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the fireplace, he saw his attaché case open, his semiautomatic missing.
And his blood ran cold.
Adrenaline spewed through him. He had to find her, find her fast. He found a rock first, smashed the
handcuffs against the sharp edge. Over. And over.
But nothing happened.
Swearing, no time to waste, he gathered his things and ran outside, not surprised to find the boat gone.
And this time, it was his bones that felt the chill.
The river was angry tonight, swirling and fast. He'd had to fight the current on the way over. Miranda&
Cristo.
He quickly searched the perimeter of the small island, but found no flotation devices. When he saw the
plank of wood, he knew he had only one choice. His bound wrists would prevent him from using his
arms to swim, but with his hands holding onto the wood, at least he could keep himself afloat while he
kicked. Fifty yards. He could do that. He grabbed the plank, ran to the dock area, and dove into the
dark swirling water.
Icy needles stung every inch of his body. The brutally strong current knocked him downstream, but he
fought back, kicking hard, fighting for breath but getting mouthfuls of river water instead. He refused to
think about Miranda in a similar struggle, but found his eyes scanning the wide river anyway, looking for
any sign of the small rowboat. Finding none.
Thirty yards to go. More lightning. Thunder rumbling.
Twenty yards to go. A branch careening downriver, slashing his leg.
Ten yards. Five. Then shore. His feet sank in the mud the second he planted them. Shaking the hair from
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his face, he turned upstream and ran along the riverbank. And when at last he reached the dock area, he
almost went to his knees.
Because there in the mud leading into the woods lay a single set of tracks.
* * *
Miranda broke through the clearing and said a silent prayer of thanks. She'd been running for a seeming
eternity, the rain having long since destroyed any tracks Sandro hadn't erased in the first place. All the
trails looked alike, old trees and clinging vines, and they'd all led in seeming circles.
Still, she'd run.
And now, she'd found the clearing where they'd begun. She rushed to the overgrown bushes, behind
which waited the no-nonsense car. Almost deliriously, she jabbed the key in the lock and turned. Or at
least tried to. Nothing happened. The key didn't turn in the lock. She tried again and again, same result.
On a cry of frustration she squeezed the handle, stunned when the door fell open.
Sandro hadn't secured the locks.
She climbed inside, then closed and locked the door against the driving rain, shoved the hair from her
face, took a moment to breathe. She would get out of here, find a phone. That was her first priority. Call
her father. Let him know she was alive and safe. Find out where to go for help.
Shaking, she slid the key into the ignition and turned.
But just like with the door, nothing happened.
Miranda twisted her wrist as hard as she could, but the key remained jammed in place.
And in that moment she knew. She pulled it free and pushed on the overhead light, stared blankly as she
realized that the keys she'd pulled from Sandro's bag werenot the keys to the car.
Miranda blinked back the rush of tears and rested her head against the steering wheel. So close. She'd
been so close.
It was a moment before the tap on the window registered as more than the pinging of rain. She sat there
very still, fighting an inevitability that couldn't be outrun. She didn't want to open her eyes. She didn't want
to see him standing there. She didn't want to see the cold fury in his eyes.
She didn't want to accept that freedom had slipped through her fingers yet again.
Throat tight, she lifted her head and turned toward the incessant tapping. She saw the gun first, felt her
heart flat-out stop.
Because it was not Sandro who stood there in the rain.
It was Petros.
* * *
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"Miranda!"Sandro ran through the tangled undergrowth and tore at the vines hanging from the trees.
"Goddamn it, Miranda, answer me!"
Only the thunder answered, roaring low and deep.
Sandro pushed on, refused to let himself think of every fate that could have befallen her. In all likelihood,
she was back at the car, furious at the precautions he'd taken, but safe and sound and out of the rain. She
would glare at him, maybe launch herself at him again.
He'd be hard-pressed not to kiss her senseless.
He liked that thought, that of kissing Miranda senseless, so he used it to make himself run faster. The
clearing was just ahead. He saw the bushes, ran toward them.
Stopped dead in his tracks.
The beat-up old car remained exactly where he'd parked it, and clearly Miranda had found it as well.
But she didn't sit inside like he'd hoped. The two front doors hung open. And the windows had been shot
out.
Sandro staggered forward, saw the tracks leading to the car, found the ones leading from the car.Two
sets of tracks.
A cold rage stabbed in from somewhere dark and primal, and he took off at a dead run.
* * *
"Come out, come out, wherever you are."
Lewd laughter filled the abandoned old church, and crouched down behind the altar, Miranda shivered.
Petros sounded darkly pleased with himself, forcing her to wonder inanely if his imitation of Jack
Nicholson inThe Shining was intentional.
Adrenaline crashed through her, keeping her heart racing long after her ankle had twisted out from under
her. She'd half limped, half dragged herself from the rain and into the church.
"I hear you breathing," he announced, the words echoing through the damp chamber. "Heavily. For me,
ya?"
Miranda pressed her back to the cold stone wall and held Sandro's gun in her violently shaking hands.
Petros would find her soon. She would have only seconds to pull the trigger.
Footsteps shuffled closer, and then there he was, Petros, the vile little man who worked for the general.
His eyes were dark, beady. His lips twisted.
"Don't look so scared, little one," he said in that heavily accented voice of his. "I'm not going to kill you."
She lifted her arms, pointed the gun at his heart. "Come one step closer, and I'll shoot."
He laughed. "All I want is what you gave Vellenti back at the house."
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"I mean it, one step more and you're a dead man."
"One step more," he said, leering, "and you're mine." Then he lunged.
And Miranda fired.
But he slumped to the ground before she even squeezed the trigger.
A scream burned her throat, but no sound came forth. She stared blindly at the filthy man's unmoving
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