She didn’t speak, but then she knew better. They only spoke if asked to, and then only very, very little.
Misgivings stirred in him, but he shrugged it off. He would be ruled by no damn woman, no matter how beautiful she was. If it was the last thing he did—he’d break her. Her eyes shifted from Reyer to him and he thought he might have seen a flicker in those icy eyes. He studied her harder, but her eyes were blank.
Dusk.
The name, the sight of her, though clearly thinner, had memories whispering through him.
“Dawn.” Mikhail cleared his throat. “You have her back by dawn,” he said, thumping the tabletop.
Reyer looked Dusk up and down. His fingers grazed her arm, her cheek, the collar. Mikhail watched as Reyer tilted his head, watched as Reyer’s eyes narrowed in appreciation of Dusk’s beauty in those high cheekbones, the perfect, flawless features. Her icy blue eyes, a contrast to the rest of her with her Latin skin tone and jet hair. Those plump, lush lips—God, what she could do with those lips made the blood pound straight to his groin.
Mikhail had left her in the club in Cheb for almost two months now, to teach her, knowing all the while what she would be forced to do. By the time he asked her back, she’d be thankful to him. Wanting to go with him, which is the way it should be.
Maybe he’d make her beg him first.
But right now, for the first time, he found he didn’t like watching another man appreciate what he considered his. To make a profit was one thing, to watch admiration was another.
“Dawn?” Reyer said softly, his thumb rubbing Dusk’s pouting collarbone. “I think not. For that many diamonds I will have until noon at the very least. A lover of art, I prefer to appreciate beauty when I find it.”
Mikhail bit down, and found he wanted to refuse.
Reyer turned quickly. “Problem?”
Reyer’s black eyes sent a shiver down Mikhail’s spine and he had to stop from crossing himself. Damn the man. “No. Noon will work. Not a minute later, or my men will be out looking for you, and you won’t like what happens when they find you.”
Reyer smiled. “Threats, my friend? I don’t like threats. Don’t trust me?”
Mikhail did not want to insult the man, the bosses might not be happy. After all, he wasn’t the only one to use Reyer for gemstones. But either way, he’d not lie. “I trust no one.”
“What a pity.” Reyer turned his attention back to Dusk. “Perhaps I should find someone else who would appreciate my diamonds.”
Mikhail ground his teeth and stroked a hand over his short blond hair. Damn it, he wanted those diamonds . . . No, he needed those diamonds. However, he had not achieved his rank within the business by jumping forward without careful thought. “I need to think about the diamonds.”
“Then I will return the girl at noon, and if I learn you sent someone looking for me, I will be very . . . ” Reyer stopped, stroked his perfectly trimmed goatee. “Disappointed.”
Mikhail’s irritation flowed into anger. “Leave, before I change my mind. Take the guard, Peter, with you.”
John Reyer studied the handsome man who sat as if he owned this bloody club. Mikhail Jezek might appear the golden Adonis, but the angelic façade and expensive Caraceni cloaked a malevolent brutality that rivaled Lenin’s.
John inclined his head and glanced back at the woman before him.
Rage clawed through him at what she must have endured, but he quietly commanded, “Come, my pretty, the night is growing old.”
Jezek’s guard, Peter, jerked her chain again and John reached for the gold strand. “May I? As of now, I am her master, not you.”
He knew his words irked Jezek, but he didn’t give a bloody damn. Jezek could have been a poster boy for Hitler. Blond, blue-eyed, aristocratic features, he was not known as Devil’s Advocate for mere humor’s sake. The bastard worked the Devil’s Strip here and Hell’s Alley in Cheb, as if he were Satan himself. No one wanted to be on Jezek’s wrong side.
Peter, ever the faithful follower, looked again for permission from Jezek, who after only a moment’s hesitation nodded. Poor bastard. Peter would never know what hit him. But then, Reyer detested men who couldn’t think for themselves.
The metal of her chain was cool in his hand. He jerked his head to the door. “Come.”
