Heir in Exile (Royals Book 3) Page 4

  Screaming would do her no good here. Even if she did shout in the hope of attracting an employees attention, she feared another blow to the head might knock her completely out. She wanted to be aware and coherent so she could memorize the route the men took.

  Bustled toward a waiting van, the men paused long enough to secure her wrists in front of her with a length of thin rope. After the sliding side door opened, she found herself pushed into a seat. At every opportunity, she looked for escape. Waited for their attention to divert just enough to make a break. A break that never came. The men hovered too close, smothered her with their bodies, guns openly displayed.

  Upright in the seat, Chey wondered where she would be taken from here. Blinking away the sting of tears, she focused instead on her anger. Anger helped keep the panic at bay. There was still time. Sander would reorganize, find help, and locate her before any transfer took place in the morning. Never mind that she didn't intend to be a passive participant. There would be an opportunity, at some point, and she intended to exploit it for all she was worth. The men would get lazy, or distracted, and she meant to use the lapse against them.

  In the meantime, she stared out the windows as the van exited from the garage onto the street. She intended to keep track of the turns so that she might find her way back here again, or at least use the hotel as a point of reference should she go on the run.

  Darkness made it difficult. The van turned three times, then hooked two lefts at alternating stop lights. Chey twisted in the seat, looking back, fixing the route in her mind. Already it was a bit hazy. Familiar landmarks she might have recognized from her earlier outing couldn't all be seen under the cloak of night, leaving her to fixate on clusters of buildings or lighted signs instead.

  Damn. The van took a right. A left.

  By then, her confusion was complete.

  Frustrated, she clenched her teeth until her jaw hurt. Her gaze dropped to the floor of the van in search of something, anything, to use as a weapon. The only thing she saw was a collapsible umbrella.

  Fat lot of good that would do her. It was small, to boot, without even a spiked tip to use for stabbing. She wondered if the handle was thick enough to cause a decent blow if she struck the driver or passenger with it.

  In the meantime, she worked at the rope binding her wrists. The men hadn't been very thorough in this, at least, and the more she wriggled her hands, the looser it became. Small favors. She hid the action from the driver as best as she could. He kept glancing in the rear view mirror, shifty-eyed and menacing.

  A moment after that, she got the rope completely free of her wrists. That was when the idea to use the rope struck. She could choke the driver, cause him to crash, and then, with any luck, she might escape before the men could detain her.

  Discreetly, she toed off the heels. They would only hinder her later. If she got desperate, she might use one. Aim for the eye or the jugular.

  Before she could solidify her plans and act, the driver spat a curse at the windshield.

  Chey looked up from her lap, fearing the driver had seen her free the ropes from her hands.

  With a jolt, the van picked up speed. A lot of speed. The driver wasn't paying attention to her, but something behind on the road.

  Chey twisted around to glance back.

  A sleek black SUV was coming up fast, a heavy duty grill guard in place. It impacted the back bumper of the van, sending the vehicle into a small fishtail.

  Chey gasped. Could it be Sander already? How in the world had he found them?

  The driver of the van cursed again, this time in another language, and corrected the fishtail. He sped ahead, stomping the gas pedal.

  Chey decided it was now or never. If it was Sander, the least she could do was help slow the van down. Wrapping each end of the rope around her hands, she lurched forward and hooked it around the driver's neck. She jerked back with all her might, one foot braced against the seat.

  In the next second, all hell broke loose.

  . . .

  The van swerved hard to the right, throwing Chey's balance off. Overcompensating, the struggling, choking driver veered back the other way, grappling with the steering wheel while attempting to reach back and grab Chey's arm.

  Tenacious, she hung on. Right up until the passenger clocked her in the cheekbone with his elbow. Stunned, she slumped back against the seat, losing her grip on the rope.

  The SUV banged into the back of the van again, harder this time.

  Shouting curses, red faced, the driver whipped the wheel between his hands, left and right, fighting to regain control. The van shot forward again and screeched into a hard right turn at the looming stoplight.

  Chey reached down, feeling around for the umbrella, fending off the irate passenger who had twisted between the seats to try and subdue her. He snatched her hair, eliciting a cry of pain. She scrabbled for his eyes with her fingers, returning the favor. Bastard.

  She scratched harder while unsnapping the clasp on the umbrella. Shoving it up between the seats, she pressed the button and the thing shot open, causing the passenger to fall back against the dashboard. Using the sharp little ends, Chey caught some on the driver's face and pulled.

  Lights flashed through the back windshield as the SUV closed in. This time, the SUV pulled alongside in the other lane and rammed the van on the driver's side.

  Chey yelped and dropped the umbrella.

  The next thing she knew, she was wedged between the front seats, console digging into her ribs. Disoriented, she felt around for a hold on something. Anything.

  What had just happened? The van was no longer moving. She heard a hiss, and ticking, and a buzz that replaced it in her ears. Chey felt like she was underwater, moving much slower than she thought she was.

  The side door of the van opened with a screech of metal. Two men in suits reached in to extract Chey from the seats, hands gentle yet firm. One of the men fished a phone out of the driver's pocket before they were through.

