by Jami Gray
Ricochet grimaced. “I’m pretty sure we did.”
I tightened my grip on her hand as she stiffened at my side, trying to pull away. “What do you mean?”
Ricochet motioned to the mist wrapped around her calves.
She followed where he indicated, and her face paled. “Seriously?” She scooted closer to me.
“Consider that his way into your mind.” Ricochet’s tone was hard, his face even more so. He jerked a thumb at the typewriter. “Add in touching that, and you’ve got a unique detection system. You’ve basically picked up the phone and called him.”
I didn’t think she could get any paler, but she proved me wrong. “Which means he’s coming,” she said.
Ricochet nodded. “Yeah, and I don’t think we want to be here when he arrives.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Not needing to be told twice, I held tight to Bishop’s hand as we made a hasty exit from the store. As soon as we left, the whisper in my mind gained strength and clarity, making my stomach cramp. Fragmented images of the horror-show variety joined the sibilant voice, churning a litany of paranoia until it became a nonstop loop with a voice-over from hell. Fear-induced nausea churned, and I choked it back.
“It’s not real. It’s not real,” I chanted under my breath as I stumbled along in Bishop’s wake. It wasn’t freaking helping because the farther we went, the more twisted the mental barrage became until it was the only reality that existed.
“Megan!”
Bishop’s voice was muffled by the hellish taunts, and his face was hidden behind the images filling my mind. “Bishop?”
I spun in a circle, trying to find him, but saw only nightmares. The fog from earlier was back, playing peek-a-boo with the scenery. It parted briefly, offering me a heart-stopping glimpse of two motionless bodies crumpled in the surreal landscape. Recognition hit. Bishop and Ricochet. Agony ripped through me, leaving my chest aching.
Pulse pounding, I stumbled forward, only to stop short when Dev stepped through the creeping fog, his hand pressed against his ravaged chest. Blood seeped through his fingers, and his pain-lined face lifted, betrayal and agonized fury blazing in his eyes. “Your fault,” he hissed.
“Dev!” A mix of horrified guilt and grief propelled me forward as a choked cry escaped me. I reached for him, but my frantic hands passed right through him. His glare didn’t fade even as he crumpled to his knees in front of me. I followed him down.
“I did warn you,” that hated voice taunted from behind me.
Still on my knees, I jerked around and came face-to-face with writhing shadows and the same vague form that had chased me for weeks. “Fuck you!” Blinded with useless fury, I lunged to my feet, hands curled into claws. God knew what I thought I’d be able to do, but the urge to hurt and maim drove me.
I was caught in a haze of violent intent, and nothing penetrated it until an immovable object interrupted my forward momentum, knocking me back a step. Only the cruel hands locked around my arms kept me upright, the fingers pinching my nerves and sending a bright burst of flaring pain.
“Megan! Dammit, it’s me. Look at me!”
Bishop’s snarl cut through the taunts and whispers, and for a moment, the haze cleared. Bishop’s face took its place, his expression marred by fury and concern. I quit fighting and instead clutched at him, staring hard, afraid that if I blinked, he’d return to lying dead behind me. “You’re here.”
Relief flickered in his dark eyes. “Right here, babe. I’m right fucking here.”
It wasn’t until Ricochet came up behind him, his normally impassive face revealing a matching worry in the small white lines around his mouth, that I believed. Seeing both of them upright and breathing not only allowed Bishop’s reassurance to sink in but also dragged my brain back to rational thought. “Okay, okay. They’re okay.”
Hearing myself speak helped but didn’t stop the stupid voices or the images that flickered, like mocking flames, in the corners of my eyes. Scared that those nightmares would suck me back under, I focused on Ricochet and Bishop with single-minded intensity.
“We’re okay.” Ricochet watched me carefully, but he directed his next comment to Bishop. “He’s using her fear to strengthen his hold, which means our exit is compromised.”
I knew that what he said should worry me. Panic nibbled at my heels, but I refused to chase it down, more concerned with holding it at bay. Having the living, breathing proof of Bishop standing in front of me helped keep what was real and what wasn’t untangled. It left little room for pride, and fear stripped everything away except the unvarnished truth. “I’m barely holding on, Ricochet. Isn’t there another way out of here?”
