by J. C RIMELL
Kit wasn't aware of biting down on her lower lip until his eyes reared up and caught her red-handed in a moment of complete absorption.
Suddenly she bit too hard. Shit!
Cade's lips hitched up at one corner. Running a hand through his thick ebony hair exposed the jagged scar on his face that ran through his right eyebrow and down to his cheekbone. He turned his head slightly as though it was a self-conscious movement to hide the full extent of the savage mark from her view. It intrigued her every time she caught a glimpse of it. Somehow it made her feel almost normal, made her feel like she wasn't the only person who was flawed.
“Thanks, Kit,” he said, paying her with some loose change. His fingertips skimmed her palm and sent a tiny jolt of electricity through her veins.
Kit felt the sudden intensity of his stare on her like a physical touch. It made her feel hot, made her feel like he could see things she didn't want him to. She was attracted to him that much she admitted to herself. But judging from the reaction of another young woman who had just entered the café, so was most of Shadow Creek's female population.
What was it about him that fascinated her?
She was thankful when the woman came to her senses, and Kit moved out of his direct line of sight to serve her.
“You're still here?” Kit quizzed when she turned around to find him still standing there. He smiled, softening the hard angles of his face and allowing her a fleeting snapshot of a man that suddenly didn't seem so bad-ass. Kit tore her gaze away from his perceptive stare, shuttering the feelings she harbored behind the shadows of her eyes.
“Kit?”
The way Cade said her name drew her attention back to look at him again. He held her fast as her eyes met his once more. “Can I take you out tonight if you're free?”
Yes. That's what she should say. She knew it, but just couldn't, wouldn't allow herself to.
“Thanks, but, no,” she muttered with a shake of her head, noticing the woman customer she'd just served had almost just choked on her muffin, eyes wide in disbelief.
Refusing attention had become normal for Kit. Besides, she may be tough on the outside, her steely facade was her coping mechanism. But inside she was damaged and fragile. So why put herself through going out with a guy who would probably crush what was left of her heart under the heavy sole of his military boot?
Cade raised a brow at the rejection, but his wolf raced forward at the challenge. He knew he had to be vigilant. He'd be strung up by the balls for disobeying laws that were centuries old and went against the Society, which he had pledged himself to. But he wasn't about to just give in. When it came to this woman, giving in wasn't even an option.
Lowering his head to one side so she'd have to look at him, he smiled when her gaze could no longer avoid his. “How about tomorrow?”
“Tonight's fine.” From out of nowhere Jo's hand gave an encouraging squeeze on Kit's shoulder. “She'll be finished by eight.”
An awkward moment hung between them until Kit found her voice again, no thanks to her aunt squeezing her shoulder a little harder. “Oh… okay.” She cleared her throat, which had gone dry and tight with nerves and utter panic.
Cade grinned, a triumphant glint in his eye. “I'll look forward to it.”
Kit stared at him as he left, his stride full of confidence and male pride. Then she turned and gave her aunt a pointed glare. Jo was so gonna' get it.
§
Later that day Cade entered the den with a spring in his step. The man and wolf were unable to hide their joy at finally having a chance to spend some time with Kit. Taking a deep breath, he doused his elation and calmed his mind the best he could so the rest of the pack didn't pick up on anything. The last thing he wanted to do was to end something that hadn't even begun.
Swinging by his quarters, he showered and changed into full combat gear, before heading to the packs' communication room. He was the last to arrive and took a seat beside Ryker. The room bristled with an air of excitement and a vibe that often surrounded the Shadow Pack when they were about to go into the field on an operation. Highly trained in weaponry, combat and warfare, between them they had leagues of experience in missions of varying degrees of danger.
Known to the outside world as Elite Shadow Force, they worked on a 'No questions asked' basis, and as far as anyone was concerned they were soldiers. The fact they were supernatural wolf shifters was irrelevant. They got the job done with little to no casualties and as little publicity as possible.
