Tarver glanced at Lincoln out of the corner of his eye before turning that gray gaze back to her. “It’s not a bomb. No threat that we can tell. X-rays show it to be material of some sort—probably clothing. And a disc.”
A disc? Clothing? She glanced at the return address, saw there wasn’t one.
“Why can’t I open it?” she asked Lincoln, glancing back down at it, flipping it over then back to read the label. She returned her gaze to his.
His eyes narrowed at her. “I don’t want you to.”
A chill danced down her spine at his edged words. For a moment she stared at him, but finally had to drop her gaze.
Was she so scared now that she couldn’t even open a stupid blue envelope? Taking a deep breath, she walked back into the living room, feeling others follow behind her. She strode to the window, intent on opening the package.
Hands settled on her shoulders. “Do not stand in front of the bloody window, Morg,” Linc bit out behind her.
Damn, she hadn’t thought. “Sorry.” She shrugged Linc’s hands off and walked to the fireplace.
For another minute she stared at the address label. It was a printed label, the kind anyone could buy at an office supply store in sheets of thirty and run through their inkjet or laser printer.
“It’s already been dusted for fingerprints,” the cop that brought it in said from the doorway.
She glanced up at him. He could be no more than maybe twenty-one. Young, blond, fresh. Excitement shone in his eyes. At least she was a learning experience for someone. And for some odd reason, he reminded her of the college guys that used to drop down to Cheb for a weekend diddle with the whore they were given.
“Did you dust whatever it contained?” she asked him.
He shook his head. “Tampering with mail is a federal offense, ma’am.”
Tampering? Apparently they could dust the envelope, but not the contents. The fact they’d run it through X-rays to make certain she wasn’t going to open it and explode stilled the remark about tampering on the tip of her tongue.
She pulled the adhered tab away from the envelope, the glue stretching like pizza cheese.
“Morgan,” Linc’s voice was tight.
She ignored him and ripped the package open. Inside was a dark bundle in cellophane. She pulled it out, noticed the disc down in the bottom in a purple jeweled case. Upending the envelope, she dumped the disc into her hand.
A bag and a disc. She hadn’t ordered anything.
A white label across the silver disc simply read: My special girl.
She frowned. My special girl?
A chill danced down her spine. She checked the date on when it was shipped out. This morning.
She dropped the blue envelope, tucking the purple disc case under her arm.
“Morgan?” Lincoln asked.
She shook her head. Not cellophane. A clear plastic bag, like a Ziploc. She carefully unwrapped it, wrinkling her nose at the faint sour smell.
A dark cloth was inside.
Morgan’s heart tripped and the chill goose-bumped over her skin.
Morgan ripped open the bag.
A foul odor, rancid and rotten, rose up from the bag.
She wrinkled her nose and almost dropped the bag.
Her blood iced.
The bag was jerked out of her hand.
“Bloody hell,” Lincoln muttered.
That smell, she knew that smell . . . Somewhere . . . the hole . . . the basement . . . Ebony.
A tremor shook through her.
No, no, please no.
“Sit down, luv,” Linc said, his voice tight. “Tarver, have your lab get busy on whatever is in this bag.” She felt his hand on her arm, felt him guide her back to the chair. She all but folded into it.
No, it was just . . . it was just . . .
“It’s something . . . ” She licked her lips. “Something bloody, isn’t it?” she asked, her gaze zeroing in on the bag that Tarver was carefully handling and passing off to someone else.
Lincoln squatted down next to her. “Don’t worry about that now, don’t—”
“No, you don’t,” she interrupted him. She pointed to the envelope. “That package—parcel, whatever the hell—was shipped out this morning.” Her eyes locked back to his dark ones. “To here. Not the ranch, not the office.”
He could only shake his head, but she could clearly see the muscle tick in Lincoln’s jaw.
“Could someone please tell me what the hell is going on?” Jackson interrupted from behind her.
The disc!
With trembling hand, she opened the disc case.
“Careful,” Linc cautioned. “Hold it by the edges.”
