Baltimore 03 - Did You Miss Me?

  DID YOU MISS ME?

  Copyright © 2012 Karen Rose Hafer

  The right of Karen Rose Hafer to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  First published as an Ebook by Headline Publishing Group in 2012

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

  eISBN 978 0 7553 7401 4

  HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  An Hachette UK Company

  338 Euston Road

  London NW1 3BH

  www.headline.co.uk

  www.hachette.co.uk

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Contents

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Also By

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  About the Book

  Headline’s bestselling author, Karen Rose, is back with her fourteenth pulse-pounding thriller.

  Best be nimble, best be quick, I’m right here and you’re my pick . . .

  The last thing Ford Elkhart remembers is walking his girlfriend back to her car. Now he’s lying tied and gagged on a cold, dark floor, with only one chance to escape before he ends up like the bones surrounding him . . .

  Assistant State’s Attorney Daphne Montgomery is devastated by her son’s disappearance, and is immediately convinced that his kidnapping is connected to the white supremacist she’s just had jailed for murder.

  FBI Special Agent Joseph Carter isn’t so sure – especially when he learns that Ford’s girlfriend is also missing. Is Ford’s abduction payback for Daphne’s courtroom victory? Or is he a pawn in an even more dangerous game?

  About the Author

  A former high school chemistry and physics teacher, Karen lives in Florida with her husband of twenty years and their children. When she’s not writing, Karen enjoys travelling, karate and, although not a popular Florida pastime, skiing.

  By Karen Rose and available from Headline

  Don’t Tell

  Have You Seen Her?

  I’m Watching You

  Nothing to Fear

  You Can’t Hide

  Count to Ten

  Die For Me

  Scream For Me

  Kill For Me

  I Can See You

  Silent Scream

  You Belong To Me

  No One Left To Tell

  Did You Miss Me?

  To my beautiful friends who have battled breast cancer – thank you for opening your hearts and sharing your stories with me. By your strength and determination, I am inspired. By your trust, I am humbled. And by your friendship, I am truly blessed.

  To Claire Zion, Vicki Mellor, and Robin Rue – for seeing me through.

  And, as always, to Martin. I love you.

  Acknowledgements

  All the women who shared their individual cancer experiences, I thank you from the bottom of my heart, and wish you all the best.

  Marc Conterato, for all things medical.

  Kay Conterato, for asking me to create a heroine that was a bit different.

  My friends who know me and love me anyway – Terri, Mandy, Sonie, and Kay – for your love, hugs, and the chocolate you sneaked to me when nobody was looking.

  My amazing editors, Claire Zion and Vicki Mellor, for your patience and support. I am fortunate indeed to have the privilege of working with you both.

  As always, all mistakes are my own.

  Prologue

  Marston, West Virginia, Tuesday, December 3, 3.14 A.M.

  Cold. So cold. Ford curled into himself, instinctively trying to find some warmth. But there was none.

  Cold. The floor was cold. And hard. And dirty. Hard to breathe.

  The wind was blowing outside, rattling windows, sending jets of frigid air around his body. Over his skin. So cold. A shudder wracked him and he struggled to open his eyes. It was dark. Can’t see. Head hurts. God. He tried to get up, to push at whatever covered his eyes, but he couldn’t. Where am . . . what hap—

  Clarity returned in a rush and with it came blinding panic. He was blindfolded. Gagged. Tied, hands and feet. No. He fought wildly for a few seconds, hissing when the rope seared his skin. He slumped, his heart racing.

  Kim. The image of her face broke through the pounding in his head. He’d been with Kim. Walking her to her car, so happy that she finally let him do so after three months of dating. Relieved that she finally admitted she needed him, because he’d quickly come to need her, to crave the way she could make him feel. He’d never known anyone to so perfectly match his interests. Wants. Needs.

  Like she was made for me alone.

  Fiercely independent, she always insisted that she didn’t need a sitter, didn’t need any guy to protect her. But not this time. She asked me to walk her. Because it was a bad part of town. Because she needed me. She needed me and I fucked up.

  Where was she? Don’t let her be here. Tied up. Gagged. Please let her be all right.

  What the hell had happened? There was an alley. They’d gone through an alley because Kim parked behind the movie theater. That damn foreign film. She’d had to see some French film for class. Weird theater, sketchy part of town. He’d been angry with the prof for assigning the film to start with and was going to tell him so.

  Kim didn’t want him to confront the prof. They’d been arguing about it when he’d heard a noise. Felt . . . pain. Oh God. The fear in Kim’s dark eyes. Her scream. Every nerve in his body fired all at once and then there was the shattering pain in his head, right before everything went dark.

  Kim. He threw his body forward and grunted, the exploding pain in his shoulder sending him back to the floor where he huddled, grimacing. Where is she?

