"Say one more word, and I'll give you a reason to be quiet." Karl lifted his gun and arched a brow.
Her cheek turned to fire at the thought. She faced the window. The channel curved further away from her, but she could still see the boat. Still see the man sitting on the bench, hand on the throttle, looking forward, as if he hadn’t a care in the world.
The iron fence of the Mallor gravesite slid past. The cypress closed in, swallowing the road behind them.
She pulled her wrists apart—slow, small, testing—and felt the flex cuff hold. She ran the math—the way she always did when everything went sideways. What she had. What they didn't know she had. What she needed to stay alive long enough to use it.
She'd been in worse spots than this—and survived.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The words won’t make it to your driveway, filled Trent’s brain. They bounced around in his mind for a couple of seconds before they stuck. “What did you say?” he managed, as the rage began to bubble in his gut.
Courtney tapped her fingers on the papers sitting in the center of the table. “All you need to do is sign the purchase offer. Walk away with a good chunk of money in your pocket, and your freedom.”
“Or what, exactly?” Trent asked. “And where’s Dove?’
“She’s fine,” Dutton said. “And she’ll stay that way as long as you sign.”
Trent stood, knocking over the chair. He hit the table hard enough to rattle everything on it. "What did you do with her?" He stared at Dutton across the kitchen. "If you've hurt her, I swear to God?—"
"Easy." His father rose and placed a hand on his shoulder.
He shrugged it off. “I’ll fucking kill him if anyone lays a hand on her.” He didn’t turn to look at his dad. He kept his gaze on Dutton.
Who dared to tilt his head and smirk, sitting in his chair like a man with nothing to prove and nothing to lose. He looked at his watch then toward the window. "She's fine." He lifted his chin toward the driveway. "Look. Here she comes."
Trent raced toward the sidedoor and curled his fingers around the knob.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Dutton said.
The sound of chairs scraping on the floor and footsteps shuffling grated on Trent’s ears. He turned, and his heart dropped to his toes. Dutton held a weapon to his father’s head. “You’re a fucking bastard.”
Courtney stood, pointing a gun at Trent. She held it steady while standing in his kitchen in her ridiculous four-inch heels.
“Step away from the door.” Courtney waved her pistol. “Go sit on the sofa.”
Trent lifted his hands and reluctantly did as instructed. He wasn’t giving up. He wasn’t waving the white flag. He was just regrouping.
Dutton pushed his father out of the kitchen and into the family room. “You too, old man.”
Through the picture window, Trent watched two dark SUVs pull to a stop in the main parking area not far from the bridge. Men with guns slipped from the vehicles.
One of those men was Karl.
Trent clasped his hands in his lap. He felt his knuckles connecting with Karl’s face as if it were really happening.
Karl moved to the driver’s side rear and opened the door.
Dove eased out of the vehicle. Her hands were bound in front of her. She walked without being dragged—that was something. That was Dove—refusing to be pulled around like cargo.
“You alright?” his dad asked softly.
“Ask me again after she walks through that door.” Trent cracked his knuckles—something he hadn’t done in years.
The men in suits took various positions around the outside of the house. All five of them held automatic weapons. All of them kept their distance from the moat and bridge.
The side door opened, and Karl came through first, hand on Dove's arm, moving her into the family room the way you'd move something you owned. One of the armed men filed in behind them.