Oh, please, God, let there be some way out. I didn’t know how long I could hold out before my composure and mind broke under the unrelenting pressure. If that happened here in a world of my mental making, it wasn’t just me who would pay the price. Endangering the two men willing to risk themselves to stay with me wasn’t an option.
My hands tightened on Bishop’s arms. “You and Ricochet need to get out of here.”
He didn’t respond, but something in his expression warned me that he wasn’t going to agree.
Fear and desperation rode me, and I tried to push him away, but he didn’t budge. “You need to go now!” It shouldn’t be that hard, for fuck’s sake. Ricochet is a damn dream-walker.
“We aren’t leaving you behind,” snapped Bishop.
As my hold on sanity slipped, frustration made me speak harshly. “If Ricochet can get you out, get out!” I tried to jerk out of his hold and failed miserably. “Dammit, Bishop, let me go!”
Ricochet spoke over Bishop’s growl. “Megan.” When I stilled, he said, “I need you to trust me. Can you do that?”
Holding that grimly determined gaze, I gathered the shredded remains of my composure like a tattered jacket. “If it means you two get clear, then, yeah.” I’d trust the devil himself if it meant keeping them safe.
“Then I need you to calm down and picture your tower. Can you do that for me?”
Swallowing hard, I nodded.
“Good. You do your part, and I promise I’ll get us clear.” He managed a small grin. “Don’t forget the door, okay?”
Right, because he needs a way out. The clawing at my mind left me doubting my ability to follow any exit Ricochet could create, at least while I was holding the dreamscape for him, but at least the tower was relatively safe. I’d do whatever I needed to get them away from this mess. As for me, if I couldn’t make it out, I could hunker down and wait it out. Maybe they’d make it back for me. Maybe.
I closed my eyes and did my best to steady my breathing as I worked through my mental chaos. It felt like forever before I pictured the stone tower, complete with a door. Since Ricochet didn’t rush me, it could have been minutes, maybe less—not that it mattered. “I’ve got it.”
The men didn’t answer. Instead, the ground rolled underfoot, throwing me forward. As I lost my balance, I kept my eyes shut, desperately holding on to the image of the tower, and braced for impact. Instead of a bruising fall, I landed against something hard and warm. Blinking my eyes open at the startling sensation, I found myself sprawled across Bishop’s lap, staring into his face, my heart pounding and my mouth dry. The marina photo on the wall behind him told me we were back where he couldn’t reach.
Awkwardly, I pushed away, trying to sit up, but Bishop was determined to make sure I stayed close. I relented and sat stiffly in his lap as I ran a shaky hand through my hair, which had somehow escaped its band, and dragged the strands out of my face. Ricochet sprawled in the easy chair, his legs stretched in front of him, his fingers flexing on the armrest.
It was time for answers. “Where…? How…?” I couldn’t figure out how to start.
“I had to take control of the dreamscape,” Ricochet said. “To do that, I needed you to trust me.”
I frowned. “I trust you.”
“No, you don’t.” His firm response wasn’t
unkind. “On some level, you were determined to sacrifice yourself for us because you thought that was the only way out. To get your trust, even momentarily, I had to make you believe I’d be willing to leave you behind while we escaped.”
Why did that make me feel like apologizing? It wasn’t like I would have done anything differently. Not if it meant keeping Bishop—and by extension, Ricochet—safe. So if he was waiting for an apology, he had a long wait ahead of him.
Undeterred by my mutinous silence, he kept going, his voice a low whip of reprimand. “As a dream-walker, it’s crucial for you to maintain control of your emotions. Emotions influence the dreamscape. Your fear paralyzes you, and you can’t afford that if you intend to turn the tables on the bastard who took you.”
His verbal hand slap sparked a mix of remorse and resentment. I muttered, “And here I thought fear was supposed to give you an edge.” It wasn’t as if I wanted to be afraid, but at the time, it had all seemed too terrifyingly real.
