by Rebecca York
Luke opened his mouth, then closed it again. He wanted to speak. But apparently the guy who had taken over his body wasn’t going to let him.
She needs to know what’s going on, he said inside his mind, hearing the words echo internally.
Later, Zabastian answered.
I’ll kill you later, Luke growled.
You’ll kill yourself, then, monkey brain.
You don’t have to insult me.
Then think logically.
Luke balled his free hand into a fist—the one that wasn’t clutching the haunted box.
He’d been strangely drawn to the damn thing—as if some magical force was tugging on him, goading him to try and solve the puzzle. Too bad he hadn’t kept his hands to himself when Olivia had warned him to leave it alone.
He’d thought he was so clever when he’d started working the sliding panels. Once he’d gotten the first one, his fingers had moved over the carved design on the sides as fast as the wind.
He’d slid hidden panels and pressed levers—like somebody else was directing his movements. And he was pretty sure that was really true. It seemed that the guy inside the chest—the spirit of some kind of ancient warrior—had connected with Luke’s mind, even when he was still trapped inside the chest.
He’d wanted Luke to let him out. When the lid popped open, the essence of the warrior came pouring out, like steam from a valve under pressure. The living mist of the man’s spirit enveloped Luke, knocking him to the floor with the force of the invasion. And knocking him unconscious.
He’d awakened, to find Olivia kneeling over him. He’d been trying to speak to her when Zabastian had taken over.
He gathered the guy hadn’t had a woman in over six hundred years, and he’d been ready to force himself on Olivia right there on the floor.
I did not force myself, an outraged voice inside his head answered. She wanted me.
She thought it was me!
And she liked what we were doing.
Luke had liked it too. He’d wanted Olivia since he’d set eyes on her—and known he couldn’t do a damned thing about it because it would screw up his Decorah Security assignment. But Zabastian had cut right to the chase.
Too bad his foot had hit that pitcher.
Later!
Get the hell out of my head.
You need me.
To prove the point, a sound in the doorway made him jerk around.
Two short dark men dressed in business suits charged through the door. Each of them held a gun in his hand—pointed at him and Olivia.
The Poisoned Ones.
Who?
The men who have come to take the box. They will kill you and the woman to acquire it.
Luke swore under his breath, knowing that he and Olivia didn’t have a chance of survival. Not with the fruitcake named Zabastian running the show.
I know how to fight! Better than you. The warrior’s voice said inside his mind.
But you’ve never seen a gun—right? Luke pressed.
He felt the warrior search his mind. I have seen them. Other times when I awoke. A weapon that shoots deadly projectiles.
Yeah, well, they’ve gotten more sophisticated in the last few hundred years.
We must cooperate to defeat these dung flies.
Could they? It was going to be difficult. But maybe that was their only chance.
The whole conversation had flashed back and forth between them in nanoseconds, since it was more like an internal thought process than speech. And Luke had never taken his attention away from the men with the guns.
“Give me the box,” the one with the gray hair ordered.
“No.”
The man raised his weapon, preparing to take what he had come for.
Moving like a streak of light, Luke thrust the box into Olivia’s hands and shoved her to the side as he charged the one who had spoken.
He took the thieves by surprise, because they weren’t expecting resistance. Kicking upward with his foot, he caught the man in the gun hand.
The would-be attacker screamed and dropped the weapon.
Luke whirled, using what he knew must be some kind of martial art. He couldn’t name the moves he was making, but they were effective. He took down the other guy, then jabbed the first one in the stomach with his elbow. From his peripheral vision, he saw Olivia bring down an ornate metal candlestick on the head of the man who was trying to get up.
He went down again like a bag full of grapefruits.
The first one he’d kicked had pulled out another gun, holding it in his left hand. Before he could bring it into firing position, Luke chopped down on his wrist, eliciting a satisfying scream.
“Give me the box,” he shouted to Olivia.
When she handed it over, he tucked it firmly under his arm. “Come on. We’ve got to get out of here.”
The second man was climbing to his feet. Luke kicked him down again, then ducked around him and made for the door, pulling Olivia behind him.
He’d scoped out the building, and he knew where to find the stairs. As they ran along the corridor, a woman stepped out of another office, her face tense.
“What was that?”
“A robbery. Get out of the hall,” Luke shouted, then stared at the woman. He knew her. It was Betty Custer, and she had gone to school with him.
She ducked back into her office and asked in a hoarse whisper, “Should I call the police?”
“No. Just stay out of sight. Hide.”
They rushed past.
“Why not call the police?” Olivia gasped out.
“The men who tried to steal the box won’t let themselves be captured. People will die.”
“Who are they?”
“I told you. The Poisoned Ones. They came to steal the box—to acquire its power. They will risk everything to win the prize. Stop asking questions,” he said as they reached the stairs. He yanked open the door and ushered Olivia inside.
