“No point in wasting my time or yours,” Griff said. “Not when the only thing that matters is saving my wife.”
“What makes you think I can locate York when your entire network hasn’t been able to locate him?”
“We’ve located where Nicole was taken twice,” Sanders told Rafe. “The first time, we arrived too late. The second time, the rescue attempt failed.”
“Third time’s the charm, huh?” Rafe said. “If you’ve managed to zero in on where your wife was twice, then you’ll be able to do it again without my help.”
“You’re an alternate plan,” Griff said. “I believe in covering all my bases. You’ve been able to infiltrate some pretty exclusive circles around the world during the past sixteen years. My guess is that you either already have access to, or soon will have, to Yves Bouchard as well as Harlan Benecroft. They’re the only two of York’s frequent Amara visitors who are still alive. Odds are that the new Malcolm York has ties to both Bouchard and Benecroft and they can lead us straight to him.”
“Five million.” Rafe stated his asking fee. “A million up front. Two million when I locate York and your wife. Another two million once you’ve rescued her.”
“Deal,” Griff said without hesitation.
“You’ve done well this morning,” Vartan told Nic after another hour-long training session. “For the next few weeks, you will train two hours every morning and two hours every afternoon. It is a light schedule, but you are in very good condition and if I work you too hard, Mr. York will not like it. You are special to him, eh?”
“Oh, yes, I’m very special to him.”
“I thought so. He has paired you with a champion, one who can help you survive the exhibitions.” Vartan motioned to the guards at the front of the barn. “Bring him in. It’s time.”
Hot, sweaty, and exhausted, Nic wanted a shower and a nap before the afternoon workout session. Apparently Vartan had something else in mind for her—an introduction to her partner.
Oddly enough, when the guards escorted Jonas MacColl into the building, Nic wasn’t surprised. On some level, she had known that York had chosen him specifically for her. Wasn’t that why he had kept Jonas alive?
“I brought Jonas with us just for you, my dear,”
York had told her.
Unfettered by cuffs and chains, his overly long hair secured in a short ponytail, and his upper torso bare, Jonas walked a few steps ahead of the guards, his entrance demanding attention. The puckered, healing gunshot wound in his side, the skin around it discolored, reminded Nic that this man had saved her life back aboard the
Isis.
Nic couldn’t take her eyes off him. She was glad to see him, thankful he had survived, and was eager to talk to him.
Vartan motioned to Jonas. “Come, come. Mr. York has chosen your new partner.”
Jonas came forward, stopped, and looked straight at Nic before he cast his gaze to the dirt floor.
“I believe you already know each other, but I will introduce you all the same,” Vartan said. “Nicole, this is Jonas. Jonas, this is Mr. York’s pet, Nicole. You will train together every day and take your meals together. If you do well together in your first exhibition, you will be allowed to share quarters.” Vartan laughed as he slapped Jonas on the back. “It’s been awhile since you had a woman, hasn’t it?”
Jonas didn’t so much as flinch.
“You will stay here. Rest. Talk. Enjoy a couple of hours of free time,” Vartan said. “Food will be brought to you soon. And I will return this afternoon and work you both very hard.”
Jonas stood tall and proud, not moving, not speaking, and Nic followed his lead, both of them waiting for Vartan to exit the building.
Once they were alone, the guards and Vartan no longer inside the barn, Jonas looked at Nic.
“How are you?” she asked him. “I wasn’t even sure you were still alive.”
“It takes more than a bullet to kill a tough old country boy like me.” He inspected her from head to toe. “Fetching outfit you’re wearing, Mrs. Powell.”
She appraised his appearance, noting that his only clothing was a pair of cotton knit shorts. “Are the rest of your clothes in the laundry today?”
Jonas grinned. “It’s good to see you, Nicole. I’ve worried about you.”
“I’m okay. No major catastrophes since we last saw each other.”
“When they told me I was going back into training today, I figured they’d have you waiting for me, that York had put us together.”
