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  Bang!

  Something hard bashed into her skull. Her head snapped to the side and her vision flickered. Her body turned weightless but her consciousness screamed at her to stay focused, to fight back, to do something . . .

  He lifted her into his arms and her eyes lolled back to stare at the twisting sky overhead. Then he flung her in the air and her back bounced hard against the bottom of the van’s steel floor. Her head smacked into something sharp and blackness collapsed around her.

  CHAPTER 17

  Brock sprinted through the trees and away from the cops who’d been too distracted by the second shooter to notice his escape. He dodged branches and leaped over roots—she had to be here. Where the fuck was the tree he’d left her at? Had she run? God, he hoped she’d gotten in a cab.

  Dread inched up his stomach as he passed lonely tree after lonely tree. Staying out of the field of bodies and the open sightline of the cops, he kept his stare ahead and weaved through the columns of bark, desperately seeking a glittering red dress. He couldn’t go to the hotel until he was certain she’d gotten out. He slowed to a jog and searched the darkness for a witness who could point him in the right direction, but the area was deserted. He let his gaze skip over the dead bodies just long enough to be sure Dani’s wasn’t one of them. Clusters of panicking people hovered over their loved ones, phones pressed to their ears. Ringtones split the night like drunken crickets. EMTs rushed around with flashlights in search of those in need of help the most.

  In all the chaos . . . not one red dress.

  He stopped and turned toward the break in the trees and the road that led to the Eiffel Tower. Scanning the darkness one last time, he stalked toward the people milling along the street. Some had blankets over their shoulders, others were hugging friends and family.

  Almost everyone was crying.

  As he moved down the sidewalk, bits and pieces of conversations floated to his ears.

  “I can’t find Alec!”

  “Il y a eu une fusillade!”

  “Mommy!” A little girl threw her chubby arms around a woman. Brown curls bounced on top of her head. Relief burst open in his chest. He’d seen the little girl racing toward the police, but he’d already been in the trees searching for Dani and hadn’t been able to stop and make sure she made it to them.

  “Oh, darling!” the woman said with a sob. “I’m so glad you’re okay.” Brock stopped. He wouldn’t interrupt the woman and her daughter, but someone nearby had to have seen something.

  “Mommy, I was so scared. A lady in a nice dress carried me, but the bad man with the gun took her away. She told me to run.”

  Brock’s blood turned to steel. He darted for the mother and daughter. “What did she say?”

  The mother’s wide brown eyes flew to his, and she clutched her child to her chest and backed away. “Who are you?”

  “The woman she just mentioned . . . please.” He scrubbed his hand over his face and took a step back. He was probably scaring the shit out of them. He cleared his throat. “Please. She’s missing.”

  Understanding softened the woman’s eyes, and she turned her attention to the little girl dangling in her arms. “Anna Bella, can you repeat what you said about the lady?”

  She shook her head and buried her face in the crook of her mom’s neck. The woman firmed her lips together and shook her head. “I’m sorry.”

  Fuck. He had to know if she saw something. “May I?” he asked, extending his hand.

  The woman hesitated but then turned so he could see the girl’s face.

  “Hi, Anna Bella. It sounds like you saw my friend. I bet she’s as scared as you are right now. Can you tell me where she went?”

  Her eyes lowered and Brock’s stomach twisted. Christ, if this girl was the only one who knew what had happened to Dani he was sunk.

  Then she straightened a few inches and met his eyes. “She found me and carried me. She was nice and said she’d help me find my mommy.” She shifted her gaze to her mother and tightened her hold around her neck. “A bad man came and she tried to hide me from him. He grabbed her like this,” she said, and lifted her hand to the tendrils of her hair. “She told me to run and I did.”

  Brock’s heart thumped in his chest, rocking his stomach against his ribs.

  They had her.

  But who?

  He forced his body not to react, but rage built inside him so quickly he had to take a breath before he spoke. “Did they get into a car?”

  She lowered her eyes and shook her head. “I don’t know.”