  “What happened? Sander?” Chey sought their faces as they pulled her free of the van and got her feet on the ground. Woozy, she stumbled. A hand shot out to wrap her waist and provide something sturdy to lean on. She saw the van had crashed into a lamp post, the entire hood crumpled in over the engine. The driver and passenger were slumped against airbags, unconscious.

  Guiding her forward to the SUV that had sustained minimal damage thanks to the grill guard, the suited men loaded her into the back seat with all due haste. One climbed into the front seat, another behind.

  Chey glanced across the seat.

  Instead of Sander, she found herself staring at Mattias.

  . . .

  Gone was the aloof man who had appeared so indifferent in the hotel room. This Mattias wore concern in his dark eyes and a vague frown on his brow. Chey stared at him, head swimming from the impact of the van with the lamppost. She didn't even remember the crash.

  “Are you all right?” Mattias asked. “We have a lot to discuss. Things, obviously, are not what they appear to be.”

  “Obviously,” Chey said. She didn't know if she was all right or not. Her body was numb, her thoughts scattered. She didn't know who to trust or whether she should be trying to escape yet again.

  “It's a long story, one I will fill you in on when we meet up with Sander.”

  “We're meeting up with Sander? Was he in on this, too? I don't understand.” Nothing made sense to Chey. It was too complicated, too perverse. One brother pitted against the other, a King with murder on his mind, an heir headed for exile.

  “No, he knew nothing. It had to be this way. I needed the men in the hotel room to report back to the King—and for the King to believe them. It had to be real, at least in the moment.” Mattias paused to touch her shoulder, a gentle splay of masculine fingers. “I had men waiting to intercept Sander before he left the hotel. We're meeting up at another hotel not far.”

  “Someone could have gotten killed,” she snapped, patience at an end. She didn't
brush off Mattias's hand, even if she wasn't sure she could trust him.

  “Yes. Any one of us, should the King have discovered my duplicity. We'll be there shortly.” Mattias removed his touch and engaged the driver in their mother tongue.

  Chey didn't know what to think. She stared out the window, rubbing her ribs with a palm. There would be bruises, no doubt. Otherwise, a spot on her leg hurt, and one of her shoulders, but that was all. No blood that she could see. The seats had spared her the worst of it.

  Brooding, she crossed her arms over her middle and watched the glittering city of Dubai fly by out the windows. She couldn't appreciate the glamor or the beauty after a night like tonight. And it wasn't just tonight. It was the entire thing. The whole shebang.

  Was this really what it was like to be a part of Royalty? Did these extremes go on all the time? She recalled reading about this chase or that kidnapping or other horrors regarding the elite of the world. Stories that had seemed so far removed from her reality in Seattle, Washington. Chey understood things happened, and that there were people who would see harm come to leaders and the ruling class. This happened to be the King, however, acting against his firstborn son. Was it normal? Were the children of Royalty really forced to bend to the will of their superiors and elders?

  It was mind boggling.

  Sooner than later, the SUV pulled into an underground parking garage not unlike the one she'd left not long ago. It tested her nerves, put her patience on edge again.

  Parking near an elevator bank, the suited men disembarked and came around to help her to the ground. Barefoot, the concrete cold on her skin, she padded to the elevator with Mattias hovering at her back.

  They rode up in silence.

  She wasn't sure what hotel they were at, or where they were in the city. The chase and chaos had totally obliterated her sense of direction.

  The light chimed above floor number 20. Opening onto what appeared to be a regular floor of a well appointed hotel, Chey allowed Mattias to guide her to a set of double doors with a gold plaque on the wall listing the suite as number 204. She noted there were few other doors on this floor as well; perhaps it was one of the private floors reserved for celebrities or the like.

  One of the guards opened the door with a pass card, stepping back to allow Mattias in first.

  Chey followed on Mattias's heels, immediately searching for Sander. The suite was not as elaborate as the penthouse of the Royal Regency, but it was nevertheless a five star appointment. Rich mahogany paired with tapestry covered furniture and leather to create an almost Victorian feel.

  Sander paced through the room, agitation clear in the line of his shoulders. Once he saw Mattias and Chey, he cut across the space and gathered her into his arms.

  Chey slid her arms around his neck, relief making her knees weak. Thank God.

  Mattias hadn't lied. Sander was in one piece, albeit banged up from the confrontation with the armed assailants.

  “You look a bit of a wreck. Are you all right?” Sander asked near her ear.

  “I'm fine. Just a few bruises.” Her cheek sported a good one from the backhand, easy to ignore for now. Later there would be time for ice, maybe a hot bath to ease the ache starting to collect in her muscles from the crash. “What about you?”

  Sander leaned back and cupped her face in his palms. “Fine, fine. Come sit down.” He led her to a plush sofa and helped her down into the cushions.

  “I'd really like to know what's going on,” she said once she was settled. What she wanted was a change of clothes and something hot to drink. Maybe even something spiked.

  Sander perched on the arm of the sofa at her side and looked across at Mattias.

