The Huntress Read online

  And he’d risked his neck to take out the guard.

  The fool.

  She dashed the five feet to the fallen guards. One man was dead. His eyes stared sightlessly at the blank sky. The other guard lay quite immobilized, having been struck with both sets of probes. She quickly disconnected one set.

  “I’ll tie him up.” Grayson was standing right behind her. She’d felt his presence even before he spoke.

  One miss with the Taser gun and the situation had spun out of control. She glanced at the dead man one more time and shuddered. What feelings would be swirling in her belly right now if she’d been the one to have pulled that trigger? Damn, she thanked God she didn’t have to know.

  “Butch will send someone to see what we’ve been doing...probably guess it just by the absence of his killers,” she said before unhooking the probes from the stun gun once Grayson had the man tied up.

  She tossed the weapon aside. It was useless now. They’d used all of the cartridges, which left them with just the noisy, deadly weapons. She picked up one of the fallen M249s and gave it a thorough inspection before slipping her arm through the strap.

  “Vega, I want you to sit the rest of this out.” Grayson was still bent over the bound man on the ground. “You’re not a killer. That conscience of yours will get you into trouble.”

  “You’re wrong.” She started down the path that led back toward the boat landing. If Butch felt threatened, he’d take his frustrations out on Fiona. She needed to get her sister away from him as soon as possible.

  “We should be killing these men, not just tying them up. This guy will be back in action as soon as he’s found,” Grayson said.

  She stopped long enough to watch him wipe his hands against his pants to get rid of the sand.

  “I’ll handle this my way.” I know Butch.

  * * * *

  Butch paced the small clearing near the boats. If that bastard Whitfield gave him one more order, he swore he was going to put a bullet through his head. Whitfield had insisted they bring along his personal guards. Had insisted they blaze onto the island like a damned army landing on a foreign shore, and had insisted they keep that mouthy sister of Vega’s alive.

  Grayson and Fiona would both be dead right now and Vega well on her way out if not for Whitfield’s interference. The jerk had been adamant on coming along just because the feds were breathing heat down his neck and he was running scared.

  This promise of four million dollars was turning into a major mess. The papers were filled with speculation about Spider. Finn had gone underground, and Whitfield was practically sitting on his shoulders.

  If Finn hadn’t been such a damned good salesman, dangling gobs of cash in front of Butch’s nose, he would’ve never allowed himself to get mixed up with an idiot like Whitfield. Killing Greg Harper had been a snap—an enjoyment, really. But then, Whitfield hadn’t interfered until after the fact. The police had scared him. That was when Whitfield brought in a team of security guards and dressed them like they were Kung Fu warriors who’d escaped some poorly dubbed Japanese flick.

  Everyone knew teams created headaches. At a cost of a thousand dollars a day per guard, this was one headache Butch knew he could do without.

  “I can’t get C.K. or Lynch to answer their radio,” whined the guard with the bleeding lip, Jasper or something, Butch hadn’t paid much attention to names. “I think they got killed. We all heard the gunfire.” Jasper put the radio down and stepped closer to the fire they’d built. His wide eyes scanned the darkness beyond. Because of the bright fire, he’d removed the night vision goggles and was staring blind, stupid bastard.

  They were all bastards.

  Butch hoped Jasper was right, that four of Whitfield’s guards were dead. It meant he wouldn’t have to pay them.

  “Polsen, what do you intend to do?” Whitfield didn’t sound scared, but Butch could smell the executive’s fear and see his jumpy gaze.

  “Nothing.” He sat down beside Fiona who’d made herself comfortable on an old Palmetto log and gave her leg a-none too gentle squeeze. “Can’t bring back the dead, now can I?”

  “Damn it, I mean how do you intend to stop Grayson and Vega from picking us all off one by one?”

  “Don’t worry.” Butch drew a Colt from his boot and caressed Fiona’s neck with the point. She jerked away. “Vega will be here any minute now, dragging your unlucky partner along with her.”

  “I hope to God you’re right,” Whitfield grumbled and walked away. He’d worn a dark business suit, the ass. Sand was caked all up and down those expensive trousers of his. Butch wondered what Whitfield had expected to encounter.