  “Was it just one man or were there more?”

  “One. I think.”

  “Did he—”

  “That’s enough.” The mother’s soft voice stopped his words. “Please. She’s traumatized and I need to take her to the paramedics.”

  He backed away. “Of course. Thank you.” The ground fell away beneath his feet and he turned in a circle. His breath wheezed from his lungs and he dragged his hand through his hair. Leaning forward, he positioned his palms on his knees and sucked in one breath after another. Pain burst in his chest with every inhale, but he pushed past it. He had to pull it together. He had to clear his head and keep the beast of panic from dragging him to its depths.

  If he didn’t get ahold of his shit, he’d fucking lose it.

  “Sir, are you all right?” A paramedic with a French accent clapped a hand on his shoulder.

  Brock jerked out of his hold. “I’m fine.”

  “Were you shot?” The intrusive voice floated past his ears, and he shook his head.

  He brushed away from the crowd and thwacked his palm against the side window of a cab then opened the door.

  The driver swiveled in his seat. “Je ne cours pas, monsieur,” he said, waving at the congestion of the street. Brock’s French wasn’t great, but he roughly translated the cab driver wasn’t operating at the moment. He didn’t care.

  Brock reached into his pocket and threw a handful of hundred-dollar euro bills into the man’s lap. “Make it run.” He said the name of the hotel and the car pulled into traffic, cutting off another vehicle.

  He worked his jaw back and forth and stared at the standstill of cars around them. The driver, with renewed ambition, blared his horn and nosed through the street. Brock opened and closed his hand.

  The bastards had Dani. How could he have been so stupid? He should have put her in a cab before jumping to action. Should have hid her better . . .

  Should have left with her.

  He was supposed to protect her. She was his priority. But he’d put everyone else before her and . . . Christ. Tears stung his eyes and he pinched the bridge of his nose. The sweet face of Anna Bella filled his mind’s eye.

  No. Had he run away, the little girl could have been killed. He hoped to hell he’d saved some lives. Now, he’d do everything in his power to save Dani’s. He’d blackmail the shit out of her kidnappers—he’d turn over the evidence even if it meant a lifetime in a French prison cell. He’d do anything to get her back home.

  He brought his hand to the inside pocket of his tux and rubbed the flash drive. This shit was going to end.

  Tonight.

  He pulled his phone out of his pocket and hit Rhett’s number. While the long-distance call patched through, he read the clock on the dash: 9:58 p.m. It would be just after lunch in San Diego.

  No answer. Fuck! He hung up and dialed Milo. This was the last piece of news he wanted to lay on his friend’s doorstep, but he couldn’t keep it from him. Especially if there was a shot Milo knew where Rhett was.

  “How’s it going?” Milo’s anxious tone meshed with the darkness suffocating Brock’s lungs.

  “Not good, man.” He sighed and stared out the window as the driver pulled into traffic on the main road toward the hotel. “They’ve got her.” He choked on the last word and coughed to clear the gravel that thickened his throat. “They have Dani.”

  * * *

  The fog around Dani’s head receded, rolled b
ack in, and receded again. She squeezed her eyes against the pounding pain in her skull. She moved her hand to clutch her head, but something around her wrist kept it in place. She frowned and opened her eyes. Bursts of pain crackled across her temple and she winced, forcing air from her lungs. A deep throb pulsed behind her eyes and bright light assaulted her retinas. She stared down at the tops of her thighs. Her arms were stretched behind her. The muscles in her neck screamed, falling into rhythm with the throbbing in her head. Panic skidded over her skin and screams of fear ravaged her mind.

  What the hell had happened? She had to stay calm. She closed her eyes and took in one deep breath after another until flickers of clarity broke through the confusion. She and Brock had gone for dinner then enjoyed a glass of champagne on the balcony . . .

  Then what? She forced her mind to work, reliving the moments. The Eiffel Tower, yes. They’d watched it light up. Brock had cradled her back against his chest. His warm scent and piney cologne tickled the caverns of her memory. And then . . . shots. Gunshots.

