Kendi wasn’t nettled. If anything, his cocksure attitude put her a fraction more at ease. She wrapped two of her fingers around the heads of the nails, pulling up on them carefully, feeling them slide grudgingly through flesh and muscle.
Even above the rain and wind, Kendi heard his sharp gasp. She stopped, looking up to meet his eyes. He seemed to steady himself, as if he saw something in her face that gave him strength.
“Straight up...and fast.”
Now that she knew how much pressure she needed, she felt more confident. She brushed away the rain from her eyes and began to pull once more, this time without stopping.
His wrist quivered in her grasp. He slumped forward and then slowly straightened, keeping himself in check. His breath came in rough, heaving gasps, his body shaking just as the ends of the two nails slid free. A harsh groan escaped him, despite his resolve, and hot tears scalded Kendi’s eyes. She let her own breath out, unaware she’d been holding it.
How could they have done such a thing to him…nails… Somehow, that kind of torture was worse than bringing him out here to murder him. Maybe because it was only a small indicator of what he’d been forced to endure at their hands.
He slowly raised his arm, hand over his head, trying to slow the bleeding. The T-shirt—what there was left of it—was molded to his hard-sculpted body; he was beginning to shake. But he tried to smile at her. “Bet you’ve never...had a blind date like this...” He shook his head as if to clear it. “What’s...your name?”
“Kendi,” she said, getting to her feet. “Kendi Morgan.” She started to toss the nails away, but he shook his head again.
“Keep those.”
“Why?”
“In case they come back, looking...”
She slipped them into the soaked pocket of the flannel shirt she wore. “Think you can make it?”
He nodded, putting his hand out to her. “I’ll make it.” There was no doubt in his tone. Kendi let him hold on to her as he stood up, then slipped under his shoulder. He was taller by a good six inches, and had to lean down for support. He favored his side, his fingers absently going to his ribs on the left. Kendi wondered if they were broken.
“This way,” she murmured, taking a step. She felt his solid weight pull at her with each step, knowing he was doing his best to keep up and not lag behind. They had made it up the slippery creek bank and across the small clearing, when she felt his steps flagging even more. She slowed to accommodate him. His breath was harsh and labored in her ear.
“I don’t even know your name,” she said. The least of my worries. She felt it was important, but didn’t know why. Come morning, she was going to see he got to the hospital—one way or another. He needed more care than she could give him.
“Jackson...Taylor.” He stopped, reaching out to support himself against the trunk of a nearby oak tree. He stood for a few moments, leaning heavily against it, trying to catch his breath. “You wonderin’ what to—to put on the tombstone?”
“No,” she responded, moving close as he reached to put an arm across her shoulders once more. “Wondering who to tell the ambulance driver they’re taking to the hospital—”
“Kendi, no.” He stopped, trying to look into her face. She was immediately sorry she’d said anything. “Don’t call...911.”
“But—”
“Promise me, Kendi.”
He was so adamant, so fierce in his demand, Kendi immediately nodded. “Okay. I won’t. I promise. If you’ll—”
As if he’d read her mind, he interrupted her quickly. “I will. I-I’ll explain—” He broke off, cursing under his breath, but Kendi knew it wasn’t aimed at her. His tone was raspy with pain.
“Just a little farther, Jackson.”
He smiled, and when he spoke, she heard the amusement in his tone, though she couldn’t see his face. “Call me Jack. And don’t be so scared.” After a moment, he added, “You’re actin’ like...a girl.”
“I am a girl, in case you hadn’t noticed,” she answered sharply, but there was a hint of mirth in her voice.
“Yeah...I noticed all right.”
Kendi wanted to remark she didn’t know how, seeing as how she was dressed—in a man’s flannel shirt and blue jeans. But she closed her mouth before she said anything, remembering once more that she didn’t have a bra on. The rain had soaked the cotton flannel, plastering it to every curve of her body.
The laughter in his voice was overridden by the pain, but it was there. Kendi was certain that, even as wounded and battered as he was, nothing escaped Jackson Taylor.
