But the fear kept her here—here beside a grave.
“Would you like to join Ebony, Dusk?” She could hear the smile in his voice.
Still she couldn’t move, only trembled, her head bowed.
Think of the ranch. Think of home. Home. Home. Home. One day. Please . . .
He waited.
“P-p-pl-please,” she whispered, so quietly she wondered if she’d actually spoken out loud.
“What was that? I didn’t quiet catch it. Did you say something?”
She licked her chapped and cracked lips. “P-please,” she said a bit louder.
“Please what, Dusk?”
Her body shook on another breath. “Please d-don-don’t kill me.”
He pressed the gun harder against the base of her skull, and she cried out, throwing her hands out to keep from falling into the grave.
Oh, please God, don’t let him kill me.
A sob choked out into the air. The grave yawned as if waiting. Waiting for her. Just for her . . .
Slowly, he pulled the gun away.
She didn’t move, didn’t dare to move. It was a trick. He would put a bullet in her brain and chest as coldly as Luther had done to Ebony.
He leaned down and whispered in her ear. “You see, I can be lenient.”
She blinked.
Lenient? She blinked again and trembled, saw he held out his hand. She raised a trembling hand. She couldn’t hold in the wince as he helped her to her feet, her ribs bruised and stabbing pain through her.
As she stood, she swayed, but he tightened his hand on her arm.
She finally raised her eyes and looked at him.
He’d won, hadn’t he? She’d begged to live and he’d won.
Mikhail Jezek nodded back to the grave. “This is what happens to those who don’t listen, Dusk, to those who scorn what I provide them, to those who try to escape.”
She glanced to the side, down into the grave, the dark shadow open wide as if waiting to be fed again, and shuddered. If he’d wanted to, he could have killed her and tossed her in. Would it have been easier? Tears fell and trickled down her face.
“You won’t ever try anything so foolish, will you?” he asked her softly.
For a moment, she didn’t move, didn’t speak. All she could see was the dark pit, waiting . . . asking . . . whispering . . .
And an image of a life forgotten, of her brothers sitting at the table yelling at her, at each other before they all broke into laughter, filtered through her mind.
She closed her eyes on that stupid ray of foolish hope. There was no hope for her.
She finally raised her eyes to him. Slowly she licked her lips, then shook her head. “N-no. No, I promise, I won’t ever do that. I won’t ever escape.”
He smiled.
She would never escape . . .
But she had.
The graveyard changed and she looked around to the hotel room. To the closed door that opened. And in it stood Mikhail and behind him Luther and she knew . . . knew what they would do to her.
She screamed . . .
* * *
Ashbourne jerked awake to screams. He grabbed his gun and raced to her room, only to throw open the door to a lighted room. She tossed on the bed, crying out again, the covers tangled around her.
He hurried to her and set his gun aside on the nightstand.
“Wake up,” he said gently, reaching for her.
Her face twisted and she moaned. “Please, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
Again she screamed, the sound twisting ice in his heart.
He gathered her close, even as she shoved and strained against him, tears tracking down her face. “No. No. Nooooooo!”
“Shhhh . . . ” he said, rocking her. “Shhh . . . Morgan. Wake up. You’re safe. Come on, wake up, Morgan.”
She stilled her struggles.
“That’s it, Morgan,” he said against her hair, still rocking her. “Wake up. You’re safe here. You’re not there anymore. Never again.”
Her chest shuddered against him, even as her breath hitched and her tears turned to sobs. She finally quit straining but was still stiff in his arms. Her sobs wracked her slight, bony frame.
“Shhh . . . You’re safe, Morgan.” He wondered if he repeated it enough, if she’d finally believe him. He knew, down deep, the woman would never truly feel safe again. Mikhail Jezek had stripped that from her.
“H—he—he’ll kill m-me,” she whispered on a sob.
He looked at the window, at the bright sunny day, and wished the blackness and evil in this room didn’t exist.
