Page 20 of The Captive (The Kelley Legacy #5)

L ana feared her words must have fallen on deaf ears.

Another miserable week had gone by, and she was still in D.C.

, in this lavish bedroom that only served as a reminder that whoever was calling the shots must have a truckload of cash at their disposal.

This was no amateur operation. Le Clair’s bosses were no doubt loaded, which meant they had to be extremely important people.

Her father had plenty of political enemies, but Lana couldn’t even imagine the kind of power needed to undertake this scheme.

It was definitely an expensive mission. Deacon and the others must be earning a huge amount of money for them to involve themselves in such a risky and time-consuming assignment, and Le Clair was probably pulling in a hefty amount of dough, too.

Not to mention the state-of-the-art equipment, the weapons, the private jet, this fancy apartment.

Whoever these men were, they had a lot of money, and a lot of time.

Unfortunately, time wasn’t on her side here.

The pregnancy would start to show soon, yet she still couldn’t bring herself to tell Deacon about the baby.

Each time she tried, the words got stuck in her throat like a wad of bubble gum, and she ended up swallowing them down where they congealed into a painful lump in her belly.

What would happen when she started showing?

Sure, it might be another month from now—two even—but what if she was still a hostage at that point?

Deacon hadn’t commented on the fullness of her breasts when he’d had his hands on them back at the cabin, but there was no way she’d be able to hide a baby bump from him. Or the others.

She grew sick at the thought, as she pondered Le Clair’s volatile reaction if he learned his hostage was pregnant.

When Deacon came into the room, she was still thinking about her dilemma, but any urge to blurt out the truth was squashed when Le Clair appeared at Deacon’s heels. Echo came in, too, and Lana’s chest tightened when she saw the sleek camcorder in his hands.

“What’s going on?” she asked uneasily.

“Your daddy thinks we killed you,” Le Clair explained, an irritated frown curling his lips. “We’re here to ease his mind.”

As usual, Le Clair’s accented voice was cheerful. She imagined him using that same tone while cold-bloodedly killing someone.

Wait, she didn’t even have to imagine. She’d witnessed it firsthand already.

Echo moved over to the living area, as Le Clair gestured for her to sit down on the love seat. She noticed he made sure to keep her away from the window, in order to ensure that their location wasn’t revealed.

With great weariness, Lana sat down. Not because she’d been ordered to, but because frankly, she was exhausted. The constant worry and panic battling in her belly were starting to wear her down. She barely even reacted when Le Clair thrust a piece of paper in her hands.

“What’s this?” she asked woodenly.

“Your script.” He bared his teeth in a cheerless smile. “Please don’t deviate. I’d really like to get this in one take.”

She glanced down at the words scrawled on the paper. “What does this mean?”

“Don’t you worry about that, princess. Just say what’s written.”

Echo stepped forward, holding the camera. A red light blinked under the lens, indicating he was recording. Le Clair came up beside his goon, signaling with an impatient gesture for her to begin.

“As you can see, I’m alive,” she recited. “And I will stay that way as long as you cooperate.”

She hesitated, shooting a desperate look at Deacon, who gave an imperceptible nod.

He wanted her to keep going. But that one sentence on the page—it glared up at her like an accusation.

And her insides were tied in fearful knots.

If she said these words, something bad would happen to her father.

She felt it deep in her bones. And as angry as she was with him right now, as hard as it was to accept that her father was the reason she was here, she refused to let anything happen to Hank. She would die before she saw him hurt.

Le Clair waved his hand angrily, his silver eyes blazing with annoyance.

Lana took a breath. “So please, Dad,” she said in a wobbly voice. “Come forward and turn yourself in. It’s the only way to—”

Abruptly, she halted. A wave of defiance swept through her, carrying away the numbness that had plagued her body all week and replacing it with white-hot anger. Enough. She wasn’t playing these damned games anymore. At this point, if these men wanted to kill her, let them.

She was no longer interested in meek obedience.

“Don’t do what they say, Daddy!” she blurted out, fixing a steely gaze into the camera lens. “They’re going to kill me regardless—”

Pain collided with her cheek as Le Clair’s fist came crashing down on her jaw, jerking her head back with incredible force.

Then he moved back, completely unruffled, while her jaw throbbed relentlessly, flushing and swelling from the assault.

He’d kept his back to the camera, keeping his identity hidden, and he didn’t say a word as he stepped out of the frame and gestured for Echo to stop filming.

