The Colonel's Widow? Read online

  “Oh, Aaron. Rook was devastated about your dad. He felt responsible for you—”

  Aaron cut her off with a string of curses, then got out of the car. When he did, Irina saw the two men dressed in black with black ski masks over their faces approaching.

  Aaron spoke to them and nodded. The three had a brief conversation. Then Aaron gestured back toward the car.

  Irina tugged at the door handle, but nothing happened. She pressed the UNLOCK button, then tried it again, pulling on the handle and pushing her shoulder against the door.

  It wouldn’t budge. She couldn’t tell if it was locked or somehow jammed. “Come on. Open,” she whispered desperately.

  How had Aaron managed to sabotage the SUV without anyone noticing?

  She answered her own question. Aaron was their computer expert. He’d have no problem disabling or avoiding the security cameras. With everything that had been going on, and the fact that the specialists had always had unrestricted access to the ranch house, it was no wonder that Aaron had found time to break the auto-release on the seat belt and activate the childproof locks. She even understood why he’d chosen the Yukon. It was huge, with ultra-dark tinted windows. He could sneak her out past the guards with no trouble.

  She should have anticipated this. Should have planned for any contingency. After all, Rook had warned her.

  But seeing Aaron and Rafe at her door, looking so solemn and earnest, had fed right into her fear that something had happened to Rook. She’d been so worried that she hadn’t even grabbed her purse. She didn’t have any money or any ID. Maybe that was a good thing. Maybe it would make it difficult for Ordo to get her out of the country.

  As the two masked men stalked toward the car, she braced herself. As soon as they opened the door, she’d start screaming. Surely there was someone around the airfield who would hear and come to the aid of a woman in distress.

  One of the men reached for the door handle. The other took something out of his pocket.

  She took a deep breath.

  When the first man opened the door she screamed at the top of her lungs—for about half a second.

  Then the second man clapped a wet cloth over her face, muffling her voice. She grabbed his wrist, doing her best to push him away, gasping and coughing at the sweet, acidic smell of whatever was on the cloth.

  She held her breath and struggled as long as she could. It felt like a long time, but she figured it was only seconds. The man holding her was strong. Very strong.

  Finally she had to breathe. The caustic vapor burned all the way through her throat to her lungs. She coughed again, weakly, and gagged. Despite her best efforts, her hands fell away from the man’s thick wrists.

  Her last coherent thought was that they would need a knife to get the seat belt undone.

  Chapter Eleven

  The Sundance fire chief pointed toward the smoking pile of rubble that had been the east end of the ground floor of the Treasury Building. “You see how the blast took out all of the first floor on this side, but only a small portion of the second floor? That’s the danger. Now there’s nothing supporting the second and third floors.”

  Rook nodded and turned to Taylor. “Is it confirmed that there were no casualties?”

  “A couple of agents have bruises and minor burns, but this end of the building was empty. Makes you wonder if whoever set the explosive knew that, or if he just couldn’t get inside the building.”

  “Yeah,” Rook responded. “This is the least visible spot, back here next to the parking lot. Could be why they chose it.”

  The fire chief shifted from one foot to the other. “That’s what we’ll be able to determine, once it cools off enough to get inside. Meanwhile, I need to check and be sure everyone’s been evacuated.”

  “The prisoners have been taken to Casper,” Taylor said. “And my men will relocate to Castle Ranch.”

  “I’ll tell you right now,” the chief continued. “I’m sure we’re going to have to blow the building. This area’s too unsafe to leave it as is. The safest thing will be to bring the building down. So as soon as I can let you in to pull out all your papers and equipment, I’ll let you know.”

  Taylor nodded. “Thanks.”

  Rook checked his watch. “I need to call Irina, let her know everything’s all right.”

  Dan handed him his phone. “Go ahead.”

  Rook dialed the private line that only rang in their suite, but there was no answer.

  A sick dread settled under his breastbone.

  “Dammit, Rina,” he mouthed. “I told you—” He stopped. She wouldn’t have left. He knew it. Something had happened.

