Chapter 53

53

She'd tucked the box cutter in her underwear, banking on them not finding it—at least not right away. Heather knew it was a risk, but these guys were idiots. They were panicking. She'd just listened to them. Learning. Planning.

Powell had gotten away. They hadn't counted on that. Now they were afraid for their own skins.

It could mean one of two things for Heather now. They killed her fast to get rid of her. Or they took her with them and made sure she felt their anger in every possible way.

She was banking on these three imbeciles not knowing what to do without the boss there to tell them how to blow their noses.They'd partied a little too hard—in preparation for the party they'd planned for her and Powell.

Heather was going to use that to her advantage.

Her face hurt. That old bastard had hit her hard. But Heather had been hit that hard before. She wasn't going to let the pain stop her from doing what she had to do.Her girls were waiting. Her sisters, her nieces. She was going to do what she had to do.

She wiggled. They'd taped her hands and feet this time with duct tape. It hurt. But...she was able to pull herself over to her side. Her feet were still secured to the pipes.

Heather had taken dance lessons for years, from Frankie's age on until her parents had died. After that she taught dance lessons. She was extremely flexible. That hadn't changed since the baby, she hoped. Heather twisted her body so she could reach where her hands were taped. With her mouth. It hurt. Her lower lip was bleeding everywhere. Her jaw was bruised. But she was able to grab the edge of the tape with her teeth.

It was slow going, but she got the first rip started.

She continued to work her way free, her body twisted and bowed in a way it wasn't meant to bend in, as she listened to the three stooges arguing. Discussing the plans the boss had.

"I think this is a fucking mistake," one said. She tried to remember which one he was—he had an accent. No. Not an accent, a speech impediment. Faint, but it was there. She'd been researching speech impediments lately. Because of Frankie.

He was well-educated if what she'd heard him say was true. The other men called him Harvard. And Mr. Ivy League. He used larger vocabulary when he wasn't cursing. The other two men out there, Scarface and the Sheep, who just did what he was told all the time, were far less educated. Rougher around the edges.

Crude.

She would never forget the things they had told her they were going to do to her. To Powell. The jokes they had made about what Steve had done to Heather already. Like they had discussed details with him before.

She wouldn't put it past any of them.

Well, she wasn't sticking around to be their entertainment tonight.

"What are we supposed to do? Just take all this shit with us?" Scarface asked. "You going to drive it out of here right now? Whole damned state is out there looking for us. Dumbass—that's the governor's family in the closet there. He's got the entire National Guard on call. At his fucking fingertips. Not to mention that rich dude she's related to. Billions, man. Rivals the Barratts for cold hard cash. You think important people aren't searching for her right now? Think that Rich Bitch you all just let walk away isn't spilling her guts about everything she seen and heard here?"

Like Luc and Marc would ever look for her. Heather wasn't stupid. Nor was she waiting around on rescue from men like them that would never come. If someone was rescuing her tonight—it would be Miguel at the forefront. Right next to Gunnar. Maybe with Murdoch and possibly Jarrod beside them.

Or Norm, putting up his slide rule and compass to come riding to her rescue. That was far more likely than Luc ever doing anything to help her.

Heather knew where she fell in the grander scheme of things in this hellhole that was Finley Creek. Heather wasn't giving up.Powell had gotten away. She was almost certain of it.

Now, it was Heather's turn.

"But burning it all? Dude, that's some serious money we're flushing," Sheep this time. He was all about the money. And being paid what he was owed. By number three.

The boss number three. That was how they had referred to the man. The one Powell had seen in Wyoming. They called him Three.

Heather wasn't going to forget.

"Take care of the bitch," Harvard ordered. Heather's blood chilled at the menace in his tone. Yes, he didn't care if she was dead soon or not.

"We aren't taking her with us?" Scarface almost whined. "Thought we'd share her tonight and everything."

"I'm not into that bastard Wilson's seconds or sharing. I've told you that before. I don't care who she is fucking related to either. She's a liability," Harvard almost snarled it. Heather hadn't gotten a good look at his face, but she knew she had heard his voice somewhere before. She just couldn't remember where. "Kill her, and let's get out of here. Torch this fucking shit and run."

"It's going to go up like a firecracker. This shit burns ," Sheep said. "Stand back, then we need to get the hell out of here."

"That's the entire point, moron. Kill her, and let's go. Or don't. Just leave her to fry in the flames. Roast that girl piggy alive,"Harvard said.

"I'll do the honors. I want to make it personal," Scarface said. Heather tensed. It was now...or never. She could just see them in the office, through the open door of the closet where they'd tossed her."Get out of here. I'll deal with her, maybe have a bit of a quickie, and grab the rest of what we need, then torch this place. Meet up in Montana." He took something from the desk and slipped it into his pants pocket. "Don't want to lose this. Three would fucking kill me himself if I did. Has everything on it."

Heather cataloged details automatically.

Every detailmattered right now. It just did.

"Told that moron not to leave something like that just lying around," Harvard almost snarled. No love lost there between him and Three .

"Hey, Three's the man in charge now, remember? We do what we are told, or we don't get our share of the money."

She pulled against the tape. Her hands broke free. Heather reached into her jeans. The box cutter was the industrial kind. The heavy kind. It wasn't the kind that broke at the least bit of provocation.

She was like that box cutter. Dangerous, efficient. Strong. She wasn't going to break at the least bit of provocation either.She just wasn't.

Heather stretched down. Sliced through the tape holding her feet together.

She held the box cutter in one hand. And slid her other around the one thing those bastards had missed. They hadn't even known it was there. But she had. She had. For hours.

And it had given her hope.

A four-foot chunk of two-inch diameter pipe had been beneath her body the entire time they'd kept her in there.

Like a gift from above.

Heather was going to use it now.

To do what she had to do to get back to her daughters. Nothing was going to keep her away from her daughters. Nothing.