Bishop answered my surly comment with logic. “It can, but you have to accept it first. Once you acknowledge that there’s nothing you can do to change what scares you, you realize your only option is to go through it.”
I dropped my gaze as heat flooded my cheeks. Logically, what he said made perfect sense, but putting it into practice was a whole other kettle of fish.
Unfortunately, Ricochet wasn’t done with his lecture. “If we’re going to use you as bait, you have trust us.”
Before I could respond, Bishop added solemnly, “Rico’s right. To make this work, you have to know down to your soul that we not only have your back, but we know what we’re doing as well.”
The gravity of the conversation left little room for embarrassment or skirting the issues. Reaching beyond my knee-jerk defensive response, I acknowledged that they were right. Well, almost right. There was more to it than what they had witnessed. “I don’t think it’s you”—I shot a look at Ricochet to include him— “or you that I don’t trust.”
Ricochet’s expression softened. “You don’t trust yourself.”
“And he uses that,” I said in a low voice. It was a truth I hadn’t forgotten per se, but I’d chosen to ignore it. “To break my hold over the dreamscape.”
“He does,” Ricochet confirmed.
Why it helped to hear that from him, I wasn’t sure, but it did. “When we were in there, one of the things he showed me was the two of you dead.”
“And you thought it was your fault?”
I nodded. Bishop’s hands covered mine, and I couldn’t resist twining my fingers with his, taking comfort in his touch.
“It doesn’t matter how many reassurances we give you,” Ricochet said. “You need to find a way to believe that we won’t let you hurt yourself or us. Even more importantly, you need to find a way to believe in yourself.”
I opened my mouth to argue, but what he said sank in with unsettling clarity. I kept treating this team like they were civilians, when they were the furthest thing from that. As professionals, their relationship with danger was intimate, and they survived threats I couldn’t comprehend. Before my kidnapping, I’d hovered on the outskirts of their lives, or at least what they appeared to be to the outside world. Yet at the end of the day, I went home, safe in my ignorance of what really existed out there, as if their world was a book I could close and put aside. Bishop and his team didn’t get that luxury. In fact, they thrived in this adrenaline-laced environment. The problem for me was my kidnapping blew that safe distance to smithereens. Now I was struggling to find my footing in a world I didn’t understand next to people who knew it better than anyone else. So why couldn’t I believe Bishop when he swore he wouldn’t let me hurt him or them?
As if the question had flipped a profound switch, the answer blindsided me with its simplicity: because it scared me to depend on someone else. And much like when the hated voice taunted me, I was letting fear control my actions. Bishop was right—not only did I need to have faith in the team and their skills, but I also needed to find that same faith in myself.
Meeting Bishop’s patient gaze, I gave a reluctant nod. “I’ll figure it out.” I wasn’t sure how, but I’d figure it out.
Unlike my time with Wolf, my most recent mental excursion had eaten up the rest of the morning and part of the afternoon. Unfortunately, just like before, it also generated the beginnings of a headache, which left my appetite nonexistent. The same could not be said for the two males discussing food options at the small kitchen table. After the third audible stomach rumble came from their direction, I decided to take a break, and I rummaged through the kitchen, piecing together a simple lunch of soup and sandwiches. Culinary wonder I wasn’t, but it gave me something to do instead of being stuck on an endless wheel of worry. Bishop and Ricochet were so engrossed that they barely looked up when I set their lunches next to them. At least they managed to mumble a quick “Thanks” before going back to their discussion.
I was carrying my bowl of soup to the couch—the sandwich was a no-go, thanks to my stomach, which refused to settle—when someone’s phone signaled an incoming text.
Bishop looked up from the notebook he was scribbling in, grabbed the burner phone sitting off to the side, and checked the screen. “It’s Rabbit. He wants us to give him a call in fifteen.”
I settled into the couch. “That’s good news, right?”
Bishop and Ricochet shared a look before Bishop decided to field my question. “It could be.”
“Or it could be that the colonel’s demanding our asses,” Ricochet muttered.
