Chances Are

chapter Eighteen

Jake had lost his mind long ago. The second Angela’s GPS signal disappeared, he’d been in a free fall. Where the hell was she? And most important, was she still alive?

Since then, he’d been existing on adrenaline and not much more. The longer it took to find her, the more hopeless he felt.

Everyone in Europe was on the lookout. Border patrols for England, Germany, Italy and Spain swore no one matching the description of the van or its driver had come into their country. But who the hell knew if that was correct? The little information Jake had been able to provide was piss-poor and almost useless—a white van and a Caucasian male of indeterminate age who could disguise himself. Not exactly solid clues to identify and find a killer.

He and McCall were holed up in a hotel in Reims, France—the city they’d been headed when the GPS signal stopped. A sorry-assed location if the bastard had changed directions or managed to cross into another country. But it was all they could do until something came up.

And when they did find her, he was never letting her go. How damn arrogant and stupid he’d been. As if denying his feelings could make them any less real. He wanted to be with Angela, in every way possible. Period.

The hotel door swung open. Jake whirled around to face McCall. The man looked as haggard and worn as Jake felt.

“From the look on your face, the news isn’t good,” Jake said.

McCall had met with the special branch of detectives assigned to this case. His sigh of disgust was loud enough to be heard in the next room. “They have jack-shit, just like we do.”

Jake returned his gaze to the computer screen. He felt as if he’d looked at the registration of every white van ever purchased or rented in Europe. Deidre had done the bulk of the research but all names that needed further investigation she’d forwarded to Jake.

Angela had described the vehicle as an older Volkswagen van, possibly five years old. Had the killer purchased the van when he arrived in Paris? Had he ferried over in it from England? Had he stolen the damn thing? Jake clicked profile after profile. Five LCR operatives were dedicated to checking any leads but so far there’d been too damn few.

Useless. This was all so f*cking useless. There wasn’t a person with that vehicle description that remotely matched the—

Another profile popped up on the screen. A middle-aged actor named Derrick Delacourte had rented a Volkswagen van in Paris five days ago. Delacourte had enjoyed a brief spurt of minor stardom years ago but hadn’t had steady theater work since his wife, Rose, also an actor, died.

Delacourte had inherited wealth and had no job.

Cautious hope blossomed. If Delacourte had enough money not to have to work, that would give him the freedom to stalk his victims and the ability to spend a protracted amount of time with them. And an actor could disguise himself to look like anyone or no one. The man’s wife’s name had been Rose…

Why the hell had they never considered an actor before?

Jake’s eyes quickly skimmed the rest of the profile. His gaze stopped abruptly and ice ran through his veins. The last play Delacourte had starred in was at a small dinner club in Durham, England. His role—Jack the Ripper.

Surging to his feet, Jake growled, “Got him.”

McCall was beside him in a second and quickly scanned the screen. “Damn, that fits.” Punching a number on his cellphone, he held it to his ear and said, “Deidre, find out as much as you can about an actor named Derrick Delacourte. Houses, properties…anything.”

Not ready to assume anything, Jake forced himself to sit down again and continue his search. If Delacourte wasn’t their guy, then the bastard had to be here somewhere.

Time slogged in slow motion. Jake continued to click on profile after profile, nothing else seemed to fit. Where the hell was Deidre? Why hadn’t she called? Even as a small voice told him that it took time to do research, another voice snarled that Angela didn’t have time. They needed information. Now.

A cellphone blared.

McCall answered, “What’d you find out?”

Jake watched his face. Dammit, never had he resented not being able to read the man’s expression more than he did as this moment. Why didn’t—

“Deidre,” McCall said, “I’m putting you on speaker phone. Repeat what you just told me.”

In a no-nonsense tone, completely different from her usual cheerful voice, Deidre said, “Delacourte owns a house outside London. As soon as I found the address, I called our Scotland Yard contact. Just received a call back. The police stormed the house and found what they’re calling a torture chamber in the basement.”

