Page 48 of Fully Loaded

If he didn’t get ahold of his shit, he’d fucking lose it.

“Sir, are you all right?” A paramedic with a French accent clapped a hand on his shoulder.

Brock jerked out of his hold. “I’m fine.”

“Were you shot?” The intrusive voice floated past his ears, and he shook his head.

He brushed away from the crowd and thwacked his palm against the side window of a cab then opened the door.

The driver swiveled in his seat. “Je ne cours pas, monsieur,” he said, waving at the congestion of the street. Brock’s French wasn’t great, but he roughly translated the cab driver wasn’t operating at the moment. He didn’t care.

Brock reached into his pocket and threw a handful of hundred-dollar euro bills into the man’s lap. “Make it run.” He said the name of the hotel and the car pulled into traffic, cutting off another vehicle.

He worked his jaw back and forth and stared at the standstill of cars around them. The driver, with renewed ambition, blared his horn and nosed through the street. Brock opened and closed his hand.

The bastards had Dani. How could he have been so stupid? He should have put her in a cab before jumping to action. Should have hid her better . . .

Should have left with her.

He was supposed to protect her. She was his priority. But he’d put everyone else before her and . . . Christ. Tears stung his eyes and he pinched the bridge of his nose. The sweet face of Anna Bella filled his mind’s eye.

No. Had he run away, the little girl could have been killed. He hoped to hell he’d saved some lives. Now, he’d do everything in his power to save Dani’s. He’d blackmail the shit out of her kidnappers—he’d turn over the evidence even if it meant a lifetime in a French prison cell. He’d do anything to get her back home.

He brought his hand to the inside pocket of his tux and rubbed the flash drive. This shit was going to end.

Tonight.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket and hit Rhett’s number. While the long-distance call patched through, he read the clock on the dash: 9:58 p.m. It would be just after lunch in San Diego.

No answer. Fuck! He hung up and dialed Milo. This was the last piece of news he wanted to lay on his friend’s doorstep, but he couldn’t keep it from him. Especially if there was a shot Milo knew where Rhett was.

“How’s it going?” Milo’s anxious tone meshed with the darkness suffocating Brock’s lungs.

“Not good, man.” He sighed and stared out the window as the driver pulled into traffic on the main road toward the hotel. “They’ve got her.” He choked on the last word and coughed to clear the gravel that thickened his throat. “They have Dani.”

The fog around Dani’s head receded, rolled back in, and receded again. She squeezed her eyes against the pounding pain in her skull. She moved her hand to clutch her head, but something around her wrist kept it in place. She frowned and opened her eyes. Bursts of pain crackled across her temple and she winced, forcing air from her lungs. A deep throb pulsed behind her eyes and bright light assaulted her retinas. She stared down at the tops of her thighs. Her arms were stretched behind her. The muscles in her neck screamed, falling into rhythm with the throbbing in her head. Panic skidded over her skin and screams of fear ravaged her mind.

What the hell had happened? She had to stay calm. She closed her eyes and took in one deep breath after another until flickers of clarity broke through the confusion. She and Brock had gone for dinner then enjoyed a glass of champagne on the balcony . . .

Then what? She forced her mind to work, reliving the moments. The Eiffel Tower, yes. They’d watched it light up. Brock had cradled her back against his chest. His warm scent and piney cologne tickled the caverns of her memory. And then . . . shots. Gunshots.

It all came flooding back. Anna Bella, the second shooter, the van. She lifted her head and the room spun. She pressed her feet into the white-tiled floor to stabilize herself and took in her surroundings. The walls were plain, and a counter with test tubes and binders took up the wall opposite her. A computer sat on a desk near the window. She looked down at the black cushion of the chair she sat in—a basic office chair with wheels. The door was firmly closed and blinds sealed the small window.

She was in a lab. Whose?

No time to figure it out. Whoever it was wouldn’t leave her unattended for long. She yanked on the ropes securing her wrists, but they didn’t give. Her breath kicked up and sweat collected on her forehead, tickling her hairline. She twisted her wrists and used her fingertips to search for the knot. The ropes weren’t tied very tightly. She rolled her shoulders, trying to get blood flowing to the stagnant muscles.

Her arms moved easily around the backrest. Hope took flight in her chest. She wiggled her arms—they weren’t secured to the chair. Whoever had tied her up had only tied her wrists behind her back. If she could stand, she could lift her wrists right over the chair back.

She moved her feet. Tension around her ankles restricted them. She leaned forward as far as her bound arms would allow. Rope circled her ankles, tying her feet together. Her chest deflated. She might be able to get her arms over the back of the chair, but she wouldn’t be able to walk. She could hop with both legs but wouldn’t get far.

The door opened and she jerked her head up. The man walking in had curly brown hair, glasses perched on the end of his nose, and waxy lips. He smiled, the smirk unnatural on his tight face. She’d seen him before, but where? Her brain worked at warp speed to place him.

The papers. Weeks ago, when she’d researched his company before accepting Sven’s proposal. Ubrigg Lichti.

“Hello, Ms. Metcalf,” he said, in a thick German accent. “I’m Dr. Lichti.” He grabbed a stool, sat down, and rolled toward her.

Despite his professional demeaner, she coiled away. She swallowed, curled her hands into fists, and narrowed her eyes.