Wired Rogue Page 12

  Which meant she had to scream. Sophie opened her mouth just as he yanked her forward against his side and clamped an arm over her throat in a yoke chokehold, cutting off her air. He tucked her under his thick arm like she was tiny, not a five foot nine athlete.

  Sophie went limp, letting her body weight drop, hoping to loosen his hold—but that just tightened the chokehold on her neck. Her vision dimmed as he strode rapidly toward the door of the building, her feet dragging on the ground.

  Sophie caught her feet back under her enough to push up suddenly, arching up to fling the handful of gravel into Sloane’s face. He gave a furious grunt and his arm loosened. Sophie got her feet under her and kicked him backward in the knee. His leg buckled.

  She spun loose from his grip, jumping backward into a ready stance. As he came after her with an inarticulate growl, she nailed him with an uppercut and then a left knee kick. He staggered back, and she moved in, taking advantage of his surprise at her aggressive attack to hit him with kick and punch combinations until he was up against the wooden wall, his arms up to protect his head—which left his kidneys and midsection for her to work over.

  He rallied the moment she backed off to see if he was giving up, coming at her in a charge that caught her around the waist and drove her backward, lifting her off her feet. He heaved her up and threw her over his shoulder, knocking the wind out of her.

  So far their struggle had been a quiet one, marked only by grunts and gasps and the rattle of gravel. She had to make noise, but couldn’t draw a breath with his shoulder in her diaphragm as he spun and headed back toward the door again.

  He smelled of sweat, rage, and musky garlic, and he outweighed her by close to a hundred pounds. She could tell by the grip he had on her ass that rape was on his mind, right after he beat the shit out of her.

  Sophie arched up with upper back strength, flinging herself backward, using his shoulder as a lever—and the power of her move broke his hold so that she landed on her feet in front of him.

  She dodged a huge roundhouse swing and drew enough breath to scream.

  “Bitch!” Sloane snarled, and lashed out with his left foot, getting her in the side. Sophie groaned as air whooshed out of her and her ribs buckled. Rolling with the momentum of Sloane’s move, Sophie pistoned off of her right foot and landed a punch to his jaw, rocking his head back—and she kept going, dodging under his reaching arm and leaping for freedom.

  If Mary Watson hadn’t worn dresses, she might have gotten away.

  Sloane’s fist captured the billow of her above-the-knee skirt. The garment tightened over her body, bringing her to a stumbling halt. He grabbed her hair again with the other hand and yanked her off her feet.

  Sophie’s scream was as loud as she could make it, but he punched her in the head and an abrupt explosion of colored light extinguished her voice.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Sophie woke in stages: a redness behind her eyelids. A sense of lying flat. And then a booting up of her hearing. Familiar voices were right above her.

  “What do we tell them?” Jackson sounded worried.

  “We tell them she was unstable and has had a nervous breakdown.” Sloane’s voice was tight with unspent anger.

  Sophie’s body sent pain signals from various points, but mostly from her ribs, which, if not broken, were seriously bruised. Her head throbbed. She kept her eyes shut, breathing evenly with difficulty.

  “We tell them she’s in the infirmary. If anyone even asks, which I doubt they will.”

  “Some of the retreat participants may.” Jackson was moving away, by his feet echoing slightly on the creaky, hardwood floor.

  “Send Zeus to tell the group she’s sick and going home, and to pack up her things.” Sloane said. “They won’t ask him anything, and even if they did, he doesn’t know anything.”

  “Good idea.” A pause. “What are you going to do with her?” There was a quaver in Jackson’s voice.

  “It’s best you don’t know; don’t you agree?” Sloane growled.

  Sophie felt a draft of cool air over her exposed thighs as Jackson opened a door—dear God, her skirt was rucked up around her waist. The door shut behind Sandoval Jackson.

  Sophie struggled against the instinct to curl up and hide herself, remaining sprawled and limp as if still unconscious. She had a pretty good idea, now, who had dealt with Jackson’s wives, and how he could maintain such an air of innocence.

