Riptide

shoved his hand through his hair. "Dammit, because if
    some cop happens to see them, then you know our guy would kill
    her and take off. We can't take the chance. No, we've got to get to
    Washington, fast."
    "First you've got to call Thomas, Adam."
    Adam didn't want to, he really didn't.
    Savich and Sherlock listened to Adam flail himself on the
    speakerphone.
    There was silence on the other end. Finally, Thomas said, "Get
    over it, Adam. We've been dealt new cards now, we'll play them.
    I'm very relieved that Chuck is all right. His wife would roast me

alive if he'd been killed. Now, if this is Krimakov, then he at least
    knows I'm in Washington, probably knows about the condo. I'll
    stay here. I'll be ready for him. Get back here as quickly as you can,
    Adam. Savich? Can you and Sherlock stick with us?"
    "Yes, Thomas."
    "Now, I've got to get myself ready for Krimakov. It's been so
    many years. Many times I thought he'd finally given it up, but it appears
    that he's just been biding his time."
    "He could really be dead," Sherlock said.
    "No," Thomas said. "Adam, you, Savich, and Sherlock hang
    around there for a while. Try to get a line on this guy. He's got to be
    somewhere. He's got to be traceable. Find him. Oh, and Adam?"
    "Yes, sir?"
    "Stop beating yourself up. Guilt just slows down your brain. I
    want that brain of yours sharp. Get it together and find my daughter."
    They finally rang off. Thomas Matlock looked at the phone for
    a very long time before he slowly eased it back down. Then he
    leaned his head back against the soft leather of his chair. He closed
    his eyes to blot out the feeling of helplessness, for just a moment,
    an instant, but instead, he felt a deep, soul-corroding fear that a man
    should never have to feel in his damned life. It was fear for his
    child, and the knowledge that he was helpless to save her.
    It was Krimakov, he knew it, deep in his gut, he knew, and they
    had cremated the body. No, Krimakov wasn't dead--maybe he'd
    staged his death, murdered another man who resembled him. He'd
    somehow found out about Becca and he had begun his reign of
    terror. There was no doubt at all in Thomas's mind now. Krimakov,
    a man who had sworn to cut Thomas's heart out even if he had to
    chase Thomas to hell to do it, had his Becca.
    He lowered his face in his hands.

Chapter 20

    He was aware of ear-splitting noise--men's and women's voices
    yelling loudly, car tires screeching, horns blasting, and movement, she
    could feel the blur of movement everywhere, pounding feet, running
    fast. She was moving as well, no, she was flying, then she hit hard and
    the pain ripped through her. She lay on her side, smelling the hot tar
    of the street, a light overlay of urine, hot and sour, whiffs of food, of
    too many bodies, feeling the unforgiving cement beneath her. Cement?
    People were yelling, coming closer now, and there were men and
    women shouting,"Stay back! Let us through!"
    She tried to open her eyes, but her muscles were too weak,
    wouldn't obey her, and the pain was boiling up inside her. She was
    so very tired, nearly blown under with it. Then she felt a hideously
    sharp stab of pain somewhere in her body, fierce, unrelenting, and
    she knew tears were leaking out of her eyes.
    "Miss! Can you hear me?"
    She felt his hand on her shoulder, felt the sun beating down on
    her, hot on her bare skin--what bare skin? Her legs were bare, that
    was it. But he was over her, a shadow blocking the sun.
    "Miss? Can you hear me? Are you conscious?"
    She opened her eyes then because he sounded so very afraid.
    Yes," she whispered, "I can hear you. I can see you. Not clearly, but I can see you."
    "My God, it's her! It's that Matlock woman!"

More shouting, yelling, some curses, and so much heat, the press
    of bodies, the running thuds of shoes and boots.
    A woman lightly tapped her cheek. "Open your eyes for me.
    Yes, that's right. Do you know who you are?"
    She looked up into Letitia Gordon's grim, incredulous face.
    Maybe there was also a touch of worry in those unforgiving
    eyes. Becca whispered to that hard face over her, "You're the cop
    who hates me. How can you be here, right over me, speaking to
    me? You're in New York, aren't you?"
    "Yes, and so are you."
    "No, that's not possible. I was in Riptide. You know, I never
    could figure out why you hated me and believed I was a liar."
    The woman's face contorted. Into anger? What?
    "He drugged me," she whispered, her mouth so dry she nearly
    swallowed her