“No,” he told her on a sigh. Though he offered no promises.
She nodded against him. “He-he told me. Told me what he’d do. Sh-showed me.” She shuddered. “He’d enjoy it, too. Killing me. M-making me scr-scream and beg like Ebony.” She shuddered again and sobbed. And sobbed.
“Shhhh, Morgan.” He rocked her.
“He’ll find me and he’ll kill me. He promised. Gun to my head. The grave.”
Gun to her head? Bloody hell. He held her tighter. “Shhhh . . . ”
“He killed her and he made me watch.”
In her dream? Or in reality?
“He promised, if I ran, he’d kill me. Just like her.” Her hands fisted against him.
He sighed, knowing the road ahead had just begun. “No. No, he won’t.” He set her back from him and waited until those wet icy eyes met his. God she was beautiful. “He won’t. Not while I’m watching out for you. Do you trust me?”
Her eyes looked deep into his, so long and so intensely he wondered what all she could see.
Her tongue darted to wet her lips. “I trust no one.” Her head slowly shook back and forth, but her eyes begged him even before she spoke her words. “You’ll keep me safe? Please? Please don’t let him kill me.”
He closed his eyes and pulled her to him, letting out the breath he’d been holding.
What all had she witnessed? More than the others? And if so, why? A murder? Did they actually have a witness to murder?
Morgan shuddered against him again. He’d wait and press her for details later. For all he knew, it was just a nightmare, brought on by their flight and threats she’d heard.
Some cases were easier than others.
And some reached in and ripped his heart out.
Chapter 9
En route to London; December 3, 3:25 p.m.
Late that afternoon Mr. and Mrs. Ashbourne boarded the Eurostar in Berlin. She read the itinerary, knew they passed through Hamburg, Bremen, Dusseldorf, Cologne, or Köln, as the locals called it. She didn’t care what the town was called as long as it put more distance between her and Mikhail Jezek and his men. They were to pass into Belgium and then into France, and finally onto London. But none of that really mattered.
Morgan was more concerned with those around her. She startled at loud noises, tensed when someone got too close to them. She noticed Ashbourne never left her alone, never left her unprotected. He didn’t press her when she simply wanted to stare out at the scenery of the German landscape. Large industrial sections gave way to more open fields and mountains. Snow dotted the ground and gave up the hold the closer they came to towns.
Several times they got off to board another ICE, before zooming off again. The scenery was mostly a blur. Sooner than she realized they were coming upon Calais, France, and the Chunnel. Too many times, they jostled through the crowds, Ashbourne beside her, one hand free, she knew, to quickly reach for the gun.
The tense trip passed in a tight wire blur. Constantly looking, constantly watching. Would someone be waiting?
Did they know yet? What if Mikhail knew, just knew? What if he had someone waiting for them in London?
And he would. It was only a matter of time.
But no one pointed a gun at her. No one stabbed her, or jerked her away from Ashboure or Reyer or whoever he really was. No one even looked at them twice.
In Calais, they boarded the Eurostar and took
the Chunnel to London. He told her they had less than half an hour. She fisted her hands in her pockets, going through various places in her mind. Big wide-open spaces. The idea of being in a concrete tunnel below sea level for more miles than she cared for brought the panic back. The panic of being closed in, of being trapped.
Dark places.
Tight places.
Terrified the walls would cave in.
Being in the hole . . .
When her breath started to hitch, Ashbourne looked over and rubbed her arm. Then he asked her to tell him about her favorite place.
“What?”
“Your favorite place. Surely you have one. Everyone has one,” he said with a raise of brows. His hand on her arm, oddly soothing.
She wanted to shrug it off, but only stiffened.
He softly squeezed then slid his hand down to her wrist and pulled her hand out of her pocket. His hand was large, dusted with black hair and long-fingered. Elegant hands, hands that looked like they should play the piano, or paint. Not hands that could easily kill a man.