  He drew another breath, taking care not to inhale the dirt this time. Quieting himself, he listened for any sound – a whisper, a wheeze, a whimper. But there was none.

  She’s not here. He closed his eyes, fighting to control his pounding heart. Please don’t let her be here. Because if she was here, she wasn’t breathing. If she was here, she was hurt. Maybe dead. No. No. He shook his head hard, wincing when the pain spiked deep. She got away. Please let her have gotten away.

  Away . . . from what? From whom? Where is here? The panic rose in his throat, choking him.
Calm down. Think. You know how to think.

  Thinking was what Ford Elkhart did best.

  He closed his eyes, forced himself to calm. To think. To remember. It’s cold. Which told him nothing. It was December, for God’s sake. He could be anywhere north of Florida.

  Why? Why me? He gave the ropes binding his wrists another hard yank, then swore when his frozen skin burned. Why?

  He knew why.

  Money. Ransom. It had to be. Kids of rich parents were prey. He wondered if they were contacting his mother or his father. He hoped his mother. Dad won’t pay a dime to get me back, he thought bitterly, then pictured his mother and his heart clenched.

  Mom. She’d be terrified. Out of her mind with worry. Because his mother had prosecuted enough of these cases to know what was happening to him, right now.

  Enough of these cases . . . Oh no. Hell, no. His stomach turned over as he considered the alternative. It was The Case. Oh God. The case he couldn’t wait to see over. The murder case that had consumed his mother for months. Those trashy Millhouses. Reggie was the killer, but the rest of the Millhouses were probably just as bad – they just hadn’t been caught yet. They hate Mom. They’d harassed her. Threatened her. Threatened me. If the Millhouses were behind this . . . I’m fucked.

  I’m sorry, Mom. She’d urged him to let her hire a bodyguard, just until the case died down. He hadn’t wanted anyone following him around, snooping on him and Kim. He hadn’t needed a bodyguard. He could take care of himself.

  Hell. He’d taken care of himself so well that he was trussed up like a Christmas turkey. Probably waiting the same fate. He blinked hard, shook the tears off his face. Stop it, he barked at himself. Crying won’t help you get away.

  And he had to get away. Kim needs me. So think. Breathe. He forced himself to calm, willed his mind to hear the voice of his mother’s friend, Paige, who taught self-defense. He’d taken Kim to Paige for instruction because he’d wanted to keep her safe, even when he wasn’t there to protect her.

  You were there, his mind mocked. Standing right beside her. And it didn’t make a bit of difference.

  He fought the terror that closed his throat. Please let her be all right. I’ll do anything. If something happened to her . . . because somebody was trying to get to me . . . He’d never be able to forgive himself.

  You might not get the chance to forgive yourself – or to save her – if you die here, so stop whining and think. He tried to remember what Paige had said, but he’d been watching Kim from the sidelines, admiring her body as she practiced the escape moves Paige had demonstrated. He’d been thinking about what they’d do when he got Kim back to his room.

  He prayed that Kim had been paying attention, because he hadn’t been.

  So pay attention now. Eventually whoever brought him here would come back, if only to kill him. You need to be ready to strike. To get away.

  Ford took an inventory of his injuries. His head . . . the back of his skull hurt like hell. That’s where the bastard hit me. His right arm hurt too, but probably wasn’t broken.

  His legs . . . He tried to move them within the confines of the ropes. They seemed okay. Stiff from being tied, but not injured. So you can run. When you get the chance, hit with your left and run like a bat out of hell.

  To where? He could hear nothing, no sounds of the city. Seemed like he was far enough out that getting back might be a challenge. It was cold and he had no coat. At least he had shoes. He might have to walk a long way. But he’d do it. He’d get back. He’d find Kim and they’d get back to their lives. He’d take her home, introduce her to his mother and Gran. He wished he’d done so already.

  But first he had to get away from here. Wherever the hell here is.

  Ford froze. Someone was coming. Stay calm. Pay attention to details.

  A door creaked as it opened, an icy blast rushing into the room. His teeth would have chattered had it not been for the gag in his mouth.

  He heard footsteps. Coming closer. Heavy footsteps. A man. Boots. He was wearing boots.

  The footsteps stopped close to Ford’s head and he could feel warmth from the man’s body.

  ‘You’re awake.’

  Gravelly. The voice was deep and harsh. Filled with . . . laughter? Yeah, laughter. Asshole’s laughing at me. Ford bit back the fury that roared through him. Pay attention.

  He heard the crack of knees and the warmth came closer. There was a scent. Aftershave. Familiar. He’d smelled it before, he was sure of it. Where? He tensed when fingers ran over his head, then hissed a curse when a fist grabbed his hair and yanked him up. Fight. Dammit, fight. Ford thrashed, flinging his body to one side. A heavy knee planted itself on his chest, holding him down. His head was yanked to one side, exposing his neck.

