Adrienne was jolted into semi-consciousness by an abrupt, unexpected, and unpleasant sensation that her weight had been suddenly lifted up and then immediately pressed forcibly back down, but it did not rouse her enough to determine what might have generated that strange impression. Her mind was strangely sluggish, unable to rationalize or make conscious thoughts or movements. Her eyelids were heavy, too heavy to lift, and she gave up trying to open them, allowing herself to slip back into the comfortable darkness.

When she was roused a second time, she had no memory of the previous brief waking and was therefore unaware of the amount of time that had passed between them, nor was she aware that she was anyplace other than her comfortable bed with Justin by her side. And unlike the previous time, the drowsy fog that had kept her firmly within its clutches was ebbing, allowing cognizance to slowly return, as if she was merely awaking from her nightly sleep.

It soon became clear, however, that something was wrong. She seemed enveloped in an unpleasant floating sensation, and she suddenly wondered if she was suffering from vertigo, like she had during that inner ear infection a few years ago. It was that thought that kept her eyes firmly closed, knowing that if she opened them and saw the room whirling from the dizziness, she risked becoming sick. She would have to wait for it to ease before she dared even move!

She did not bother to suppress her groan of protest, recalling that horrible day when her equilibrium had been so badly affected by the ear infection. Not again! She had been totally worthless that day of a half, unable to even get out of bed, and leaving Justin and the boys to fend for themselves. As soon as she was able to drag herself out of bed, she would get Justin to drive her to the doctor to see if he could give her something for the dizziness.

It was then that she realized she was not in bed, and she had not just awakened from a normal sleep. She was lying on her side with a high cushion at her back, and the steady humming of a motor suggested that she was inside a vehicle of some kind.

Struggling to remember the events leading up to her loss of consciousness, she carefully turned over the day's activities in her mind: She had first gotten Justin out of bed. Even though it was Saturday, he had elected to go into the office for a few hours to catch up on some paperwork when there would be no phone calls or clients to distract him. The boys were out of school for the summer, so she had allowed them to sleep a little longer before heading out to visit with friends. Then she had gone to the grocery store to pick up some ribs, chicken, sausage, and steak for the barbeque they had planned with friends that evening. After taking her purchases home and putting them away, she had left the house to have lunch with her mother.

That was where her memory stopped, and she realized with a jolt of surprise that she had never arrived. Something had happened in the parking garage. Someone had stuck her with a needle, and . . .

Her eyes popped open, but nothing could have prepared her for astonishing reality that greeted her. She was lying on the rear seat of a small airplane!

Directly ahead of her was the back of the co-pilot's seat, and through the windows was the blue sky and fluffy white clouds. That explained the sensation of vertigo, although she knew that the drugs he had injected her with might be partially responsible for the lingering dizziness.

With a complete command of her senses now, she discovered that her hands were tied behind her back, and her ankles were also tied together. Overkill, she thought wryly. At this altitude, where would she run, even if she could get loose?

Sensing movement nearby, she lifted her head off the seat and saw the head, shoulders, and upper back of the man in the pilot's seat. From her position directly behind him, she could not see his face, just the back of his head and his short blond hair.

The plane dipped slightly as it passed through some turbulence. Her head swam dizzily, and she laid it back down, feeling grateful that she had missed lunch. Although she could not see his face, she was confident that the pilot was the same man who had drugged and kidnapped her. The question now was why. Was he after money? Did he hope to extort money from Justin? Justin was a well-known attorney in the Dallas/Fort Worth area and was a member of the wealthy and affluent Kiriakis family, so it would not be surprising that his family might be the target of an extortion attempt.

She tugged at the rope around her wrists to see if they were loose enough that she could maneuver her way out of them, but it only pulled tighter. Abandoning the attempt, she rested for a few moments, trying to decide what to do. There was very little she could do until they were back on the ground, but then, if she could get her feet free, perhaps she could head-butt him when he opened the door and run away. She quickly discarded that notion as an extreme long shot. He would recover before she could get out of the plane, and there was no way of knowing what he would do to her when he caught her again.

Where was he taking her? She had no idea how long she had been unconscious, so it was impossible to determine how long they had been in the air. They could be traveling a short distance, perhaps to a holding sight until they could contact Justin. There was a lot of wilderness in the Texas countryside, and a plane like this could easily land on a deserted country road. He could be taking her to a remote location in order to commit some crime against her.