He held her hand and said again, “Favorite place?”
She sighed and would have looked out the window, except there wasn’t anything to see. Besides, it only brought back the idea of entrapment.
Finally, she unfisted her hand and let him hold hers. She stared at that long-fingered hand with his gold band, holding her own boney hand, with a wedding ring on her finger.
“I don’t know,” she whispered.
“Sure you do. Come, tell me.” He leaned closer to her. “I’ll tell you my favorite place.”
What could it hurt?
“I used to love the beach, loved shopping, far-off places. Now? Now I think my favorite place in the whole world is the ranch.” She frowned. Should she tell him this?
“The one in Texas?” he asked.
He already knew.
She nodded, licking her lips. “Growing up, I hated it. Thought it was out in the middle of nowhere. Stifling, boring.”
For a moment, he said nothing. “And now?”
Closing her eyes, she thought of what it must look like this time of year, the trees bare and black in the pale, hazy sky. Dark green grass blanketing the ground under the naked pecan trees, cattle grazing, the smell of hay and damp ground in the air.
Now?
She swallowed. Jack would be swinging on the porch in the old swing, the dog not far away. The house . . .
Morgan shied away from remembering the house. Not yet. No.
“Now, it sounds perfect. Like heaven.”
He scoffed. “More like home.”
She opened her eyes and looked at him. His eyes were so dark, and intense. Studying him, she wondered how he could so easily understand. “Yes. Home. If I still have one.”
His dark brows furrowed. “What makes you think you wouldn’t?”
She shook her head and looked away. How could she explain to him? Her brothers were so old-fashioned. So . . . God, they could never, never know where she’d been and what she’d been doing. They’d never understand, never look at her the same way.
And how could she just go home without explaining?
They’d turn from her and then she really would be all alone.
She licked her lips.
“Brothers aren’t so bad as all that. From what I’ve learned of them,” he said softly, “yours are the caring, worrying sort. I’ve a feeling they’d rather know you were safe, regardless of what you’d been doing and where you’d been doing it.”
Would they?
She shook her head, no longer sure of anything. Or anyone.
Instead, she pulled her hand away, put it back in her pocket and realized they were slowing.
“Waterloo station,” he told her.
She frowned and realized that his questions had taken her mind off the fact they’d been underground.
Taking a deep breath, she hoped things evened out, that at some point she’d know what the hell to do. As it was, she left it up to the man she was with, whoever he actually was.
From Waterloo they went through customs and then grabbed a cab. She didn’t pay attention to where; the noises and people were tensing her stomach. So many people. One of Mikhail’s men could be anywhere . . .
The cab pulled up in front of a terraced house. For the first time, Ashbourne’s phone rang.
She looked at him, noting he had three and wondered what they were all for and why a person would have three phones. Why hadn’t she noticed that before?
“Yes?” he answered.
She watched as his shoulders lowered in relief, the way something eased around his mouth, and wondered who was on the other end. Some might not have noticed that whatever he was hearing was a relief to him, but she’d learned to read people these last few months. It was a matter of survival.
He nodded, then nodded again and smiled, looking at her. “All right?” He nodded again. “Yes, here as well. Watch your back, Leon.” He hung up and climbed out.
As he opened her door and helped her out, he said, “You don’t leave this house without an escort and don’t argue about it.”
God, she was so tired.
Letting him hold her arm, she walked beside him up the steps and into the flat. The door shut with a click.
A haven or another prison? Did it matter at this point?
* * *
Safe house; East End, London; December 4
Morgan sat in a living area in the London flat in East End. It was a busy part of town, people always coming and going outside, cars always going up and down the street. At first she’d wondered at the choice in location, but then she realized they’d need such a place. Somewhere where no one would notice the new couple next door, or the fact the man had yet another girlfriend, fiancée, wife, sister . . . whatever. A high turnover rate, a busy section, a place where their activities wouldn’t be noticed. Seemed to be in a trendy neighborhood with people always moving, coming and going. An easygoing place. The inside was simply furnished, one room wide, three rooms deep. In front was the living room, next the dining area, and last the kitchen; upstairs had the bedrooms, all with functional and comfortable furniture. The rooms were done in soothing colors, nothing red, nothing black, nothing ornate. It was . . . normal. And still it was a prison.