  Plausible deniability. Jackson didn’t know because he didn’t want to know.

  Now all she needed to find out was where the bodies were—but she might be getting a grave herself when that happened.

  “I know you’re awake.” Sloane must have bent close, because his voice sounded right next to her ear.

  Sophie lashed out—and he caught her fist, engulfing it. She heaved her body toward him, but he landed heavily on her injured side with his knee, wringing a cry out of her that was quickly cut off as he dropped his forearm across her throat and leaned on her neck.

  “I didn’t want to have to resort to this,” he said conversationally. “But I think I’m going to need to restrain you for the things I have planned.” Sophie tightened her abs and flung her leg up, catching him on the back, and though he grunted, he didn’t move. Her vision was dimming. “You’re the first woman to actually punch me. You’ve got a fist on you, I’ll give you that, Mary Watson—but I can’t say that I care for it overmuch. It’s going to cost you.”

  Sophie thrashed, and got one hand from beneath her body. She grabbed his ear and brutally twisted. Sloane gave a howl as the cartilage tore. His weight lifted off her as agony took priority, and she rolled out from beneath him. Her breath was stolen by the pain of her ribs, but driven by the elemental need to survive, she sprang for the door and wrenched at the knob.

  It was unlocked.

  Sophie flew down the low wooden stoop and ran as hard as she could without breath, without direction, the headlong flight of extremity. She reached the first of the many outbuildings, and dove around the side of it into the deep shadows.

  Her mind searched frantically for a way out as she sidled to the next building, listening for the sounds of pursuit. On one of her perambulations around the compound she’d noted that the razor wire she’d cut hadn’t been fixed—but she had no way to climb the twelve-foot wooden wall. She hadn’t seen the dogs that confronted them during their first raid, and that was a good thing—but if ever Sloane had a reason to set them on someone, it was now.

  She heard a rush of footsteps behind her and the sound of Sloane’s muffled voice speaking into a walkie-talkie. “Check under and around every building. She can’t get out.”

  Sophie slid along the round exterior of a yurt, looking for an opening. If she could just hide for long enough, she could work her way closer to the gate or the gap in the wire, and find some way to escape. Worst-case scenario, she’d have to hide in the compound until Dunn came for her.

  And Dunn would come for her.

  Sophie knew that about him already, for a certainty.

  A tiny bubble of hope expanded her ravaged chest. The safety measure of having him camped nearby, which had seemed such a waste of resources, might now save her life.

  She could hear more footsteps running, but she still had a chance to get closer to the gate and the fence opening. She sprinted between the buildings, keeping to the darkness, ignoring the pain in her side, the bruising of her other injuries. She made it three buildings closer to the entrance of the compound before huge, bright arc lights came on, throwing the compound into brilliant light and burning her retinas.

  Sophie flattened herself against the yurt she was hiding behind as the compound lit up like high noon. A small roof overhang provided her a shred of shadow, but it wasn’t near enough. She had to get out of sight.

  The yurt she was beside was raised off the ground on a wooden platform, with a latticework covering hiding the support posts. Sophie sidled along, tugging at the lattice until she found a loose co
rner. The edge lifted and she pulled, trying not to break the brittle wood.

  The wood gave, with a loud crack. She lifted the broken section away and crawled through. On her hands and knees, she replaced the broken piece as best she could, fitting it into the gap she’d made. She was still holding it when she heard the rush of feet past her hiding place.

  Sophie held the lattice still. She made sure it was in place and crawled backward, deep into the shadow under the building’s center.

  The soil was damp, and smelled moldy just from the humidity of the Big Island’s steamy atmosphere. It was very dark in comparison to the glaring lights outside.

  She heard the patter of the dogs’ feet and saw them go by, leashed by a handler. Those Shepherds weren’t scent dogs; she could tell by their raised heads—they were looking for her visually, so perhaps she was safe for a little while. She’d smeared her scent all over numerous buildings, and now was far from the edge of this one.

  But how was she going to get out? How could Dunn reach and find her?