Her stomach tightened with dread. As a young woman, she had been brutally raped by her own father, Duke Johnson, the man who had routinely beaten his wife, and from whom her mother had sought to protect her two young sons by placing them in an orphanage. Adrienne had shot him after the rape, and for a long time she had dealt with the ramifications, both physically and emotionally, of the rape and the shooting. That was behind her now; she had recovered from the event, but the thought that it might happen again by a complete stranger was enough to make her feel sick to her stomach.

"I know you're awake, Mrs. Kiriakis," the pilot said over the hum of the plane's engine. "You were under a lot longer than I thought you would be, though. I was starting to worry about you." He had turned his head slightly toward her, even though she knew he could not see her from that angle. It provided her a good view of his profile, and she looked at him closely.

He was fairly attractive as far as criminals went, clean shaven and well groomed, but that offered her no comfort. He was just a clean-cut kidnapper.

"Who are you and what the hell do you want from me?" she asked in a confrontational voice that surprised even her. Her insides were quaking with fear, but she felt an unexpected pleasure that it had not come through in her voice.

He laughed, pleasantly, abut she felt her cheeks heat up, knowing he was making fun of her. "You're a scrapper, aren't you?" he asked. "Don't worry, though. I meant it when I said that no harm would come to you, so just relax and enjoy the ride. From what I've deduced, you're just going to be some leverage to convince your brother to cooperate with my employer. That's all."

Adrienne didn't believe his assurances that she would not be harmed, yet at the same time she did not doubt that her brother Jack could acquire information that others might want. He was, after all, an investigative journalist. So, this was not about Justin after all. It was about Jack. What had he gotten himself into this time?

"Where are you taking me?" she asked, then the answer came to her immediately. "Back to Salem?"

"You're very perceptive, Mrs. Kiriakis," he confirmed. "We'll be on the ground in a few more hours, so just relax."

Adrienne did not want to relax, but it seemed she had little choice but to lie there on that small airplane seat at the total mercy of her captor.

The pilot fell silent for a while, concentrating on the controls, but she noticed that he seemed totally at ease and was presumably experienced, a fact that was somewhat comforting.

Her thoughts drifted to her mother, who must be frantic with worry, and to Justin and their four sons. The pilot had not revealed the exact time, but she knew her family must be aware by now that she was missing, and it was upsetting to know that they were worrying about her.

"Did you let my family know I'm all right?" she asked.

"They'll find out soon enough," he replied. "Think of how relieved and happy they'll be when you get back home."

Adrienne took no comfort from his casual, almost flippant reply, and in fact felt angered by it, but she made no comment, knowing it might work against her if she offended him.

She fell silent, thinking about her brother and the fact that her kidnapper apparently planned to use her as leverage. She and Jack had never been very close, not like she had become with Steve, and she wondered how accommodating he would be. They had both matured a great deal be willing to negotiate her release.

Hours later, Adrienne's ears popped uncomfortably, the first indication that the airplane was descending in its approach into Salem.

Lying on her side, unable to sit up of change position, it had been a long and uncomfortable trip. The drug that had been used in her kidnapping had worn off completely, making her more aware of the cable ties that had been used to bind her wrists and ankles. In vain, she had attempted to free her hands, but they were bound tightly, resulting in painful bruises and abrasions, and she was forced to give up her efforts.

From her reclining position in the back seat, she watched the back of the pilot's head as he made the adjustments necessary to reach the landing sight, and she wondered where that might be. She knew it would not be a well-used airport, not even a smaller airport where there were many private pilots coming and going, for it would be too difficult to explain the presence of a woman who was clearly bound as a captive or a hostage. More than likely, it would be some remote location or private airport with little to no traffic, perhaps some old abandoned and long forgotten airstrip.

She wondered again if she might be able to surprise the pilot in some way once they were on the ground. Unless he planned to carry her, he would have to untie her feet. One good, well-placed kick was all it would take to disable him temporarily, and then she could run like hell.

The plane dipped sharply as it caught a downdraft, and Adrienne gasped at the unpleasant sensation that her stomach had been left behind. Alarmed, wondering again about his experience, her eyes darted to the pilot, seeking reassurance.

Apparently accustomed to such things, he was unaffected by the dip, and continued to work the controls in a calm manner. The plane leveled off briefly, and then she felt her ears pop again as they gradually continued to descend.

