Hunted

by Clark, Jaycee

  Shadow shut the trunk and set plastic gasoline containers on the ground. He opened one can and the sharp scent of gasoline confirmed her assumption. He looked at her. “You really don’t have to worry.”

  She didn’t reply.

  “Come on, let’s get you into a warmer place,” John interrupted, reaching for Dusk’s arm.

  She sidestepped and stared at him. His eyes bore into hers but he turned and walked toward the other car, which she noticed was identical to the one they’d left. Should she follow him? She looked around. She knew this part of town. What if she ran? Would they catch her? What were their plans?

  You must do exactly as I say if any of us are to get out of this alive, understand?

  . . . help . . . out of here . . .

  He stopped and turned around, waiting on her.

  Did she dare go? If she didn’t, then what? She tried to think, to decide, but . . .

  “No one is going to harm you,” he said, as if reading her mind, his voice dark and deep as the night.

  Again, she looked around.

  Decide.

  Sparkle escaped. And others, she’d heard rumors.

  She looked behind her. Then back at this man who was clearly waiting on her. He shot her jailer. Pretended to be something he wasn’t.

  Dusk took a deep breath and stepped toward him, then another. And another. He waited patiently until she walked up to him.

  His features were hard, unforgiving, yet the edge of his mouth tilted. “I was about to come get you. I really hate to do things the hard way.” He motioned to the car.

  George slid behind the wheel. The man hadn’t said more than six words as far as she’d seen and heard.

  When they were settled inside, she looked to John and wondered again what the hell was going on. “Are you a friend of Mikhail’s?”

  His brow furrowed. “No one is a friend of Jezek.”

  She sighed and looked out into the night. “Can I roll down the window?”

  He glanced out at the other two people, Becca and Shadow—Norgi. The man did look like a shadow.

  John answered, “You don’t have to ask.”

  She didn’t think of what his remark meant, didn’t want to think about it at all. Instead she rolled down the window and leaned back. Again the smells of stale water and oil filled the cold air. The old brick building on one side shadowed the metal warehouse on the other. She could hear the faint lap of water from the river, cars from the roadway, the hum of city nightlife. Shadow’s voice rumbled on the night air, mixing with Becca’s husky laughter. Then they walked toward the car Dusk currently occupied. When they were halfway there, Becca flicked a lighter and tossed it over her shoulder without looking back.

  “You missed,” Shadow said.

  “No, I didn’t.” A puddle caught, blue flames shot along the pavement, an arrow seeking its target. For one instant, nothing happened.

  The first car exploded.

  The back door opened and Shadow climbed in, George reversing even as Becca climbed into the front passenger’s seat.

  She rubbed her hands gleefully. “God, I love doing that.”

  “Pyromaniac,” Shadow said as the driver careened out of the lot.

  “Bet your ass.” Becca turned in her seat. “Damn it all to hell and back, John. Get that collar off. Use your fingers for something.”

  He grinned at Becca even as he reached inside the minibar in this car. He pulled out a leather case.

  Dusk stiffened.

  Would he give her something? Stick her in the arm? How would she know where they were going? Where they planned to take her, or what—

  He unzipped it and said, looking straight at Dusk, his smile cautious, more reassuring, “Tricks of the trade.” He opened it and wicked picks lay in little holders. She scooted back, fisting her hands.

  He sighed and in a softer voice explained, “They are lock picks.” He motioned to the collar. “To take that bloody thing off.” Blond eyebrows rose. “Unless you’d like to leave it on.”

  The collar chaffed, but she’d become so used to doing what she was told without asking for help, she’d just left it alone.

  He moved across the seat toward her. She leaned to the side, offering the left side of her neck to Reyer. She wondered if he could see the bruises on her neck from one of her clients. Which made her think of the john. She shied away from the thought, from her own demons—still too afraid to believe that hope might still be in sight.

  But she also remembered Ebony. Ebony.

