The man was the first to step through.
Mikhail swung the gun up, but the man must have caught his movement. He shoved Dusk back and reached for his gun.
“Run!” he shouted.
Mikhail pulled his trigger, firing off one round, catching the man in the chest. He slammed back into the wall, sliding down, his blood smearing the walls.
“No!” she screamed and ran out of the room. “Lincoln! No!”
Mikhail grabbed her.
She fought, kicked him, leaned down and bit his arm.
“Stupid bitch!” He slammed her against the wall. Her eyes glared at him. The fear was there, just under the surface, but God, the rage.
He laughed. “Hello, Dusk.”
She kicked him again, brought her hand up and hit his throat. He coughed, managed to keep ahold of her even as his eyes watered. “Well, well,” he whispered. He fisted his hand in her hair, slamming her head against the wall.
“You do that again and I’ll put another bullet in your knight here just for the hell of it.”
Her gaze shifted to the man on the floor. Then rose back to him.
“And we’d hate for your brothers to return early, wouldn’t we? After all the trouble I went to getting them out?”
Her lip trembled.
“I didn’t think so. Don’t fuck with me.” He turned.
The other man stood against the wall, blood dripping off one arm and hand, the other holding his gun. Mikhail took a deep breath. The man’s dark eyes were trained on him, the gun in the hand steady.
“Get away from her.”
Mikhail studied him, those eyes. Black eyes that stared at Mikhail straight on. Black eyes.
Reyer.
“So we meet again, Mr. Reyer.”
Those eyes never wavered. “Morgan?”
She sniffed, but didn’t move. Mikhail shoved the gun into the top of her head.
“You’ll want to put that down, Reyer. Or her brains will be all over this hallway.” Mikhail watched. The gun didn’t lower, didn’t twitch.
He wanted Dusk, damn it.
Reaching down, his gun still pointed at her head, he pulled her up and in front of him.
Those eyes, cold as the Devil’s heart, scorched him.
“You won’t get out of here alive, Jezek,” the man bit out, his voice so perfectly British.
Mikhail smiled. “On that you’re wrong. You won’t chance me putting a bullet in her lovely head, will you? And your Ranger is rather dead.”
He took a step back, then another and another until he was at the top of the staircase.
All the while, Reyer, or whoever the hell he was, followed.
“Let her go. Ebony. We’ve found out who she was. Calsonone’s daughter. Even if you get out of here, he’ll hunt you down.”
Those damn eyes.
“You’re outnumbered, Reyer. Calsonone may want me, but he won’t get me.”
Then he saw it, the slight flicker of eyes.
“Blood loss is a bitch, isn’t it?” Mikhail taunted.
He stepped down one stair, then another, dragging Dusk with him. “He’s very persistent, isn’t he?”
Leaning against the wall, Reyer descended, his chest covered in blood, his arm dripping.
“Sven.”
He knew then Reyer hadn’t known of the other man. His eyes flickered to the entryway, where Sven stood. Widened, even as he brought his gun around and fired off a shot at Sven.
That was all it took.
Mikhail shot him again. Reyer crumpled on the stairs. “Such the hero,” he muttered.
Dusk moaned and he jerked her after him. She glanced again at the man sprawled on the stairs where he’d fallen.
At the bottom of the stairs, Becca stood with Sven.
He traded a look with Sven, who must have been caught across his bicep. Blood welled and oozed from a gash, the edges of the rip in his shirt, red. Without a word, the man turned and shot Becca in the back of the head.
They walked out into the night.
She jerked against his hold.
“Just remember, my special girl, if your brothers arrive, I’ll take pleasure in killing them.”
He hurried her down the street, shoved her in the limo and sat back, smiling.
Chapter 33
2:27 a.m.
Jackson looked around. Uniformed officers gathered outside. Someone was dusting for prints.
He, Gideon, and Tarver strode to the back of the shop, where a crowd had gathered. Oh, God, please not a body, he thought.
Cops stood around one of the Edwardian bedroom suites. He walked toward it, the sound lowering. One of the officers stepped away and he saw what was on the bed.
Everything in him froze. Blood rushed and thrummed against his ears.
A brunette was chained to the bed. Manacles. Chains. Bed. The sightless eyes staring in the garishly painted face.
It couldn’t be a real person, not a real person.
Gideon sighed beside him.