He could feel Zabastian inside him. It was a strange sensation—a combination of power and helplessness. The warrior was still getting his bearings, and he had let Luke take charge, now that the fight was over. But what he was telling Olivia about the Poisoned Ones came straight from the warrior.
“Stay in the background,” he muttered under his breath because he knew the building, and he was the one who could get them out of here.
“What?” Olivia asked.
He felt heat stain his cheeks as he considered what she must be thinking. “I’m not talking to you.”
“Then who?”
“Zabastian. You remember him?” he asked as they ran down a flight of stairs.
“Luke, have you . . . gotten . . . psychiatric treatment?” she puffed out as they ran.
“I don’t need a shrink.”
She shot him a sidewise look that told him she was planning to get away from him as soon as she could
Well, he couldn’t allow that. Because if the attackers didn’t get the chest, they’d come looking for her.
“What? You think those guys are my drug dealers? Or maybe my bookies? Come to take me out for not paying my bills?
“I don’t know who they are.”
“They’re after the box. Like they told you.”
She made a strangled sound and stopped asking questions.
They reached the garage level of the building, and he pulled open the door. Without waiting to find out what was on the other side, he charged through.
His mistake.
“Stop!” a voice called, and he knew in that moment that the other two men had left a cohort in the garage, just in case.
The grating voice was followed by a barrage of bullets.
“Monkey balls.” Zabastian’s curse rang out in the grungy air. But Luke had already pulled Olivia behind a rectangular pillar. Bullets struck it, chipping pieces of cement.
And the angle was shifting. They’d been striking the front of the column. Now they were moving to the side.
“Down,�
� he whispered. “Move behind the cars. Mine’s the silver Honda.”
She looked around. “Where?”
“Halfway down the row along this wall.”
He reached into his pocket and handed her the key. “Get in. Drive toward the door.”
“It’s locked!”
“You have an opener in your car?”
“Yes. But it’s on the other side of the garage, and we can’t get to it.”
“Is there a release at the door?”
“I think so.”
“I’ll get to the door and open it.”
She gave him a panicked look.
“Go!”
She ducked low, moving along the wall, following his directions, and he gave her points for not arguing. But he couldn’t help wondering if he’d put her in worse danger.
The garage was half empty and deathly quiet, and he’d like to know where the man with the gun had disappeared
He could be in back of them. In front. Anywhere. Straining his ears, he tried to figure out where the guy was hiding. But he heard nothing—and saw nothing.
Praying that Olivia made it to his car in one piece, he crawled awkwardly to the exit gate with the box under his arm, using the remaining cars as cover and hoping the gunman didn’t spot him.
But as he moved toward his goal, a wave of dizziness seized him, and he saw black spots in front of his eyes. It took every ounce of determination he possessed to hold on to consciousness. Even so he felt it slipping from his grasp.
Panic tightened his throat.
“No,” he ordered himself. “Not now.”
But working with another person inside his head was taking its toll. Luke stopped, pressing his shoulder against a car bumper, feeling like he was hanging onto awareness by his fingernails. If he passed out, he was dead. And so was Olivia.
And the box is lost, the warrior growled inside his skull.
Right, the all-important box. That’s what got us into this damn mess.
The warrior didn’t respond to the sarcasm. But as Luke wavered on the cold cement floor, he felt his breathing change. It became slower and deeper, and he knew the warrior was using some kind of calming technique on his mind and body. It helped. After a minute, the black spots went away, and Luke felt like he could function again.
“Thanks,” he muttered as he started crawling again toward the front of the garage where a metal gate closed off the entrance. Luckily there was a car parked nearby, which gave him some cover. But when he reached for the red button that opened the door, the guy spotted him and started shooting.
At that moment, shots rang out from the other end of the garage, and he realized that at least one of the men he’d disabled upstairs had made it down here.
He ducked behind the car as the metal gate began to slowly open. But he didn’t like his chances of getting into the Honda with two men catching him in the crossfire. Worse, he’d draw that fire toward Olivia.
Just as he was trying to figure out his next move, he heard an engine rev.
The Honda shot out of its parking slot, then whipped into forward gear and came barreling toward the gate—which was still not open enough for the car to exit.
His heart leaped into his throat when he heard bullets hit the back fender.
Chapter 3
Olivia ducked low to make herself as small a target as possible. Her hands fused to the wheel, she screeched to a halt in front of the gate that Luke had opened.
“Get in!” she screamed.
Luke bent at the waist, running around the front of the car and through the door she’d thrown open.
She heard a man shout something in a language she didn’t understand—but she was pretty sure it wasn’t the language Luke had spoken after he’d awakened.
Her first thought was that it must be Arabic. Then she decided it had an Asian cadence. Or maybe Indian.
As Luke slammed the door closed, she was already lurching away, picking up speed as she cleared the door, then hurtling up the ramp to the street.
“They stopped shooting!” she shouted.