Yeah, or that. I concentrated on my lunch, and Bishop and Ricochet did the same at the tiny table. With each minute that ticked by, the air picked up tension. It made the fifteen-minute wait seem like an excruciating eternity. None of us lingered over lunch. When we were finished, Bishop and Ricochet gathered up the dishes and tackled the cleanup. There wasn’t much room in the kitchen, so I had nothing to do but wait, which was a lot harder than it sounded.
Ricochet was drying the last bowl when Bishop hung up his dish towel and went to the phone lying on the table. He dialed then put the call on Speaker as it rang through.
At ring number three, Rabbit picked up. “Bishop?”
“You’ve got me, Ricochet, and Megan,” Bishop confirmed.
“Good. Means I don’t have to repeat myself.” There was no sign of Rabbit’s accent, and I knew that meant he had something serious to say, and not in a good way.
“Before you get started,” Bishop cut in, watching me, “I have a question for you.”
“Shoot.”
“Any chance you can access Megan’s phone records from the day she was taken?”
I blinked. My phone records? Why does he…? Memories cut that thought short. The call that had drawn me to the park, the one that was supposed to be from Keelie—Bishop was hoping to find out who’d made it. Silently, I wished him and Rabbit luck.
“Probably,” Rabbit blithely answered. “They might be part of the file started when she went MIA.” There were sounds of things being shuffled around, and Rabbit’s voice was muffled for a minute before coming back clear. “Give me a couple of hours. Let me see what I can do when we’re done here.”
“Can do,” Bishop confirmed.
Ricochet finished KP duty and took his seat at the table. With the kitchen area now empty, I made my move. My goal was the coffeepot. There was no way I would be able to sit still while Rabbit shared. Granted, the extra caffeine would cost me, but that was later.
Bishop sat back. “Okay, dazzle us, geek-meister.”
Rabbit settled down to business. “Jinx and I managed to narrow our choices down to Jason Moreno and Garrett Hawes.”
Ricochet leaned forward, frowning at the phone. “Major General Hawes?”
“The one and only.”
Bishop let out a low whistle. “Who’s Moreno?”
I cleared my throat, and both men turned to look at me. “He’s with MCIA.”
“Give the
lady a prize,” Rabbit said. “Major Jason Moreno is a chief intelligence officer within the Marine Corps Intelligence Agency.”
Bishop’s gaze narrowed on me. “How do you know Moreno?”
“He’s met with the colonel quite a few times.” I winced because what I was about to share felt a little too close to talking out of school, even though I had no doubt these men were solidly behind the colonel. “Just before I left”—it was becoming easier not to trip over that phrase—“he was rather vocal in expressing his frustration when a funding decision didn’t go his way.”
“Based upon what I found,” Rabbit clarified, “he was pissed because the funds he wanted for some heavily redacted project were reallocated to our teams.”
Bishop’s attention didn’t waver, leaving me feeling like a fly under a microscope. “Mad enough to target Delacourt?”
“Maybe,” Rabbit said. “He’s got enough pull to undermine the colonel.”
I was shaking my head before Rabbit finished. “I can’t see it.”
“Why?” Ricochet asked.
Why? Telling them his voice didn’t fit or that it just didn’t feel right wouldn’t get me very far. I tried to apply logic to an illogical impression. “It’s too easy. If he was so upset about the funding that he was willing to destroy the teams, he wouldn’t have confronted the colonel, not with a witness nearby, because the moment something happened, he’d be at the top of this list.” Kind of like right now. Reading their skepticism, I added, “Not to mention he’s a chief intelligence officer.”
“Gotta agree with her, boys.” Rabbit’s drawl was back in effect. “Don’ make much sense to be so sloppy when you have more nefarious means at your fingertips. Those MCIA boys like their mind games.”
Bishop grimaced. “Okay, I’ll give you both that, but that leaves us with Major General Hawes.”
“Which is a shit show waiting to happen,” Ricochet supplied unhelpfully. “His connections are high and deep.”
He wasn’t wrong. I recognized the name even if I couldn’t bring up his face. It was a name generally linked with news out of DC.