Finders Keepers. Shirl Henke

practice. Still, her usual “snatches” weren’t built anything like this specimen. It took her twice the average time to get his big body trussed up in a lightweight straitjacket concealed by a large institutional-looking terry robe. The faintest hint of a raspy black beard gave him a piratical look. More eyelashes than Liz Taylor. She shook her head in aggravation and slipped a sleeping mask over those wonderful eyes, then taped his mouth shut.

      By the time she’d swathed his head with gauze bandages, Sam felt her confidence return. She replaced his shoes with bedroom slippers, then used the custom seat-belt straps attached to the floor to secure him safely for the ride. The belt would also minimize any thrashing when he woke.

      So far, so good, she thought as she climbed out of the van carrying two oblong magnetic plates. After locking the rear door, she attached the signs to the sides of the vehicle. They read Fairview Hospital and gave a bogus address about five hundred miles northeast of San Diego on Interstate 15. When they neared there, she had other sets for the cross-country trip to Boston.

      “Sweet dreams, gorgeous.” Humming softly to herself, she pulled out of the deserted parking lot and hopped on the freeway. With any luck they’d make Utah by nightfall.

      Funny, but he’d never gone blind with a hangover before. Matt blinked and tried to focus through the blackness, past the pounding inside his head. He’d been fading in and out of consciousness for an indeterminate length of time while someone was driving him someplace. He hadn’t the foggiest who or where. His head throbbed so wickedly he didn’t much give a damn. But then the vehicle came to an abrupt stop and he was forced into full and painful wakefulness.

      Sam could see he was conscious if not exactly alert. She gave him an experimental shove. “Rise and shine, sweet cheeks.”

      Matt wished to hell he could choke the life out of whoever it was and just fade back into blissful oblivion. Must’ve been one hell of a party. He couldn’t remember tying one on this badly since he was a freshman at Yale. The woman prodded him again. Shit, he was trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey! What the hell was going on? No party, for sure. It started to come back to him when he heard that Boston accent again and smelled her rose perfume.

      “Just sit up. You can do it,” Sam wheedled, tugging on the robe covering the straitjacket that held his arms immobilized.

      If only his head would stop the trip-hammer pounding so he could think. Did she work for Renkov? He asked but only mumbles came out. When he tried to talk he sounded like Bruce Springsteen singing. Then he recognized the tight burning feeling over his mouth. The loony bitch had taped it shut! And blindfolded him. His senses were starting to coordinate now, feeding his aching brain enough information to let him know that he was in trouble.

      Big trouble.

      For all he knew she intended to dump him in San Diego Bay. Yeah, she had to be working for that mobster Renkov. But how the hell had the bastard found out he was here? Had he compromised his sources and placed Tess and her son in danger, too? Matt swore to himself, frustrated, unable to think of anything he could do to break free.

      Sam could sense the wheels turning in her captive’s cunning mind. She knew he was going to make this difficult for her as she yanked his legs over the side of the van and pulled him into an upright position. He tried falling backwards into the van, but she applied pressure to a reflex point under his jawbone just in front of his ear that sent a nasty wave of pain shooting into his skull, which she was certain already pounded with agony from the nasal Mickey she’d given him. She’d studied martial arts since her early days with the Miami-Dade PD.

      Matt wondered how long he had been out. Judging from the stiffness in his joints, he guessed hours. His bladder suddenly joined the circuit overload and informed him that he needed to take a serious whiz.

      Sam knew he was achy and bruised, not to mention past due for using the bathroom. “You’d better cooperate and climb out of the van like a good boy or I’ll have to apply more persuasion. I know the drug’s worn off. If you want to be comfortable and get rid of the restraints, you have to cooperate. Then I’ll explain everything. Oh, and you can use the convenience, too,” she added as an afterthought.

      Bitch. What choice did he have?

      As if reading his mind, she continued, “Walk for me or I’ll leave you wrapped up in the van while I get a good night’s rest in the motel room.”

      His bladder made the decision for him. He sat forward and gingerly slid from the van to the ground with her guiding him. Maybe she didn’t intend to kill him or turn him over to Renkov. Damn, but he’d never felt so helpless in his life, bound and gagged in pitch darkness. Not to mention the wretched drug hangover enhanced by her skillful application of torture to his jaw. He let her guide him across a sidewalk toward whatever fate she had in store for him.

      Sam checked the parking lot of the Shady Acres Motel, a small sleazy place situated in a nothing burg in southern Utah. No one watched as she led her “patient” toward the door to the dingy room. The desk clerk had barely taken his eyes off a Wheel of Fortune rerun as he processed her credit card and handed her a room key. She was an R.N. transporting a burn patient to a special rehab facility in Salt Lake. Not half as interesting as Vanna White.

      Desert heat seared them as they walked to the room. Sam could tell by his muffled curses that his feet burned through the thin soles of the slippers. He was uncomfortable but there was nothing she could do except hurry him inside. “Here, lean against the wall while I unlock the door,” she commanded.

      A blessedly cool blast of air hit her, never mind that it was dank and reeked of old cigarettes. So much for a nonsmoking room. “Here, let me guide you to the bed,” she said to Granger, who shuffled along, forced to trust her.

      He was the biggest man she’d ever dealt with and, frankly, he made her nervous for more than one reason. The skinny teenagers with shaven heads and body piercings she usually picked up were a piece of cake, mostly because they were usually too high on narcotics or theology to give her much trouble. Even if they tried, hey, there was a reason for those nose rings farmers put on bulls.

      But Matt Granger was another story altogether. He was tall, lean and muscular. Not a thing had been folded, spindled or mutilated on this bod. She’d bet he went two-twenty and all of it was solid muscle. Her old partner Will “Pat” Patowski had asked her to put this guy on ice, but he never warned her she’d have to watch her libido while she worked. She’d deliver Granger safely to Boston or Pat would have her hide. Besides, the fee was too good to screw this up.

      She removed the stun gun from her fanny pack and placed it on the bed opposite Matt’s. Then she began unwinding the wrapping from his head, followed by the blindfold. He blinked several times and she noticed that his eyes were a gorgeous shade of golden brown. Kinda went with the black curly hair and darkly tanned skin.

      Get over it, Ballanger. This is business. “Okay, here’s the deal,” she said without further preamble. The tape on his mouth would come off after she’d finished her spiel. Then he could argue. The head cases always did. She was sure this guy would be considerably more convincing. “Your aunt Claudia Witherspoon hired me to retrieve you from the cult you joined in San Diego. Here’s my card.”

      He blinked, trying to get his eyes accustomed to the light in the scrofulous motel room which contained two saggy beds. They were seated on them facing each other. He was still trussed up and couldn’t talk. Might as well read the damn card she was shoving in his face. It said Samantha Ballanger, Retrieval Specialist. How the hell had this dame hooked up with his aunt Claudia? She sounded south Boston while his aunt was a Brahmin from old and serious money. He didn’t like the way this whole mess smelled. Then she started talking again, so he paid attention.

      “I’m taking you back to your aunt. She’s really concerned about your living in a Southern California commune and has the best psychiatric specialists waiting to treat you once you’re safely home. As you can see—” she gestured to the bundle of gauze lying on the bed beside him, then pointed to the robe and slippers she’d dressed him in “—you’re a burn patient and I’m your nurse. I’m transporting you to a rehab facility.