Eight
Chapter One
Using only the full moon to light his way, Lance Grayson moved stealthily through the woods. His destination was the one-room cabin ahead. Its porch roof sagged in one corner and its windows were boarded up. Weeds, underbrush and small trees were reclaiming the clearing in which it sat. Pausing, he used night-vision binoculars to survey the scene in front of him. The place looked totally abandoned. Silently, he cursed. Time was running short for finding Victoria Rockford, and it looked as if this lead was a dud. Even worse, it was his only lead.
He adjusted the binoculars to survey the woods surrounding the cabin. Four of his best men were forming a perimeter circle. In a lowered voice, he spoke into the headset he was wearing, calling each man by name.
Each responded with, “In position, sir.”
So we all get some practice doing night reconnaissance, he told himself, trying to look on the bright side. It didn’t help. The photo he had of Victoria Rockford haunted him. She looked so alive, so vital, her face a strikingly beautiful version of the Thorton features. That she could die because he did not find her soon enough, tore at his very soul. It bothered him that this assignment seemed more personal, more urgent. He was normally much cooler, much more detached.
Aloud he said, “Hold your positions. Looks like a wild-goose chase, but I’m going to see it through as if our quarry is here.”
Making his way to a side window of the cabin, he looked through one of the spaces between the boards. With only slender rays of moonlight illuminating the interior, he could see very little. He was lifting the night-vision binoculars to his eyes when he heard it…a soft moan. Peering through the binoculars, he allowed triumph to flow through him. On a bed in a far corner lay a woman, handcuffed to the brass headrail, her feet bound with rope to the footrail.
“Looks like this might not have been a wild-goose chase after all,” he told the others. “The princess appears to be alone. I’m going in.”
Victoria Rockford fought the drugs she’d been given to sedate her and tried to focus her thoughts. Her struggle proved futile. Her mind remained foggy and the temptation to give in to sleep grew stronger. Her movements slow and weak, she closed her hands around the brass poles of the headboard and gave a jerk on the rope that bound her feet to the brass footrail of the bed. She’d done this a hundred times before. Each time she’d hoped that the bed would finally give way, crumble to pieces and allow her to escape. It hadn’t. She wanted to scream in frustration, but the gag in her mouth prevented that. Mentally, she cursed “The Whisperer,” the name she’d dubbed her kidnapper, and vowed vengeance should she ever get free. When she got free, she corrected herself, refusing to consider the alternative.
Hearing a footfall on the porch, she froze. An adrenaline rush brought some clarity to her sluggish mind. Her captor came twice a day to feed her and to allow her to use the facilities. Blindfolded so that she could not tell if it was day or night, her sense of time had been severely affected. Still, she was certain it was too soon for him to be returning. Normally, by the time he came, the drugs had worn off enough that she had more coordination. Had the time come to find out why she’d been kidnapped? Fear threatened to overwhelm her. Her jaw clenched. She would not go down without a fight.
The door squeaked, signaling that it was being opened. She lay perfectly still, gathering her energy for one final battle. The footfalls approaching her were softer, more cautious than usual. Had her captor sent someone new? Maybe this person would not be so careful.
A beam of light shone on her face.
“Miss Rockford, I’m Captain Lance Grayson,” a man said, switching the light off before working her blindfold loose. “I’m here to help you.”
Victoria blinked several times before she was able to focus. Even then, with only the moonlight, she could make out very little about the man in the cabin. He was dressed all in black and wearing the sort of high-tech gear she’d seen on SWAT teams in cop movies. She wanted to believe he was here to rescue her, but she wasn’t ready to trust anyone. Her being kidnapped didn’t make any sense. What did the kidnapper have to gain? Her father, Malcolm, wouldn’t pay a penny to see her safe. Of that she was certain. Until she knew what was going on, she would remain on her guard.
The man finished removing the gag, then tossed it aside. Next he produced a small kit of lock-picking tools and unfastened the handcuffs. While he worked, he checked in with his men. Assured the perimeter was secure and that no one was approaching, he ordered his jeep brought to the front of the cabin.
Victoria wondered if she were having a drug-induced dream, or maybe even an hallucination. It seemed as if she had been in the cabin forever. Maybe her mind had snapped.
Having freed her hands, the man took out a knife and cut the bonds holding her feet. “Can you sit up?” he asked, easing her into an upright position.
Her head swam and nausea threatened. This was no dream. A nightmare, maybe. But no dream. “I don’t feel so good,” she murmured, her hands fastening around his upper arm for support. The muscles beneath her palms were granite hard. Even in her drugged state a curl of feminine excitement wove through her. In the next instant, it was replaced by a rush of fear. If he should turn that strength against her, she would have little chance of surviving. As she cursed her continued weakness and inability to coordinate her movements properly, her head lolled forward and came to rest on the arm she was clutching.
“You’re going to be fine,” the man assured her. Then he scooped her up in his arms and carried her outside to the waiting vehicle.
His strength stunned her while the heat of his body flowed through her, combating the chill in the night air. No longer did she doubt his existence. Her imagination was good, but not that good.
Fighting a fresh wave of grogginess, she peered hard at his face when he settled her on the passenger side and fastened her seat belt. His features were angular and set in a grim expression with no hint of even the barest softness. He was what she would expect her kidnapper to look like, not her rescuer.
Fear rippled through her. Like the good-cop, bad-cop ploy she’d seen used on television police dramas, maybe her kidnappers were playing a game with her. Maybe, for some reason, they needed her cooperation now and thought this was the way to get it.
“I noticed her suitcases are inside. Get them and toss them in the back of my jeep,” the man ordered a subordinate who had driven the jeep to the front of the cabin.
Victoria looked to see who her rescuer was talking to. His companion, too, was dressed all in black. In her dazed state he appeared a shadow image, the kind that drifted in and out of nightmares, scaring the dreamer. A shiver shook her.
She heard her proclaimed rescuer again talking to others through the headset he wore. Looking toward the woods, she saw no one else. Were there other shadowy helpers, or was that part of the game? she wondered. It was hard to think. Sitting back in her seat, she closed her eyes and tried to will her mind to clear and her body to regain its coordination. The endeavor proved too exhausting and darkness encompassed her.
Hoping that at least one of the kidnappers would show up to be captured, Lance issued orders for his men to remain and keep watch over the cabin. “And now to get you to a safe location,” he said to Victoria, climbing into the driver’s seat. Receiving no response, he looked to his companion. She was slumped forward.
Concern swept through him. He felt her pulse. It was beating slowly but regularly. He checked her breathing. It, too, was regular. “Miss Rockford.” He spoke her name tersely.
Her