  She shivered.

  John’s elegant hands held a tool, the end no bigger than a metal toothpick, as easily as most men held their wallets. She wondered what else those long fingers were capable of besides killing and picking locks. His hand rose and she stopped breathing, felt him run his thumb gently over the bruises on her neck.

  “What happened?” he whispered, his eyes lifting to hers.

  She shrugged. “One . . . one of the clients liked it a bit rough.” She swallowed. “I thought he was going to kill me,” she whispered. “Wished he had when he was done.” She closed her eyes so she wouldn’t see into his and a tremor ran through her.

  When she opened her eyes, she saw he still studied the bruises. His eyes narrowed and that already chiseled jaw hardened as a muscle ticked in his jaw.

  There was something about this man, not that she cared, but she’d learned men gave off their own vibes. Some were screaming loud. Some raged like the worst storms at home. This man, though, his vibe was different, like the faint hum of evenings, that charge right before a storm, or the sounds one never notices unless the electricity goes out.

  His fingers were warm, but even so, she wished she were away from him. Men were, in her recently learned opinion, bastards.

  “I won’t hurt you,” he said softly.

  She cut her eyes to meet his.

  This close she could smell his cologne, sandalwood and the smoke from the cigars.

  “You shared a cigar with him,” she said, not thinking.

  Something flitted through his eyes and his hands paused. “Yes.”

  “I hate that smell,” she whispered.

  Those black eyes studied hers, softening at the edges before returning to her neck and the collar. “I bet you do.”

  She heard the faint sound of the tool in the lock and the gentle click before he lifted the collar away. He reached out to touch a spot on her neck again, but Dusk jerked her head away.

  He smiled and moved to the other seat.

  Sirens pierced the air and twice they passed police vehicles moving in the opposite direction. Her hands fisted in her lap. Would the authorities turn around? What if someone had known? They would know—Mikhail would know . . .

  This was never going to work.

  The gun bit into the back of her head. Please don’t kill me, please, she thought, looking at the body in the grave. Oh, God!

  . . . “You’ll never get away.”

  . . . never get away . . . never get away . . .

  Dusk turned in her seat and looked out the back window.

  “Where is the safe house?” she asked.

  “A few more minutes. It’s a townhouse in a quieter part of town.”

  Dusk shook her head. “They’ll know,” she whispered, the last of her words breaking.

  John studied her. “Not for a while, no. If Jezek checks, there will be a John Reyer fitting my description along with an appropriate woman checking into my suite at the hotel where I was staying.” He leaned back. “We have several hours in any case.”

  “Unless someone sees something about Peter they recognize, then it only takes one phone call to Mikhail,” she said, rubbing her arms, the trembles starting now that the reality began to set in. “He’ll know. He knows everything.”

  She glanced again over her shoulder into the inky black night lit only by the streetlights.

  John shifted in his seat. “You’re out, that’s all that matters.”

  “Others thought th
ey had gotten out too.”

  “Who?” he asked.

  Ebony had believed. She must have. Dusk didn’t answer him. An image of dark, rage-filled eyes flashed into Dusk’s mind.

  She shook off the memory and looked where they were going. Trying to pay attention to the landmarks. She noticed a hotel, one she’d seen before. These were streets she’d toured months and months ago with a man she thought she’d been in love with.

  What if this was all a ruse? What if it was a trap? Please, no.

  “How do I know you are who you claim to be?” she asked. “You could be a drug dealer that is pissed at Mikhail and I’m only payment for some wrong.”

  Once she said the words, the thought, like a poison, spread. It wasn’t as if it hadn’t happened before. Drugs, money owed, greed—those were the reasons she’d ended up in hell to begin with. One devil she knew, the other she didn’t.

  One killed slowly, painfully, and enjoyed it.

  The other with lightning efficiency.

  Her hands wouldn’t stop trembling.

  Shadow placed a hand on her knee and she jumped.