He walked before the woman, through the club, leaving enough slack so that the girl could easily keep up. He didn’t spare her another glance. Instead, he and Shadow, his own guard, worked their way through the gyrating, head-banging club.
Dancers kissed their partners, groped, fondled. Several were passing pills and goods from hand to hand or between their mouths under the black strobing lights. Colors became distorted and the whole picture seemed macabre.
The bald band on the stage screamed out something in German.
John shook his head and dearly hoped no one dumped something or got anything on his new suit. It cost a bloody fortune. It might not be a Caraceni—he drew the line at spending more than five grand on a suit—but it was a Gieves & Hawkes. After the chaotic melee of the dance floor, they stepped up to the upper level, scattered with tables and poles that nearly naked women gyrated against. Part of him wanted to stop. The female next to him, grinding against the pole, looked no more than fourteen or fifteen. He knew better than to stop.
John Reyer couldn’t care less about such things.
Shadow shoved their way through a group of eager young college men, one of whom dared to reach out and touch the chain. Before either guard could react, John reached out and grabbed the boy by his neck.
“I get offended when others touch what is mine. Especially when they have not been invited to do so.” He looked back at the girl, then at Peter, who, like Shadow, had his gun drawn. John flung the boy back, turned toward the door and stepped around the eager testosterone-hyped youth.
Once outside, the cold December air hitting them in the face, John wondered about the young woman’s clothing—little that there was of it. She must be cold. There was nothing for it, he didn’t even have an extra coat with him. Of course, John Reyer really wouldn’t care if she were cold or not.
Other clubs lined this street, but then this was the red-light district. Clubs, brothels, whorehouses. It was a booming business. Old buildings, new buildings, all let it be known, whether through subtlety or screaming that sex was for sale. Women in collars, leather, naked, or in lingerie sat, stood, and posed in glass front windows. Neon signs flashed.
This was the Devil’s Strip.
His limo still sat at the curb. His other guard, George—the driver—stood beside it. Shadow quickly opened the back door and John motioned the girl in. The woman managed to look both infuriated and hopeful. She slid into the car, the chain scraping along the edge of the car’s doorway. There was still plenty of slack. Peter stood on the curb.
“You’ll ride up front with the driver. You may have to be along, but that doesn’t mean you get to watch everything.” John climbed in and let Shadow follow, closing the door.
He waited while Peter climbed into the front with George. When the car moved away from the curb, John turned to the girl. She sat silent, hopeful, yet resigned.
“Aren’t you beautiful?” he whispered. Reaching into the minibar, he pulled out a security wand. Jezek wasn’t above bugging his own women to find out more about one John Reyer. He ran it over her.
She pressed back into the seat.
He wished he could ease her. He slowly brought the wand up to check the damn collar and chain the bastard had put on the girl.
Nothing beeped. No light shown on the back of the wand. No bugs, no plants, no GPS chips. He sighed, dropped the wand back into the minibar and turned to his charge.
“Be quiet,” he told her, letting go of the chain and dropping the South African accent. “You must do exactly as I say if any of us are to get out of this alive, understand?”
She frowned and just stared at him.
“Understand?” he asked again.
/> She quickly nodded and mumbled, “Y-yes.”
He waited as garish lights blurred by, the sex slave suburb falling behind. The tawdry suburb shed away into the beauty of Old Prague and the Staré Mesto. In the distance he could see Prazský hrad, the Prague Castle, dark, its walls washed green from the lights illuminating it. Regency buildings gave way to narrow medieval streets and bridges.
He spared another glance at the woman. She watched him. He supposed he could call her Dusk, but he really didn’t like that bloody name.
She watched him with icy eyes that he couldn’t pinpoint, then cleared her throat. “Y-you asked for m-me?”
He nodded. “An American. It took a while to track you down after we received the yellow notice.”
“Yellow notice?”
“When missing persons cross international boundaries, yellow notices are initiated by Interpol. Yours was issued some time back.” When hers was issued, it stayed active until they found her and knew where she was probably located. Then they pulled the notice, for her safety, if she was indeed involved with the person they believed. And she was. Up to her neck.
