by Jordan Dane
Jasmine leapt from cover and grabbed the collar of the first man as he sprawled on his back, yanking him off the scaffold. In a practiced maneuver, she thrust the knife across his throat, severing cartilage. Warm blood doused her clothing. The sound of it pattered her vest like rain. The man screamed, but the sound warped into a moist gurgle.
Then silence.
The second man rolled to one side, reaching for her. Jasmine sprang to her feet and kicked his elbow, hyperextending it. She heard it crack with the force of her foot. As he writhed in pain, she rolled him onto his belly. Yanking a clump of hair, she flexed his head back to expose his neck. Within seconds, it was over.
Two down.
Jasmine tore off the headgear of the dead men, shining a dim light onto slack faces. McBride was not among them. She cleaned off the blade of her knife, wiping it across the chest of one of the dead men. A commotion caused her to look up. She heard the rumble along the scaffolding. Others were coming. Jasmine scrambled for cover down the grated steps, wedging her small frame inside a crate she had modified at the base of the stairs behind the stockade. Even if Logan's men strafed her location with night vision, she would appear invisible. As long as the room lay in darkness, she would snipe their positions without detection. It was a good plan. But what of Nicky's son?
No! She had only one target, and taking on someone else's fight could get her killed. Besides, the police would soon overrun the place. This was not her fight.
The police. She grimaced at the thought of their intrusion. She needed a shortcut to ID McBride.
Jasmine reached for her binoculars and stuck the earpiece to the microphone into her ear. Rising from her hiding place, she scanned the remaining men. Across the floor of the warehouse, within the confines of the stockade, one man stood out from the rest. He directed the others with sweeping gestures rather than verbal commands. It had to be McBride.
Then she heard the roar of another flash bang from above. Its piercing light cast elongated shadows on the brick walls for an instant, then it was gone. Taken off guard by the explosion, she felt a jolt of pain slice through her brain as the bright light blinded her. But the echo of the blast lingered long after the light faded, resounding off the brick walls.
When her vision cleared, she swept her binoculars across the room and into the rafters, looking for her comrade in arms. Curiosity or concern? She made no distinction. Locating her target, she marveled at his sensory skill . . . then smiled.
Jasmine loved a man who understood the finesse of a kill.
But soon, her attention shifted back to McBride. He moved out from cover. And so did she. Yet from the direction Logan headed, Nicky's son would not be pleased.
Christian plugged his ears against the blast, tightly closing his eyes to retain his night vision. The metal scaffolding vibrated under his boots. After the smoke blew past him, its smell dissipated in the chilly air. He listened for any sound of the men taken out by the detonation.
A moan. The rustle of fabric. A hand gripped the tail of his coat. He had to move quickly.
The sound of heavy breathing drew him in, giving him a target nearly waist-high. He reached for the man's collar and tugged him forward, ripping the night-vision gear from his head. Disoriented, the mercenary swayed as he tried to stand. Christian balled his fist and punched, connecting with the man's jaw. He felt it give way on the second blow, then finished with an upper-cut. As his target lost consciousness, he released his grip and let the body tumble to the grating in a heap.
But too much time had elapsed. The disorienting effects of the flash bang had worn off.
A second man grabbed his shoulder and spun him around. A fist buried deep into his ribs, lifted him from the catwalk. Another blow nearly took his head off. He stumbled back, shaking his head to clear the fog. It didn't take long for him to recover.
Both fists up in defense, Christian lowered his chin and launched his attack, pummeling the man with combination punches to the body. He stepped toward the aggressor, beating him senseless. His opponent teetered back on his heels. Focusing his intensity, he spun to his right, ramming a kick to the man's gut. The mercenary fell against the metal railing, the air forced from his lungs. But to his surprise, the man remained standing.
No time for fair play. Without mercy, Christian lowered his center of gravity and hoisted the man up, shoving him across the railing.