  It all came flooding back. Anna Bella, the second shooter, the van. She lifted her head and the room spun. She pressed her feet into the white-tiled floor to stabilize herself and took in her surroundings. The walls were plain, and a counter with test tubes and binders took up the wall opposite her. A computer sat on a desk near the window. She looked down at the black cushion of the chair she sat in—a basic office chair with wheels. The door was firmly closed and blinds sealed the small window.

  She was in a lab. Whose?

  No time to figure it out. Whoever it was wouldn’t leave her unattended for long. She yanked on the ropes securing her wrists, but they didn’t give. Her breath kicked up and sweat collected on her forehead, tickling her hairline. She twisted her wrists and used her fingertips to search for the knot. The ropes weren’t tied very tightly. She rolled her shoulders, trying to get blood flowing to the stagnant muscles.

  Her arms moved easily around the backrest. Hope took flight in her chest. She wiggled her arms—they weren’t secured to the chair. Whoever had tied her up had only tied her wrists behind her back. If she could stand, she could lift her wrists right over the chair back.

  She moved her feet. Tension around her ankles restricted them. She leaned forward as far as her bound arms would allow. Rope circled her ankles, tying her feet together. Her chest deflated. She might be able to get her arms over the back of the chair, but she wouldn’t be able to walk. She could hop with both legs but wouldn’t get far.

  The door opened and she jerked her head up. The man walking in had curly brown hair, glasses perched on the end of his nose, and waxy lips. He smiled, the smirk unnatural on his tight face. She’d seen him before, but where? Her brain worked at warp speed to place him.

  The papers. Weeks ago, when she’d researched his company before accepting Sven’s proposal. Ubrigg Lichti.

  “Hello, Ms. Metcalf,” he said, in a thick German accent. “I’m Dr. Lichti.” He grabbed a stool, sat down, and rolled toward her.

  Despite his professional demeaner, she coiled away. She swallowed, curled her hands into fists, and narrowed her eyes.

  “I’m sorry for the”—he waved his hand in the air as if searching for the correct word—“restraints. They must be uncomfortable. Please understand, it’s for your own safety.” He crossed one knee over the other and placed his hands on top. “I must warn you. I have a man stationed outside with a gun. Please don’t try anything.” He pursed his mouth in a placating manner.

  She curled her lip. “The same gun that murdered the innocent people at the Eiffel Tower?”

  His crisp green eyes, loaded with intelligence, sharpened. “The people you endangered, yes.”

  “The people you killed.”

  “You have something of mine. Something you never should have stolen. You’re working for terrorists and I ought to turn you over to the police, but if you do as I ask and tell me where the formula is, I’ll let you go—once it’s recovered, of course.”

  Bullshit.

  He wouldn’t keep her alive, let alone let her go.

  “You’re right. I wish I hadn’t stolen it. Why would you make something like that? Other than to kill off half the planet.” The accusation came out hard.

  He didn’t flinch but straightened his spine and grinned smugly. “I can see how it would seem that way, but I created it with the best intentions.”

  “The only outcome for a virus like that is death, so please, enlighten me.”

  He tapped his finger on his knee as if trying to decide if she was worth explaining it to. Then he pushed his glasses up higher on his nose. “I created it for the purpose of protection. If we come under attack, we need a weapon that would completely immobilize. It’s much better than a nuclear bomb, you see, and very simple to activate. People would die by the thousands and finding an explanation for or source of the disease would take months—or years—of research.”

  “You planned to kill innocent people. Same thing.”

  He shook his head and chuckled. “That’s where you’re wrong. I created it to use against countries that decide to attack France, the US, and our allies. The person who hired you to steal it planned to do exactly as you said—take out millions of innocent people. You and your employer planned a global terrorist act with my formula, which was secure in my lab.” He opened and closed his hand on his knee.

  “You’re not worried about someone releasing the virus before you do. You’re worried someone will copy the formula and sell it before you get the chance.”