“Interpol? W-we?”
“I’ll explain later.”
She frowned. “When did you see me?” she asked, still not moving. “I was just bought down this afternoon.”
He watched the landmarks. They drove over Karluv most, crossing the Vltava River. It snaked dark beneath the bridge. “A contact spotted you two nights ago in Cheb. You danced. I asked around and found out what I needed to know.”
He moved toward the front of the limo, where the window separated the occupants from the driver. Shadow nodded to him and pulled his own gun from his shoulder holster. John waited until they reached the bridge. Looking behind, he saw no headlights. He pulled a gun, a P88 Walther with a silencer, from inside the minibar. One sharp tap against the glass had the car slowing as they neared the center of a bridge. The dark partition slowly lowered.
George looked in the mirror.
Peter was turning around.
John, his Walther at the base of the man’s skull, pulled the trigger. “Hurry, before someone comes along.”
George didn’t so much as blink as he turned and took another street, driving along the river.
Sighing, Shadow said, “Gor, I really hate when you do that. There are more convenient methods, you know.”
John shook his head. “But this is so effective.”
Chapter 3
Prague; 11:29 p.m.
Dusk pushed back into the seat as shock lightninged through her. He’d killed him. The man just . . . just killed her guard. Oh. My. God. Not that she’d ever liked Peter, but this man just . . . just . . . killed him without even blinking. She didn’t move, sat frozen.
Blood had splattered over the windshield and front passenger window. Clumps of gray matter that didn’t need close scrutiny clung in various places. She bit down and swallowed. Slowly, she looked away and out the window.
Oh, my God. Chills pooled at the base of her spine. Was the next bullet for her? She’d just look out the window. Where were they? Where was she? Did she know? Think. Think. Think.
The limo kept driving, turning after the bridge onto the waterfront in the Malá Strana, or the Lesser Quarter. This was an older but hardly ancient part of town. She remembered this part of Prague. Didn’t she?
Slowly, she looked at her client for the night, who turned and caught her stare. The driver moved through the shadowed streets. Her client stared at her, pulling a shoulder holster from the minibar as well. Dusk wondered what other toys he had in there. Not that she really wanted to find out. Was there even alcohol? Or some other liquid? She could use a drink. Why hadn’t she taken the hit Dame had offered? Would he kill her next, pulling some other weapon from his mini arsenal?
Oh, God.
Would he shoot her as well? She stared at the gun and knew what it would feel like, cold against her skin, digging hard into her temple or neck. She twisted her fingers together.
His eyes, black as obsidian, dark as hell’s heart, pierced her again.
She didn’t speak. Didn’t look away. A shiver danced down her spine.
“Don’t ask questions. I’ll explain everything later. Right now, time is of the essence.” His voice, male and deep, narrowed on British syllables.
His features were chiseled. Harsh bones, unforgiving jawline, narrow lips, with those eyes and the bladed nose, made him appear almost sinister.
But she’d lived in a world where nothing was as it appeared.
Her client had just killed her jailer. The devil or the demon? Oh, God. Mikhail would be pissed. Angry at her. He’d beat her, trip her if he didn’t kill her. The devil or the demon? At least this man seemed the lesser of two evils. Didn’t he? She really should have taken Dame’s offer of a sedative. The doors were locked. Could she . . . Shit! Maybe she could get away, get back to Mikhail and beg him . . . Tell him she had nothing to do with it?
Her hands shook.
“Don’t think we’d let you get away,” he said, his voice soft but firm. “We mean you no harm.”
“Right,” she muttered, then stilled, waited for him to strike.
He only sighed. “I know it’s hard to believe.”
She licked her lips. “If you’re going to kill me—just do it. Please. Stop playing with me,” she whispered, not looking away from his intense stare.
Something shifted in his dark narrowed eyes. “Ah, luv, no one’s going to kill you. We’re here to help you. We’ll explain. Just not now.”
Help you . . .