  He spread his hands out, palms up. “You’re safe. We’re not dealers. We’re with a task force inside Interpol.”

  “Interpol?” Relief dared to raise its head. “What task force?” she asked, looking from one to the other.

  “It’s . . . ”

  “Settle down,” John interrupted Shadow. “We’re not going to harm you, though I can see where you might have trouble believing that.”

  “Can you?” she hissed. “Can you really?”

  For one long moment, no one said a word. His eyes again made her think he could see all the way to the very center of her. Very quietly, very precisely, he said, “Yes. I bloody well can. I once lost someone in one of those bleeding hells.”

  Chapter 4

  John shifted in his seat and saw Shadow exchange a glance with George in the rearview mirror.

  Things were not going exactly as planned, but then again, when the hell had they ever?

  “Take me to the embassy,” Dusk tried again.

  He had to give the woman credit. Though she was clearly terrified, she still had spine. And anger. Lots and lots of anger, not that he blamed her.

  He cleared his throat.

  “It’s on Trziste. I know this section of town. I remember. Take me there, please.” She paused, her voice cracking. “Please. If you’re here to help me, you can take me to the embassy.”

  Becca turned in her seat. “Hon. That would be the dumbest thing you could do.”

  He watched the girl’s arched brows frown. “I don’t see that.”

  “Do you have a passport?” Becca asked, her voice no-nonsense. Before Dusk could answer, she trudged on. “No. On that it would be pointless. You’d then have to fill out paperwork, answer questions, which our embassy would then have to follow up on and verify. And once that happened, if it even took that long, Mikhail Jezek would find you.”

  He watched the color slowly fade from Dusk’s cheeks, watched her cross her arms over her middle, holding tight to her elbows. “He’ll kill me. He’d kill anyone, but he’s already angry with me. God, he’ll kill me as slowly as he can.”

  She’d said it so quietly, he had to strain to hear. He wondered what she meant, but figured now was not the time for a debriefing.

  He watched her take a breath, her collarbone protruding, the other bones of her arms and legs too noticeable. It wasn’t surprising to him. She looked like the others, half-starved, horrified, and wanting to go home.

  She shook her head, blinked and nodded. “I can’t go back now. It’s done. He’d kill me either way. You’re right, the embassy would probably be stupid.”

  Silence descended after that and no one spoke, until finally George pulled to a stop in front of their flat on the Vltava River. About bloody time.

  They were far from out of the woods.

  “Here we are,” he said.

  Dusk sat still, looking out into the night. He climbed out, then turned and waited, holding his hand aloft. Finally, her hand reached up and clasped his. He couldn’t help but notice how cold and stiff her fingers were, how her hand trembled in his as he helped her out of the limo. She didn’t meet his eyes as she straightened that nonexistent skirt. He hurried her inside and hoped no one saw anything. As he opened the door, he said, stepping back, “We have a half an hour, give or take, maybe a bit longer.”

  “Longer,” Becca interrupted. “She’s got long hair and I need some time to work on her disguise.” She dumped a bag in the entryway.

  He glanced down at his watch, almost midnight. “Fine. You have an hour. I don’t want to push our luck.”

  Becca motioned for Dusk to follow her. She stood just inside looking around, like a frightened orphan worried she’d be turned away. Bastards.

  Shadow shut the door and said to her, “George, the driver, went to park the car. He is the doctor. He takes blood samples of all our girls and tests them for the normal STDs, HIV, pregnancy, and any other abnormalities.”

  Something flickered in her eyes, but it was quickly masked. “That would be my luck. I escape hell only to suffer from some disease some asshole passed on while he raped me.” Dusk licked her lips. Her garish clothing was as out of place in the simple dwelling as a gambler at a church choir practice.

  He fisted his hands, wishing he could ease her, knowing there was no way he could. And she was right. It wasn’t fair to escape, only to be told you had a disease. But little in life was fair, he knew.