“The one from upstairs warned the shooter not to hit the box.”
“Our lucky break.”
“For now. They’ll kill us if they catch up.”
Olivia absorbed that with a grimace.
It was fully dark now, and she reached for the lever that turned on the headlights.
“Leave them off,” Luke shouted as she made a quick left turn, then sped to the end of the block.
She didn’t like driving in the dark with no lights, but she understood why it was a good idea. At least she didn’t have to worry about much traffic on the streets around the warehouses.
oOo
Before the silver car was up the ramp, Smith, Jones and Brown sprinted for their rental car, and jumped in. Jones was driving, and he headed for the garage door, trying to catch up with the fleeing car.
Although the door was already closing, he thought he could make it underneath before it was too late. But he had to slam on his brakes at the last minute when the gap became too small for their car to exit.
Smith cursed. “Get out,” he said to Brown. “Open it again. Hurry. We’ve got to catch up with them.”
Brown sprinted for the door opener and pressed the switch. As the door began to ascend again, he dashed back to the car. But by the time they emerged from the garage, the street was empty.
Smith cursed again.
“They can’t have gotten far,” Brown muttered.
Jones scanned the street. “I think they kept their lights off. Which way should I go?”
“If I’d been them, I would have turned right,” Smith said.
Jones nodded, then made a right turn, speeding down the darkened street, as all of them watched for the little silver car. But it seemed to have vanished.
After several minutes, Jones admitted defeat and began driving more slowly. He didn’t think they were going to find the couple right away. But they had to keep trying.
“Now what?” Brown asked.
“We must figure out where the man and the woman would go. Then kill them and take the box.”
“The woman was an office worker,” Smith said.
“Yes.”
“But what about the man?”
“He was an office worker, too,” Jones answered.
“I’m not so sure,” Smith objected. “He showed . . . martial training.”
“So who was he? And what was he doing there?” Brown asked.
Smith didn’t answer directly. “You have read the accounts. Over the years, others have tried to steal the box, and they have ended up dead.”
“They were incompetent,” Jones answered.
“All of them?” Brown asked in a sharp voice.
“By definition. They failed.”
“The question is—why? What if the box has special protections?” Brown asked.
Jones and Smith stared at him. “Explain your thinking,” Smith demanded.
“Did you see the eyes of the man?”
Jones swallowed. “What about them?”
“I think you know,” Brown answered, his voice soft and even.
“What do I know?” Smith snapped. He had been thinking the worst, but he wasn’t going to be the one to say it.
“There was a spirit in the box. He emerged when he sensed danger.”
“Nonsense,” Smith answered, but his voice no longer held the same conviction. “If he emerged, how did he acquire a body?”
“He took the body of that man,” Brown said. He fixed Smith with a sharp look. “We may not survive this attempt at theft.”
Smith glared at him, but fear jolted through him. They had contracted with powerful forces to steal the box. They had thought they had the skill and the training to recover the object of power. Now it appeared that they had not been told the whole story.
“We could just disappear,” Brown said softly.
“No. They would track us down,” Smith said. He didn’
t say who “they” were. Each of them knew.
“We must see this through,” Smith added, keeping his private doubts to himself. He made his voice sharp. “We will surely not survive if you give up so easily.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out some sheets of paper. “We’ve lost them for now. But I have addresses from the office files. The woman is the assistant of Carl Peterbalm, and I know where she lives. They may go to her dwelling. And if they do, we will find them and kill them,” he said with a hard finality in his voice.
“What if they are not there?” Brown asked.
“We will keep looking. I have the cell phone of one of them. If it belongs to the man, I can use it to trace his address.”
“That only gives the phone number.”
“I have equipment that will trace the number to a residence.”
oOo
Olivia was familiar with this area because she’d had to take several different streets going to and from work when road repair crews had blocked her usual route.
Luke was looking over his shoulder. “There’s a car behind you. It could be them.”
“Not to worry,” she answered, speeding up and weaving down one street, then another.
She knew Baltimore a lot better than the men who had said they were after the box. And she wasn’t planning on getting caught. She took another corner at a fast clip, then barreled down an alley into Greektown. With quick maneuvers, she lost the car behind them and kept going.
Finally, she came to a street with a fair amount of traffic.
“All right to turn on the lights?”
“I guess you’d better.”
She drove along Broadway and turned onto one of the side streets where she found a parking place. After easing into the space, she turned to Luke. The interior of the car was dark, but she could see his tense features in the glow from a street lamp several yards down the block.
“They shot your car,” she murmured.
“Yeah, it’s going to need some body work. I have a friend who can take care of it for me.
“Yes,” she answered, her mind racing back over the frantic scene in the garage. “You said one of the men from upstairs ordered the others to stop shooting.”
“Yes.”
“So you understood that language.”
“Zabastian does.”
“Zabastian. Oh sure. Why don’t you tell me what’s really going on?”