Finally, he said over his shoulder, "We're about to touch down, so you'll feel a bump in a minute."

A few moments later, she felt the wheels touch down, and the plane traveled a short distance down the runway as it reduced speed. Then the pilot turned it toward the area he intended to park, and he eased it into a complete stop. Still reclining, she could see the top of a large building, presumably a hangar.

When he opened the cockpit door and climbed out, she tensed, knowing that if she was going to make an escape, the moment was nearing. But her hope of surprising the pilot with an unexpected kick or head-butt plummeted when she heard another voice.

"Did you get her?" The man spoke with a distinct British accent, and despite the commanding tone, she detected a trace of anxiety in his voice.

"Yes," the pilot replied. "Couldn't have been easier. She's tied up in the back seat. The drug worked just like you said it would. Knocked her out almost immediately."

"Good job," the British man said approvingly. "Your payment is inside."

The side door opened, bringing the sound of cicadas into the cabin, and Adrienne twisted on the seat to look into the faces of her abductors. For the first time, she had a full view of the pilot's face. He was older than she had thought, but still much younger than the British man who stood beside him, both of them appraising her as if they were window shopping.

The British man wore a business suit, giving him a very distinguished look. His hairline had receded, and the remaining hair was combed severely back from his face, and seemingly unaffected by the gentle breeze that stirred the hair of the pilot.

"Well, well, well. Mrs. Kiriakis, the Johnson sister, trussed up like Grandmother's Christmas turkey. I trust you had a nice flight. Sorry we had no refreshments for you, but I'm sure you figured out by now that this is not a pleasure trip."

She wanted to make a snarky response to his spiteful comments, but knew that they held her fate in their criminal hands, so she decided it might be imprudent to insult them. So she said nothing, and simply thought angry thoughts to herself.

"What, now, cat got your tongue?" the British man taunted.

Adrienne frowned. She had no idea who this man was or why he was acting like he held such contempt for her, but he did not rise to his challenge to engage in a battle of insults.

"No comment?" he said, derisively. "And here I thought all you Johnsons were saucy and audacious. You disappoint me."

In response to the rude man's unprovoked antagonism, another male voice spoke, this one also with a British accent, but without the distinctively jeering quality, "Leave her alone, Mr. Vaughn. She's done nothing to you. She's merely a pawn in all this."

Adrienne's eyes fell upon this third man who had approached from behind. He was younger than the other two, and his face was more pleasant with none of the hostility she saw in the countenance of the other Englishman.

The one called Vaughn was clearly in charge and clearly displeased with the insubordination. He gave the younger man a look of silent reprimand, then said, "Get her out of there and let's go inside. I don't want that plane sitting out here any longer than necessary"

He stepped back, and the younger one climbed into the narrow space inside the plane, and cut the cable tie that bound her ankles. He tossed it aside, then took a firm grip on her arm and helped her out onto the concrete. "Watch your step getting out," he cautioned.

Her legs were shaking, partly from fear, partly from lying in the same cramped position for so long, and her ankle nearly gave out when she stepped from the plane. She recovered quickly, but he noticed her unsteady gait.

"Can you make it?" he asked in a kind voice.

She nodded. "I think so."

He maintained a firm hold on her arm as he led her away from the plane, but the gesture seemed less about control than an offer of assistance. Her arms were still tied behind her back, and he was careful not to pull her off balance. Under different circumstances, she might have

liked him, but she did not confuse the fact that whatever this was about, he was involved in her kidnapping, and therefore just as guilty as the others.

As she walked, she got her first look at the landing site, and it was not what she had expected. The runway was, in fact, a narrow, paved access road, and what she had thought was a hanger was clearly an abandoned warehouse, large and sprawling, but there was no hint at what it might have been used for. On one end of the building were the loading docks with their large garage style doors, now closed and padlocked. She was being led toward a narrow door, already standing open to receive them, and beside it was another garage style door, this one smaller than the ones at the top of the loading docks, presumably for deliveries made by vehicles

other than large semi-trucks.

The pilot reached the door first and disappeared through it, apparently no longer interested in his captive, now that his job was complete. Adrienne entered next, followed directly by the younger British man, who had not yet let go of her. With his hand enclosing her upper arm,

she had no choice but to enter, hoping it was not a fatal mistake. Vaughn brought up the rear, and Adrienne glanced over her shoulder at him, uneasy at having him behind her.

