Ocean Kills (Ocean Breeze)

by Jade Hart

  I couldn't focus on the pain, or the horrid feeling of teeth against bone. It was fight or lose my hand. Upside down, nose full of seawater, I located soft pockets of eyes, and dug my thumb in as hard as I could.

  My lungs screamed for oxygen. Something popped beneath my thumb, there was a flush of warm liquid, and jaws un-clamped from my wrist.

  Floating, I was suspended with disbelief. I won. It let me go.

  I pushed off from the sandy bottom, lurching for the surface. Tugging my board toward me with help of my leash, I scrambled on top and charged toward the shore.

  A lone wave picked me up, but I stayed on my belly, trying to keep as much of my body out of the water as possible.

  When I was a couple of meters from shore, I leaped off and sprinted from the water. Blood sluiced from multiple lacerations on my forearm and wrist. A stupid thought dragged a deranged laugh from me—lucky it was my right wrist and not my left. Kim would be mighty pissed to find his tracking device in the belly of a shark.

  Adrenaline doused my system as I hoisted my board with my good arm, cradling my other. In the silver light of the moon, my blood was black. It was everywhere, down my chest, my leg, dripping on white sand.

  My body shook as I stumbled up the beach. How badly was I injured?

  I made it to my apartment, leaving a trail of crimson in my wake, and headed straight for my shower.

  Clear water washed away salt and blood. I inspected my mashed flesh as best I could. My arm pulsed with agony.

  It was bad. Blood wouldn't stop mixing with water, vanishing down the drain, but my fingers still worked. It looked worse than it was.

  Thank God it was a juvenile. If the shark had been a great white or an adult bull, I wouldn't be alive right now. For the first time in years, I sent a quick prayer for saving my ass. If all I had to pay for my stupidity were a few deep gashes and teeth marks, I was a lucky man.

  Dripping wet, I used my towel to staunch the blood, rummaging in my vanity for a first aid kit. Once I’d fumbled with opening the gauze pads and anti-coagulant, I wrapped a bandage tightly, ignoring the blood seeping through the thin material.

  Shit, now I knew how Ocean felt with her back injuries. We were walking disasters.

  My arm burned. Crikey, was a shark infectious? Did I need a rabies shot or something?

  Dressing awkwardly, I headed to my lounge. Should I call a doctor?

  I'd give myself an hour, and if the shock hadn't worn off or the bleeding stopped, I’d get treatment. In the meantime, I popped some painkillers and cranked on my new laptop.

  I had things to research, namely the reason why I was in the bloody surf to begin with. Ocean isn't the only one.

  She was an utter mystery. I doubted even she knew the real her. The way she attacked me—consumed me—showed a deep-seated need for touch. I bet she didn't realize that though.

  She ran away her entire life from love, how could I expect her to cope with what I wanted from her? It wasn't possible, unless I understood what made her tick. Solved her riddle to break her chilly facade and make her mine. One thing was for certain, after making love to her on my couch, I wasn't going to let a simple thing like her vanishing turn me off. I rolled my eyes. It was hardly simple.

  Once the laptop was alive, a screen opened telling me to scan. I did—pleased to see it worked. The same input screen Kim showed me in Korea appeared, only this time the location was Sydney, Australia. The alive status made me chuckle darkly. Alive, well—just barely after my idiotic surf with creatures of the deep. Shit, that was so stupid.

  Once the internal search was ready to go, I typed: Anomalies in traumatized humans. ENTER.

  Reams and reams of information spewed onto my screen, inhibited by deception or privacy. The great volt of the World Wide Web was open to my fingertips. Holy crap, this system was amazing.

  I saw my answer immediately.

  Kim was right. Ocean wasn’t the only one.

  A case of a little boy in foster care disappearing into thin air; a young man arrested for appearing in the middle of Christmas dinner in the family room of a US senator. There weren't many, but the articles of unexplained disappearances were too obvious to ignore.

  Wade texted me half way through an article about a ten-year-old girl who stole her neighbor’s hamster and vanished.

  Hey, mate. You get a chance to read Emily Snow's file? Gray is breathing down my neck. Cheers.

