Damnation Road Show. James Axler

      Again his instincts hummed. The information had been too readily available. If Peart was abducting Shannon, why wouldn’t he have taken more care to cover his tracks? Why would he have used his own vehicle? What kind of game was he playing?

      The taxi driver signaled to turn onto the private drive leading to the exclusive Tradewinds Marina. Mike ordered him to stop. If Peart caught sight of another vehicle on this road at this hour, he’d know he was being followed. He shoved a fistful of money at the driver, then slipped out of the vehicle and into the shadows to continue his pursuit on foot.

      He followed the taillights of the Mercedes, conscious of the growing distance between himself and the vehicle. Again he thought of Brent, about the obstacles he’d failed to overcome to save his friend. He couldn’t fail again. He ran harder, refusing to believe that he would be too late.

      He had to save Shannon.

      Shannon shifted in her seat, turning to press her cheek against the cool leather. She blinked, but her vision remained fuzzy. She tried to think, but her mind was even fuzzier.

      She was conscious of only two things. The first she accepted with overwhelming relief: she wasn’t dead.

      At least, not yet.

      The second caused trepidation rather than relief: she was going to vomit.

      Whether it was fear of imminent death that had churned up her insides to the point of nausea or a reaction to whatever drug had been injected into her system, she only knew that she was going to throw up.

      Drew braked abruptly, threw the gearshift into Park.

      It was the final straw for her heaving stomach. She felt the bile rise up in her throat, groped frantically for the door handle. Her fingers finally closed around the metal but seemed unable to interpret the command from her brain to pull.

      Then the door opened from the other side.

      She fell out of the car, the rough concrete abrading her palms and her knees. She tried to swallow, gagged.

      “What the—?” Drew started to reach for her.

      She clamped a desperate hand over her mouth and tried to will away the nausea.

      He finally seemed to recognize the reason for her position and carefully stepped back, out of range, just before her stomach spasmed and emptied its contents.

      “Are you okay?” he asked, almost courteously.

      She would have laughed at the absurdity of the question if she wasn’t too groggy and weak to do anything but nod.

      “Come on, then.” He took her arm to help her to her feet.

      The world tilted and swayed.

      He tightened his grip and hurried her along.

      Where were they going? And why was he in such a hurry?

      She tried to focus, but everything remained a blur.

      “Shannon, wait!”

      The distant call, the vaguely familiar voice, startled Shannon and spurred Drew into action. He picked her up and lifted her onto the deck of a boat.

      A few seconds later she heard the rumble of engines and felt a cool breeze against her cheeks. She could smell salt in the air now, confirming that they were on the ocean.

      But where was he taking her?

      Why?

      She had so many questions but her brain was still too muddled to attempt to come up with any answers.

      Instead she closed her eyes and drifted into sleep.

      From as far back as he could remember, Mike had been groomed to take over the family business. For almost the same amount of time, he’d balked at being fitted for that mold. He wanted to make his own way, without reliance on the family fortune or social connections. He’d done so, first by joining the army and later—and quite successfully—through his partnership in Courtland & Logan Investigations.

      Still, Mike’s father never passed up an opportunity to express disappointment that his only son had abandoned his legacy. And his mother never failed to point to his single status as proof of the unsuitability of his career for someone of their social standing.

      Only his sister, Rachel, supported his choice. Partly because she coveted the job he’d been offered at Courtland Enterprises, but mostly because she understood him—what he wanted and what he needed—better than anyone else ever had.

      So when he found himself at the end of the dock, watching Peart’s boat disappear into the darkness, he didn’t think twice about what he was going to do. He didn’t wonder whether it was luck or coincidence that Peart had chosen to moor his yacht at the same marina where Rachel docked Pure Pleasure. His only concern was getting to Shannon.

      Not that his sister’s boat was any match for the powerful engines on Peart’s luxury yacht, but if he couldn’t catch up immediately, Mike was confident he could at least keep track of it while he radioed back to the Coast Guard for help.

      He wasn’t too proud to ask for backup, not when Shannon’s life could be in danger.

      He picked up the handset, saw that it had been forcibly disconnected from the receiver/transmitter. He stared at the broken radio, suddenly sure Peart’s choice of location had been deliberate—an intentional act to bait him into following.

      Which meant that his cover had been blown. Somehow Peart had figured out that he was in Miami to protect Shannon, and he was counting on Mike to go after her.

      Even knowing it was a setup, he considered no other option.

      He flipped open his cell phone, glanced at the signal indicator. It was weak but steady. He kept his eyes focused on the dwindling shape of Peart’s boat as he steered through the choppy water and pressed redial.

      She was still on the boat.

      It was Shannon’s first thought when she woke up, substantiated by the gentle rolling motion of the vessel moving through the water.

      She glanced around the room, at surroundings illuminated by the gentle glow of light from a shaded lamp on the bedside table. Dark walnut furniture polished to a high gloss and trimmed with gleaming brass hardware. A wide bed with fluffy pillows and a cream-colored satin comforter.

      She sat up cautiously, leaned back against the headboard and exhaled a slow sigh of relief that the world remained upright and relatively stable.

      Her vision was clear but her throat was tight and dry and the inside of her mouth tasted sour. She slid her legs over the side of the bed, found the floor.

      Her legs trembled when she stood, but she carefully made her way toward the door only a few feet away.

      A bathroom.

      Head, she automatically corrected herself. On a boat it was called a head.

      She nearly whimpered with relief as she opened the taps and cool, clear water poured out.

      She splashed her face, rinsed her mouth, then drank, deeply, greedily. As she drank, her trembling eased and her mind cleared, and the events of the past several hours came flooding back to her.

      A spiral of events that had all started with the man on the beach.

      She thought she’d learned from the mistakes of her disastrous relationship with Doug. The impulsive marriage had been followed by a carefully planned divorce and a determination to never again succumb to impetuous desires that could easily lead her astray.

      Then she’d met Michael—or whatever his real name was—and invited him back to her hotel room.

      It was humiliating to admit that she could be so weak, embarrassing to accept that her more-basic instincts could overrule her common sense.

      She turned off the water, dried her hands.

      She