  “My sister won’t fall into your trap. She’s much crafter than a stupid thug like you,” Fiona mouthed off.

  Butch only smiled. She could say whatever she wanted. She’d be dead in a moment. He just wanted to make sure Vega was around to watch him make the kill.

  Vega’s attack would be direct and honest, exactly like her behavior under the sheets. He knew her, every damned inch of her in fact. She would come exactly when he wanted her to, as intimate experience had proven.

  The underbrush rustled. Butch rose from the ground and pulled Fiona up along with him.

  “You might want to get out of the way,” he called to Whitfield. Getting Whitfield killed might put a strain on Butch’s relationship with Finn. And since Finn doled out the money, Butch didn’t need that relationship strained. “She’s here.”

  Whitfield started sweating. It was forty degrees out, and the coward was sweating. Butch just shook his head and pointed to the closest boat. “Take cover in there.”

  Jasper, with the split lip, waved his machine gun around while turning tight circles. The second guard, Whitfield’s own personal protector, followed him onto the boat, making Jasper the one to watch.

  Butch held his breath in anticipation. Vega was about to pounce. He predicted she’d drop from a tree.

  Not a moment later, Vega dropped. Her brown boots, olive colored cargo pants, black leather jacket and dark blond hair tied back into a long braid, created a blur of color as she landed on Jasper. The jerk was out and on the ground before he even realized he’d been attacked.

  The intense focus of her gaze excited Butch, got his heart pumping as he remembered seeing her look at him like that many times before. They were good together. Oh well, it might be hard, but he’d soon have enough money to buy himself a replacement.

  She swung one of Whitfield’s machine guns off her arm—the motion was fluid, poetry really—and aimed it squarely on Butch.

  “Let Fiona go.” Vega wasn’t even breathing hard.

  Butch smiled and tightened his grip around Fiona’s arms. “Tell her,” he whispered into Fiona’s ear.

  “No,” she whispered back, the bitch.

  Butch shrugged. “You won’t shoot me, Vega.”

  “Won’t I?” If Fiona hadn’t been in the picture, she’d shoot him without a second thought. He wasn’t a fool.

  “I’ve got a Colt pressed into Fiona’s back. Don’t I, darling?” He jabbed it nice and hard into Fiona’s spine so she’d jump. The effect was perfect. Vega lowered the M249 just a bit.

  “I know you, Butch. You wouldn’t risk your neck just to kill Grayson and collect some money.” Vega kept her voice calm. He was impressed.

  “You’re right, I wouldn’t. But I also know you won’t shoot me, knowing I’d kill your sister before dropping down dead. That makes me pretty damn safe, baby. Drop the gun.”

  For the longest time Vega didn’t move. Butch feared he might have a standoff to deal with, which he didn’t like. Not with the unknown still hiding out there somewhere in the woods. He knew better than to try and predict Grayson’s actions. That one was illusive as hell. Only Vega seemed able to read his mind.

  “Drop the gun, baby, and I’ll let your little sister go.” He jammed the Colt into Fiona’s spine again. This time hard enough to make her cry out.

  Vega paled at the sound. The
M249 went down.

  “Whitfield,” Butch yelled. “Get your man out here to take the gun from Vega.”

  The guard jumped off the boat and approached her carefully, his gun ready. He lunged forward and ripped the M249 from her hands before making a hasty retreat.

  “Secure her with these,” Butch tossed over the twin pairs of handcuffs he carried. “And by God be careful. She’s dangerous.”

  The guard picked up the handcuffs and then shook Jasper, rousing him before daring to return to Vega. Each man held an arm while chaining her hands and ankles. They didn’t bother to search her.

  “Good.” He liked his women helpless like that. “Good,” he said again.

  “Let Fiona go. Let her take the boat I have tied to the dock.” Vega’s voice had lost much of its vibrato.

  “I don’t think so.” He pressed gun to Fiona’s temple. “I’m going to kill her and you’re going to watch.”

  “No!” Vega shouted.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “Wait,” Whitfield called from the boat. “Stop. Don’t kill either of them.”