  What with sharks, mind-blowing vanishing sex, and being hijacked by a secret Asian agency, I hadn't spent as much time as I should on the Aussie missing girls.

  It was two in the morning, I'd been mauled by a damn-ass shark, and my system was drenched with adrenaline. That, in my world equaled—no sleep. I wouldn't call myself an insomniac, but I was close.

  I grabbed my last remaining beer in the back of the fridge, and refreshed the computer screen.

  Opening the file for Emily Snow, I entered her information into my top-notch laptop: her age, nationality, where she went missing, her family circumstances, and finally, the drugs found in her system. The system spat answers as soon as I released the code.

  I gulped. The medical exam performed on Emily in detox showed she’d contracted the HIV virus. Her body was ravaged by months of sexual abuse by multiple men. Her future would be bleak. That bloody bastard. My skin crawled at the thought that Ocean came into contact with that motherfucker. How did she deal with him to save those girls? Nausea rolled in my stomach. I probably wouldn’t cope if I knew the sordid details.

  The KCIA uplink revealed secrets and whispered conspiracies. The program was so thorough, I felt obsolete. Pages and pages of girls and snapshots of women, young and middle-aged, along with dates of disappearances, locations, and case notes.

  Each girl’s case was different. Was there a pattern? Some were pretty enough to model. Some were so unattractive they’d only be loved by their mothers. That was harsh, Callan. Seemed being half-eaten by a fish made me cruel.

  No link joined them together. What did the system see that I didn't?

  Frowning, I dug deeper. I typed a request to separate the women into groups. The pretty ones. The virgins. The young. The middle-aged.

  Hang on…was that? Yes. A pattern.

  Dates. Locations. Different methods of abduction for each group.

  A model advert for the pretty women. A mysterious man from a personal ad for the older group. And a playgroup interview for the younger girls.

  My stomach shot to my feet as the KCIA system added a computer link, morphing the information into locations and reasons. That would never happen with the Sydney police database. The Sydney police system was a decrepit horse compared to the racing Aston Martin that was the KCIA.

  Wade would have a heart attack when I forwarded what I found. Atsu Bazeer's name popped up on eighty-five percent of the abductions. That man was a piece of shit.

  I couldn't stop my growl as I found a website stating: Membership only. Password required.

  It was hard to hack. Took a good half hour, and when I was in, I wanted to throw up.

  Pictures. Videos. Women naked, sprawled and drugged. Home movies of rape and bondage. Bile lined my throat as hot anger filled my veins.

  The motto at the top of the website churned my stomach; I never wanted to eat again.

  Welcome to the stable of fillies.

  We source them. We break them.

  You want a broken filly – we have them. You want Pure – we have them.

  We have everything you desire.

  Testing of certain fillies is permitted free of charge.

  “This is sick!” I said out loud. I couldn’t sit here reading this filth. My fist punched the leather couch. The things those women had to endure! How many were still alive?

  And Ocean messed with this man? Shit, I’d slice out my own eyeballs if I ever saw her picture on this website.

  No way would I let this remain online. Breathing hard, I deleted the atrocious web page, making sure it was wiped com
pletely from cyber space. Atsu Bazeer was no longer just Ocean's target. He was mine too.

  I’d help her find him. And when I did, I’d stand with pride and satisfaction beside Ocean and watch her kill him.

  Chapter Twenty-six: Ocean

  My prison room at Atsu Bazeer's mansion enveloped me. I froze, crouching naked on the thick rug at the end of the bed. No noises. No running or shouts. Not that they’d hear me teleport. I can’t believe I’m back here. But I wasn’t able to go anywhere else. The twins were constantly in my thoughts. I needed to rescue them before I unscrambled the rest of my life.

  I was undetected for now. Steadying my raging headache, I swiped at the trickle of blood from my nose. I desperately wanted a shower, needing to wash away Callan's scent. It was too strong; the memory pulled my heart strings every time I moved. My lips were sore from his kisses; my skin bruised in places where he accidently touched me too hard. And the stickiness between my thighs was a constant reminder of how screwed up I was.

  I took a step toward the shower, but stopped. I couldn't take the risk. I settled for a quick wash with a hand towel, then stole a pair of white shorts and linen shirt, along with a pair of sneakers from the wardrobe.

