“You were right about me hating to not be in control. Feeling in control is the only thing that keeps me sane, because there was a time in my life when I was completely out of control, completely helpless, and that’s something I can never be again. So, please. Just let me try to climb this fucking tree. If you think I can’t handle it, if it looks like I’m about to fall, you have my permission to throw me over your shoulder or drag me up by my goddamn hair if you want. Just . . . please let me try. Before you decide for me.”
She stood staring up at him with eyes wide and shining, and Hawk felt as if a giant, invisible fist was squeezing his heart.
He said, “I don’t think I’m better than you because I have a dick. And I don’t think you do it on purpose, but that mouth of yours makes me crazy. Can we agree that if I let you try to climb this tree, you’ll try to cut out the cursing?”
She pulled her lower lip between her teeth and chewed it. “Why does that bother you so much?”
A million different memories flooded Hawk’s mind, all of them bad. “Because the things I needed to hide from when I was a kid just loved to scream curses.” His voice hardened. “Right before they beat the hell out of me.”
The expression that crossed Jacqueline’s face then was indescribable. She looked as if she might throw her arms around him, or burst into tears. But she did neither of those things. She only nodded, then waited, standing perfectly still.
Hawk exhaled a hard breath. “All right, Red. You first. Don’t make me regret this.”
Still serious, she nodded again, then moved past him. Finding notches in the rough bark of the trunk, she pulled herself up. She paused just before climbing, and turned to look at him.
“Thank you, Lucas.” Her voice was quiet in the gathering gloom. Their gazes held just longer than was comfortable, until he jerked his chin, indicating she should climb.
So she did. He watched her with more than a little trepidation and a burgeoning premonition of doom as she quickly and confidently began to scale the trunk of the mammoth tree.
Jacqueline Dolan, he thought, unable to tear his gaze from her as she climbed, you are trouble with a capital T.
Hawk shook his head, ran a hand through his hair, then leapt onto the trunk beneath her.
The three men who sat around the oval conference table in silence inside the soundproof office at the elegant townhouse on Sutton Place in Manhattan were so different from each other that an observer might have a difficult time determining why they were meeting at all.
The Secretary-General of the United Nations was a slight, bespectacled man named Min Ji-hoon, formerly the Foreign Minister of the Republic of Korea. His air of humble geniality belied a razor-sharp intelligence, and a fierce competitive streak that drove him like a merciless slave master. To the press he was known as “the slippery eel,” due to his ability to deftly avoid questions, a particularly valuable skill for a diplomat.
Directly across from him sat another bespectacled man, this one white-haired and missing one hand and an eye. The hole in his skull was covered by a black patch, giving him the look of a pirate, but the look in the other blue eye that stared out from behind his glasses was anything but piratical. It held the flat, killer gaze of a jihadist, of one who had seen and done things no man ought to have seen and done. He sat perfectly still and straight in his chair, clad in a tailored black suit that hid the unfortunate fact that one of his legs was aluminum from the upper thigh down.
The man was known by several names, including the Doctor and, like all the others in the multinational organization to which he belonged, John Doe. To the gathered group, and the businessman he represented, he was known simply as Thirteen.
The third man at the end of the table was the largest, most imposing, and most arresting of the three. Clad in a simple cloth robe the color of blackest night, with a cowl and hood hiding the pale dome of his bald head, the albino named Jahad sat with his large hands folded peacefully in his lap, gazing at Thirteen with a look in his gray-lavender eyes that could only be described as chilling. There was no love lost between the two men, and though they’d worked together once before to catch the beasts they still pursued, the operation had ended disastrously for both of them, and each bore the scars of their failure.
Jahad’s were internal, however. Though unseen, his claustrophobia was nearly crippling.
He had scars aplenty from earlier exploits, including those from the fire that had almost killed him as a boy, leaving him with hideous pocked and puckered flesh on the right side of his face and body, and a hand that was curled to a claw. All in all, he was a most unusual sight. Most people couldn’t bear to look at him for more than a few seconds at a time.
The Secretary-General was currently experiencing exactly that problem.
“How can you be sure this tip you received was credible?” Min said to Thirteen, trying hard not to glance at Jahad. It was like trying not to look at a car accident on the freeway. You wanted to see a glimpse of a bloody corpse, yet hoped simultaneously not to.
“Certain details were given that proved credibility beyond a doubt. I wouldn’t be here if there was any question of authenticity,” replied Thirteen, his one eye glittering icy blue, cold as an arctic sky. His voice held a strong German accent that, in addition to his missing parts and that lone, frigid eye, made him seem like something straight out of a folktale by the brothers Grimm.
“And just to be perfectly clear, your organization is willing to underwrite the entire cost of this operation? If this tip proves accurate, and we move forward with your plan, we’re likely looking in the hundreds of millions, including reparations to the Brazilian government, and any affected farmers or indigenous tribes. The cost of reforesting alone will be astronomical. Destroying an entire section of the Amazon rainforest—”
“Money is no object to the Chairman,” Thirteen interrupted, sneering. “You of all people should be aware of that.”