Christian suspected the hurdle would do damage, but little else. The top of the barricade below would break his fall. His objective had always been Raven's safety, not to kill. But when the body dropped to the burlap barrier, he heard a bloodcurdling scream. The pitiable cry echoed through the emptiness until the body toppled to the cement floor with a heavy thud. Then utter stillness.
What the hell happened? Why did he scream like he was being ripped in two? Christian dropped to a knee, peering through the darkness as if sight were possible. He sensed death below, smelled the blood. And another thought gripped his heart.
Raven was in greater danger. He just knew it.
She had no idea what was going on.
A battle raged above. Without knowing the players, Raven avoided the crossfire. Seeking shelter for her and Father Antonio, she hunkered next to a stockade wall. She recognized the flash bang detonations from her training with tactical.
Even through all the chaos, a tinge of hope survived.
The men of Logan McBride were falling one at a time. It had to be good news.
Father Antonio gripped her hand, his palms damp. An occasional whisper escaped his lips, but despite her rules about not talking, she let him be. His prayers were welcome.
Raven cursed the never-ending emptiness. She closed her eyes, resting her head against the barricade. Her thoughts turned to the rhythm of the priest's prayers, finding comfort in the act. And she joined him, a tear of acceptance rolling down her cheek.
But the quiet didn't last.
A faint scratching to her right. The sound gripped her, conjuring a revolting image in her mind.
A frenzied screech. The irregular patter of small feet scurried toward her. With all the commotion, the rat population had been disturbed. She heard it coming. More than one hairy rodent headed by her. Raven gasped, unable to avoid a reaction. Not wanting to make a sound, she closed her eyes tight. She hugged her arms around herself and drew her knees to her chest.
"Holy mother of—" Apparently, Father Antonio had no great fondness for God's lowly creature. Slowly, Raven forced herself to move, raising a hand to the lips of the priest to silently warn him to be quiet.
Repulsed by the filthy vermin, Raven trembled. Beads of sweat layered her body and dampened her clothes, a contradiction to the chill in the air. Her stomach wrenched with nausea. A rat bumped her hip. The nails of its feet scraped her pant leg as it started to climb.
Her skin prickled, an unforgettable chill. She jabbed an elbow and shoved the damned thing, its weight branding her memory.
But as the creature slithered away, she instinctively turned the other way. A new presence fueled her panic, looming overhead. And without the benefit of her eyesight, fear overwhelmed her. She scooted against the wall. Her arm clutched Father Antonio.
Someone stood above them. She felt it.
Gritting her teeth, she steadied herself for a fight. She pictured Logan McBride—gray dead eyes. The feel of his fingernail skimmed the surface of her skin, sending the chill of revulsion down her spine.
She'd been in the dark far too long. The deprivation and the strain played tricks on her mind. Cruel images jutted from memory like a drug-induced hallucination, a torturous strobe effect. Gruesome images of past murder cases flickered before her. The glazed eyes of the dead hurled out of the shadows until—
Mickey Blair's death grimace.
In her mind, she pictured him still hanging on the cross. His head slanted in grisly detail, exposing a gash so deep it nearly severed his head. The image spawned a waking nightmare. The dead man's face warped into her own reflectio
n, her throat slashed. The smell of blood threatened to smother her. Dazed and numb, she blocked out the horror until a hand grabbed her, hoisting her up by the hair. Her scalp throbbed in pain. From the sound of it, Father Antonio fought alongside her.
In shock, she cried out. "Damn it! Let go."
Even with the blackness around her, she knew who held her firm, yanking her up with little effort. Only one man possessed hatred that ran so deep.
"In the end, I promised it would be you and me, sweet meat." His raspy whisper taunted her. "I told you my voice would be the last thing you hear. I just hope your daddy is watching."
The man yanked her to his chest. His stench filled her nostrils. She knew it was only a matter of time. Who would investigate her murder—stare into her glazed eyes? Despite the hopelessness of her situation, Raven would not give in to death. She pitched and rocked her body, straining to free her arms.
Then the weight of cold steel pressed against her temple—killing any hope for escape. She would die at the hand of Logan McBride. It had come to this.