  “It’s all right,” John said. “You’re out. It’s a start. One thing at a time, then? Let’s get cleaned up and then do whatever else we have to.”

  Her icy blue eyes met his across the room and something in him twisted at that chilled level look. “I just want to go home. You better get me home, because I know what he does to those who try to escape.”

  He watched as Becca herded her up the stairs to the bathrooms.

  John rubbed his hands over his face, paced the small living area complete with one lumpy couch and a couple of armchairs. Nothing anyone would notice. Just a lounge in a flat for singles of the college circuit.

  What next? Had he covered everything? Yes. There was no trace of who he was and he hadn’t lied about only having an hour or so. Part of him wished they could have waited for this mission, but they’d finally found her and she’d been listed missing for over six bloody months. Six months. He didn’t want to think about what she’d endured. So they’d moved, even though a team had removed another American just two weeks ago. Risky, back to back, but the bosses spoke and everyone scrambled to obey.

  Now if tonight would just go right. The coppers would need to identify the burnt corpse, run some numbers on the car, but then they’d obtained an untraceable one, so that was in their favor. Yet things had a way of appearing perfect and being tangled as bloody hell. He figured it was better to plan for the worst and hope it didn’t happen.

  The front door opened and John whirled, pulling his gun. George.

  Of course it was George. Blimey. He raked a hand through his hair.

  “Someone is a bit on edge,” George muttered, locking the door behind him.

  John ignored him. Shadow leaned against the wall.

  None of the three downstairs said a word until they heard water running.

  He paced back and forth and thought about what still lay ahead. Getting from here to the border and beyond. Everything was about timing. He’d lied when he told her not to worry. They should worry. If they didn’t get out of Prague before Jezek noticed he’d been duped, there would be someone at every rail station, airport and toll.

  Organized crime was bleeding organized for a reason.

  “Passports?” he asked, striding over to the table.

  “Yes,” Shadow answered, pushing away from the wall. “After Becca gets done with her, we’ll take the photo and we’ll be ready to go.”

  “She doesn’t show signs of being an ad
dict,” George offered, striding into the kitchen. “Though I’m certain she was given something at some point. The question is what and when.”

  Maybe, but he’d noticed the needle marks. “Not too long ago. There were recent track marks on her right arm. We’ll pray you’re right.”

  He took a deep breath and smelled the smoke and filth from the club. The smoke from the cigars he and the Devil had shared. The filth? Probably his imagination, but he felt the need to shower and change.

  “How long has she been in again?” George asked him.

  Why was it all doctors asked questions they already had the answers to?

  “I don’t know a precise date.” John raked a hand through his hair and felt the brittle ends, not quite his own. He furrowed his forehead, gripped at the hairline, and pulled the blond wig, shorter hairline, and wider forehead off. “Longer than the last one we rescued. The other one still had lots of fight left in her. Roughly six months from the yellow notices. Which you bloody well know.”

  Next he ripped the goatee and eyebrows off, leaving the lobes on his ears for last.

  “In any case, she’s been in too long. From her file, she was a hellion. I think they probably broke her.” He hoped not, but he’d seen it too many times not to recognize the signs of a woman beaten and horrified into a submission she might resent but no longer even questioned.

  He twisted his mouth, rubbing around his lips and chin to get the adhesive off.

  “You’ve still got some makeup on. Might want to use the loo down here,” Shadow said.

  “Like I couldn’t figure that one out on my own.”

  Shadow shook his head and began removing some bread from a bag. Probably fixing a sandwich or God only knew what. The man was always bloody eating.

  He walked down the hallway toward the back of the house to the small loo. John Reyer looked at himself in the mirror above the unleveled sink. His own eyes stared back at him. A bare bulb hung over the rust-rimmed sink. This was hardly the Ritz, but then it had been years since he’d been in the Ritz anyway, so it hardly mattered. This simple furnished flat served its purpose.