Chapter Two
Negotiating the front steps was harder than Kendi had imagined it would be. The wind blew colder, and the rain had begun to freeze, just in the time it had taken to make their way up from the creek bank. The steps had already become glazed with a coat of frozen rain, and she had tried to give her attention to grasping the porch posts tightly, letting Jackson hold on to her. By the time they had reached the front door, her fingers were cold and stiff. But she managed to throw the oak door open and felt her companion reach out to hold it as they battled the wind.
Once inside, Kendi slipped out of Jackson’s grip, turning to lock the deadbolt and the slide lock. She bumped the thermostat up to eighty with a deft movement, then gently reached for the wounded man’s arm again. He stood, leaning against the wall beside the door, chills wracking his body.
Alarmed, she asked, “Can you make it upstairs?”
“Is there a bed up there?”
She nodded in the darkness. “Yes. But there are stairs, first—”
“No ice, though.”
She smiled, wrapping his strong arm across her shoulders. “No...no ice. Can we do it?”
“Think so...” He took a step forward.
“Let me turn on a light.”
“No—Kendi—just the flashlight.”
She had forgotten she had it, but pulled it from her waistband where she’d jammed it next to the gun. She turned it on and kept it down low, the beam lighting their way across the floor to the staircase.
Jackson scanned the stairs quickly, his jaw tightening under the olive skin. There was determination in his eyes, and Kendi knew it would do no good to suggest the couch. She would have been embarrassed to put him on that old broken-down wreck after what he’d been through. He needed a comfortable bed. Her bed.
They were halfway up when he stopped, leaning toward the wall. She had deliberately put herself by the banister, knowing it wasn’t as stable as it should have been. At least, with him close to the wall, he’d have something sturdy to lean on if needed. She stopped to let him rest a minute. His breathing was ragged and heavy, and with no thought, she put her hand out to touch his forehead. He was burning with fever, just as she had feared.
Kendi glanced up the remaining five stairs. So close. The landing was right there. She looked at Jackson again and saw the steel in his expression.
“Just give me...a minute, Kendi.”
“Don’t fall—”
“I won’t. Not gonna break my neck...since you’ve gone to all this trouble.”
He was teasing her. She heard it, but she was worried. He looked unsteady, still—all six feet two inches of him. Her eyes ranged over him, finally meeting his dark gaze. “I told you—don’t be so scared.”
“Aren’t you?” she breathed.
“Uh-uh.” He gave her a quick semblance of a grin through swollen lips. “I’m still here—still standin’.”
Not for long, Kendi wanted to retort. But instead, she put her arm around his muscled waist and waited for him to lean into her, then took the next step.
“You’re thinkin’ it’s a close thing,” he muttered, “me...standin’ yet.”
“Well, I’m right, aren’t I?”
“Maybe. But I’m not afraid.”
“Why not, Jack? After what you’ve been through—”
“Where I’m headed…looks better than where I’ve been.”
They took the l
ast step, gaining the wide landing that led to the hallway and bedrooms. Just a few more steps, Kendi thought, turning toward her room, the closest to the stairs.
“‘Where you’ve been...’ Where was that?” It suddenly occurred to her that she was moments away from tucking a stranger, who she knew nothing about, into her bed. She moistened her lips, suddenly nervous. “I mean—you could be anybody.”
“I’m a DEA agent.”
The words came out in a rush, and she shot him a surprised look. Even in the dim light, she could see a different pallor to his olive skin.
They closed the distance between Kendi’s bedroom door and the bed she’d vacated over an hour earlier.
She let Jack’s weight shift to the side of the mattress, then bent to unbuckle his belt. Suddenly, the impact of what she was doing hit her. She looked into his face, stricken, her fingers faltering at the button placket of the faded jeans he wore.
His swollen eyes held hers. “You’re safe with me, Kendi. Just...need some help. Can you help me?” He was rambling, feverish.
“Sure,” she whispered, unbuttoning the placket as she eased him back onto the bed.
“I’m m-muddy. Bloody...” he mumbled.
“Shh. I know. Never mind that.” She reached to pull off the boots and wet socks.
