Barefoot with a Stranger (Barefoot Bay Undercover #2)(83)

“Stop it!” She jerked her arm, risking a shot to pivot again. She opened her mouth to call out, but he whacked her head with the side of the pistol.

“Move it, or you’ll both be in that graveyard.”

She squinted into the blurry darkness, realizing her glasses had fallen off when she’d been crying. Her glasses…were with the gun Mal gave her.

A rookie mistake. A wave of fury and frustration rolled over her, momentarily blocking out any chance to reason. But she had to think. Think, think, think!

He threw her forward and shoved the gun in her back. “Faster or you’re dead. And no one will ever find you out here, Francesca. Your country can hardly come looking for a documentary producer who doesn’t exist.”

He knew her name? And her cover?

“Who are you?” She took a chance on another look at him, getting a quick, unclear glimpse of thin, light hair and narrowed eyes. “What do you want with me?”

“Just your brain and fingers.” He shoved her toward a dark compact car hidden near the end of the drive, yanking the driver’s door. “Get in and drive.”

She didn’t move.

He pushed her into the seat and slammed the door, pointing the gun at her head while he hustled around to the passenger side. Damn it, why was she just sitting there while Mal was shot? She feared a bullet?

Mal could be dead!

She smashed her hand on the ignition, feeling for keys. None. As he reached the passenger side, she grabbed for the door handle, but he was in and pointing the gun at her before she could escape.

At least now she could see him. See his beady eyes and pock-marked face. So this was the son of a bitch trailing Mal.

She couldn’t show fear. Hadn’t she learned that from everyone in her family? What good were all those damn family dinners if she hadn’t picked up a single tip on What To Do When Kidnapped in the Field?

“Where to, Rog?” she asked, purposely cocky.

He flinched a little, then glared at her. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.”

“By what?”

“That Gabriel Rossi’s sister would be a pain in the ass, too.”

“It’s a family curse.”

He lifted the gun to her temple, any trace of amusement gone from his scarred face. “Drive where I tell you, or I’ll kill you. It’s very simple.”

“If I drive without my glasses, I might kill us both.”

“I’ll tell you where to go. Drive.”

She twisted the key hanging from the ignition and switched on the headlights—at least this Hyundai had them—and then she squeezed the steering wheel with raw determination.

She could do this. She could get out of this. She had no idea how, but damn it, she would.





Chapter Twenty-seven





Alana kept screaming like she’d fired a bullet right into Mal’s heart. Fortunately, he’d knocked the gun from her hand before she had. But the bullet had taken a bite out of his shoulder, sending white-hot waves of pain to his brain.

“Shut up,” Mal ordered, grabbing the weapon when she dropped it. “We’re going outside.”

“To the prison, Mal, please! I am so sorry I shot you, but—”

He yanked her toward the door, half expecting it to fly open any second. There was no way Chessie would stay put after hearing a gunshot, and he wouldn’t want her to. Trained or not, instinct would kick in, and she’d be here in…

Why wasn’t she here? He’d expect her to ignore his orders now. “You have a computer here, Alana?”

“No. At work.”

“Then we’ll drive to the plane and get the one we left there. Chessie can fix this.” If she didn’t hate him too much.

“She is a nurse?”


“Better.” He kept a good grip on Alana as he opened the door. Drummand had stolen the money! And if they could trace the original stolen funds, they could prove that.

Chessie could prove that. So where the hell was she?

And then he knew. She’d gone to the field. She’d heard Alana say where he was and…damn it. He wasn’t there to comfort her. Giving up on dragging Alana, he jogged toward the bushes where he’d left her.

“Chessie?” he called, the pain in his body suddenly numbed by concern. “Are you out here?”

He rounded the bushes and peered into the darkness of the tiny family graveyard that he’d often visited with the Cevallos kids. But she wasn’t there.

“Chessie?” He pulled the small flashlight from his pocket, shining the beam on the half-dozen little stones, catching a reflection of glass on the ground.

His heart dropped as he walked closer, turning the light to illuminate the names and dates of members of Alana’s family.

And then he found the glass. No, glasses. And next to that, the pistol he’d given her. They rested against a stone that read Gabriel Rafael Rossi Winter Cevallos 29 junio 2011—7 febrero 2013.

He scooped up the glasses and gun, his worst fears realized. “Someone took her. He took her.”

“It was Drummand,” Alana said, running toward him. “He probably followed me here. He wants you. He wants the money, Mal. He’s desperate.”

He just stared at her, putting it all together. He pointed the pistol at the detainee van. “Let’s go. I’ll hide in the hot box, and you drive like your life depends on it, Alana, because it does.”