A flush crept over the Secretary-General’s cheeks. The Chairman had given generously to his election campaign. He’d never met the man—he remained an enigma, a faceless entity represented only through third-parties such as Thirteen—but his influence, and bank account, were definitely real.
For the first time, Jahad spoke. His voice was deep and somehow soulless, matching the empty look in his pale eyes. “We’re not looking for money. What we want is a guarantee.”
The Secretary-General finally looked directly at Jahad. Blinking behind his large glasses, he waited for the albino to continue.
“The UN will not interfere in any way. You will sanction this action, and allow us to proceed in whatever way we see fit.”
Min’s brows lifted. “I can’t give a unilateral guarantee that there won’t be a call for some kind of accountability. The Security Council will want to get involved—”
“There will be no interference.”
The threat in Jahad’s tone was obvious. It had Min sitting up straighter in his seat, the flush in his cheeks deepening. His voice went up an octave. “It’s my duty to report any matter that threatens the maintenance of international peace and security. Can you imagine what Brazil might have to say about this? Let alone the international conservation communities—”
“You can convince them,” Thirteen interrupted, sounding absolutely sure of it.
Min looked back and forth between the albino and Jahad, his outrage growing. Who did these two hooligans think they were, ordering him around? “The General Assembly can override me. They have veto power, regardless of what I recommend. The United Nations isn’t a monarchy, gentlemen. There are one hundred ninety-three member states, each of which gets a vote.”
Thirteen’s lips curved upward, but it was grim and ugly, a mockery of a smile. He set a leather briefcase on the table, clicked it open, and withdrew five manila folders, each with a name neatly typed in the upper right-hand corner.
/> “The five permanent members of the Security Council who hold veto power are the only ones who really matter. In these folders you will find information about those five members that might . . . motivate them to agree with whatever you suggest.”
Min was almost afraid to touch the folders Thirteen pushed across the table toward him. He glanced at Jahad, who sat stone-faced and shark-eyed at the end of the table, then back at Thirteen. He lifted the flap on one of the envelopes and withdrew a black-and-white photograph from within.
With a sick twist in his stomach, he shoved the photo roughly back into the folder.
In a tone so hissed it was nearly reptilian, Thirteen said, “Our friend Mr. Drake certainly does enjoy those underage boys.”
The Secretary-General said stiffly, “This is not the way to go about convincing people your plan is correct, gentlemen.”
“Im gegenteil,” said Thirteen. “On the contrary, this is exactly the way to convince them. Self-preservation is the strongest basic human motivation, even beyond that of procreation or the need for food or shelter. Every man has a flaw, a secret, or a regret he will go to any length to hide. Uncover it, exploit it, and there’s nothing he won’t do for you. This is the key to politics, Mr. Secretary-General. This is the key to gaining consensus. Surely you must know that by now.”
The satisfied smirk Thirteen sent him told Min he had underestimated the lengths these two men would go to get what they wanted. It also told him he’d made a terrible miscalculation when he’d accepted money from the Chairman.
He sat stiffly back into his plush leather chair and gazed at Thirteen with new respect, and new animosity. He chose his next words carefully. “Blackmail will not be necessary, gentlemen. These creatures slaughtered twenty-six of the world’s most important religious and political leaders in a coordinated attack that left no question about their disposition toward the human race. Or their ability to bypass our defenses. Public opinion is already on your side. A few well-timed words are all that will be needed to ensure your operation moves forward without incident.”
“But backups are always good, too,” said Jahad, smiling like Thirteen. On him it looked even more unnerving, the grin of a crocodile as its jaws snapped closed over your head.
The Secretary-General abruptly stood, signaling the end of the meeting. “My housekeeper will show you out. If you need to contact me again, I suggest you do so on a secure line, and not at the UN where a record of all calls are kept. My private cellular is off-grid. Use that.”
Thirteen and Jahad stood as well, acknowledging the instructions with matching expressions of disdain.
No one shook hands. The Secretary-General turned and hurried from the room.
Like a rat nibbling the toes of a drunkard lying unconscious in a dark alley, something was worrying the edges of Jack’s sleep.
It was a slipping, sliding, ambiguous sort of unease, a presence that took a shadowy form beneath and behind the surface of things, ghostly and teasing and altogether unwelcome.
What was it?
Or who?
It was just out of reach, this maddening specter, but still it had weight. It had heft, and . . . warmth. Yes, warmth, and a sinister sort of gravity, so that she felt pinned beneath an invisible entity, unable to free herself from its grip.
No—she had to get free. She had to get away. She had to save herself from this unwanted pressure, slowly threading its way down through her pores into the meat of her cells.
In her dream, Jack began to run.
It was the horrible, sticky-syrup run of nightmares, where even the strongest push of muscle gained only the most meager effect. She pumped her legs, desperate for escape, desperate to gain traction, but felt glued to the ground. The warmth turned suffocating. The weight bore down harder and harder, until finally Jack knew she would be crushed beneath it like a bug beneath a shoe.
No . . . no . . . not again!