Their target tonight was a highly dangerous and most wanted Colombian drug dealer, Felipe Alejandro. The intelligence suggested a considerable quantity of narcotics was due to arrive by boat further up the coast and unusually accompanied by Alejandro himself.
“You'll have the backup from Sentinels, Tatum Casteel, and Remi Skye. Tonight they'll be hawk eyes with sniper rifles situated on the cliff-side, with a good view of the rendezvous point.” The meeting would take place at 19:00 hours in a disused dockyard an hour's drive from Shadow Creek. Fleet pulled up the clear virtual screen situated in the center of the large oval table. Pointing to an intricate map on the monitor using an LED remote, he highlighted the exact location using the red laser. “No one goes in until Alejandro makes his appearance, and the money and drugs are exchanged.” The Colombian was vital to the Client who on this occasion was also known as the F.B.I.
The group of shifters sat haphazardly around the table, the large clear screen affording everyone a good view of the area being discussed.
“Any questions?” Fleet's hands shifted to rest on his hips as he observed his pack. Although Gunner was his second in command, Fleet had picked up thoughts from him that seemed to have put the red-headed shifter a little on edge and far too distracted. Fleet needed his team in capable hands and decided that Ryker would lead the group on the ground. Always calm and controlled, he was reliable. The pair would be backed up by Cade, Nevada, and Murphy.
Gunner grunted, clearly put out he wasn't in charge of the mission and the room fell uneasily silent. “Good then,” Fleet added, bringing everyone's attention back to him. “Get the job done and get it done safely.”
Chapter Five
Less than 60 seconds. It wasn't even long enough to unlock the chain to her bicycle before a shoe bag was wrenched down over her head and the drawstring pulled so tight around her slender neck; it cut into her windpipe.
Dropping her satchel to the ground, Kit clawed at the bag. Her short nails frantically trying to tear the nylon, unable to release the scream that was agony in her throat.
Ever since the accident, Kit had suffered panic attacks. The fear apprehending her mind, her thoughts, and even rendering her body numb and useless. So she avoided driving or being driven anywhere. Having crossed the street as she did on most days or evenings after finishing at the café, Kit strolled over to the cycle rack in the parking lot behind the library, where her bicycle was chained.
Kit knew she wouldn't be going home now.
No! No! Her brain wailed. Please. Fuck no!
But the words couldn't get past the pain that had a choking hold on her.
She was hauled up by large hands clamped around the back of her denim clad thighs and thrown over a hard, muscular shoulder in a fireman's lift. Kit punched against a body of rigid steel, all her childhood Judo lessons rushing back and desperately trying to be put into action. But her fists were useless. Her kicks futile. Her mind obscuring with a blanket of dark mist as her breathing sped up and became uncontrollable.
She was hyperventilating.
The rusty moan of a door swung open, and she was tossed into a vehicle across a double seat. Kit realized through the cloud of fog in her mind that she was in a truck. It was the only vehicle, other than her aunt's Volvo, she'd glimpsed of at the far end of the parking lot, stationary under the broken street lamp.
Her heart rate spiked. Faster and faster the beating so loud and hard against her ribs, she thought it would pulverize her chest. She jumped with fri
ght as the door slammed shut and then tried to sit her shaking body upright. The inside of the nylon bag was coated with plastic and became hot and dewy against her skin. The feeling of suffocation making her want to throw up. Tasting the vomit as it rose in her esophagus, she swallowed it back down, grateful she wouldn't have to drown in it.
Her fingers dug beneath the cord. The panic and need to get out of the truck made her hysterical, made her kick against the door with the soles of her leather boots. But her desperate attempts were brief. The driver's door opened. Then closed. A heavy hand pushed her head back down into the seat before grabbing her wrists and tightly binding them together. The engine roared to life, a sudden shift of the vehicle making her body jerk involuntarily.
Lying as still as her shaking body would allow, Kit tried to think past the thundering of her heartbeat in her ears and the panic attack shattering her from the inside out. Her stomach knotted, her throat felt the searing heat of pain like a blade cutting into her skin.