  She didn’t have to have all the answers. She just needed to catch her breath, rest a bit, and get a plan. Sophie lowered herself carefully onto her uninjured side, the most comfortable position she could find.

  But now that she’d escaped, her body wanted to tell her all the things that were wrong.

  The brutality of her ex’s attacks had taught her to be the fighter she was, to handle pain and conflict and rise above it. She reminded herself of that, as hopelessness tried to rise up and swamp her mind.

  She must have lost consciousness, or fallen asleep, because when she woke she heard the sound of sirens.

  The grey pearl of new day had replaced the harsh artificial light. Stifling moans of pain, Sophie got up on her hands and knees and crawled to the entrance point she had made, trying to see out.

  She couldn’t see Sloane handing her over to police, if that’s who was at the gate. She had too much to say for them to let her go. Sloane would stall, argue, deny, and maybe while they were doing that, she could get away.

  The sirens had attracted the inhabitants of the yurt above her. She heard the creak of feet on wood, the muffled sound of conversation. Yes, this was a good distraction. Maybe she could make it to the hole in the razor wire of the fence.

  Sophie pushed the broken lattice out and, after a quick check to see that the coast was clear, she burst out from under the yurt. She found a hidden vantage point where she could see that it wasn’t police, but a yellow fire truck at the gates. The compound’s refusal to open up had drawn a crowd of inhabitants as the firemen shouted and the cultists denied entry.

  Sophie scuttled along the row of yurts set close together and worked her way toward the wall. It seemed impossibly high. She looked around wildly and spotted a small round table with a couple of chairs. She grabbed the table and dragged it over to the fence, jumping up onto it. Her ribs screamed a protest as she reached her arms up and jumped. Her fingertips scrabbled on the splintery wood and she slid down, almost falling backwards off the table but catching herself at the last moment.

  She needed more power.

  Sophie bent her legs, tightened her abs, and jumped as high as she could reach, her fingertips catching on the top of the fence. She brought her legs up with a groan, pushing herself higher to take some of the strain off as her arms flexed. Her shoes, sensible rubber-soled sandals with thin leather straps, gained a tiny purchase on the rough wood and pushed her just a little higher, enough so that her arms could haul her upright.

  Poised at the top, she glanced back—and saw three of the children watching her. She lifted a finger to her lips, her gaze begging for their silence, and then she pitched herself over the wall.

  She landed in a graceless heap on her shoulder, her whole body jarred violently by the fall. She lay there a moment, gathering breath and fortitude, listening for the sounds of pursuit. But there were none. There was only the sound of excited voices inside the compound and the flash of the fire truck’s lights.

  She didn’t want to approach the truck. She wanted to check in with Dunn—who knew what Dunn had told them to get them to come to the compound’s gate? But she felt certain Dunn was responsible for this distraction.

  Sophie gathered herself and ran, holding her side, into the long, tall grass.

  Dunn was not at the observation camp when she returned. The small, camouflage colored, waterproof shelter was still in place, as was the crude viewing area he had constructed.

  Dunn was probably monitoring the situation from closer at hand. But was he working directly with the fire department? There was no way to know until he returned. Sophie found a jug of water and drank gratefully, then ate three protein bars in rapid succession, followed by a handful of ibuprofen from the medical kit.

  The observation post was meant to look like a hunter’s camp if discovered. Dunn had set the stage with a camp chair and a few empty beer cans, along with spent shotgun shells fallen on the ground. Dog-eared copies of Guns & Ammo, Soldier of Fortune and Penthouse gave a picture of his reading interests.

  Her partner had taken his communication equipment with him, so there was nothing to do but wait. Sophie lay down in the shelter on a sleeping bag that smelled strongly of Dunn, and immediately fell asleep.

  “I was hoping you would turn up here,” Dunn said from above her.

  Sophie woke abruptly and stared up at her partner. His expression was hidden in the shadow. Sophie pushed herself up on an elbow with a groan. Immediately Dunn dropped to his knees beside her, touching her shoulder, turning her face into the light. “Are you injured?”