She was tired and tired of being so damned tired. The unknown had bitten at her heels for the last three days since she’d escaped Mikhail and his club. He knew now she was gone, escaped, and she knew he had someone looking for her, knew he’d be angry. Dusk—that girl beaten and abused—knew what he was like when angered. She couldn’t help but wonder how many suffered merely because she’d angered him, enraged him, and escaped him. For now.
Shadow and Becca came in last night. Shadow was in the kitchen, probably cooking. She’d learned from breakfast, and the banter around the table, that Shadow always cooked. Becca had gone out to grab more clothing. She had no idea where Mr. Ashbourne went, and she’d seen no sign of the doctor-driver, George.
For now, she was more interested in the other person sitting on the chair beside the couch. Another girl, around her age. Amy. They’d met last night.
“I cannot wait to get the hell out of here and back home.” Amy tapped her fingers on her knee, her foot swinging back and forth. Amy was short to medium height, not petite, but athletic. She had muscles and an attitude. If she’d been in any brothel, Morgan couldn’t tell and she didn’t dare ask. But Morgan knew the girl wasn’t a guard or working with the task force—both she and Amy were watched. Being watched was something Morgan knew and didn’t even question anymore.
Amy was a chatterbox and all Morgan longed for was peace and quiet. “So I know your name is Morgan and they brought you in yesterday. Care to share anything else? You’re awfully quiet. How old are you?”
“Old enough,” she answered, flipping another page in the magazine. Then she looked up.
Amy glanced at her and smiled, two dimples winking, straight white teeth, round dark eye
s and an oval face. “Old enough to buy beer and still young enough to be innocently duped.”
Morgan felt a smile pull her lips. “Yeah, something like that. You?”
Amy nodded and shifted on the sofa, bending one leg under her and stretching her arm along the back. “Oh, yeah, right off the damn street. College vacation, having a blast, got separated from my group and mugged.” She motioned with quotes around the last word. Shaking her head, Amy continued. “Guys came out of nowhere, picked me up, felt a prick right here,” she said, tilting her head and pointing to her neck.
Remembering her own injections she hadn’t wanted, Morgan rubbed her own neck.
“What happened?” she asked quietly.
Amy took a deep breath, her brows furrowing, pain shifting across her face. Tears filled her eyes and she swallowed. Then she shook her head. “Woke up in . . . ” On another deep breath, she whispered, “If you’re here you probably know. I really don’t want to talk about it.”
Morgan nodded, heard herself say, “Yeah, I do—know that is, and I don’t really want to talk about it either.”
For a minute silence, thick yet comfortable, settled around them. It wasn’t the silence she was used to when talking about this for the last few days with Ashbourne. This was different, reminding her of friends she’d missed, long talks in the dark, secrets whispered and shared.
Amy shifted again and said, “They’re sending me home soon. I’ve heard tomorrow probably for the last two weeks.”
She frowned. “Two weeks?” Could it be? “Where were you taken from? I mean, if you don’t mind, what city did they rescue you from?”
Amy looked at her, searched her face. “Cheb. A hell on the Czech—”
“I know where it is,” Morgan interrupted. “God, you have any idea how pissed they were to lose another girl?”
Amy stiffened. “You think I give a rat’s ass? Bastards!”
Morgan held her hands palms out. “Calm down. We were all happy another girl managed to escape and we knew alive because everyone, especially him, was so pissed.”
Dark eyes stared at her before the toned body finally relaxed. “Yeah?”
Hunted Page 9