  Anger flashed across Ubrigg’s face, but she didn’t regret her words.

  “Believe what you will. But you, my dear, are the terrorist the police are after.” His tone broke the smooth wave of professionalism and boomed through the stark, empty space.

  A tremor racked her spine, and she curled her fingernails into her palms. She hadn’t known, for god’s sake. He should have expected people would be out for the weapon of destruction he’d created. Arguing with him was futile and wouldn’t help her survive. She needed to stall and outsmart him.

  She wet her lips. “Where am I?”

  He surveyed her and rocked on the stool. “A lab owned by a French colleague of mine.”

  Yes. That meant she was still in Paris and not far from Brock.

  “You obviously didn’t find the formula on me or we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

  “You’re right. We searched your purse.” He leaned over to the computer desk and grabbed her bone-colored clutch. He reached inside and flipped a card between his fingers. “Only thing we found is this room key and an encrypted cell phone. My friend Romy,” he said, nodding at the door, “is going to pay room 1912 a visit. I wonder what—or who, I should say—he’ll find.”

  The threat hung in the air, and Dani’s guts churned. She clamped her teeth together and locked her stare on Ubrigg. If she got out of these ropes, he’d be sorry.

  “You could save us the trouble and tell me where the formula is.”

  She rolled her tongue along the inside of her cheek. She knew the exact whereabouts of the flash drive—in Brock’s suit-jacket pocket. Ubrigg wasn’t stupid. He already knew about Brock or he wouldn’t have made the threat. The evil glint in Ubrigg’s eye made her stomach muscles clench. They’d kill Brock if they found him. She had to throw him off Brock’s trail.

  She shrugged. “Go ahead. But it will be a waste of time. We handed the formula off this evening at the Eiffel Tower.”

  Ubrigg’s body tensed. His face didn’t change but his eyes darkened in his alabaster skin. “You’re lying.”

  “No, I’m not. We needed a public place to make the trade-off. The remainder of my pay was wired to my account while we ate dinner. We set the flash drive on the table when we paid the bill and the buyer collected it as soon as we left.” The lie rolled off her tongue.

  “Who was the buyer? What did they look like?”

  The blonde woman Dani had spotted on the train and hotel p
opped into her head. “A woman no older than forty, blonde, shoulder-length hair. That’s all I know.”

  He slid the stool to the computer desk. Shaking the mouse, he brought the sleeping screen to life and a password box popped up. Force of habit brought her gaze to his fingers as he punched in the password. She’d learned to study keystrokes a long time ago. Curiosity and the desire to keep the skill sharp had her practicing it whenever the opportunity arose. Ubrigg’s fingers moved over the keys.

  PSNMA

  Had he hit a symbol or a number after that? The screen blinked and a webpage with several tabs popped up. The familiar small blue square with an F caught her eye. Ubrigg’s social media account. She dropped her gaze to her shoes and focused on her breath. If he caught her staring, he’d suspect she’d picked up his password.

  He tapped on the keyboard. “Was this her?”

  Dani lifted her chin and stared at the screen. The blonde woman with hard brown eyes stared back at her from what looked like a mug-shot photo. Victory bells rang in her head.

  She nodded. “Yes, that’s her.”

  Ubrigg stood quickly, sending the stool flying backward. It toppled to the ground and the metal connected with the tile with a sharp clank. His face turned a reddish purple, and he curled his hands into fists.

  She might have thrown them off Brock, but she’d just secured her own death.

  “You have no idea what you’ve done.” He lifted her purse and pinched her encrypted phone between his fingers in the air. “Let’s see if your friend has the same story.” He stormed toward the door and flung it open. “Lock the door! Keep her alive until I give you the cue.”

  The bottom of her stomach dropped and her shoulders sagged, making the tendons in her neck yank sharply. Shit. Her foggy brain hadn’t predicted he’d call Brock. Her plan to save him had just gone to hell in a handbasket. Brock would do whatever Ubrigg wanted, which would only get him killed.