  “What?” Butch shouted back, and then cursed as he lowered the gun, which meant Whitfield must have been the man in control. Grayson released his finger from the trigger and the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

  He’d lived the last few minutes in hell. Relief washed over him like a cool dip in the ocean. He’d watched helplessly as Vega dashed headlong into danger before he could stop her. He’d then positioned himself in this impossible situation where he could save either Fiona or Vega’s life, but not both. He had trained the Beretta on Butch’s broad skull, thinking to get Fiona out of danger while praying Vega would be able to fend for herself until he could get to her.

  But Whitfield, by calling Butch off, changed everything. But what was Whitfield doing? Grayson worked his way closer to the boats. He knew benevolence hadn’t been the source of this lucky event.

  Not that Whitfield’s reasons mattered. The delay bought Grayson time. With his options limited and the dangers heightened, his mind sharpened and his heart rate pick up a beat. If not for Mirna’s death in South America, he’d still be living a life strung on the edge and loving it. Situations like these, as damnable as they were, made things interesting.

  And here, just like in South America, Grayson had a choice to make. The pain over Mirna’s death, still alive deep in Grayson’s chest, kept him from doing what his training and experience had taught him to do, which would be to blast down anything with a gun and not worry about the causalities, namely Vega and Fiona. But a rescue attempt, no matter how he planned to play it, was too risky. The probable outcome would be his death, Vega and Fiona’s death, Whitfield’s escape, or any combination of the above. Pick one. Which one didn’t matter, they all pointed to failure.

  Delaying the inevitable for as long as possible, he inched closer to the edge of the clearing. No one was watching the perimeter with adequate care. He took advantage of the opportunity to get close enough to hear what Whitfield was telling Butch.

  “He’s like that,” Whitfield was saying. “I know him. I know how he plays.”

  Fiona had inched away and taken a seat on that Palmetto log again. No one besides Grayson seemed to notice.

  “You’re wrong,” Butch said, shaking his head. He kept glancing away from Whitfield’s tall, skeletal frame and over to where Vega stood with her hands bound behind her back and her legs hobbled.

  “This guy has morals, Polsen. The only things keeping us alive are those two women. Kill them and he’ll rain bullets on us.”

  Butch shrugged. His gaze was now fixed on Vega. Grayson worried about her. She appeared out of it, perhaps in shock. Her head bobbed slightly forward and she seemed to have trouble focusing on anything, much less notice Butch approaching her or the menace pulling his lips into a vicious smirk.

  “Don’t hurt her,” Whitfield warned. “I’m telling you, it’s a huge mistake.”

  Butch only nodded. “That’s exactly what I’m hoping.”

  He grabbed Vega by the waistline of her pants and pulled her chest to his. She fell forward like a boneless rag doll. Seeing her sister in danger must have pushed her over the edge. She was done.

  Grayson knew then what he needed to do and how he planned to do it. He pulled up one of his pants’ legs and used the lacing from his shoe to strap the Beretta to his thigh.

  Butch had his hand on Vega’s breast and his tongue in her mouth. She whimpered. The helpless sound only strengthened Grayson’s resolve. He dumped one of the two M249s that had been slung over his shoulder, leaving the weapon well hidden in a mass of brambles.

  If events unfolded the way he planned, both Vega and Fiona would escape alive.

  * * * *

  Vega fought an urge to bite Butch’s tongue. She’d whimpered instead, hoping to feed his desire to control her. His handcuffing her hands and legs had made escape difficult, but not impossible. And his pawing her only improved her chances. She was pleased he fell for her lure.

  Especially, after her direct approach had failed miserably. But she was still alive and Fiona was still alive, and being alive was everything. So she let go of her past mistakes and focused on the present. Butch had anticipated her attack. He knew her strengths too well.

  What he didn’t know were her weaknesses.

  To keep herself and her sister alive, she’d have to do some things differently. Butch let his hand trail down her chest, over her abs, and lower. Vega shuddered and sank into his arms.