“Anything else?”

“They also found clothing and identification for two of the victims.”

“No sign of Delacourte?”

“No. They said the mail and newspapers are all stacked up.”

“What about other properties? Does he own any other houses?” Jake asked.

“Not that we can find. This was his family’s home that he inherited.”

“What about relatives?” McCall said. “There’s got to be somebody who knows the guy.”

“No relatives either. Even the neighbors don’t know anything about him. Said he keeps to himself.”

Jake turned away. Dammit, they’d identified the bastard only to have no idea where he was or what he had done with Angela.

“What about Clarissa Eaton?” McCall asked.

“So far, her body hasn’t been found.”

“Okay. Good work, Deidre. If you find anything else, let us—”

“Wait,” Jake twisted back around. “Deidre, can you get a list of all the roles Delacourte’s played?”

“Yes, I should be able to do that.”

Jake looked at McCall. “The way he displays his victims…. What if he’s playing a role and looking for a leading lady?”

“Could be. The roses…his wife’s name was Rose. Maybe he’s subliminally trying to bring back his dead wife.”

Jake had a stomach churning thought. “And what’s going to happen when he realizes Angela isn’t his wife?”

McCall didn’t speak but Jake saw the answer in his eyes. He was going to do to Angela the same thing he had done to the other women he had abducted.

“Okay, got them,” a female voice interrupted their dark discussion.

While they’d been talking, Deidre had been working.

“Looks like he’s played a lot of different roles. Almost a hundred. He—”

“What was his most successful role?” Jake said. “The one that gave him the most acclaim?”

“Looks like he got the best reviews from a play called The Last Man.”

“And his character’s name?”

“Richard Middlebrook.” A pause. “Hold on a minute. Let me check…” Several more seconds of silence followed.

Jake couldn’t breathe, could barely keep himself from dashing out the door. To where, he didn’t know. Hell, hell, hell, come on, come on—

Deidre’s excited voice broke into his cursing prayer. “A man named Richard Middlebrook rented a house in Reims a few days ago.”

As Deidre rattled off the address, Jake pulled his Glock from his side holster and double-checked the magazine. They would go in with a battering ram if they could but if the rescue required subtlety, he’d be prepared.

McCall pocketed his cellphone, a triumphant gleam in his eyes. “That’s a seven-minute drive from here.”

Jake was opening the door before McCall finished. “Let’s go.”



The cement slab was hard and cold beneath her. Pain flowed through her body in an unending wave. How long had she been here? Hours, days? Weeks? Every time she regained some semblance of reasoning, he returned to her again. To torture, taunt, and shout odd, obscure directions she had no hope of understanding. Then he would shove papers in front of her and demand she read them aloud. She’d barely been able to make out the words, much less speak them. Would this agony never end?

She had long ago given up that LCR could save her. What had happened to Clarissa? The last time Angela had seen her, the woman was being rolled away on what looked like a hospital gurney. Though tied up and her mouth taped, Clarissa had twisted her head and given Angela a look—one of betrayal. Angela had told her she would save her and had broken her promise.

How could she have thought she could do this? Self-confidence had always been one of her best assets—seeing her through some of her darkest days. With all the naivety of a clueless child, she had carried that confidence into her first LCR mission. And now she faced the awful truth. Self-confidence hadn’t gotten her into this plight, it had been blind arrogance. She had been so damn cocky, so very sure that her training combined with her intelligence and courage could conquer anything. Having dreamed of being an operative for so long, she had believed that all she’d needed was the opportunity. And now Clarissa Eaton would pay for that arrogance with her life. As would Angela.

“Welcome back.”

Had he been standing there all along? Watching what remained of her spirit wither away? Waiting until he saw complete hopelessness before he began again?