The momentum of the truck moving brought back memories. Haunting flashes of that one night she wished she could take back. She'd do anything to bring back her twin, Clara. Unable to escape the vivid images of her sister, hurt, twisted, and burning, Kit was sucked deeper into her frightening hysteria. The techniques the therapist had taught her were too far out of her reach now.
Still, she tried to fight the shock of it. Stunned this was even happening in the tranquil town she had come to know and love. But it was, and she had suddenly become a victim. There had been a lot of missing person reports on Shadow Creek News recently, and she knew from the sickening terror in the pit of her stomach she was about to become one of them.
The truck's engine protested with a sharp grind at being driven too fast and she bounced around as it traversed over potholes. A hasty swerve sent her rolling off the seat in a violent jolt, hitting her head against the dashboard.
The world ebbed away, and her silent prayer answered when consciousness slipped from her grasp and abandoned her.
§
Cade couldn't quite shake the uneasy feeling that had settled in his chest like a winter's chill, turning him cold as he accompanied Nevada on foot to the observation point at the disused dockyard to await their quarry.
“You okay?” she asked, keeping her voice low she turned and pinned him with her sharp, aquamarine gaze.
“Yeah, it's just… nothing. C'mon.” He couldn't put his finger on it, but the icy sensation seeped in deep until it became a freezing ache that just wouldn't budge. Right now he had a job to do that he couldn't afford to fuck up. So he ignored the unfamiliar emotion and got his head in the game.
Climbing into an old sailboat, Cade checked they had advantage points from every side before turning and offering Nevada a hand up. She flatly refused his help with a grunt.
“No offense,” she said, “but in case you forgot, I'm not some weak and needy female.”
Cade nodded. “Point taken.”
Nevada looked anything but weak and needy dressed in full black combat gear, her short blonde crop covered with a black beanie and her sun-kissed complexion, now milky in the moonlight and randomly smeared with camouflage paint.
The two of them took up their positions with their weapons of choice strapped and holstered into belts that crossed their chests, then they sat back and waited.
Ryker shifted his weight from his prosthetic onto his good leg. Waiting by the SUV for the client's liaison officer to arrive, he used their telepathy to check everyone was in their assumed positions before turning to Murphy and Gunner. The pair couldn't have been on more opposite sides of the scale in appearance or attitude.
“Murphy,” he said to the tall, raven-haired male with the mirrored wraparound shades that were more or less a permanent fixture. “As soon as they step foot in the building, you can work your magic.” The shifter's ability of reading and manipulating emotions was a very handy tool when it came to dangerous situations and uncooperative detainees. A man of few words, he nodded, then disappeared into the darkness.
Gunner checked his Glock one last time before replacing it in the holster strapped across his broad chest. “Looks like the liaison's here,” he said, moving around to the back of the SUV. His flaming red hair glimmered in the brightness of the arriving vehicles headlamps.
Chapter Six
Screaming...
A woman's piercing scream was what brought Kit back from the mind-numbing world of darkness. Afraid to make the slightest movement, she tried to gather her scrambled thoughts.
Not understanding where she was, only that she was cold, and that scream made her stomach cramp with dread. The repetitive sound of the hysterical cry caused her gorge rise. The reflex so painful against her bruised windpipe, she tried with a determined effort to stop it happening a second time.
As she slowly opened her eyes, her vision was distorted and blurred. Unaided by the hazy, gray light of the dark room, Kit blinked, trying to clear away the moisture that had settled on the rims. The trickle of warm tears tumbled as she blinked again and streaked the dust that powdered her cheeks from off the dirty concrete.
The screaming cut off. Like a physical slap to the face, it sent her body frigid as a chill grated along her spine in the sudden silence.
Her head throbbed as flashing images surfaced. She remembered the bag that had been thrown over her head but was no longer there. She tried to breathe steadily, taking shallow breaths through her nose to stay as quiet as possible while her eyes adjusted to the darkness.