She didn’t care about that. What had the bastard put on the damn disc?
Was it a CD? Or a DVD?
Deciding to take a chance, she stood, strode to the DVD player aligned perfectly in the black entertainment center. She grabbed the remote, turned on the widescreen TV. But when she hit POWER, music blared from the speakers. Havel danced on the air. Nervous, she dropped the remote.
Gideon bent down and grabbed it. “Let me. Just sit down.” He motioned with the remote back to her chair while pressing buttons.
The TV came to life, the screen going blue. For a moment, she wondered if perhaps it was a computer disc after all.
The DVD player loaded. The screen went black, then shifted to white. A chair sat against a white backdrop.
A man’s legs, dressed in a dark blue pinstriped suit, walked onto the screen and stood in front of the plain black chair.
Her breath froze.
His hands he kept to his side, but she knew those hands. Those hands . . .
A gold ring with a black stone. And on the black stone, carved in gold, was an intricate pitchfork, the base a devil’s tail, in the shape of a curved capital D.
She knew those hands.
Oh, God.
She whimpered.
“Sis?” Gideon’s voice barely pierced through her shock.
Those long-fingered hands, elegant and lethal, pinched the material at his thighs, pulling upward as he sat.
Her breath whooshed out.
“Oh, God. Please, no . . . ” Her hands shook as she held them against her mouth.
Someone stood behind her and she jerked from the touch, standing.
That face. Oh, God, his face. That perfect, devastatingly handsome face, smiled. The sky-blue eyes crinkled, but remained cold as he stared right at the camera. Right at her.
She stumbled back, moaning.
“Easy, luv.”
Lincoln. She felt him behind her, his hands on her shoulders.
That smile. She hated, hated that smile. The slow lift of narrow lips. A tremor shook her, twisting her stomach.
“Hello, my special girl,” Mikhail said. His voice still soft, still calm. And she knew, knew when it was like that, he was in a rage. Whispering, soothing, then he’d strike, still and deadly as a fucking cobra.
Mikhail leaned back in the chair and shook his head, tsking. “I’m very disappointed in you, Dusk.” A muscle near his temple jumped.
She saw it.
“He’s so angry,” she whispered.
“Or,” Mikhail continued, still staring straight at her, “should I call you Morgan?” His chuckle grated across the room. “Considering . . . everything . . . Ms. Gaelord does seem a bit formal, wouldn’t you say?”
“Bugger and blast,” Lincoln whispered.
No one moved. She couldn’t breathe.
He’d found her. Found her. And he was talking to her.
“Did you miss me?” he asked softly. He leaned up, linked his fingers together as he placed his elbows on his knees. “Have you missed me? I’ve missed you.” There was that smile again. “I bet you’ve thought about me more than you would ever admit. Haven’t you?” His thumbs rubbed across each other. He’d always done that, twitched his fingers, rubbed his thumbs together while he was plotting and planning. “My special girl, off on he
r own, but with thoughts of me dancing in her head.” He tilted his to the side, as if studying her from across the room, not through a camera. “Have you dreamt of me?”
She folded.
Arms wrapped around her from behind. “Turn the bastard off,” Lincoln’s voice lashed out.
She shook her head. “N-no. Leave it.”
Someone helped her to a chair and she could only watch.
“I’ve dreamt of you. Shall I tell you, my girl, what I’ve dreamt of?” That mouth smiled, but it held no humor. “Perhaps I won’t tell you.” Again he chuckled and leaned back, calmly pulling his gun free, his right thumb rubbing along the barrel. His eyes never left the camera. “I always liked to keep you guessing, Dusk. Keep you on your toes. You were so much more . . . ” Mikhail’s eyes narrowed. “Enjoyable. Biddable. Controllable.” He drew the last word out. “And so damn fuckable.”
Her stomach rolled, and tears stung the backs of her eyes.
“My dreams of you,” he said, pausing, still caressing the gun, “are what I’m going to do to you when I finally have you back where you belong.”