  “You know,” Sander said. “If I hadn't known for sure you were on my side, I would have sworn you'd been baited to work for the King.”

  Mattias poured himself a drink from a sidebar. “As I told Chey in the car, it had to be real. The men had to believe I was on his side, not yours. It's still very important to keep that charade up for now.”

  “What the hell is going on, Mattias? What's this about exile? He has to know I'll never agree to that.”

  Mattias kicked back a healthy swallow before speaking. “I overheard him talking about these plans in his private parlor. He didn't realize I was there. He's furious, ready to denounce you and remove you entirely from the line of successors. Exile is a good way to prevent you from ever being able to ascend in his wake. If you do it on your own merit, it allows him to save face in front of our people, you see.”

  “I have a hard time believing he would go to this extreme just because of who I choose to date.”

  “It's not just that it isn't their choosing—which is a lot of it, you know how they are—but that she's American. A foreigner with no standing, no family, no political advantage. And you seriously pissed him off with the threat of removing him from the throne. He's on a tear, ready to do whatever it takes,” Mattias replied.

  Chey cringed inside at how cavalier it sounded. She might not have all those things any longer, but she was still human for crying out loud, still compassionate and caring and good-hearted over all. Didn't that account for anything? She squeezed Sander's hand when he reached down to grasp hers. As if he knew, rightly so, that it might be hard for her to hear.

  “Why didn't you just confront him in the parlor?” Sander asked. “Wouldn't it have been easier to try and change his mind?”

  “There is no changing his mind. Not only that, he made a peculiar statement that has sat ill with me ever since. He said, Sander will go into exile—one way or another. It was his tone, the absolute certainty he could make it happen. I started to think he has some other ace up his sleeve and decided on the spot that I would intercept the carrier and insert myself into the plans. They undoubtedly reported back to the King that I did so, that I'm here under my own power, with the intent to see his plot through for my own gain. The throne will be mine, technically, if you go into exile. What I'm trying to do is buy us time. I want Aksel to believe I'm pushing for the same agenda he is.” Mattias leaned against the side of a couch and glanced between Sander and Chey.

  Sander stroked a thumb across Chey's knuckles while he listened. He said, “What else could he have though, that would force me into exile? I can't think of anything.”

  “I can't either, but that doesn't mean there isn't some secret he's been keeping. He and mother have a wealth of them, you know that.”

  Sander grunted. “Yes.”

  “So what does this mean, then? What is your plan from here?” Chey asked.

  “It means we will allow the others to think you have been handed off—which reminds me. Byron, use that phone and send a text to the others saying Chey has been secured for the night. In the morning at seven, send another text that she has been handed over to a man named Saul.” Mattias glanced over his shoulder to one of two suited men still in the suite. Men obviously working for Mattias and Sander, or at least loyal to their cause.

  Byron inclined his head and fished out the phone to send his text.

  Mattias picked up where he left off. “Anyway, we want them to think you are on your way to some sordid trafficking center while Sander goes back to Latvala. What I think should happen is that you have a meeting with the King, brother, and try to force him to expose whatever other ace he's got up his sleeve so we can deal with it.”

  Sander rubbed his fingers over the ridge of his jaw. “That's really all I can do at this point. If I don't show up, he'll try and track Chey's whereabouts down to make double sure she's not with me, and our cover will be blown.”

  “Exactly. I will be there as well, with any luck, by invitation of the King. I expect he'll want to enforce the idea that I'm working with him and that I am ready to accept the official position as Heir. It keeps me close to him, in case he decides to confide in me. We'll work him from both angles,” Mattias said.

  “This seems impossible,” Chey said. “Has it really come to this? He's your father. I have a
hard time wrapping my head around the fact he can be so callous as to throw his own son out of his life. Out of the country, for that matter.”

  Sander and Mattias turned their attention on Chey.

  “Remember, I mentioned that the tension goes back beyond this. Further than you. I think it's a culmination of things. Never mind he's pissed that I threatened to throw him off the throne and take his place now, before his time as ruler has passed. That alone might have made him take more aggressive action,” Sander said.

  “True, very true,” Mattias agreed. “He is possessive of his title. Most monarchs are. Few will give it up until they're absolutely forced to.”

  Chey recalled that the Queen of England, quite late on in her years, had yet to hand her title down to her son. She wondered if the Queen would continue to rule until her death, or until she became mentally incapable. Perhaps there were laws in place preventing her from handing power down before then. Chey couldn't be sure.

  “You would be surprised at what goes on behind the scenes, Chey,” Sander said. He lowered his voice, watching her face as he spoke. “Some are far worse than my father, who thinks he is in the right to press his hand. Maybe he is, but it's not in my nature to bow to that kind of pressure. They groomed me to be King—and that's what I will become.”

  Chey regarded Sander's determined expression. He was a different man now than the one who had sat so stone faced in the hotel room. Yet she detected gears turning underneath his calmer exterior, working out ideas and plans in the back of his mind. She believed him, too, when he said he would one day become King.

  “I guess I would be surprised, though I shouldn't after Elise's failed attempt to kill me and your father's order banning me from the country,” she said.