“I’m glad,” Nic said. “I understand that you’re a champion.”
Jonas snorted. “I’m a wounded champion. If I’m put to the test before this wound heals, I could be more of a liability to you than an asset.”
“Vartan said something about training me for the next few weeks.”
“Did he explain what he’s training you to do?”
“A triple whammy. I get the prize behind all three doors—The Hunt, The Ring, and The Execution.”
“Son of a bitch! I’m sorry. I wish I could—”
She pressed her index finger across his lips. “Shh ... Don’t. We’re not going to waste any energy on things we can’t change. If we’re going to survive, we’ll have to focus completely on what we can do to stay alive.”
Chapter 26
Yvette and Sanders had watched while Rafe made his deal with Griffin. His business there at Griffin’s Rest was complete. When issued an invitation to spend the night, he had declined.
“I’d prefer not to waste any time. The sooner I begin my search, the better my chances of locating York. If your jet is available, why not fly me back to London this evening?”
During lunch, Yvette had avoided looking at Rafe, and unless he said something to her, she hadn’t spoken to him. And later, when Griffin had invited Rafe to his study to finalize the monetary details of their arrangement, she had taken the opportunity to slip away and return to her home.
Yet all the while, she had known he would come to her.
For the past two hours, she had waited with anticipation and dread.
What would they say to each other after all these years?
Before he rang the doorbell, she sensed his presence. At least that one aspect of their former relationship had not changed. On Amara, she had always known when he was near and she had suspected that because of his latent “talents” that he so vehemently denied, they had connected on a transcendental level.
Yvette had been meditating, preparing herself as best she could, for the moment now at hand. She opened the door to the past, desperately longing for Raphael to appear. But Rafe Byrne stood there, a man she did not know, a man she feared.
“May I come in?” he asked.
“Yes, of course.”
“I’ll be leaving in a couple of hours. Griff’s eager for me to earn my fee.”
When she did not respond, he looked around inside the wide foyer, his gaze pausing on first one and then the other of the two arched doorways, one leading to her students’ quarters the other to her private apartment.
“Why did you leave London and move here?” he asked.
“Griffin offered me a home here, a safe, secluded place where I could bring my students.”
“His offer must have been a dream come true for you.”
“In a way, I suppose it was.” Yvette inclined her head toward the hallway leading to her apartment. “Would you care for something to drink? Tea? Coffee?”
“Got anything stronger?” he asked as he followed her down the hall.
She opened the door to her living room and invited him to come inside with her. “I have wine and there may be a beer in the refrigerator. I can go see.”
“Who do you keep the beer for, Griffin or Sanders?”
“I occasionally entertain friends and that includes Griffin and Sanders. The beer is for anyone who wants it.”
“Skip the beer,” Rafe said as he inspected her living room. “Nice place. Griff takes good care of you with Malcolm York’s money.”
“Griffin has put that money to good use.”
“Yeah, I suppose he has. I’ve always wondered about something though ... why did you turn over York’s millions to Griff? Or need I ask?”
“You must know why, so what is it that you’re really asking me?”
“You handed over your sizable inheritance to Griff because you loved him. And you’re still in love with him, aren’t you?”
Rafe’s accusation momentarily stunned her. She had thought he knew that she couldn’t have kept York’s money, that for her it would have been impossible. But she had known Griffin would do only good with the money that had been obtained in the most horrendously evil ways.
“My God, I’ve rendered you speechless.” Rafe’s laughter filled the room, sucking up all the oxygen, making her gasp for air. “Surely you didn’t think I wasn’t aware of how you felt about him.”
“Why would you care how I feel about Griffin?”
“I don’t. Not really. Just curious.”
“Of all the things that I thought you might say to me, I never imagined you would—”
“He’s not in love with you,” Rafe told her. “He never was.”
“No, he was never in love with me, but Raphael was in love with me, wasn’t he?”
She thought perhaps retaliating with an accusation of her own might conclude the subject of love, but she was wrong.