CHAPTER 17
Once again, McBride had her bound and gagged with duct tape. She and the priest were hauled to the center of the maze by two of his men. Their deaths would be made a spectacle. She wanted to scream at the injustice.
But why had they restrained her again? Raven thought back to the Blair case. The man had no evidence of tape on his body. This didn't make sense.
She heard McBride's voice through the dark, a fleeting sound, giving instructions to his two mercenaries. ". .. stay hidden . . . gonna draw him out."
She could make out only fragments of his words. She tried to eavesdrop on the huddled men, their voices too low to hear. Then his demented disciples scurried off into the darkest crevices, like roaches running for cover. But from the sounds of it, his men didn't stray far. Whatever was about to happen would take place center stage.
It was obvious. A trap had been set.
With the men gone, Logan knelt by her side, pulling up the night-vision gear to rest on his forehead. The intimacy of his cruel whisper sent a shiver across her skin.
"Let's put out a little cheese for our rat, give him the proper motivation."
Whom were they going to ambush? Raven didn't like the sound of this conspiracy. She held her breath, gathering courage for what would follow. Suddenly, a beam of light flickered into her eyes, blinding her. After she'd been in the dark for so long, the brightness shot through her brain like needles. She squinted and turned to shield her eyes. McBride yanked her head back and held his gun to her temple. The loudness of his voice took her by surprise.
"You wanted to play. I got a game for you," he shouted into the void. His insanity pierced her eardrums. "Show yourself. Or I splatter gray matter dead center. Your choice."
Whom was he talking to? Raven wondered. The man had finally lost it. With a sideways glance, she shot a questioning look to the priest. Father Antonio stared into the darkness, his eyes a mix of fear and hope. She followed his lead, searching the gloom.
One voice broke the stalemate. A man lingered beyond the narrow circle of light. McBride strafed the emptiness with his flashlight.
"Let her and the priest go and I'll stay. Just you and me."
The breath caught in her throat. She swallowed hard. It was Christian.
How did he—? It didn't matter. The sound of his voice filled her with expectation for only an instant. Then reality hit. Christian would walk into McBride's trap, putting himself at risk. And she could do nothing to stop it. Now they'd all die together.
She couldn't contain her raw emotion. Raven screamed through the gag, shaking her head, trying to warn him.
Logan laughed at her feeble attempt, an insulting cackle. "You got nothing to bargain with, my friend. I'm holding a royal flush, ace high. All you got is a pair of twos." Logan set his flashlight onto a burlap sack, shining the beam into the shadows. He jerked her head back hard. Sweat trailed down her cheek as he jammed the gun under her chin. "Come out so I can see you. No weapons, hands up."
Slowly, Christian stood, squinting into the light with his hands raised. He carefully shrugged out of his coat, then held out his knife in surrender.
"Toss the knife over the wall. Then turn around, real slow."
The knife clattered on the cement floor outside the labyrinth wall. And with a slow turn, to show he carried no other weapons, Christian kept his eyes on McBride. Yet as he stepped closer, Raven detected something else—a fierce determination. She'd seen it the first day they met when he surfaced from the war room.
The predator had emerged.
Given McBride's ego, she suspected the man believed he had everything under control. And she conceded the odds were stacked in his favor. But Raven wouldn't count Delacorte out. If she were a betting girl, her money would be on Christian.
And she hoped Logan McBride would soon find out why.
The Asian woman was nowhere in sight. He expected as much. She'd never take on his fight. Still, he could have used her help.
The meager glow of the flashlight left much of the warehouse in shadow, but it was enough to bring his plan to a screeching halt. As he stepped into the light, he knew one thing. He'd lost his edge. And now he had no weapon. Yet his eyes remained focused on the man holding Raven. Her life would depend upon his instincts—and his ability to manipulate a sociopath.
"What's your name?" Christian kept his hands raised, his tone even. "I gotta know who would wage war on a priest."
The smug look on the man's face faded, twisting into something more sinister. "Logan McBride. And while we're on the subject, care to share?"
"Delacorte, Christian Delacorte."