Jack smiled faintly. “Good woman. Pulling my boots off like—”
“Don’t get used to it.” There was a tease in her words.
“You know how to make coffee?”
Kendi laughed shakily. “I don’t drink the stuff. Let’s get these wet clothes off.” She was already wrestling with the soaked jeans, trying to be gentle, but knowing there was nothing so unyielding as wet denim. She finally got them off, dropping them on the floor in a heap.
Scissors. She needed scissors. She’d cut off the tattered T-shirt and then maybe she’d take off his rain-soaked underwear. Or maybe not. She could feel her cheeks flaming in the darkness.
Sliding open her nightstand drawer, she fumbled until she located the scissors. “Jackson? You awake?” Thankfully, there was no answer. It was embarrassing enough to be pulling off a strange man’s jeans, cutting off his clothes was going a bit beyond the pale. But she did it—swiftly and efficiently.
She cut both sides of the shirt, lifting the top piece of material away from his body. The brutal abuse that had been heaped on him made her gasp. He was cut, bruised, and, she was certain, hurting from his head to his toes.
“Why did they bother putting this T-shirt back on you?” she wondered aloud.
“Makes…clean-up easier…blood in the—the truck…” His voice was low and disjointed, and Kendi thought he sounded like it took every ounce of self-control he possessed to force the words out.
She put the dirty rags that had been the front of his shirt on top of the wet jeans. Gently, she pushed on him so he rolled enough for her to pull the bottom piece out from under his back.
He shivered, hard, and she hastily pulled the sheet, blankets, and comforter over him. She couldn’t leave him in wet underwear, but…he’d drifted back to sleep, she was certain. She peered at him, then turned away to move his boots to the side of the night table. He sighed and shifted. She stood, rubbing her back muscles, wondering what to do about—
A soggy plop hit the pile of wet clothes on the floor behind her.
“Skivvies,” he muttered, turning on his side. “I was thinking maybe...you’d cut them, too.”
He’d been awake! “Jackson Taylor...” Anger tinged her voice. She ought to just let him take care of himself. She ought to go to the guest room and sleep. A lot of things she “ought” to do, but she knew she wouldn’t. He needed her, so she couldn’t leave him.
“Don’t be mad at me, Ken.” The words were so quiet she had to strain to hear them. “You’re safe. I promised you—”
She reached to touch his forehead again, feeling the burning heat still there. Her heart melted at his words, anger dissolving. “I’ll do my best—”
“Don’t call 911.”
“Okay. But I’m no doctor.”
It was a long time before he answered, his voice low in the darkness. “You’ll do fine.”
****
Somewhere in the night, Jack slowly became aware of the sounds around him. He didn’t open his eyes. It was hardly worth the effort, even if it was safe. From the way they felt, he probably wouldn’t be able to slit them open enough to see anything. And he wasn’t sure he wanted to. He felt as though his body had been run through a meat grinder. He hurt all over in varying degrees, but more than anything, he was cold.
He knew it was the fever that, by turns, sapped the heat from him and then made him burn. But the permeating chill seemed to be foremost on his mind; even more so than the pain, right now.
Before she ever touched him, Jack knew Kendi stood beside him. The air whispered with her movement, the unmistakable clean scent of honeysuckle drifting to him, mingled with the stronger smell of coffee. The mattress dipped as she sat beside him, careful not to jostle him. Just as he had anticipated, her cool palm came gently across his heated forehead, nestling under the fringe of his hair.
He flexed his fingers, feeling the soft gauze bindings around his right palm where the nails had been centered and again around the left—palm and fingers—where Benito Sanchez, the Dallas Drug Lord, had taken his time, burning his own particular brand of torture into Jackson’s flesh.
She had been busy while he slept, cleaning his wounds and bandaging him…and she was still at it. He shivered, sinking farther into the mattress, the blankets doing little against the impenetrable cold that held his body in its grip. His ribs on the left protested, and he clenched his teeth against the groan of pain. Part of it escaped, anyway, and he felt Kendi’s fingers trail down his cheek. In a moment, she stood, and he heard her walk across the room.