“That poor, pitiful boy loved you beyond all reason,” Rafe admitted. “And he was fool enough to think you felt the same.”
“I wasn’t in love with Griffin or Raphael or any other man during those years on Amara. I cared for Griffin and for Sanders ... and for Raphael. But what does any of that matter now? I care for Griffin and Sanders as if they were my brothers.”
“And Raphael?”
“Raphael is dead, isn’t he?”
Please tell me that he’s not dead, that some small part of him still exists deep inside you.
“Long dead. I buried him on Amara.”
“Why did you come here, Rafe?”
“Griffin Powell summoned me.”
“No, I didn’t mean why did you come to Griffin’s Rest. Why did you come here to my home to see me?”
“I came to say good-bye.”
He moved toward her. She felt a moment of sheer panic, but managed not to cringe when he reached out and caressed her cheek with the back of his hand. Flashes of intense emotions bombarded her. Anger. Hatred. Resentment. Regret. And lust.
“Feel it,” he told her. “Feel all of it.”
She jerked away from him, saving herself from the emotional injury such intense feelings would cause. With several feet separating them, she stared at Rafe, silently questioning him, understanding the answer without any response.
You hate me. And yet you want me.
“I never meant to hurt you,” she told him. “I only wanted to help you, to protect you as best I could. I did what I did because I cared, because I knew that without giving you a reason to live, you would give up.”
“Then I suppose I owe you my life as much as I owe Griff, don’t I?”
“You don’t owe me anything. I did what I did for Raphael, not for Rafe.”
He smiled, the expression almost frightening. “Why is what I’ve been doing these past sixteen years so different from what Griff did on Amara? He single-handedly killed several guards, didn’t he? And he spearheaded York’s murder.”
“Griffin did what was necessary to free us from York and our captivity on Amara. And he has spent the past sixteen years trying to make the world a better place, using York’s fortune in a positive way.”
“And isn’t the world a better place without Tanaka, Di Santis, Klausner, Sternberg, and Mayorga?”
“Yes, of course. But killing those men gave you the only kind of pleasure you’re capable of feeling now. You wanted me to know that horrible truth, didn’t you? That’s why you touched me. So that I could ... Oh, Rafe, how terrible it must be for you.”
“What’s wrong, Yvette? Can’t you work your magic on me now and heal me, make me capable of feeling hope and trust and love again?”
“I’m sorry. I’m so very sorry.”
“All out of miracles, huh? That’s okay. Having human emotions would just get in the way of what I have to do. Yves Bouchard is still alive. And so is Harlan Benecroft. I’ll need to use them to find Griff’s wife. Then once they’ve served their purpose ...”
While she stood there looking at him, tears in her eyes, her heart breaking, Rafe gave her a final bittersweet smile, and then turned and walked away.
Nightfall was fast approaching. The sun’s dying light set the western horizon ablaze. Fiery red and flaming orange melted together around the descending orb, announcing day’s end. The overgrown jungle, heavy with humidity and damp from the afternoon rainfall teemed with life and yet smelled of rot and death. Bloodsucking mosquitoes searched for victims. And half a dozen armed hunters tromped through the tangled undergrowth, each man eager to bag the most challenging animal and claim the ultimate prize.
Griff paused by the shallow stream, knelt down, and cupped a handful of water. After drinking his fill, he splashed his leather-tan face and dirty, sweat-drenched torso before rising to his feet.
Repetitive bursts of gunfire shattered the quiet, muted hum of the steamy jungle. Birds flushed up into the sky by the dozens. Griff ran away from the abrupt clatter of the hunters’ high-powered rifles and their triumphant yells. Apparently at least one of the hunters had scored a hit, killing the prey he had been tracking for hours. Four captives had been sent out earlier today. Jules, Perry, Carlisle, and Griff. Knowing each man as he did, Griff figured that Perry would have been the easiest to find and kill. The young Canadian had been on Amara a little over a month and lacked the survival skills to keep him alive on his first hunt. Griff and the others had done their best to help him, but there was only so much you could do to train a guy in such a short period of time.
