Chai Cupcake Killer: Book 4 in The INNcredibly Sweet Series Read online

  “No, I don’t think he’d ever quit, particularly on short notice, but he’s definitely gone. His cat Moose meowed at the back door the morning after you left, so I’ve been taking care of him, but there’s been no sign of Spencer,” she explained.

  “But where would he go? And why?”

  “Well…where is indeed a mystery, but the why…” Maggie sighed.

  “What happened, Maggie?”

  “He had some sort of disagreement with Izzy, I think.”

  Izzy Gillmore, one of the most popular horror writers in the world had been staying at the secluded inn for several weeks so that she could write her books in peace and get out from under her micromanaging publisher. She and Spencer had been spending quite a bit of time together, and everyone had been hoping that romance might be blossoming between the two young people.

  Details of Spencer’s past life were known to no one, including Izzy, and when she pressed him on the issue, he had retreated into his shell, unintentionally pushing Izzy away. She had fled, without a word to anyone, and Maggie guessed that Spencer had followed her. She related her theory to Missy, who nodded.

  “Poor Spencer. Just when he finds a lovely girl, she disappears,” she sighed.

  “I really thought the two of them had a chance,” Maggie agreed.

  “Well, if he went after her, maybe they do,” Missy was optimistic. “Has he checked in with you at all?”

  Maggie shook her head.

  “Hmm… that’s not like him. He’s always so conscientious and responsible,” Missy frowned.

  “Young love,” Maggie smiled sadly.

  “I suppose so. Let me know if you hear from him?”

  “I definitely will. There aren’t any guests at the inn at the moment, I could stay and help out here, if you’d like?”

  “Oh, Maggie, you’re an angel! Yes, that would be great, thank you. And thanks for telling me.”

  “You know I can’t keep secrets from you,” she chuckled.

  “I like that about you,” Missy teased and picked up her scraper.

  “Oh, just one more thing…” Maggie remembered.

  “Yes?”

  “Does the name Brandon Masters mean anything to you?” she asked.

  “No, it doesn’t even sound familiar, why?”

  “Do you remember a few weeks ago, when we had the gentleman with the red Italian sports car stay with us, a Steve Arnold?”

  “Sure, he came to play golf, then just kind of disappeared. I remember, vaguely,” Missy nodded. “Why?”

  “He came by the day that Spencer and Izzy disappeared, asking if Brandon Masters worked here. When he described him, it sounded just like Spencer. I thought the timing was odd, that’s all.”

  Missy frowned, the hairs on the back of her neck standing up just a little. “That is odd… did you tell him about Spencer?”

  “No, definitely not. I felt strange talking with him. Something just felt… off,” she shrugged. “Mr. Chas said he thought that the name sounded familiar, but he couldn’t place it.”

  “Good. Let me know if anything strange or unusual happens, will you, Maggie?” she said quietly.

  “Will do,” Maggie agreed, heading for the front.

  Missy tapped her fingers on the counter, unable to shake a horrible sense of unease.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Janssen, Spencer’s scarred former Marine buddy, crept to Spencer’s basement apartment in the dead of night—the security cameras at the inn being of no consequence in the face of his expertise. He’d heard some things that concerned him and had to make certain that his fellow Marine knew to be on the lookout. He quickly disabled the traps put in place to waylay those who might seek to enter against Spencer’s will, and slipped into the sparsely furnished and spotlessly clean apartment.

  His first indication that something was wrong was some items out of place, not radically so, just enough to catch his attention. Secondly, the Marine’s massive cat Moose was nowhere to be found. Spencer never let the mellow but territorial animal outside. If Moose was missing, something had happened. There was no blood or any other signs that a struggle had taken place, which meant either that Spencer had left of his own volition—in which case he would most likely have let Janssen know—or a professional had gotten to him, finally. Janssen’s heart sank; he suspected the latter.

  ***

  Spencer Bengal didn’t dare open his eyes. He knew from the way that he was feeling that he’d either been drugged, knocked on the head with something heavy, or both. In any case, if someone had meant to cause him harm, he certainly didn’t need to alert them to the fact that he was conscious and currently assessing his situation and whereabouts.

  He wasn’t alone, he heard another person breathing as though they were in a deep slumber. That could be a good thing, meaning that his captor had fallen asleep on the job; or it could be a bad thing, meaning that more than one person had been targeted. He hoped against hope that it was the former, but he certainly wasn’t going to take any chances. If the other captive in the room with him was a civilian, his escape would be more of a challenge and he’d have to plan accordingly. He’d been in more seemingly hopeless situations than he could recall, and had managed to walk away from every one of them.

  Spencer continued his assessment of the situation, noting that his wrists and ankles were bound with thick zip ties. Since they’d been put on while he was unconscious, he hadn’t had a chance to tense his muscles. Getting them off would be a bit of a challenge. The temperature was cool but not cold, the smell in the room was musty and organic, and his skin felt damp, which probably meant that while he was in an enclosure of some sort, it probably wasn’t a building—more likely to be a non-climate-controlled, outdoor structure. The lack of oil and gas smell effectively eliminated the possibility of a garage, but perhaps a barn or shed? Or maybe a cabin?

  “I know you’ve gotta be awake by now, Marine. I didn’t give you enough stuff to keep you out this long,” a familiar voice drawled.