But what if . . . Hope slithered through the fear. Was he lying to her? Was this a trick? Her gaze shifted for a moment to the gruesome scene in the front of the limo. Peter was dead. He’d killed her guard.
Why?
Was he serious? Could he help her?
Hope fluttered in her chest. She tilted her head and watched as he dropped his gaze from her and checked his watch, then over his shoulder said to the driver, “We’re a bit behind schedule. The car there?”
“Far as I know, boss man.”
The driver caught her eyes in the mirror. He smiled and nodded at her. From this distance he appeared to have light eyes, maybe gray or green, blue? Who knew. Who cared.
The smell of blood metalisized the air. She tried to ignore it. Not that she really could. It brought back memories that she’d just as soon forget. The dingy apartment in Prague with Simon, the screams for mercy that never came . . . The abandoned churchyard, the yawning grave, Ebony . . .
The other guard who’d been with them in the club quietly studied her. When he’d spoken earlier, she noticed he, too, was British. A dark plum jacket did little to hide his bulging muscles and toned torso. His skin was the color of straight black coffee, and his aristocratic features softened the hardened dark eyes. He was handsome, if she cared, which she didn’t. Men, handsome or not, held no appeal to her. Passing lights shone off his bald head. This was a guy one probably didn’t want to push too far.
“You can call me Shadow.” His voice went with the rest of him, dark, dangerous, but steady.
God, she was losing her mind.
Dusk nodded and looked back at the boss man. Then again, Shadow looked like a teddy bear compared to the dealer who’d just shot a man as easily as one might squash a bug.
“Who,” she started, then licked her lips before continuing. “Who are you?” she asked, hating how her voice trembled. “Is—is this a trick? Are you l-lying to me?”
The client smiled. “You may either call me Mr. Reyer”—he paused, then continued, his voice more edged—“or John. For now. And no, this is no lie, no trick.”
The words were spoken like anyone giving their name, but Dusk was under the distinct impression that Mr. John Reyer was not John Reyer at all. So who was he?
“What are you?” she asked.
He grinned. Shadow let out a rolling, rusted laugh. No one answered her questions.
The car drove furthe
r along the waterfront until coming to rest in a deserted lot. Warehouses loomed up on all sides. The car stopped, and the driver leaned over, popping the trunk. The dead man in the passenger seat did not seem to bother him. The driver got out and walked around, lifting the trunk lid. Headlights blinked across the way.
John Reyer, or whoever the hell he was, studied her.
“We’re ditching the car here and getting in one over there. From there we’ll take you to a safe house where you can change. We’ll let you in on a few things and try to answer your questions before getting out of here.”
He opened the door and held his hand out. For a moment she only stared at it. His words played in her brain.
. . . found you . . . help you . . .
Get you out of here . . .
. . . out of here . . .
. . . help you . . .
She reached out and clasped the offered hand, letting him help her from the limo. The sharp click of her heels on pavement echoed against the buildings.
Cold air settled and swirled in the deserted lot, carrying the smells of stagnant water and oil. Dusk looked across to where the car was parked between two buildings and saw a figure walking toward them.
“You get her?” a female voice asked.
“Did you doubt it?” Shadow asked.
“With John, no. He’d talk the devil into selling his pitchfork.” She crossed the beam of headlights and Dusk saw the woman was dressed all in black. Black pants, leather jacket, gloves, boots, dark black hair slicked back. The only color was the paleness of her face. Maybe this was some dream, and Ms. Charlie’s Angel was no more real than the rest of this.
The woman looked at her. “Well, I bet that collar is fun, huh? Come, freedom awaits you.” She was American, or at least spoke with an American accent, Southern, from the sounds of it. “I’m Becca. You’ve met John and the other man is Shadow and the driver is George.”
Dusk rubbed her bare arms as the cold December wind blew against her bare legs and feet. It was so cold her nipples had hardened against the dress and goose bumps prickled along her arms and legs. She couldn’t stop shaking. And if she wasn’t careful, she’d fall in these damn heels.
Hunted Page 3