“We doing it again?” Echo said, sounding resigned.

Le Clair paused, a thoughtful expression crossing his angular face. “No,” he finally decided. “Despite the deviation, I think this will have the precise impact I’m looking for.”

With that, Le Clair stalked out of the room, Echo on his tail. Deacon remained, and he turned to look at her with both concern and dismay.

“Why do you keep doing this?” he asked hoarsely. “You need to stop goading that bastard.”

He walked over to the sofa, hesitated for a beat, then knelt down in front of her. One large warm hand touched her jaw, a tender caress to gauge the injury. “Are you okay?” His hazel eyes searched her face.

She opened and closed her mouth a few times, testing the pain. “I’m fine. It doesn’t even hurt anymore.”

“Good.”

She expected him to get up, but he stayed on his knees.

Even in that position, he was so big. So masculine.

Despite herself, Lana found her pulse speeding up.

His now-familiar scent of spice and soap surrounded her, teasing her senses, and his strong, corded neck bobbed as he visibly swallowed.

She felt the urge to wrap her arms around him.

To bury her face against that muscular chest, just so she could feel safe for a few fleeting seconds.

Which was a total joke. She wasn’t safe. As long as she was being held prisoner, she’d never be safe.

“This…” Deacon cleared his throat, but when he spoke, his voice still came out rusty. “This is killing me, Lana.”

Surprise flitted through her. Her throat tightened, making it difficult to speak, so she just stared into his serious brown-green eyes like a mute.

“I can’t stand seeing him do that to you.” The confession seemed painful for him, as if he wasn’t comfortable revealing weakness. Wasn’t happy letting go of his iron control. “When he hit you just now… Jesus, Lana, I wanted to strangle him.”

“You would’ve gotten us both killed,” she said softly.

“I know.” He covered her knees with his hands, holding on tight, but she got the feeling he didn’t even realize what he was doing. Despair blazed in his eyes, along with an emotion she couldn’t put her finger on. “You’re right. We need to do something.”

Hope surrounded her heart. “Are you serious?”

He nodded. “Whatever’s happening here, it isn’t good. I don’t know what Le Clair’s bosses want from your dad, but I don’t think it’s money. And I don’t think Le Clair ever planned on letting you get out of this alive.”

Her breath hitched in fear. “He’s going to kill me.”

Deacon’s shoulders fell. “I think so.”

Without thinking about what she was doing, she covered his hands with her own. “Then we have to get out of here before that happens.” She squeezed his knuckles and met his tortured gaze. “Will you help me?”

After a long moment of silence, he nodded again.

Another burst of hope exploded in her chest. “Tonight?”

A swift shake of the head. “No. I need to think about the best way to do this.”

“Okay,” she conceded.

“And until I come up with a plan, you have to promise me you won’t antagonize Le Clair anymore. Keep following his orders, don’t cause trouble. I don’t want him suspecting that something might be up.”

She gave another, “Okay.”

They sat there for a few seconds, Deacon on his knees, Lana on the couch. Their hands were still touching, and warmth sizzled between them.

“Thank you,” she finally whispered.

* * *

Hank called just as Sarah was stepping out of the shower, her hair dripping water onto her bare shoulders. She dashed for the cell phone she’d left on the dresser.

“Did you get proof of life?” She nearly shouted the question, not bothering with hello. “Yes.”

She almost keeled over with relief. “Then she’s alive.”

“Yes. We got a video.” Hank hesitated. “He hit her.”

“What?”

“From what we gathered, they were making her read from a script, and she didn’t cooperate.”

Sarah felt lightheaded. Oh, Lana. Her baby girl had always been incredibly calm under pressure, but every now and then that headstrong streak of hers reared its ugly head.

“The man in charge didn’t like what she said, so he punched her in the jaw.” Hank sounded absolutely destroyed. “God, Sarah, it was so difficult to watch.”

She could imagine. The mere thought of some goon striking her baby girl was enough to send a primal wave of fury through her. Like a mama lioness, she wanted to protect her cub, suddenly wishing the bastard were right here so she could claw his eyes out.

“But she’s alive,” she said, forcing herself to look on the bright side.

“Yes.”

“So what now?”

There was a beat of silence. “Now I give myself up.”

Shock jolted into her. “What the hell are you talking about? Now we call the FBI!”

“I already did.”

“Thank God,” she said in relief.