"Ahhh. Seek the truth, Christian." The man laughed. "So we finally meet. Blue Blood will be ticked off when he finds out what I'm gonna do to you."
"Don't know a man named Blue Blood, but maybe I can help you with your dilemma." His voice low, threatening. "Dead men don't have to answer to anyone."
"You're a cocky son of a bitch." The stare of McBride wavered, his irritation showing. "I see you don't carry a gun."
"The bigger the gun, the smaller the— Well, you know the old saying." A lazy smile spread across Christian's face. His gaze drifted to the Glock in McBride's thigh holster. "Let's just say I have nothing to prove."
Silence.
Christian knew the man would have something to prove to the men standing in the rafters. He taunted him with his insolence, daring the man to take up his challenge. McBride would figure that only one alpha male would leave the maze. All he had to do was stall long enough for the police to arrive. Whether he had to kill or not, Christian was determined—Raven would make it out alive.
He knew McBride had had enough. The man glared; his jaw tightened. His hands clutched Raven's hair. Her eyes filled with pain.
It hurt Christian to see her suffer. Yet he kept his face unreadable, for her sake. Maybe he went too far with the taunts, but McBride would smell weakness and take it out on her. So he decided to push it even further by using the man's ego as a weapon against him, redirecting his hostility.
He lowered his hands and crossed his arms over his chest in open defiance, mirroring the mercenary's arrogant expression. By the look in his eye, McBride couldn't resist the pissing match.
"You look like a guy who enjoys dangerous games. How about we play one?" A menacing sneer twisted McBride's face. "Just you and me."
"And you look like a coward, the kind of guy who'd prefer to tip the odds in his favor. Your men won't interfere?"
"Not if I give the order." Turning his head, he yelled over his shoulder. "You men on the catwalk, stay put. That's an order." He shrugged, then lowered his voice. "Good enough?"
Christian didn't answer.
As McBride reached for his flashlight, he slid his night-vision gear back in place. "And since you like the dark so much, let's make things more interesting. Lights out."
Christian caught a motion to his left. Raven shook her head,
screaming under the gag. Her eyes brimming with terror.
The last thing he saw before the lights went out.
The darkness came. And with it, Christian felt serenity for only an instant, anonymity a welcome change.
"You're mine now." A raspy voice jabbed his awareness like a sucker punch.
"You talk too damned much," he taunted, and braced for the man's rage. "And bring on your dogs, coward. I prefer a challenge."
McBride's anger might force a blunder, giving him an edge. It was a theory. For Raven's sake, he hoped the gamble would pay off.
By the sounds, three men surrounded him. He crouched, hands held waist-high, ready to move. Slowing his breathing, he shut his eyes, his weight poised on the balls of his feet. His muscles grew taut, ready for the first attack. He didn't have long to wait.
A hand grabbed his right elbow, slinging him into the barricade. The sandbags felt rock-hard. It knocked the wind from his lungs. The coarse burlap scraped his chin. A fist punished his back, battering a kidney. Wedged against the stockade, he couldn't move. His arm wrenched by a firm grasp from his first attacker, his shoulder nearly yanked from its socket.
The abuse continued.
"Is this the kind of challenge you wanted, smart ass?" the man whispered at his back.
But a familiar sound drew his attention, catching the breath deep in his throat. A knife unsheathed, slipping from leather. The lethal whisper of a blade.
He listened, trusting his instincts. Shoving hard off the wall, he hurled his body into two men. Full force, he rammed his boot into a knee. The crack echoed through the dark, followed by a tortured scream. A man fell hard to the floor. The sound of a low, guttural moan lingered after he crawled deeper into the maze.
Christian launched into the man to his left. Ripping off the man's night-vision gear, he pitched it over the wall. His fist connected with the mercenary's face, knocking him off-balance. Blow after blow, he punished the man's ribs until he doubled over, recoiling from the abuse. Gripping the man's tactical vest at the shoulders, Christian thrust him hard into the barricade. He collapsed to the cement in a heap, unable to get up.