Thousands of tiny jackhammers were on full blast inside her head and every part of her body, especially her feet, hurt with an unending agony. Ever since the hit on the head, her vision had been less than ideal. She had a concussion, at the least. That was only a minor problem though. And while pain covered every inch of her body, that wasn’t her biggest issue, either. Her greatest problem was deep within her, where the real Angela lived, breathed, and had learned to survive no matter what. The damage there was irreparable. The unquenchable fire that sustained her had been doused. She had lost all hope.

Angela swallowed or tried to—there was nothing to swallow. Her mouth was completely void of moisture. She managed a weak, rasping, “Where’s Clarissa?”

“She’s resting for her finale.”

“Finale?”

Smile smug, eyes gleaming with triumph, he said, “Yes, her time here is almost at an end.”

With lightning speed, the fire she had thought dead reignited within her. White-hot fury zoomed like a rocket blast…washing, cleansing, renewing. Doubts and recriminations vanished. A new, brighter confidence took hold. No way in hell was this sadistic SOB going to win. No. Way. In. Hell.

“Need to go to the bathroom.”

“Now, now. Is that the way I taught you to ask?”

Oh yes, she knew exactly what to say. Those words had been drilled into her with heartless regularity. She had no trouble obeying; she would do what she had to do, say what she had to say, to get free. “I’m begging you, my love. Please, may I attend to some personal needs?”

Delight lit up his features. “Excellent, my dear. I knew you would come around. And yes, I will grant your wish.”

Her arms were always the most painful part of the freeing process. He unhooked the chains and lowered her arms gently to her side. “Wrap them around yourself like I taught you.” When she complied, he said softly, “There you go.”

Having him free her like this was painful for another reason. He was at his most gentle. Somehow this show of tenderness revolted her just as much or more than what he did to her when he was at his most sadistic.

As she dealt with the pain in her arms, he unlocked the chain at her feet. She was cuffed at her ankles, so even if she got free, she wouldn’t be able to run fast or far. He had planned this well. It didn’t matter. This would be her last attempt. If she failed…No, she refused to even finish that sentence in her mind. She would not fail. She had someone depending upon her. She had to save Clarissa and she had to save herself. She had too much to live for. Jake’s harshly handsome face came to her mind. She wanted to see him again, tell him that she loved him. It didn’t matter that he didn’t love her. When you loved someone, you admitted that love. You didn’t hold it inside you. Love was for giving away, not keeping.

He lifted her into his arms and carried her toward the bathroom. Usually when he did this, she was so weak or in such pain, she could barely function. And though she felt only slightly more coherent this time, it was now or never.

At the bathroom door, he paused to open it and for one split second, wasn’t focused on her. Angela acted. Linking her hands together to form one giant fist, she swung around and up, smashing into the bastard’s face. A satisfying crunch followed. Before he could react, she repeated the action.

Screaming his rage, he dumped her onto the floor and backed away, holding his bloodied, broken nose with his hands. Angela leaped to her feet. Ignoring all pain, she did what she had been longing to do for days. She took four hops—she had counted exactly how many it would take—and grabbed an axe that hung from the wall. Swinging it around, she slammed it toward where he should be standing. He wasn’t there.

Pain erupted in her jaw, her neck jerked back. Adrenaline and determination kept her upright. She whirled around. He had somehow gotten behind her. With a wild animal roar, she swung the axe again and watched in triumph as it slammed into his head. The impact sounded like the thudding crack of a ripe melon.

His eyes were wide, filled with surprise and bewilderment. He took a step toward her. Angela raised the axe again. Before she could strike, he toppled like a felled tree, landing face-first onto the floor.

Dead or just unconscious? Didn’t matter. She refused to take any chances. She carefully swung the axe, breaking the chains at her ankles. Turning, she then rushed back to her stone pallet and grabbed the chains he had used on her wrists. In seconds, she had him chained. Tugging with an inhuman strength that she knew was pure adrenaline, she dragged him to an old steel furnace, wrapped the chains around it and clicked the lock.

For the first time since this ordeal began, she drew in an easy breath.