  Spencer knew immediately who his captor was, and worked hard not to react. He pictured the blond brush cut and steely blue gaze of his nemesis, and began to plan how he would put him out of commission long enough to rescue the extra person in the room. Unless of course the extra person was Janssen, in which case, escape would be much faster. He now knew that he’d been drugged rather than slugged: Steve wasn’t the grab-and-go type.

  His throat was dry, but he managed to make a hoarse response.

  “Miss me?” he taunted, not bothering to open his eyes.

  “More than anything,” Steve muttered, lighting up a four-inch stub of a cigar.

  None too gently, he nudged at Spencer’s thigh with the tip of his steel-toed boot.

  “Sit up, Marine,” he ordered gruffly. “We’re going to have a little chat.”

  Spencer exhaled through his nose, running through options and scenarios in his mind. He finally opened his eyes, and found himself in a barn of some sort that had never housed animals or farm equipment. He slowly rose to a sitting position, knowing that fast movement, after the meds he’d been given, would be a really bad idea.

  He turned a cold, dead gaze upon the man reclining against the side of the barn to his left.

  “If you’re going to go on a manhunt, you’d do well to use a different disguise and drive a different car,” the Marine remarked, not even attempting to hide the scorn in his tone.

  Steve had come to stay at the inn a few weeks previously, masquerading as a balding golfer with a bad comb over, but had driven his trademark red Italian sports car. Spencer and Janssen had considered going underground, but instead chose to maintain their cover, lying low to see what would happen. When weeks went by with no further sighting of him, they had relaxed a bit, never completely letting down their guard, but no longer seeing Steve-shaped shadows around every corner.

  “I wanted you to know that I was around,” Steve shrugged, with a sadistic grin.

  Spencer’s jaw tightened, but
he made no reply, his thoughts turning toward escape, and how to deal with the disposition of his captor.

  “Your country needs you,” the obnoxious man taunted, puffing on his cigar, a habit that Spencer had always found repulsive.

  “I don’t do that anymore. You know that,” the Marine leveled him with a gaze.

  “Well, I say you do. Your little buddy will too, as soon as I can hunt down his hillbilly behind,” Steve replied ominously.

  “Good luck with that,” Spencer smirked.

  “Got you, didn’t I? You weren’t so cocky and cautious when you were chasing after that sweet little skirt,” he nodded to a corner behind the Marine.

  Knowing the tactic, Spencer refused to turn around to look, thereby leaving himself vulnerable to his captor.

  “Go ahead, take a look. She’s my… shall we say… bargaining chip?”

  Spencer stared, unblinking.

  “You’re going to wish that I was trying to use that as a distraction technique if you choose to balk me on this one, Brandon.”

  Spencer hadn’t heard the use of his given name in a very long time, and he swallowed quickly. The very word brought back a flood of memories that he had fought long and hard to keep hidden in the dark recesses of his mind.

  “Touch a nerve, Marine?” Steve sneered.

  Spencer continued to stare at him, showing none of the emotions that had crashed into his psyche. He heard a soft moan behind him, and his stomach clenched, as he realized that Steve wasn’t bluffing.

  Then a sharp “thwock!” echoed through the empty barn, and an angry look of shock and pain contorted Steve’s face as a small expanding spot of blood on the front of his shirt bloomed crimson. His head slumped forward on his chest, and Spencer jerked his head to the right as someone burst through the door.

  “You’re welcome,” Janssen said grimly, unsheathing his knife and going to work on the zip ties.

  “Did you just…?” Spencer glanced toward Steve, frowning.

  “Nah. I made sure I just grazed him. He passed out because I put a little something on the arrowhead. Figured it’d buy us enough time to get some distance on him.”

  He’d heard the two men talking, as he crouched outside the barn, and had been able to pinpoint Steve’s position accurately enough to shoot his crossbow without fear of killing him.

  After freeing the Marine from his bonds, Janssen gave him the knife to free Izzy, while he walked over to where Steve slumped, temporarily unconscious. He tore open the man’s shirt at the site of the blood, and unscrewed the shaft of the arrow from the arrowhead buried in Steve, being careful not to get any of the sedative on his skin. He’d retrieve his crossbow from the side of the barn once they left the building.

  Izzy was still unconscious, which was a good thing. That way she wouldn’t see Steve or Janssen, and would never have to know what had happened and why.

  “He’s going to report this to Central,” Spencer clenched his jaw, as Janssen applied coagulant to Steve’s wound.

  “No. He’s not,” the scarred Marine replied coolly.

  “How can you know that?”

  “Intel. When he showed up a few weeks ago, I made contact with a couple of guys and found out that he’d gone rogue. Central has been searching for us all, and he wanted the bounty and the glory.”

  “It doesn’t work like that, that’s not protocol,” Spencer raised an eyebrow.

  “Exactly. Central has no idea what he’s been up to, and he’s not going to tell them. That’s why he’s out here without backup.”

  “So, once again, his arrogance brought him down.”

  “As usual, but this time, when he does come back around, he’ll be out for blood,” Janssen observed.

  “We’ll be ready,” the Marine replied. “Did you bring transport?” he asked, gently lifting the still-unconscious form of his favorite author.

  “Yeah, I made some arrangements, we just have to beat feet the first five miles or so,” he shrugged, gazing at the lovely blonde woman in his friend’s arms. “I told you not to get involved, man,” he remarked.

  “I know,” was the quiet reply. “Let’s go.”

  ***

  COPYRIGHT 2016 SUMMER PRESCOTT BOOKS