  Quickly plaiting my hair so it was out of my face, I gathered my wits. I wanted no hindrance when I attacked Bazeer. Ah, problem. I needed a weapon. My machete was on Callan's coffee table. It seemed I left everything of importance with him. I ignored the deeper meaning of that—did I leave my heart with him, too? Nope. It was purely sexual. Nothing more. I enjoyed being with him, but it was over.

  Bazeer had ten minutes left to live. My agenda included sourcing a knife and slicing his jugular. Those twins would be safe, and I'd be one step closer to putting this horrid chapter behind me.

  The door was quiet as I opened it and tiptoed down the corridor. No signs of life.

  My skin crawled as I prowled under the paintings of the bastard who tried to rape me.

  Where was everyone?

  I held my breath, slinking down the staircase, listening for sounds of footsteps or a prickle of company.

  Loud voices erupted from outside, followed by a gunshot. My heart bucked in my chest. Run! Throwing commonsense and caution out the window, I bolted through the dining room and skidded into the massive kitchen. No one was there.

  Another gunshot and a scream. Hurry!

  A block of kitchen knives rested on the stainless steel bench. With slippery fingers, I slid the largest knife free. A heavy butcher’s blade. I flicked the edge with my thumb. Super sharp. Perfect for my gruesome mission.

  I held my breath, summoned a huge burst of power and teleported in a flash from the kitchen to the front garden—directly in front of a gun-wielding psychopath.

  Ebony skin glinted in the midmorning sun. I was face-to-face with the henchman who threw me over his shoulder and carted me to Bazeer’s room, covered in blood, and whipped within an inch of my life.

  “You!” a gruff voice raged.

  My eyes shot to Bazeer, who was standing in front of a black Hummer. The manicured trees ringing the circular courtyard looked so innocent and carefree compared to the hatred shining in his eyes.

  We glared at each other. Bazeer’s face blackened with fierce anger. “Shoot the bitch!”

  Shit.

  Bullets flew; I ducked. Bouncing on the balls of my feet, I lunged forward, swiping with my newly acquired butcher's knife. It bit through the henchman's arm as if he was an apparition. I chose my weapon well. He screamed and dropped the gun.

  I didn't give him an opportunity to pick it up again. I spun and kicked, roundhouse style, at his chest. He flew backward, crunching on the gravel.

  My body swiveled so I could look behind me: two corpses. One was the gappy-tooth lady who fed me the morning I saved the girls. The other was Clark the butler. No!

  Bazeer shouted something in Afrikaans and the other minion charged. I parried and swiped as he ran toward me. With a flick of my wrist, I severed his ability to walk. Blood splashed against his lower back where I sliced. A flash of guilt. I caused a life-altering injury to someone who just followed orders. Then I looked into Bazeer’s eyes and the thick, soupy evil that lurked inside me billowed into thirst. Kill him. Slowly. Painfully. He deserves it. For once, I let the voices take me over.

  Bazeer was the only one I wanted to kill. The only one worth having a mark scorched onto my back. His life was mine. The other two may be worthy of death, but I wasn’t about to Google their past to make sure.

  “I told you you’d pay,” I seethed, prowling toward him.

  His face contorted, eyes livid. “You over estimate yourself, little bitch. You will be the one who pays.”

  He jumped in the Hummer, slamming the door. He couldn't get away that easily. Dropping my butcher's knife, I scooped up the gun by my feet. Quickly checking there were bullets in the chamber, I replaced the cartridge and let fire.

  Bazeer hit reverse, squealing down the long driveway.

  I let another bullet fly. And another. The slugs hit the windshield directly in front of his face. But it didn't shatter. Freakin' bullet proof glass. You've got to be kidding.

  I ran toward the reversing car, but it picked up speed. Bazeer looked over his shoulder and back to me. Vengeance bloomed—finally there was a thread of fear in his face. That's right, you bastard, fear me—that's the smartest thing you've done in your life.

  I fired off the clip—four more bullets hit the windscreen dead on, but it didn't break. Thank you, Maurice for forcing me to attend shooting lessons. I was a great shot, not that it mattered if faced with smash-proof glass.