Inside the door, no one paused, nor did they allow her to pause. It was not dark inside, as she had expected, for there were some windows high up on the walls that permitted sunlight to enter. A car was sitting just inside the garage style door, and she knew they were keeping it out of sight.

They led her across the smooth concrete floor to the opposite side of the warehouse, where a sort of living area had been set up with several pieces of obviously cast-off furniture.

A sofa was sitting against the wall with a badly scuffed end table and a lumpy recliner were arranged in front of it in the way a person might assemble living room furniture. A dozen yards away in a separate area were several other chairs, a card table, and a lamp.

Adrienne was led to the sofa, confirming that this area had been arranged for her minimal comfort. The other area was obviously intended for whoever would be guarding her. She hoped it would not be Vaughn, for there was no doubt that he would resume his antagonism.

"Sit down," she was instructed.

She did as she was told, and to her astonishment, Vaughn approached with a shackle and a length of chain, the other end of which was securely fastened to a vertical support beam. He passed the shackle to the younger Englishman, who knelt and fastened it around her ankle, securing it with a small key lock.

His expression was apologetic when he looked up into her face, his eyes briefly meeting hers. "There is enough length to walk around a bit," he told her. "You can sit on either the sofa or the recliner, whichever you prefer. The loo is over there," he added, indicating a closed door a short distance away.

"The loo?" she asked.

"Lavatory. Bathroom. There is a gap at the bottom of the door that should permit the chain to fit under it, so you can close the door completely for privacy."

She looked at it and confirmed that there was a two-inch space between the door and floor, then looked into his face, certain she saw sympathy there. "Why are you doing this to me? Why am I here?"

He looked away briefly with a decidedly guilty expression, but when he looked back, he had regained his composure. "Just sit tight. You'll be out of here soon."

He stood up and backed away.

Nearby, in the other area, Vaughn passed the pilot an envelope, presumably his payment for delivering her, and he opened it up and thumbed through the stack of bills.

"You're very generous, Mr. Vaughn," he said, pleased. "Thanks."

Vaughn gave a curt nod, indicating that the pilot was not only dismissed, he had already been congratulated on a job well done and deserved no additional recognition. "Remember, your silence is expected."

"Hey, I can be very discrete," he assured him. "I did the job and collected my pay. The rest is none of my business. If I can be of any further use to you -"

"We'll call you," Vaughn said shortly. "Don't linger in Salem. I want that plane out of here, now." He then turned his back, demonstrating that the conversation was over.

The pilot took the hint and made his exit. A few minutes later, they heard the airplane engine start again.

Vaughn waited until the plane had departed, the sound of its engine fading into the distance, then he addressed Adrienne. "In answer to your question, my dear, you are bait. You shouldn't be here very long, provided your brother is willing to cooperate with us. I do apologize for bringing you all the way back to Salem, but it was necessary. His wife was supposed to be the one to convince him to adhere to our demands, but circumstances did not work out to our favor. You were the backup plan. We know he thinks very highly of you, highly enough that he was willing to go to prison in your place when you killed your father -"

Adrienne shook her head, quickly, assuming that they had confused one brother with the other. "No, that wasn't Jack; that was Steve."

A smile played around the corners of Vaughn's thin lips. "I know."

She started to speak, then stopped herself, puzzled. If he knew that it was Steve who had confessed to killing their father, then how could he make the mistake of not knowing that Steve had been murdered? After a long pause, during which time he did not clarify, she said, "I don't understand. Steve is dead."

"Is he?" Vaughn asked, the corners of his mouth crinkling in a smile that did not quite reach his eyes.

"Of course he is. I was at the funeral. I saw him lying in his coffin at the funeral home."

"But did you check to see if he was in it before it was lowered into the ground?"

The younger man had been listening with growing annoyance. "You're one sick bastard, you know that?" he asked.

"I would watch my tongue if I were you, Carlton," Vaughn said. "You can be replaced, you know."

"Too late in the game for that. You need me, and you know it."

Vaughn glanced at his watch, as if bored with the conversation. Ignoring Carlton's comment, he said, "It's getting late. I'm going to the hotel now, Carlton. If there is any kind of emergency, you can phone me, but otherwise I'd like to enjoy myself while I'm here. I expect to have Donovan's number by morning, so I'll come straight here once I receive it. Jennings will relieve you at midnight. And Carlton," he added in a menacing tone. "Don't get any ideas. You know the penalty for disloyalty."