Kit wondered if she was having a nightmare. But lying there in harrowing fear, she curbed her panic enough to stretch her hearing beyond that of her own distressed heartbeat and listened.
Breathing?
Other people breathing. Oh. God.
Her mind raced frantically as her body trembled with a trepidation that seemed to saturate the stoic air around her. The shock of reality. Remembering foggy snapshots that made her head pound harder. The terror of it all so overwhelming, she fought to keep control of her sobs. Kit lost the ability to hold onto her full bladder and wet herself. Just before losing her grip on reality and slipping back into obsidian.
When Kit awoke a few hours later, she came to sluggishly and thought it had all been a hellish dream. Until she tried to move. Her wrists were firmly tied behind her back. The brittle binding chafed her skin as she tested just how vise-like they were. She quickly realized she wasn't about to slip free of her restraints anytime soon. Lying face down, she shivered against cold and wet unforgiving concrete, trying to harness her fear. Tilting her head upward, she grazed her chin on the rough surface and winced as the thumping of the side of her head reignited with a fatal vengeance. Inhaling deeply, she gritted her teeth and dared to take a look at her surroundings.
The dense, musty air overwhelmed her senses. Two small opaque windows allowed a subtle ribbon of moonlight to filter into the… basement?
Yes, it was some kind of basement, she thought. The silver streak of light lingered over a stairwell in the corner. Peering to her left, she could just make out other bodies lying face down just as she was. To her right side was the same.
Holy shit, what the hell was this?
Her mind raced wildly. Heavy footsteps treading the floorboards above caused flaking paint and dust to spill on top of her. Muffled, deep, male voices were talking in another language she didn't recognize.
Celtic? Latin maybe?
A door opened with a groan from old hinges letting a burst of light slice through the gloom from the stairwell, the sudden brightness stinging her eyes.
“For Christ's sake!” The woman nearest to Kit spat out in a whisper, her cheek pressed against the naked mortar. “If you want to live honey, I suggest you get your head down!”
Surprised by the sudden reaction Kit lowered her head as she'd suggested. She caught the fear in what appeared to be amber eyes, the bobbed, flaming red curls a wild mess around the woman's face. She looked pale and gaunt but seemed little older
than thirty-five. Kit watched as the redhead pinched her eyes closed tight and almost stopped breathing when heavy footsteps descended the staircase.
In the passing seconds, Kit's mind filtered past the alarm and the pain racking her body and crowded her thoughts with her life, her aunt, her parents.
Even Cade Grayson.
A tiny part of her mind wondered if this would be it. Was she going to die at the hands of a murderer? And if so, that infinite fraction of her psyche almost embraced the idea. The thought of no longer feeling guilty, of being free from the heartache and pain… being with Clara.
Kit's mind was sucked back to the terrifying present. Lying in the cold, dank basement, she swallowed the torment of never seeing her family again. Of never knowing how that date with Cade would've turned out, despite her reluctance toward the idea.
Her chest swelled with a tide of emotion, her throat clamped shut as her eyes swung toward the sound of heavy footsteps approaching. A large male figure with a shadow veiling his face blocked the light behind him and grew nearer, with jerky, almost uncoordinated movements. Kit's wary gaze widened in horror as her body shook, making her teeth knock together. Her heartbeat hammered in her mouth, in her ears. Rapid, forceful punches against her ribs.
“Oh, God. Not me. Please, not me,” she begged. “Fuck… please, not me.”
Kit knew that, although she had been drowning in pain every day since losing Clara, and she carried scars, both inside and out of that horrific night, she was still living even if she didn't feel alive. Somewhere deep in her soul, she didn't really want to die.
Kit closed her eyes… and prayed.
Chapter Seven
Ryker's keen eyes scanned the female from head to toe. Her long, mahogany hair was a sleek ponytail flowing down the black jacket of her trouser suit. Her pants clung to her hips, and she moved with a confident sway some men might find attractive. He moved forward and shook the liaison's hand, surprised at the firmness of the woman's grip.