  She pushed his hand away. “I’m okay. It’s just my ribs.”

  “You’re the only woman who’d say that with the shiner and fat lip you’ve got. Let me get the medical kit.” Dunn turned away, rustling around in a duffle bag. He insisted on dabbing her many small wounds with antibiotic ointment and a Q-tip, and finally, she stretched out so he could examine her ribs.

  Dunn felt along the side she indicated, already purple and black with bruising. His fingers were deft and gentle, but she hissed in pain at his touch. He tugged her shirt down abruptly. “I don’t think they’re broken. Maybe cracked, but hopefully just some serious bruising.” Dunn rocked back on his heels. “Got anywhere else I should check?”

  “Took a couple of good ones on the head. Knocked me out.”

  “Let me get a look.” He shone a flashlight over her head, feeling gently along her scalp. Sophie shut her eyes against the pain and the light. “Didn’t break the skin except for a little wound back here, but you’ve got a couple of goose eggs going on. Someone beat the shit out of you.”

  “Dougal Sloane. An experienced fighter that likes inflicting pain.” Sophie shuddered.

  Dunn dug in his duffel and handed her a shiny metal flask. “Here. Medicinal purposes.”

  Sophie didn’t argue. The whiskey felt hot and smoky and burned the bruise on her mouth, but the bomb of comfort it brought as it hit her belly felt relaxing. “Thank you for sending in the fire department. They provided enough of a distraction for me to get out of the camp.”

  “It was all I could come up with. I knew the cops weren’t going to go down there on just an anonymous phone tip. I pretended to be a neighbor seeing suspicious smoke. Had to use the Bat-phone.” He waggled the scrambler-equipped satellite device, a clunky black instrument with a rubber antenna. “I was getting ready to spring you myself after the cult turned the fire department away—but I thought I’d check if you’d come back here first.”

  “Dougal Sloane likely killed the women. He’s Scottish. Some sort of ex-military. And he does Sandoval Jackson’s dirty work.” Sophie filled him in on her week in the cult and its denouement as Dunn began packing up the camp.

  “So other than going to the police with your injuries and your experience with Sloane, you have no evidence for us to share with them?” he asked over his shoulder.

  “I’m afraid not. The ninhydrin spikes were damaged by the
rain and I suspect are inconclusive even if I could get my things back. But what I have now is a firm conviction that those women were murdered, and that their bodies are somewhere on the grounds. We need to move forward on this. Sloane won’t hesitate to kill again.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Back on Oahu the next morning, freshly showered, her injuries treated, Sophie faced Kendall Bix, VP of Operations. “No, I did not gain any actionable evidence,” Sophie said. “But I’m willing to share my personal experience at the hands of Sloane, and try to help Hilo Police Department get a search warrant.”

  “Certainly we should tell them about what you saw and experienced.” Bix indicated her bruised face with a twirled finger. “But then we would have to tell them why you were there, what you were doing, and why it was under false pretenses. And anything they eventually discovered could be the fruit of a poisoned tree. If you follow me.”

  “I certainly do.” Sophie’s eyes felt gritty, her throat dry and sore, and pretty much every muscle in her body ached. The three of them sat, silent and glum, around the polished table. “I have some credibility. I was an FBI agent for five years.”

  “Then perhaps you can tell us exactly how Sloane identified you?” Bix drilled her with his gaze. “You’re new with us. We hired you based on your record, and by your own admission you were never a field agent. Tell us exactly when and how Sloane was onto you.”

  “Sloane approached me to be Jackson’s bed partner. I went along, to see how they recruited and treated women, to see what I could find out about the wives. Jackson decided we weren’t a fit. I was relieved when he dismissed me, quite frankly. I’ll do a lot for a case, but I’m not sleeping with someone to keep my cover. Maybe I played a little too hard to get, and that raised his suspicions. So be it.” Sophie held Bix’s gaze. “The man is hyper vigilant and paranoid, and Jackson gives him free rein and turns a blind eye. That’s the dynamic.”