Deacon was obviously an undercover operative. Lana reached that conclusion somewhere between being blindfolded in the SUV and being hauled off the plane. She wasn’t sure how long they’d been in the air. Her captors had kept the blindfold on the entire time, which made it impossible to look at her watch, but her internal clock told her many hours had passed. At least ten. She hadn’t heard Deacon’s voice in the cabin during the flight, causing her to deduce that he was the “Delta” who the man with the faint French accent had ordered into the cockpit.
She sensed his presence the entire time, though, and spent the flight piecing together the details that provided the evidence to confirm her theory. The imperceptible shake of his head when she’d been about to remind him of their night together. The reluctance in his eyes before the blindfold had been tied around her head. The way he’d told his boss to go easy on her when the man got too rough.
He was evidently working undercover. Somehow he’d infiltrated this group of thugs, and he was here to bust them. Bust them, and protect her in the meantime. That had to be it.
Right?
Guess again, Nancy Drew.
Lana ignored the cynical voice. No, that had to be it. Why else would Deacon be here?
To kidnap you, idiot.
No. She clamped her teeth over her bottom lip. No, he must have more honorable intentions. She might not have much experience with men, but she’d always relied on her immaculate judgment. She had a sixth sense about people. Knew right from that very first “hello” whether they were good at heart, or working an agenda. Her brother Jim still teased her about it, calling her a walking lie-detector test. Her BS meter was flawless.
Or at least it had been in the past.
“Walk toward the car,” came the voice she now recognized as Scar Cheek, or Tango as she’d heard one of the men call him.
Walk toward the car. Right, because she could totally see the car. The blindfold was beginning to annoy her. She was tired of being in the dark, literally.
A hand wrenched her arm, nearly ripping it from the socket. She cried out in pain, but no one consoled her. Instead, she was being dragged along again. A chill hung in the air, making goose bumps rise on her bare arms. She remembered the boss man mentioning warm clothing. Were they somewhere north? Up in the mountains? A hysterical laugh bubbled in the back of her throat. For all she knew, they’d flown her to Antarctica.
“Goddamn northern California,” she heard a male voice mumble so quietly they probably didn’t realize she’d heard it.
But she had. Loud and clear.
Northern California!
Okay, so she had a location. An ironic one, seeing as she’d spent the past couple of weeks fighting the urge to come back to the States. Now she was here, and her family probably had no clue. Unless her captors had contacted them already. Just as she’d deduced Deacon was one of the good guys, she also knew exactly why she was here.
Money.
Story of her life, wasn’t it? She was Lana Kelley, the youngest child of two incredibly rich parents, not to mention a wealthy uncle. These men obviously wanted to squeeze some cash out of her parents, or maybe Uncle Donald. There was no other reason why she’d be kidnapped, and this was just another example of how money drove people to such incredible lengths. Evil lengths.
Lana drew in a wobbly breath as someone shoved her into the backseat of another vehicle. She wanted to speak, to assure these men that whatever they wanted, her family would give them, but she was afraid. Frenchie, the boss man who’d met them at the airfield, had made it clear what would happen if she gave him any trouble. So she held her tongue. They would make their demands known soon, and she knew once her family learned of her disappearance, they would move heaven and earth to find her.
“Did you get the clothes I asked for?” came Frenchie’s muffled voice.
A baritone voice recited an answer. “Sweaters, jeans, parka, wool socks. Got it all, boss.”
“Good.”
The sound of an engine roaring to life filled Lana’s ears, and then the vehicle began to move. This car ride was bumpier than the one in Milan. Either the road was riddled with potholes, or they were venturing into rough terrain. Definitely the mountains, if they truly were in northern California.
Lana spent the ride cataloging the voices and faces she’d come across, trying to figure out how many people were involved in this kidnapping. Deacon, she knew. Tango and Cold Eyes had been on the train. Frenchie and someone named Echo at the airstrip. The pilot, Kilo or Keemo—she hadn’t been able to make out the name. And now Baritone. That added up to seven men.