in his hand and turned
her head until her eyes locked with his. "How did you find your way
here?"

"I followed you."

He lowered his head, shaking it slowly, then
he turned from her and nodded at one of his men. The thug drove a
fist into Marshall's stomach so hard Kira grunted in pain along
with him. He doubled over as much as the ropes holding him would
allow, head down, mouth open. She thought he was going to vomit,
but he didn't.

"You wanna take another shot at that one, or
are you going to let us kill him?"

Lifting her chin, she met his eyes. "You're
not gonna kill him until he tells you what you want to know."

"Wrong, honey. We can get the same
information from you."

She smiled slowly. "You think so? Well, you'd
better have someone fill me in first, because I don't know
shit."

"Bull. You got your memory back, or you
wouldn't be here."

"I came here planning to rescue you from the
bad guys, Peter. I didn't realize you were the biggest piece of
shit in the sewer."

He backhanded her. Her head snapped sideways
with the impact, and the pain shrieked through her entire head. But
instead of making her cry or cower, it seemed to energize her. She
touched the corner of her lip with the tip of her tongue and tasted
blood.

Peter saw something in her eyes and turned
away. "She didn't follow us here. You two get outside, search the
area. Someone led her here, and ten to one it was Duke. You find
him out there, kill him."

They rushed to obey.

Peter turned to the third goon. "You come
with me. We're clearly going to need something a little more potent
than our fists to make these two talk. Besides, my knuckles are
getting sore." He turned to Kira. "I'll be back, sweetie. Maybe
with a set of cables and a car battery, hmm?"

"I can hardly wait. Promise I get to go
first?"

He glared at her before slamming out of the
room with his thug on his heels. Kira released her breath all at
once, then turned to study Marshall. He looked like hell. "Are you
all right?" she asked.

He lifted his head, met her eyes, nodded
once. "Good call, pretending you still don't remember anything. It
probably kept me alive."

She held his eyes for a moment "Marshall, I
wasn't pretending. I
don't
remember anything."

He stared at her as if her words were not
quite translating in his brain. "But your hair—your clothes—"

"I found a photo, and a few of my things in a
trunk in the attic. I thought if I put them on, did my hair the old
way, maybe it would shake something loose. Help me remember."

"That doesn't make any sense. You charged
those guys. You fought and you shot as if you knew how."

"Yeah. It surprised me as much as anyone, I
guarantee you that. It wasn't like I thought about it first, I just
did it. It was like...instinct."

"And the weapons? Were they in the same
trunk?"

"Yeah." She looked around the room at her
discarded clothing, and smiled slowly. "Yeah. And some of them are
still in here with us."

He sent her a questioning look, and she
nodded toward her boots, still lying in the corner where Peter had
tossed them. Then he smiled, too. "The blade's still in the
boot?"