Blood Always Tells by Hilary Davidson (always you kirsty moseley .TXT) 📗

The Viking smiled under his mask. “Thanks for making this easy,” he said.

Chapter 4

The Viking—Dominique couldn’t help it, that was how she thought of the crazy big gunman—slammed the door shut and turned a key, locking them in. Dominique waited for the van’s engine to roar to life, but it didn’t. There were no windows in the back of the van, so she hadn’t a clue what the thugs were doing. She strained her ears, listening for voices or movement, but she heard nothing.

“You all right, babe?” Gary asked.

“I’m fine. What about you?”

“I’m okay, just kind of… stunned, you know?”

“I know. Do you have any idea who those guys are?”

“Sure,” Gary said. “They work for Trin.”

That startled her. Mob-related debt collectors was what she’d feared. “You recognize them?”

“No, but she must’ve sent them,” Gary murmured. “She’s pure evil.”

Dominique closed her eyes and sighed. There it was, straight from the horse’s mouth. It wasn’t exactly a secret that Gary hated his wife. All you had to do was get a few drinks in him—or some muscle relaxant—and he bubbled over with dark accusations and recriminations about the woman. Dominique had been planning to get some of that on tape, along with certain key confessions. Instead, she was locked in the back of a van, chained in handcuffs, and forced to listen to Gary’s ramblings.

“Please stop,” Dominique said. “We need to figure a way out of this.”

His eyelids were lowered to half-mast and made him appear punch-drunk. “There’s no way out,” he mumbled. “So sleepy.” He lay on his side on the bench, as if he couldn’t care less that his wrists were chained. He was still wearing his leather jacket, Dominique realized. He hadn’t shed it inside the house. She thought of her coat upstairs with remorse. All she wore now was a delicate lace camisole under a whisper-thin merino wool cardigan. Whatever heat there was in her veins was battling with the crisp, late-fall air, and it was clearly losing. She wrapped her arms around herself as best she could, triggering a rueful memory of the time she’d posed in Jeremy Scott’s straightjacket wedding dress. This is insane, she thought. She twisted her torso from side to side. She was going to freeze before the van even started up, at this rate.

Every so often, she checked her watch, grateful for the somber strip of yellowish LED lights above her head. Fifteen minutes in, the van’s passenger door opened and slammed, but Dominique didn’t catch any voices. Gary’s gentle snoring filled the van. Five minutes later, the passenger door opened and closed again. A minute after that, she heard the door on the driver’s side, and the engine revved up. Dominique’s anxiety level rose—where the hell were they going?—but that was tempered with mild relief. Puffs of warm air were starting to venture through the vents. Maybe she wouldn’t die of exposure after all.

The van backed up before turning and following the road out. There was only one, and it hadn’t been repaired since Trin’s father died. They hurtled over a particularly sizable lump, making it feel, for a heartbeat, as if the van’s wheels had abandoned the ground. The landing knocked Gary’s head against the bench.

“What the hell?” He lifted his hands, suddenly surprised to see them bound. The man looked painfully disoriented. “Babe? What’s going on?”

“Two freaks with guns walked into your house, tied us up, and stuffed us in this van.”

Gary looked around, still confused. “This is really happening, isn’t it? I’m not imagining this.”

“I wish.”

“I think I was dreaming. I could’ve sworn Atlas was here.” Gary put his head down on the bench again, stunned but resigned.

“Atlas?” The name tugged at her memory, but she couldn’t place it.

“My mom’s dog. I gave him to her. You’ve only seen pictures.”

She studied him, wondering whether he was so befuddled by the muscle relaxant, a brain injury, or plain old stupidity. They were trapped by thugs, and Gary was talking about a dead dog. In the silence, Gary yawned. They were driving on a better road now, one that was well-paved and smooth. He closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep again.

An hour passed. Then two. Dominique kept an eye on her watch. She didn’t get the sense they were driving particularly fast—no doubt, the last thing the freaks wanted was to get pulled over for speeding—but she could tell they were on a highway from the noise. The van was warm enough that she almost could have taken a nap, if she weren’t worried to death about where they were headed.

She’d stared at the van’s interior for so long she’d memorized every crack and chip. She was wearing boots with slender stiletto heels, and she’d decided, early in the drive, that whenever they stopped, she’d kick the side of the van and scream to get attention. The heels would likely break, but she’d make some noise. But the van never paused, not for more than a few seconds.

“You look so afraid, babe,” Gary said, startling her.

“You’re awake. How do you feel?”

“Okay, I guess. Or I would be if that clown hadn’t chained me up.”

“Has someone been threatening you, Gary?” She had to ask. Gary was perennially short of cash and heavy on IOUs. “Did you borrow from a loan shark?”

“Of course not.” He had the nerve to glare at her. “I told you, this is Trin’s doing.”

“Why on earth would Trin kidnap you? She doesn’t want to see you.”

“You don’t understand,” Gary said. “Whenever I talk to her—which is rare, I admit—Trin tells me she’s already planned what to wear at my funeral.”

“That’s grotesque, but not what I had in mind. Has anyone threatened you?”

“No.” He didn’t sound very certain.

“Gary, think hard. Somebody with a gun just kidnapped you. He was out to get you. He said it was business. Who could that be?”

“Business,” Gary repeated. “Huh.”

“What?” Dominique.

“I was never cut out for business.” He turned his