  “I’ve got to get back to the ranch, now!”

  There must have been something in his voice, because both the fire chief and Dan turned and stared at him.

  “Let’s go,” Dan said. “I’m going with you.”

  On the way, Dan made several rapid phone calls. “No one entered or left through the main gate. Your housekeeper is checking your suite and Lieutenant Parker is trying to locate Gold and Jackson.”

  Rook turned into the driveway that led to the underground garage. He hit the high-security garage-door opener and pulled inside.

  “There’s a car missing…I think,” he said as he screeched to a halt at the entrance of the garage and jumped out. “The Yukon.”

  He pointed to the empty space as he jogged past, heading for the conference room. The elevator there was the most efficient way to get upstairs.

  As he got close enough to see, he noticed that the safety door separating the garage from the conference room was ajar.

  “Dammit.” He stopped in his tracks and held up his fisted hand, signaling Dan to stop and nodding toward the door. The Secret Service agent drew his handgun.

  Rook was forced to hang back while Dan went into the conference room first.

  “Clear,” Dan called. Then in the next breath, “Jackson!”

  As Rook rounded the corner, he saw Dan bending over a crumpled figure lying in a pool of blood.

  “It’s Rafe Jackson,” Dan said. He tossed his cell phone to Rook. “Call 911. Looks like somebody smashed his thigh. Damn.”

  Rook dialed and reported to the 911 operator what they needed, then called the gate to let them know an ambulance was on its way.

  “Can you handle this?” he asked Dan. “I’ve got to check on Irina.”

  Dan nodded. “Go.”

  Rook rode the elevator to the executive office. Then he raced through the house to the east wing.

  Just as he feared, the suite was empty. Irina’s purse sat on her dresser. But there were no signs of a struggle, and no blood. Thank God for that.

  His cell phone rang. “Yeah?”

  “Colonel Castle? This is Special Agent Shawn Cutler. I just received word back from the FBI. They’ve got a match for Frank James.”

  Rook started to interrupt him, but he needed this information. It would help him find whoever had abducted Rina.

  “His name is Franklin Hill, age forty-three. No criminal record.”

  “How’d they get his prints?”

  “Seems he worked one summer for the Forest Service.”

  “Get the full report to Taylor. Right now I’ve got a situation.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And, Cutler, see what you can dig up about his relatives. Specifically if he has a brother.” Rook hung up.

  So Novus Ordo’s real name was Hill.

  “You did this,” he said aloud. “Didn’t you, Novus Ordo? But how?” Irina wouldn’t have gone without a fight—unless she knew and trusted the person.

  Rafe was downstairs, fighting for his life. Matt and Deke were accounted for. It had to be Aaron Gold or Brock O’Neill.

  He slammed his palm against the door facing, putting his weight behind it. “Damn you, Novus. You win, for now. I’m coming to get my wife. But don’t think for a minute that you’ve won the war.” He flexed his throbbing hand.

  “In a little wh
ile I’m going to know exactly who you are. And I’m coming after you.”

  IRINA’S HEAD WAS pounding and her stomach felt queasy. She opened her eyes, but it didn’t help. Wherever she was, it was dark as hell. And cold.

  The last thing she recalled was a wet cloth over her face and a sweetish odor that burned her throat, turned her stomach and knocked her out. Something not quite remembered made her think the liquid was ether.

  She sat up, groaning. She tried to stretch her legs, but something was in the way.

  She recoiled when she heard metal scrape against metal, and a sliver of light appeared in front of her. Someone was opening a door.

  Blinding light hurt her eyes, before a shadow blocked it. A man loomed over her.

  “Who are you?” she rasped. Her throat burned. “Where am I?”

  He didn’t say anything. He grabbed her upper arm.

  She wanted to fight, but she was too drowsy, and her limbs felt like they were made of lead. She felt a sharp prick and then a burning pain.

