Page 50 of Fully Loaded

He slid the stool to the computer desk. Shaking the mouse, he brought the sleeping screen to life and a password box popped up. Force of habit brought her gaze to his fingers as he punched in the password. She’d learned to study keystrokes a long time ago. Curiosity and the desire to keep the skill sharp had her practicing it whenever the opportunity arose. Ubrigg’s fingers moved over the keys.

PSNMA

Had he hit a symbol or a number after that? The screen blinked and a webpage with several tabs popped up. The familiar small blue square with an F caught her eye. Ubrigg’s social media account. She dropped her gaze to her shoes and focused on her breath. If he caught her staring, he’d suspect she’d picked up his password.

He tapped on the keyboard. “Was this her?”

Dani lifted her chin and stared at the screen. The blonde woman with hard brown eyes stared back at her from what looked like a mug-shot photo. Victory bells rang in her head.

She nodded. “Yes, that’s her.”

Ubrigg stood quickly, sending the stool flying backward. It toppled to the ground and the metal connected with the tile with a sharp clank. His face turned a reddish purple, and he curled his hands into fists.

She might have thrown them off Brock, but she’d just secured her own death.

“You have no idea what you’ve done.” He lifted her purse and pinched her encrypted phone between his fingers in the air. “Let’s see if your friend has the same story.” He stormed toward the door and flung it open. “Lock the door! Keep her alive until I give you the cue.”

The bottom of her stomach dropped and her shoulders sagged, making the tendons in her neck yank sharply. Shit. Her foggy brain hadn’t predicted he’d call Brock. Her plan to save him had just gone to hell in a handbasket. Brock would do whatever Ubrigg wanted, which would only get him killed.

Because of her.

Her face heated and tears pooled beneath her lids. She watched the door close. The shooter who’d dragged her by her hair and hit her in the head caught her eye. His mouth hitched into a smirk and the door banged shut.

Chapter

Eighteen

Brock paced the hotel room, his dress shoes gleaming under the fluorescent lights. Telling Milo might not have been the best idea. Milo was one of his oldest friends besides Serena, Dani, and Peyton, and not once had he heard him so angry. So despairing. Christ, if something happened to Serena and their baby because he’d stupidly left Dani’s side, he’d never forgive himself. His airways thickened. Fisting his hand in the bow tie at his throat, he ripped off the material and threw it, then tore open the top two buttons of his shirt.

Finding her would be impossible. She could be anywhere. Did the rogue Interpol agents have her? Ubrigg? Or had Giles Artis found her?

And where the fuck was Rhett? He dropped onto the bed to catch his breath but his blood raged through his limbs, forcing him to his feet again.

He was lost. So damn lost. He couldn’t form a coherent thought, let alone get his shit together to find her. He had to think. Whoever had her wanted the Chrisolicom XII formula. They’d call.

They had to.

What would be the point of taking her if they didn’t want something in exchange for her life? If they wanted to kill her, they would have done so at the Eiffel Tower and made it look like a random shooting. He needed to focus and get a plan together. It was the only way he’d get her out alive. He changed into casual clothes and carefully tucked the flash drive into the pocket of his jeans. Next, he grabbed the gun that Dani had refused to carry—in that daring red dress she wouldn’t have been able to hide a tissue let alone a handgun—and shoved it into the waistband of his pants. He’d left his weapon on the field near the shooter’s assault rifle.

Hell, if he hadn’t been so ravaged by lust and had been thinking with the proper head, he would have insisted she wear something to conceal the gun.

Ring, ring, ring

Brock bolted for the tuxedo jacket that dangled from the chair and fished out his phone. Dani’s encrypted number lit the screen. Hope swam through the sea of despair in his chest. He gripped the device harder and swiped to answer.

“This is Brock.”

“Hello, Brock. I believe we each have something of interest to one another.” The steady and collected voice slithered through the phone.

Brock’s blood pressure shot through the roof. He clenched his teeth to stop the curses that his tongue wanted to hurl at the motherfucker. Cursing wouldn’t do Dani any good.

“That we do,” he said, keeping his words even.

“We can make this as easy or as difficult as you’d like.” The guy’s accent was German. Ubrigg? He couldn’t be sure.

“Who is this?”

“I’d prefer to save our introductions for when we meet in person, if that’s all right with you.” The overpoliteness only served to test Brock’s patience.