With a confident stride, Vaughn turned and walked toward the car, opened the door, and got inside, muttering a complaint to himself about the steering wheel being positioned on the wrong side. Clearly accustomed to being in command, he waited impatiently while Carlton opened the garage-style door, then he backed the vehicle out and drove away along the narrow road that the

plane had used as a runway.

After he had gone, Carlton lowered the garage door again, and walked back toward the separate area that had been set up with chairs, his shoes tapping hollowly on the smooth concrete floor. Picking up a book from the card table, he opened it up as he sat down in one of the chairs, settling in for guard duty.

Adrienne watched him, her brain filled with unanswered questions. Vaughn had alluded to the possibility that Steve's body might not have been inside the coffin when it was buried. Where, then, was her brother? Unable to accept the veiled suggestion that Steve might be alive, she wondered if they had they stolen his body. And for what purpose.

"Mr. Carlton," she ventured.

He looked up from his book.

"What did that other man mean about Steve? Did he steal Steve's body before the funeral?"

Carlton sighed and set his book aside, clearly unhappy with being placed in a position where he must deal with the questions their hostage would naturally have about Vaughn's vague hints about her brother. But Vaughn had left no specific instructions that he must keep silent about it, and

informing her himself would prevent additional taunting and torment from his cruel employer. "I suppose there is no reason I can't tell you. You're going to find out soon enough. Steve Johnson is alive."

His words drilled into her mind like the stab of a knife, or perhaps the proverbial ton of bricks being dropped from high above, leaving her numbed with astonishment.

"I'm sorry," he said, sympathetically. "I know it's hard to hear, knowing how close you two apparently were. I wasn't involved in the kidnapping," he added, uncertain why he was even bothering to tell her that. "I was just hired to see to his needs and to make certain he didn't escape."

Her first reaction was vehement denial. There was no way Steve could be alive. She had seen the body at the funeral home! She had touched his cold face, and wept beside his coffin. Kayla was a medical professional. They would not have been able to fool her.

"No, that can't be!" she retorted, heatedly. "You're mistaken! His wife was a nurse at the time. She was with him when he died. She would know! I don't know what you and that other man, that Vaughn or whatever his name is, are up to, but it's cruel and malicious!"

Carlton's face was sympathetic. "It's true, Mrs. Kiriakis. I've been his guard for the last eight years. It's too complicated to explain, and I don't have all the answers anyway, but his death was faked. He escaped from us a few days ago, and we've been trying to recapture him ever since. We know that he arrived in Salem sometime this morning, with Shane Donovan. He's here, right now, and our intent is to get him back."

She fell silent again as her mind struggled to come to terms with the alteration of everything she had believed over the past 15 years.

"I know it's hard for you to accept. In your place, I would have doubts as well. But I assure you, it is the truth. We would not be here, otherwise."

She looked up at him, and even from the distance, he could see the tears glistening in her eyes. "How can this be?" She asked. "If this is true, why did they do this to him?"

Here, Carlton hesitated. Telling her that her brother was alive was one thing; revealing the details of his incarceration and the reason behind it was another. "He has information needed by someone very powerful," he said, cautiously, then added quickly, "I don't know who the person is, or what the information is, specifically. I only know that he's very rich and very influential, and my boss is scared as hell of him. That's why we're here, and that's why you were brought here as a bargaining chip. You will be exchanged for him."

Adrienne's respiration increased. If Steve was alive, she knew beyond a doubt that he would willingly hand himself over to save her. Her only recourse was to attempt to prevent that exchange from happening.

"Can I talk to him?" she asked.

He nodded. "Probably. Vaughn is working to obtain Shane Donovan's phone number, and when we do, we'll give him a call and make the arrangements. I'm sure Vaughn will allow you to talk to him as a way of letting him know that we actually have you in our custody."

Her expression changed to panic. "No!" she protested. "Please don't do this! If he's really alive, just leave him alone!" Changing tactics, she appealed to his sense of decency. "I can tell your heart isn't in this thing that you're doing. Steve's brother in law, Roman, is Chief of Police. Let me go, and I'm sure he can help you out of this mess."

Carlton looked at her for a long moment, then shook his head. "I can't. I'm sorry."

As if to convey to her that the conversation was over, he set his book aside and walked outside, presumably to check the area for unwanted attention.