She couldn’t look away. Could only sit frozen and listen. It was as if the last year and a half never happened. She was still Dusk. Still at Mikhail’s mercy.
“And I will have you again, my special girl. Doubt it not.” He sighed. “I believed you. You, Dusk. Out of them all, you knew the true . . . ” He pursed his narrow lips. “Lengths I would pursue to make certain my girls stayed where I put them. You must have forgotten Cheb. That lovely September evening. The basement.” He leaned closer to the camera, the gun held loosely in his hand. The gun he’d shoved into the back of her skull.
Morgan pressed back against the chair she occupied. All she saw, all she heard, was Mikhail.
“The hole. Did you forget the hole, my dear?” He smiled a full smile now, straight white teeth. “I can still see you in it. Still hear you whimpering, moaning, begging to be let out. Do you remember the rest, Dusk?” This time he looked down at the gun he held, caressing the trigger, then back to the camera. “Naked and kneeling before me. Do you remember? Apparently I should have ended it all with you that night.” He smiled.
The night in the cemetery.
“Oh, I bet you remember now, if you ever forgot. That night was the one that broke you . . . completely.” He breathed deep. “I could always smell your fear. It was beautiful. The way your eyes would widen, the way your pulse would increase and pound in that long neck, the way your breaths would quicken and your collarbone would pout until a man wanted to do nothing more than run his tongue over it. To taste the terror.”
She shook her head.
“Are you scared, my girl?” The smile left his face and she saw the rage, the hatred, as the polish fell away and his features tightened. “You should be. This time, I won’t be lenient. You lied to me.” Those eyes all but glowed out at her. “You promised, Dusk. You promised you’d never leave me. Remember?” He tilted his head. “Wondering where I am? Wondering how very close I just might be, are you?” He chuckled. “So are those guarding you.” The smile froze the blood in her veins. “I’m not where anyone thinks, but we wouldn’t want to give too much away, would we? What would be the fun in that?” He sighed. “It’s really disappointing Vescilly didn’t do as I’d hoped and bring you to me. You bested him, it seems. You were always a fighter. He did, however, manage to get to the other one first, or I might not have found you so quickly.”
She straightened.
He smiled. “Sparkle always was a screamer.” He laughed. “You know, I never had the pleasure of breaking her in. Seems a pity now, as she rather reminded me of . . . well, Dusk, of you. She thought she could escape as well. Vescilly had his fun.” Again, the smile dropped away. “And I can’t wait to have my fun with you. This time, though, when you’re on your knees, naked and bloody before me”—he leaned back and tilted his head to the side—“I’ll make you watch, look into those icy blue eyes of yours as I put a bullet in your brain.” He raised the gun and said, “Click. My Dusk. My special girl. My slave.” He pursed his lips and blew her a kiss. “Mine.” He leaned close enough to the camera she saw the blond stubble on his jaw. “Sweet dreams . . . Morgan.”
The screen went black.
Chapter 28
Morgan lurched from under his hands and raced from the room, into the loo down the hall.
In the stunned silence, everyone could hear her retching.
Becca caught his eyes and mouthed, “I’ll go.” She disappeared down the hall.
All Lincoln could do was flex the fingers he’d fisted.
Carefully, he reached over, took the remote from Gideon and hit the stop button. The television went back to a blue screen. He fisted his hand over it, flexed, fisted, flexed.
With a growl he hurled the damn remote across the room, the gray plastic breaking as it connected with the wall, denting it.
For a moment no one said a word. Tarver cleared his throat. “You going to be here?” Tarver pointed the question to him.
Lincoln just glared at him. “Where the hell else would I be? Think I’m letting her out of my bloody sight?” He pointed back to the screen. “If I’d wondered before, I know now.”
Tarver only said, “I’m getting all this to the lab. Now. I want to know where, and when.” A pair of latex gloves snapped as Tarver slipped them on. He ejected the disc from the DVD player, careful to place it in a plastic bag. Then he added the jewel case to another plastic bag, and finally the blue envelope the package of horror had come in.