Still she couldn’t relax until she found Clarissa.

She turned and hobbled painfully, gratefully away from the creature on the floor. She went through the door and stood in a dreary hallway, noting several closed doors on each side.

“Clarissa?” she shouted. “Where are you?” Holding her breath, Angela listened. No sounds. Undeterred, she opened every door and peered inside—still no Clarissa. Despair filled her. He had lied to her—why had she believed he told the truth? Clarissa was already dead. Oh God, she had failed after all.

A soft, muffled noise hit her ears. Angela held her breath again. Yes, there it was. A voice…saying her name…coming from beneath her. Frantic, her eyes scanned the narrow hallway once more. There, in the shadows. Were those steps? Yes!

As if she had wings instead of badly damaged feet, she flew down the steps and into a small room, similar to the one she had just escaped. Clarissa lay on the gurney, chained. But her eyes were open and she was very much alive.

Swallowing a sob of thanksgiving, Angela ran to her and embraced her, chains and all.

“Oh, thank God. I thought you were dead,” Clarissa said.

“I feared the same thing about you.”

Clarissa looked fearfully behind Angela, as if the fiend might show up at anytime. “Where is he?”

“Chained to the radiator. Dead or just unconscious, I’m not sure…but he can’t get loose”

“Really?” Hope gleamed in Clarissa’s eyes. “I can’t believe this is over.”

“I need to find a phone.”

“I think there’s one in the room above this one. I heard it ring once.”

Angela rattled the chains on the gurney. “Do you know where the keys to these things are?”

“Behind you, hanging from that peg.”

Spotting them, she grabbed them and quickly unlocked the chains. Clarissa sat up slowly, tears flowing down her face. “I can’t believe I’m free.”

Angela held out her hand. “Let’s go make the call together. I’m not letting you out of my sight until we’re out of here.”

Clarissa dropped her feet to the floor, looked down and then gasped.

“What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

Horror on her face, Clarissa whispered, “What happened to your feet?”

Agony shot through her, a reminder that she had some major injuries to deal with. She refused to look down. If she didn’t see the damage, she could continue to deny what he had done to her. “Never mind. Let’s go.”

Hand in hand, they walked up the steps together to make the call, ending their nightmare at last.



Jake’s cellphone rang. Pulling it from his pocket, assuming it was an LCR operative or one of the detectives, he answered, “Mallory.”

“Jake?”

He stopped breathing. Could it be? “Angela?”

McCall stiffened beside him and threw him a look of incredulity.

“Oh Jake.” Her voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper but it was definitely Angela.

“My God, are you all right?” He barely knew what to ask.

“I’ve been better. I’m not really sure where I am. Can you have this call traced? The monster’s name is Derrick Delacourte.”

“Where’s Delacourte now?”

“He’s unconscious and chained to a radiator in the basement. Where are you?”

He looked up at an ivy-covered brick mansion. “Right outside his house.” Before the vehicle came to a stop, Jake was out of the car and running.



Jake was here? Outside the house? It took every ounce of self-control for Angela not to try to make it to the door. Since she would have had to crawl, she decided against it. Besides, her energy reserves were depleted. While she was making the call to Jake, Clarissa had found a raincoat hanging from the peg. And in the coat was the man’s wallet, identifying him as Derrick Delacourte.

And now she was completely spent. Just the simple acts of making the phone call and putting the raincoat on had exhausted her. Both she and Clarissa sat at the bottom of the stairs, waiting.

They heard the door burst open and then Angela heard the most beautiful sound imaginable. “Angela! Where are you?”

“Down here,” she shouted.

Running footsteps headed toward her and then, larger than life, Jake was there. Myriad emotions crossed his face as he reached for her. Unable to stop herself, she tried to stand, lost her balance and fell into his arms. In Jake’s strong embrace, hearing his whispered words of thanksgiving, Angela finally gave herself permission to let go. With a sigh, she closed her eyes and allowed darkness to swallow her one last time.