  She wasn’t a man, and would never be able to match a man’s physical strength. What she was, what she’d denied herself to fully become for as many years as she could remember, was a woman. She should have never even tried to become a son to her father. She didn’t have the right qualifications.

  Butch’s hand slipped into her pants. She let a small cry pass over her lips. “Please Butch, no,” she whispered on a feathery breath. “Please don’t.”

  Her protests and fear prodded him. His excitement grew. She could feel him move against her belly.

  “Damn it, Butch. Do you plan to rape her in front of us?” Whitfield cried. He sounded as panic-stricken as she had. Fiona had remained curiously silent, which pleased Vega enormously.

  “Shut up,” Butch growled.

  His muscles were taut bundles. His defenses were still raised. Vega sighed a quivery breath into Butch’s mouth. “Please Butch, not in front of them.” Her echoing Whitfield’s objection must have pleased him. He pulled her closer and bit her lip. She could feel the urgency in his groping hands.

  The time was ripe, thank God. Now was the time to show Butch that soft feminine side she’d kept hidden.

  “Butch,” she said with a lusty sigh. “I won’t fight you. I know you’re stronger than me.”

  He grunted.

  “I can get you Grayson.” She laid a trail of kisses down his pulsating throat. “I can get him to play into your hands. Just let Fiona go.”

  He paused, his roving hands stilling in her pants, and quirked a gentle brow. “I’m getting him into my hands right now, baby, aren’t I?”

  “No.” Vega licked her lips. Butch once said kissing her was better than licking ice cream—his favorite treat. “He’s not suicidal.”

  “But he’s still on the island?” She had him. His glassy eyes cleared. His confident stance sank a good inch as his shoulders slumped.

  “I think so. I think Whitfield is right when he says Grayson wants to protect Fiona and me. But would he trade his life for ours? Would you?”

  Butch hardened further as her confidence drained away. “Of course not.”

  “Let Fiona go?”

  “I can’t, baby. She’s part of the deal.”

  “I can’t help you then.” Vega hadn’t stopped kissing his neck, his ear, his chin. She kept her voice soft, pliable.

  “Yes you can, baby.” Her tone had soothed Butch. He was beginning to cave. “I’ll make Fiona a clean kill. That should be good e
nough.” He curled a hand around Vega’s bottom and squeezed.

  A bullet sailed into the clearing and kicked up sand at Butch’s feet, putting a huge monkey wrench in Vega’s carefully plotted plan.

  Before she could react, Butch had his gun pressed to her temple.

  Couldn’t Grayson have waited another minute?

  “Let the women go.” His voice echoed through the trees.

  Both guards fired blindly into the canopy and sent a spray of broken branches and leaves raining down on their heads.

  A second bullet thudded into the sand a foot from Butch’s leg.

  “Let the women go.” This time Grayson’s voice bounced through the lower branches. Directionless really. The guards followed with a second barrage.

  Two reports from a pistol followed in the silence. Sand sputtered at Butch’s toe. A bullet had grazed the boot, taking off a strip of snakeskin. At about the same time Whitfield shouted and fell. He curled up into a ball on the ground, cradling his arm as he rocked.

  “Let the damn women go,” Whitfield cried.

  Butch rolled his eyes. Grayson’s strong-arm tactic only served to piss him off. “Jasper, shoot Fiona through the arm,” Butch said without a breath of remorse.

  One guard, his hands shaking and his gaze jumping from Butch to the forest to Whitfield, swung his M249 around and pumped two bullets into Fiona’s left arm.

  Fiona cursed and pressed her right hand against the blooming red wounds. “Kill him already, why don’t you?” she shouted up to the trees.

  “Make Grayson come to you,” Vega whispered. She refused to let her heart race or her mind be affected by Fiona’s injury. Her thoughts rushed through possible scenarios for salvaging the situation. Butch certainly wasn’t going to let anyone leave, not with Grayson threatening him. “Tell him you’ll make a trade.” She had to neutralize the danger Grayson presented to Butch.

  “I’ll let them go if you give yourself up,” Butch called into the dark vegetation. “You have five seconds to make a decision before Jasper shoots Fiona again.”