Lincoln wanted answers as well. He wanted to know who the hell had sold them all out? Was it his team? One from his team? Becca was here. George refused to be roped back in, forwarding all information to Lincoln. What if it was just some analyst that was bored, down on their luck, broke?
“Bastard,” Lincoln said yet again.
“I want to know what he meant, Blade,” Tarver said. “If she knows anything, and I mean anything, I want to know about it. The sonofabitch all but admitted to murder.”
Lincoln did not need the reminder. He knew his job. Knew he wasn’t going to like what was ahead.
But something niggled at the back of his mind.
Something she’d said to him before after waking from a nightmare . . . the gun to the head. Something about another girl.
He raked a hand through his hair.
Tarver spoke to several of the cops on his way out. Lincoln was glad; if he’d had to speak to them, he would not have been able to remain calm.
Calm?
He closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose. He wanted to see the crime scene as well, out at the ranch. To do that he’d have to leave her, and there was simply no way he was that bloody stupid.
Feet shuffled and water ran from somewhere down the hall.
He opened his eyes to see her brothers frowning.
Gideon shook his head, fisted his hands on his hips and glared at Lincoln. “Who the fuck was that?”
“Time’s up,” Jackson added from his stance behind the couch, his fingers digging into the black leather. “It’s question time. And I will have answers.”
Morgan walked into the room. Her eyes . . . God, he’d hoped to never see that look in them again. Haunted, wide with fear. She was so damn pale.
The Ranger had left with Tarver. Another plainclothes bodyguard from the Dallas Police Department left the room with Shadow. Lincoln assumed they were in the kitchen. He saw Becca slip by and turn around the corner to the kitchen. Suzy was upstairs asleep. That left the Gaelord siblings and . . . him.
Lincoln could only stare at her. Finally he said, “They have to know. They have a right to know.”
She shook her head at him, looked at her brothers before lowering her eyes. She shook her head, shoving a piece of hair behind her ear. Even from here he saw her hand tremble. “I—I can’t.” When her eyes rose back to him, there were tears shimmering in the icy depths. “I just can’t, Linc.”
“Damn it, Morgan!” Gideon snapped.
She jumped.
Lincoln walked to her, glared at Gideon and said, “Look, chap. Either settle down or leave. It’ll be hard enough as it is.” The bastard better be supportive.
Gideon raked a hand through his hair and walked to the window, staring out.
Jackson hadn’t moved from behind the sofa. Lincoln turned to Morgan, placing his hands on her shoulders, breathing deep when he felt her stiffen.
“Morgan, I know you don’t want to do this. I wish there were another way.”
“I can leave. You can get me out of here.”
He hated doing this. Hated to push her. “What do you think he would do, if he knew you had vanished?”
She blinked, then shook her head. “Find me. Or find a way to draw me out.”
“And how do you think he’d accomplish that?”
Her gaze trembled from one brother to the other.
Lincoln nodded. “Yes, luv. He would and will use them. They’ve a right to know what we’re fighting here. A right to know the battles you’ve fought. And won.”
Again, she shook her head. “I can’t, Lincoln. I—I just . . . How can I?” Her face crumpled and she moaned. “How in the hell am I supposed to explain all this to them?” She jabbed her fingers at her brothers. “How can I explain to them?”
Lincoln reached up and cupped her face. “One word at a time.”
Thankfully, neither of her brothers spoke.
But still she shook her head. “No. No, I won’t.”
Cursing himself for a bastard, he tried another approach. “Fine. But I need something from you.”
Her brows furrowed. “What?” She sniffled, swiped a hand under her eyes.
Hoping he was doing the right thing, knowing he didn’t have much a choice, he led her to the wide leather chair angled beside the couch. “I need to ask you something.” He knelt in front of her, holding her hands in his. “Do you remember the first night we were away? In Berlin?”
Still frowning, she nodded. “Yes.”
He took a deep breath. “You woke up screaming. Things you said, muttered, I wrote them off as a nightmare.”
Her eyes flickered and gave her away.
Hunted Page 30