A scream tore from her throat. She jerked upright, blinking into humid darkness.
Then there were hands on her shoulders, a gentle shake, a low voice, urgent beside her ear. “Jacqueline! Wake up! Wake up—it’s me! It’s Hawk!”
Trembling, breathless, frozen in fear, Jack stared up into Hawk’s face—handsome and shadowed, his brow crumpled into a frown—and let out a sob of despair.
She buried her face into her hands.
“Hey. Take it easy. Just breathe, all right?” Hawk’s big hand settled on the small of her back, tentative and calming.
Safe. She was safe. It had only been Hawk’s warmth she felt in the dream, Hawk’s presence. Hawk’s weight.
Not . . . his. The one who could never be banished, no matter how hard she tried.
Exquisitely aware of Hawk’s hand on her back, Jack exhaled a long, shuddering breath. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay.” His voice was gravelly with sleep. “I think you were just having a bad dream.”
A recurring nightmare, more like.
“Yeah.”
Avoiding Hawk’s penetrating gaze, she looked around, seeing nothing but endless, restless green. It was still dark in the forest, but far above in the treetops, a faint sheen of lavender glimmered, the promise of morning.
It would be daybreak soon. Even now, the first notes of birdsong were echoing through the trees, trills and warbles of a million varieties that flavored the air like so many exotic spices.
They’d climbed high into the spreading boughs, and Hawk had made an ingenious bed at the junction of the trunk and two wide branches. After gathering smaller limbs—that he ripped away from their moorings with such ease it looked as though he were pulling weeds instead of the thick, leafy offshoots they were—he’d lashed them together to form a hammock of sorts, secured with strong, rope-like vines, overlaid with a thick weave of palm fronds and the moss that draped from the tallest branches, feather light and downy soft. It was a snug, effective resting place, and to top it all off, it was safe.
Safe being a relative term. She wouldn’t have to deal with any forest floor predators, but there was an even more dangerous one sleeping right beside her.
Much different from the first night we spent together, that’s for sure.
Hawk quietly asked, “So, who’s Garrett?”
It became almost impossible to breathe.
She found his gaze in the dark, looked into those glittering, preternatural green eyes, and shivered in horror. “What did you say?”
He absently brushed away a strand of hair that had fallen into her eyes. “You were screaming that name. That and . . . other things.”
Jack squeezed shut her eyes, blocking the sight of his face. “Please don’t tell me what other things. Please don’t. And don’t ever say that name to me again.”
There was silence for a moment, then she heard his deep inhalation. His hand on the small of her back flexed slightly, his fingers spreading father apart, as if trying to impart more comfort.
Hawk said, “Você está seguro comigo.”
Without opening her eyes, Jack whispered, “What does that mean?”
He removed his hand from her back. When she finally looked at him, he was staring back at her with something like compassion in his intense gaze. But Jack knew that had to be wrong, because he’d made it perfectly clear he felt nothing for her but disgust.
“It means . . . okay.”
They both knew it meant far more than that, but they both pretended it didn’t. Since she was an expert at pretending, this suited her just fine.
With swift grace, Hawk stood. For the first time, Jack noticed he wasn’t wearing a shirt, and the knowledge that he’d been sleeping right beside her half naked for the entire night made heat rush to her face. She glanced away, heartbeat fluttering, mouth dry.
“I’ll get some food, and then we’ll get going again. I’ll only be a few minutes.”
When she was certain he was gone, she lay back down into the leafy comfort of their makeshift bed, put a hand over her face, and cried.
Hawk took longer than necessary gathering food for their breakfast, for two main reasons. One, he sensed she needed to be alone. Two—
He was having a tremendously difficult time marshaling his fragmented emotions.
This wasn’t like him at all, this nurturing stranger who felt things like pity and understanding and the urge to offer comfort. Especially to someone like her!
She’s your enemy, he reminded himself every time she pinned him with the raw force of that blue, blue gaze. She’s evil. She’s a danger to us all.
Only she didn’t feel evil. Or dangerous. Or like an enemy. She irritated him, yes, she angered him, yes—he thought she had a long way to go in the open-mindedness department—but she also sparked an emotion he’d never felt before in his life. Not for a woman, not for anyone.
Protectiveness.
In a show of completely irrational, testosterone-driven idiocy, he felt protective of this walking contradiction under his charge, and he was supremely pissed off at himself for it.
When she’d awakened—screaming and thrashing out of her dream—his guarding instincts had gone into overdrive. If he’d had a sword in hand at that moment, he was sure he’d have chopped the tree in half before coming back to his senses. As it was, he’d barely restrained himself from leaping from the hammock, Shifting into panther, and snarling bloody murder into the darkness to keep the proverbial wolves at bay.
But there were no wolves. There was only Jacqueline, wild-eyed, pale, and shivering, looking as if what she really needed was a hug.
He’d had to restrain himself from that, too.
“Você está seguro comigo,” he’d told her in a moment of foolishness. You’re safe with me. What had he been thinking? Was he thinking? No, he decided, he wasn’t thinking. At least not with the head atop his neck.
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