Hurry, sundown. Darkness couldn’t fall soon enough.
If he could make it past nightfall, he would live.
York’s hunts always concluded at the end of the day whether or not the hunters had killed one of their human quarry. But that seldom happened. York always made certain that at least one of the captives sent into the hunt was weak and vulnerable. His goal was to keep his wealthy friends and business associates happy so that they would become repeat customers.
Griff knew the jungle on this godforsaken island, knew how the hunters thought, knew how to stay alive. Damar Sanders had tutored him, teaching him survival techniques that he had learned as a Gurkha. But even the smartest, most cunning prey could be killed. All it took was one mistake.
As he went deeper into the forest, the sounds of celebration faded, but Griff didn’t relax. He wasn’t safe. Not yet. Just because one of the hunters had made his kill, didn’t mean the other three would stop tracking the other captives.
A barely discernible crackle of human footsteps on the jungle floor alerted Griff to imminent danger. One of the hunters was nearby. He’d lay odds that it was Mayorga. The cunning Spaniard was a seasoned hunter, having traveled the world over on hunting expeditions, beginning when he was a boy and had accompanied his father. Griff had heard him bragging to the others about how he had learned from the best—his papa.
The bullet whizzed over Griff’s shoulder, the shot barely missing him. He dove into the thicket, the brambles and thorns nipping his bare back, chest, and arms. His heart pounded. His pulse quickened. A rush of fear-induced adrenaline pumped through his body.
If Mayorga zeroed in on him, he would be unable to defend himself against a rifle. He lived or died by his wits, as did all the captives on Amara.
The hunter was close. Griff could not only hear him, he could smell him.
Griff waited. Sweating profusely, barely breathing, he peered into the oncoming darkness and spotted the rifleman. Not Mayorga. A new visitor to Amara, some guy named Brzezinski, who right that minute had his back to Griff.
Acting immediately, Griff came up on his feet and lunged into the clearing. Tackling Brzezinski with the force of one of his former UT teammate linebackers, Griff took the man down to the ground and ripped his M-16 away from him. Bounding up and over the hunter on the ground, Griff aimed the gun at him. Every instinct urged him to kill.
Pitch blackness suddenly surrounded Griff, blinding him. Where the hell was Brzezinski? Why was there no hint of moonlight?
You can’t kill him, Griffin. If you kill one of my hunters, I’ll kill Yvette. Or perhaps I’ll kill Sanders or execute three or four of your dungeon mates. Malcolm York’s voice echoed through the darkness, seeming to come from every direction.
Where are you, you son of a bitch? Show yourself, damn you!
Griff’s eyes popped open as he awoke from a recurring nightmare. Only recently those old dreams had returned, memories that plagued him in his sleep. Every waking moment, he fought the images his mind conjured up about Nic being subjected to the horrors he and many others had suffered on Amara. But his subconscious would not allow him any peace.
The bedroom lay in darkness, with only narrow slices of moonlight slipping through the shutters. Griff stared up at the ceiling, his eyes unfocused, his mind and body recovering from the all-too-real nightmare. He tossed back the covers, got up, and slipped on his robe. The digital alarm clock blinked the time—11:50
P.M.
He’d been asleep less than an hour.
Glancing back at the bed, he imagined Nic lying there.
She smiled at him, opened her arms, and invited him to come to her.
If only ...
But the bed was empty, as empty as his life without Nic.
Barbara Jean Hughes was his friend and lover. Her generous spirit and loving heart had reawakened a part of Sanders that he had believed long dead. During the first few days of their acquaintance four years ago, he had felt an immediate attraction to her, one he had tried to deny. She physically resembled Elora only slightly, but in so many ways, she reminded him of his late wife. There was gentleness inside Barbara Jean, an innate kindness, just as there had been in Elora.