  ‘I’m back,’ the man crooned. ‘Did you miss me?’

  Mitch Roberts pulled the needle from his captive’s neck and, breathing hard, counted down from ten. Three, two, one, and . . . out like a light. He let Ford fall, enjoying the sound of the bastard’s skull cracking on the hard floor.

  Slowly he stood, staring down at Elkhart’s body. Kid had to be two hundred pounds of solid muscle. He capped the needle and slid the syringe into his pocket. Fully abled, Ford Elkhart would have put him in traction, but a little ketamine went a very long way.

  ‘Time to get busy,’ he murmured. Kneeling, he cut the ropes from Ford’s wrists, pulled another length of rope from his pocket, and retied him. Just looser. He loosened the blindfold as well, but just a little. Just enough.

  He took a rusted box cutter from his pocket, quickly slit the tape from the box he’d brought in from the van and dumped its contents on the floor, the foul odor making his eyes water. When the kid woke up, the first thing he’d smell would be death.

  A nice touch, if I say so myself. He casually dropped the box cutter, watching it bounce and roll, coming to rest under a low shelf.

  Locking the door behind him, he crossed the yard to the cabin and let himself in.

  Wilson Beckett stood at the stove, frying bacon. It smelled good and Mitch realized it had been too many hours since his last meal. But he’d seen the old man’s hygiene. There was no way he was eating anything touched by the guy’s hands.

  Stomping his feet, Mitch rubbed his hands briskly. ‘He’s still not awake,’ he stated.

  Beckett looked up from the skillet, his weathered face bent in a frown. ‘Hell, boy, how hard did you hit him?’

  Not nearly as hard as I wanted to. ‘Maybe a little too hard. I have to get back to the city. Check on him in the morning. If he’s still out, call me. If he wakes up, don’t hit him anymore, understand? I want him lucid so he can talk to his mama.’

  ‘You phone in the ransom yet?’

  ‘Yep.’ Nope. Nor would he. Not part of the plan. Although making the old man think there would be a ransom was definitely part of the plan.

  Wilson’s eyes gleamed at the prospect of sharing five million dollars. As if. ‘You think they’ll pay?’

  Mitch smiled. ‘I know they will.’

  Chapter One

  Baltimore, Maryland, Tuesday, December 3, 9.55 A.M.

  The kid’s hood was ice cold. FBI Special Agent Joseph Carter lifted his hand from Ford Elkhart’s Chevy Suburban, flexing his fingers to shake off the chill. The thin latex gloves he wore were no protection against the frigid wind, but he’d left his leather gloves at home. At least the latex kept him from contaminating what might be a crime scene.

  Might be, but probably was not. Ford’s boss was already convinced that something dire had happened to the boy, but Joseph considered it far more likely that the twenty-year-old college kid had gone home with his girlfriend last night for wild monkey sex.

  However, Ford’s boss was Joseph’s father, so Joseph figured he could spare an hour to check on the kid, just to put his dad’s mind at ease.

  And, Joseph would admit to himself alone, his own mind. Because even though he mostly believed that Ford and his girlfriend were doing the horizont
al tango in a nice warm bed, the uncertainty would nag at him until he knew for sure. Because Ford struck him as a little too soberly reliable to simply not show up to work without a phone call.

  And if something dire had happened, the boy’s mother would be devastated.

  A woman like Ford’s mother did not deserve to be devastated. A single mom, she’d raised her son while earning her law degree and now successfully juggled her job as a prosecutor with an impressive list of charitable activities. She was colorfully bold, warmly brash. Smart as hell.

  And, of course, there were those legs of hers. Joseph let out a harsh breath that hung in the cold air, remembering his first look at Assistant State’s Attorney Daphne Montgomery, more than nine months before.

  No, he couldn’t forget about those legs. He hadn’t been able to forget about her at all. He’d tried. Many, many times. But she was taken. Because I waited too long.

  Making sure her son was unharmed was the least he could do for her. Hell, it was the only thing he could do for her. Because he’d waited too long and now another man got to see her legs up close . . . and the rest of her too.

  His phone buzzed in his pocket and he grabbed at it, happy for anything that would distract him from the direction his mind had taken. The caller ID was no surprise. That his father had waited this long before calling for an update was unusual.

  The CEO of an electronics firm that had its fingers in everything from guidance systems to prosthetic implants, Jack Carter gave definition to the term ‘multi-tasking’. The term ‘waiting’, however, wasn’t high on his vocabulary list.

  ‘Well?’ his father demanded. ‘Did you find him?’

  ‘Found his Suburban,’ Joseph said. ‘About a block from Penn Station.’

  ‘Why was he at the train station? His buddy said he posted on Facebook that he took his girlfriend to a movie for her French class.’

  ‘Only two theaters in town are showing French films, one near the station. I searched until I found his SUV. Appears to have been here all night.’