  Bazeer reached the end of the driveway and peeled off.

  Dammit!

  I contemplated porting after him, but I couldn't access a moving vehicle, and I couldn't keep teleporting to keep up—it would kill me.

  Breathing hard, I dropped the gun and fled to the wounded henchmen. They held up their hands in defeat, dragging themselves toward the mansion, begging in Afrikaans. Were they the only ones here? The house looked abandoned. Did the phone call Callan organized scare off Bazeer?

  Ignoring the retreating minions, I willed tears to stay in check as I squatted beside the cook. A clean shot to her forehead meant a quick death. Her glassy eyes stared toward the sky. I pressed my fingertips against them, holding them closed. How I wished I’d gotten here sooner.

  Her death was my fault. I could’ve saved her if I hadn't wallowed in my cesspit of memories at Breeze Farm. I should've been here for her. I was worthless.

  Oxygen was gluggy in my lungs, latching onto my tonsils as I tried to swallow. Clark wasn’t as neat. His chest was a mess of scarlet gore. His goatee speckled with spit and blood as he lay there drowning in his own fluids. What a way to die. How old was he? I wouldn’t have said over forty.

  Poor Clark. He didn't want to be messed up in this. He was like me—living the hand life chose for him. It shouldn't have ended this way. Why did Bazeer kill them? Because of me?

  Horror stole my panic, leaving me eerily vacant inside. If they were killed because of me how could I live with that?

  My shaky hands brushed away some gravel stuck to Clark's throat. Hang on. . . Was that? No.

  A tiny flutter of a heartbeat. So faint I might've imagined it.

  Anxiety made me clumsy. I moved closer, bumping his open chest. White glimpses of bone showed amongst squeamish organs.

  Could I save him? Would he survive if I ported him to a hospital?

  I touched his blood-saturated chest, willing him to hold on. He twitched under my fingers.

  My eyes flew open in alarm. Clark's face, which had been passive with death, now held a frown etched into dark skin. “Clark. Can you hear me?” I rubbed his shoulder.

  His frown deepened.

  Nothing mattered to me more in that moment than fixing Clark. I had to save the little butler who tried to help me.

  I hunched over him, gathering his shredded chest in my hands, willing every particle
of myself to share energy. The Icelandic wasteland in my soul grew misty. Tendrils of coldness built until a geyser of vapor travelled up and out through my skin. I shuddered as the strange sensation bubbled. The heavy burden of aloneness and emptiness diminished ever so slightly.

  Clark mumbled, moving under my hands.

  Come on. Heal. Stay strong so I can take you somewhere safe.

  A headache so intense I wanted to pass out bloomed in my skull; heat flamed on my back, radiating through my arms and into my fingertips. Something pressurized inside me, charging, building. I squirmed as it grew and grew. The black marks on my spine twisted and burned. What was happening?

  Bolts of black mist charged from my hands, hovering in the atmosphere, shimmering from black to grey to white, then catapulting into Clark's decimated torso.

  He flew off the gravel, gasping.

  Everything faded around me. My ears roared with noise, my eyes blinded with the rainbow colors of a migraine. I collapsed onto my side, one hand still on Clark's chest.

  I didn't know how long I lay there. The sun passed its zenith and crawled toward sunset. I could tell the day disappeared by the fading warmth. I remained blind, unable to see or hear for what seemed like centuries.

  When nothing but shadows remained, a gentle hand rocked my shoulder. “Ocean?”

  Who? Callan. Oh, Callan, I'm sorry. I miss you. I want you. Please help me. My voice rasped, “Is that you?”

  Someone helped me into sitting position. I blinked.

  As if a photo developed before my eyes, I could see again. I almost fainted in shock. “Clark?”

  He gave me a glowing smile. “You're alive. I was so worried.”

  Lucidness flooded me and remembrance of his gaping chest made my eyes drop. His shirt was ruined, but underneath, his skin was perfect. The only imperfection was a black mark where his horrid wound used to be.

  Oh my God! What did this mean? I healed him? How? Holy hell, I needed to speak to Maurice. Panic rushed through me. Did I steal the remaining pieces of my soul to heal him? I groaned, grabbing my head as worry pounded. How was this possible?