  “Ouch!” She tried to jerk her arm away, tried to kick him, but she didn’t have enough room to put any strength behind it.

  He grunted. She’d like to think with pain, but she had a sinking feeling he was laughing at her. He withdrew, and for the few seconds the light shone in, she tried to make sense of what she saw. Dark metal with bumps on it. Wooden crates and canvas bags stacked all around her. Then the light disappeared.

  A bitter taste suffused her mouth. Her eyelids wouldn’t stay open. She tried to push herself up into a sitting position. Tried to sing, stretch, anything to stay awake, but she couldn’t fight the drug.

  THE NEXT TIME she woke up, the bitter taste was still with her, and the inside of her mouth felt like cotton. Her limbs were stiff and sore. A dull ache drummed in her temples—like a hangover headache.

  She opened her eyes—a chore, because she was so drowsy—and found herself in a tiny, dismal room, lying on a narrow bed with threadbare sheets and a thin blanket. On the other side of the room, the midday sun shone blindingly hot through a small window with broken glass.

  The room smelled of sweat and sand and heat. The air was still, oppressively still. She felt claustrophobic, smothered, like she couldn’t breathe. She sucked in a lungful of warm air. It didn’t help.

  She closed her eyes, but that made her stomach flip over, so she sat up, groaning at her stiff, achy muscles, and rubbed her face and eyes. A fine grit under her fingertips scraped her skin, like sand or salt. She tasted it. Salt. The hot, dry air was drawing all the moisture out of her skin.

  She licked her dry lips and grimaced when she tasted more salt. Squinting against the sun’s glare, she checked out her surroundings. The room was barely big enough for the bed and a small scarred table. She saw a glass jar of water sitting on it.

  She whimpered aloud as she reached for the jar, ready to turn it up and pour the liquid down her throat.

  But the memory of the foul, nauseatingly sweet-smelling cloth and the prick of the needle stopped her.

  What if the water was drugged?

  Her throat spasmed and her jaw ached. She craved the liquid so badly that she didn’t care.

  In this awful place that looked and smelled like hell, maybe she’d be better off asleep.

  Without pausing to taste it first, she turned the jar up and drank. The water was flat and lukewarm and slightly brackish, but it was wet.

  When she’d drunk all she could, she poured some in her cupped hand and splashed it on her face and eyes. It washed away a little of the salt and drowsiness that clung to her.

  Pushing herself to her feet, she walked weakly over to the window. She’d expected to find herself on the second or third floor to prevent an escape. But the room looked right out onto the street. The cracked window was coated with dust and sand. Still, she could see through it.

  The latch was rusted. She tried it. It squeaked and she let go as if it were hot. Apparently it still worked.

  All she would have to do was turn the latch, push the window open and slip through it. Then she could run. Find someone to help her. Maybe to take her to the American embassy.

  But as she studied the scene before her, she realized that there would be no one to help her in this town. The United States didn’t put embassies in small towns like this.

  How impossibly naive she was. It was obvious why her captors hadn’t bothered to secure the window.

  The dull gray scene before her gave her the answer. So what if she did escape? What would she be escaping to? A dusty barren alien land, where women were draped from head to toe in dark, hot burkas. Where men stalked the streets dressed in military garb with menacing weapons cradled in their arms and ammunition belts draped across their torsos. Or slunk from doorway to doorway, wall to wall, dressed in rags, with fear and defeat in their eyes.

  Her choices for shelter were buildings riddled with bullet holes and draped with barbed wire strung like Christmas lights, or mud huts less sturdy than where she was now.

  She was in a Muslim town—a Muslim country. A place halfway around the world from Wyoming.

  Out of habit, she glanced at her left wrist. Her watch! She’d been unconscious for over twenty-four hours.

  She touched the watch’s crystal, remembering when Rook had given it to her on their first anniversary. She still had her rings, too. The beautiful diamond solitaire and wedding band.

  It terrified her that the people who had kidnapped her had no interest in jewelry that could buy them enough food for a year.