He began to drift again, despite his best efforts to stay awake. The fever was kicking his ass, but the bed was comfortable—like lying on a cloud—and he needed that right now. As soft as it was, he could still feel every bruise and laceration, every gouge, burn, and punch they’d given him. His ribs were cracked at best, maybe broken. He knew his nose was broken—again—but he was thankful he’d managed to keep all his teeth and other pertinent equipment intact.
His shoulders and neck were bruised, and hurt with every move, and he could feel the incessant fiery bite of Bull’s whip across his back as though it had happened five minutes ago.
He couldn’t stay awake any longer, but God, he hated to sleep—to go back to those intolerable dreams. Dreams that were so real it was as if he were reliving every nightmare he’d ever lived through. He couldn’t stop it. His body was trying to heal, and he had to let it. And maybe, in time, his mind would, too...
****
The door to his prison swung open and he managed to raise his head enough to look at his captor—a gaze so filled with arrogance, even in the state he was in, that Benito Sanchez shook his head in wonder.
Cold water was dashed in his face by Sanchez’s man, Bull. Jack stopped himself from flinching, deliberately keeping his eyes on Sanchez. He hung, suspended from the ceiling by chains, a place he’d seen plenty of times before. The room was huge, and concrete, a warehouse where the “shipments” came in, were processed, and re-distributed for street sale. He was wishing a hundred times over he and his undercover partner, Clint Rivers, had set the sting in motion two weeks ago as they had planned. They’d waited too long, but not of their own accord. Now, with his cover blown to hell, Jack worried for his partner. Did they know?
Sanchez eyed him steadily before he finally spoke. “So...you thought to play with me, Mr. Taylor.” It was a flat statement. One that ended in Jack’s name—his real one. Up to now, he’d been known in this circle as John Thomas. He sighed, feeling his shoulder muscles strain taut, the joints ready to pull from the sockets. Idly, he wondered how long he’d hung here. Days, maybe?
The drug lord’s lips tightened briefly. “I trusted y
ou, Taylor. I don’t like being made a fool of.”
No shit, Jack wanted to say. He figured it was a helluva lot more than a passing nod to “dislike” from the way his body felt. But he remained silent. Sanchez turned to his man and gave him an order in Spanish. Jack spoke the language as if it were his native tongue, so there was no misunderstanding. His stomach knotted, and Sanchez turned to give him a calculating smile as his henchman stepped away.
“You remember, of course, Mr. Taylor, Bull’s penchant for the whip. I think, perhaps, we can loosen your tongue before this night is over.” He stood, gauging Jack’s reaction for a few seconds, the smile dimming. “Nothing to say? You will. You will understand the language of pain before midnight, and you will talk.”
“I’ll talk right now, Sanchez.” Jack waited for the smarmy, greedy smile he knew would come, the expectant light in the man’s near-black eyes.
“Well?”
“Fuck you, asshole.” Jack grinned through his split lips. “I can say that in any language you can understand, pendejo. Kiss my red, white, and blue ass.”
The back of Jack’s neck prickled in warning. Bull Johnson was behind him. He heard the click of the whip case being opened, the slither of well-oiled leather as the whip was uncoiled. There was a snap as the leather popped close to him, experimentally. He’d been expecting that, and he didn’t flinch.
Sanchez gave him an appreciative nod. “I hate to lose you, Taylor. But men like you are, in the end, worthless to me. You can’t be bought. Not every man has a price, contrary to popular belief. And your loyalties can’t be swayed. You’re more valuable to me dead—as a message to your organization. If it turns out you can’t be forced to talk, to tell us who the other agents are in our network, then your death will also serve as a very real and certain warning to them.”
Jack braced himself for the first lash. Sanchez’s eyes had done no more than flicker briefly to the man who stood behind Jack, holding the braided bullwhip, but it was enough. The leather rippled and snapped. A scalding swath of fire tore across his back, ripping a streak of skin open. He gasped, forcing his lips to clamp back the rest of the scream that tried to escape. “Hijo de puta!” The curse was strong with his returning breath.
Beyond the Fire Page 2