“Hurts.”
“Ah, they see we’re awake. Here comes Mr. Alpo Viljo. No, I’m not making it up, his name is Alpo. Sounds Swedish to me. He’s an enforcer, a bodyguard maybe. I’ve never run into a real Swedish badass before. From what I’ve heard, he’s the one who smacked his pistol butt against your head.”
Alpo Viljo was indeed one of the men who’d chased her on the beach near the cemetery. He was even bigger up close, but really out of shape, his belly hanging over his belt, unlike most of the Scandinavian people she’d met. At least he was blond and blue-eyed. Had to be some Viking blood in there somewhere.
He didn’t say anything, just stood there, his arms crossed over his chest, staring down at her.
Lily said, “What’s your partner’s name?”
He started, as if he wasn’t sure he understood her, then said in his stilted, perfectly understandable English, “His name is Nikki. He’s a mean man. Do not do anything to piss him off.”
“Where are we going, Mr. Viljo?”
“That is none of your business.”
“Why is Mr. Olaf Jorgenson bringing us to Sweden?”
He just shook his head at her, grunted, turned, and walked back to the front of the cabin, where Charlotte Frasier was still muttering a curse every little while.
“You got that, Lily? No pissing off Nikki. As for Alpo, I think he likes you. You do look like a princess, and maybe Alpo’s a romantic man. But don’t count on it, okay?”
She had to grin, even though it hurt her head to move her mouth. She looked out the window at the mountains and canyons of white clouds. She said as she turned back to face him, “Simon, I really do like your hair. Even messed up, it’s cool the way it curls at your neck. Long, but not too long. Sexy.”
“Lily,” he said, leaning closer, his voice very low, “you’re not thinking straight at the moment. I want you to close your eyes and try to sleep.”
“I think that’s probably a very good idea. All right. Maybe I could have some aspirins first?”
Simon called out to Alpo Viljo, and soon Lily was downing a couple of aspirin and a very large glass of water. She gave him a silly grin as her eyes closed.
And in that exact moment, Simon knew it was all over for him. He’d met a woman to trust, a woman loyal to her bones. She sent his feelings right off the scale. His princess, all delicate and soft and pale as milk—well, not right now, since she was still damp from the rain, her clothes torn and splattered with mud, and that hair of hers, all limp and tangled around her head; it was his opinion that she looked superb.
What was a man to do?
He eased a small airplane pillow between her belly and the seat belt. He leaned back against the seat and closed his own eyes.
Lily awoke thinking of her brother, knowing he must be frantic. Surely Hoyt and Dillon knew they’d been taken. But did they have any idea where? And, for that matter, why had they been kept alive at all?
She looked over at Simon’s seat. It was empty. He was gone. But where?
She heard a man’s deep voice say in halting English right next to her ear, “You eat now.”
Nikki eased himself down into Simon’s seat. He was holding a tray on his lap. It was the man who’d shouted to her on the beach, the man Alpo had said was mean.
“Where’s Simon?”
The big man just shook his head. “Not your worry. Eat now.”
She said very slowly, very deliberately, “No, I won’t do anything until I see Simon Russo.”
Nikki cupped his big hand around the back of her neck and dragged her head back. He picked up a glass of something that looked like iced coffee without the ice and forced her to drink it. She struggled, choked, the liquid spilling down her chin and onto her clothes, soaking in, smelling like coffee and something else. Something like pills went down her throat. She felt dizzy even before Nikki let go of her neck. “Why did you do that?”
“We land soon. Officials here. We want you quiet. Too bad you did not eat. Too thin.”
“Where’s Simon, you son of a bitch?” But she knew the words didn’t sound right coming out of her mouth. She wished she’d eaten, too. She heard her stomach growl even as she fell away into a very empty blankness.
24
Bar Harbor, Maine
Special Agent Aaron Briggs, neck size roughly twenty-one inches, biceps to match, a gold tooth shining like a beacon in his habitual big smile, nodded from behind the counter at agents Lowell and Possner. Both agents were dressed casually in jeans, sweaters, and jackets, trying to appear like ordinary customers looking at frames and photo albums.