  She began to feel eyes on her. Some of the people slinking along the street spotted her. A child in rags with bare feet and a grimy face pointed in her direction. A burka-wrapped woman walked past her window. Her eyes widened when she met Irina’s gaze through the smeared glass.

  Irina backed away and sat down on the bed. It took some thought, but she finally forced her blurry brain to piece together what had happened to her.

  Aaron Gold had kidnapped her. Aaron, whom Rook had hired after his father had died under Rook’s command.

  She knew Rook felt responsible for him, because of his father’s death. And Aaron admired Rook. He’d never given any indication that he resented him. He’d always seemed fascinated by Rook’s stories about his dad. He’d always acted grateful.

  Had his quiet shyness been a mask to cover his true self? The expression he’d worn as he drove off with her in the Yukon had been hard and sinister.

  He hadn’t blinked an eye as the two men drugged her. She didn’t know what had happened next, but she could imagine.

  After they’d knocked her out, they’d put her on a plane, probably a small one, judging by the cramped space.

  After that she remembered almost nothing. How had they taken her from that small plane to one big enough to cross the Atlantic? How had they smuggled her out of the country? Where was the security that America was so proud of, if a few men could steal a person and get them out of the country unnoticed?

  Of course, she had no way of knowing whether alarms had been triggered. Homeland Security, the Secret Service and the USCIS could all be looking for her at this very moment.

  Rook could be looking for her.

  She waited for the sense of relief to flood her at that thought, but it didn’t come.

  She looked down at herself. She was still dressed in the slacks and shirt she’d had on when Aaron and Rafe had knocked on her door. Her shirt was sweat stained and wrinkled, and the black slacks were gray with dust. Her jacket was gone, as were her loafers. At least they hadn’t undressed her.

  A noise outside the door made her jump. Then the rusty sound of a key turning in a lock.

  Irina moved to the far side of the room in front of the window. She wasn’t sure what she thought that would accomplish. Maybe if someone saw her being attacked, they’d come to her aid?

  Judging by the eyes of the people she’d seen, they were too afraid to risk helping her.

  Two men in military garb entered the room wit
h weapons in arms. One carried a length of dark cloth. The first man, the one in charge, yelled gibberish at her. Then he looked at the other man and jerked his head.

  The soldier tossed the dark cloth at her feet. Then the one in charge pointed at it and yelled some more.

  Irina looked down at the cloth. Was this a burka? She had no idea, but she wasn’t about to put on that heavy, hot cloak over her clothes, and she wasn’t about to take off her clothes.

  So she looked up at the man in charge and spat a few choice phrases at him in Russian.

  His heavy, dark brows went up in surprise. He muttered something and then gestured at the other soldier with his head.

  The soldier said something back to him. He half turned and cocked his weapon, and the soldier held up a hand. He slung his rifle over his shoulder by its strap and started toward Irina.

  She crossed her arms. “I am not taking my clothes off,” she said in English.

  The soldier didn’t react. He merely picked up the length of cloth and held it out.

  She shrugged.

  The one in charge said something that Irina was sure would translate to “Hurry up. We don’t have all day.”

  The soldier shook out the cloth and snapped at her.

  All she could think of to do was shrug again.

  He held his hand up, forefinger down, and made a twirling motion.

  With a glance at the other soldier, she obeyed. She’d shown them she was no pushover—she hoped—but she didn’t want to make them angry enough to hurt her.

  When her back was to him, he draped the cloth over her head and shoulders. Then he spoke again.

  After an instant’s hesitation, she turned back around. He wrapped the burka around her until she felt like a mummy.

  At least they didn’t take her clothes off.

  The man in charge gave her an order, and the second man nudged her with his rifle.

  Irina stood her ground and pointed to her bare feet. “Where are my shoes?” That earned her another nudge. They forced her out the door, where the soldier pointed at the floor.

  Her shoes. Thank heavens. She slipped her feet into them gratefully. From what she’d seen of the streets outside, she did not want to walk out there barefooted.