His gaze quickly ran down the body on the bed. Even a crescent scar on the left hip. He stopped when Tarver’s arm shot out. They were near the bed, where a specialist was taking print shots. The sight slammed into him. He fisted his hands on his hips and bit down. The woman wasn’t a woman at all, but a mannequin. A damned mannequin. It was not his sister—who was home safe with Lincoln. Yet the representation . . . It wasn’t her, but still. A knife in his gut.
Morgan.
He ran his gaze over the entire scene, missing little, cataloguing the items. The manacles seemed to be of real gold. He remembered the photos he’d received earlier of his sister chained just like this.
“It’s like the photo, isn’t it?” Gideon asked. “All that is missing is her screaming.”
“Why would someone do this?” Suzy asked quietly.
For a minute no one said anything. Then Tarver cursed. “Shit!” He jerked his phone out and dialed. His gaze was on them.
A shadow chilled over Jackson.
And he knew . . .
Get everyone here. Get everyone away from the house.
Tarver whirled and ran for the door, already dialing again on his phone. Almost to the door, Jackson heard him give Gideon’s address. “All units! Now! Possible officer down!”
Jackson jumped into the car with Tarver, saw Gideon and Suzy hurry back into the unmarked car that brought them to the scene.
“No one is answering,” Tarver told him.
Jackson’s hands shook. He saw his sister as she’d been in the photos, the man on the video.
All he could hear was her words . . .
. . . This time he wants to see my eyes when he puts a bullet in my brain . . . This time he won’t be lenient . . . Well, we already know he wants me dead. Preferably slowly . . .
Jackson slammed his fist into the dash. “Hurry, Tarver. Hurry.”
The car screeched around the corner, a rotating red light on the dashboard. The man barked orders into his phone.
This wasn’t happening. It wasn’t.
Please, God, please let Morgan be okay.
* * *
Dallas; 2:30 a.m.
Antonio picked up the phone as it rang. “Yes?”
Giovanni said, “He’s taken the girl. We followed the car, but were too late. I left and notified their police that someone had killed several people at the address.”
“The girl?”
“With Mikhail.”
Antonio took a deep breath and looked at the other men in the limo with him. His sons and Mr. Ngori, who asked to be called Shadow, were all watching him.
“Follow them. Where are you?”
Giovanni gave him the directions, which meant nothing to Antonio. Perhaps they did to the driver. The limo and driver were on loan from Mr. Sanchez, whose children went to university here in Texas.
“I think they are going to an abandoned airfield.”
He frowned. “Why?”
The static picked up. “I had one of my men follo
w one of theirs yesterday afternoon. He went to a local abandoned airfield.”
Thinking, he decided. “Follow them. I want the girl alive. And the Jezek bastard as well. Do whatever you have to do.” He started to hang up, then said, “Gio, give your directions to the driver.”
He rolled down the partition between the driver and occupants, handed the phone to the driver and said, “My man wants to give you directions. We need to go there. Quickly.”
The driver listened, agreed he knew how to get there and handed the phone back to Antonio. “Mr. Sanchez has used the same airfield.”
Antonio leaned back and tapped his fingers on this thigh.
Soon.
He pulled a photo out . . . the one Mr. Shadow Ngori had given him. “I want the entire photograph. Do you have it on you?”
He stared at the dark man. No wonder he’d earned the name Shadow. Perhaps he’d find a place in his organization for the man.
“Mr. Calsonone, I really don’t think you need to see—”
“Now, Mr. Ngori. I don’t like surprises.”
“I don’t have an actual photograph, as I’d told you.”
Antonio waited. “Then what?”
“I have a copy on my laptop.”
Antonio reached down, grabbed the man’s briefcase and handed it to him. “Pull it up. I will see it.”
For a minute Antonio wondered if the man would refuse. Georgio shifted.
Mr. Ngori sighed. “As you wish.”
* * *
Morgan took a breath, tried to quell the immediate fear that crawled through her. Chills danced over her. The cold didn’t touch her, but Mikhail did. She was only in her pajamas. Flannel, light blue, striped pants and a blue T-shirt.
She couldn’t help but tremble.
Tears raced down her cheeks. Lincoln!
She closed her eyes and prayed for him to make it, to live. She couldn’t imagine the man not in her life. Had she ever actually told him how important he was to her?
Mikhail didn’t say anything, just poured a glass of champagne. “To our reunion, my sweet.” He popped a tablet in it and Morgan watched it fizz to the bottom. What was that?
She didn’t think, didn’t wonder what he would do to her. In that lay madness. Besides, she’d learned long ago he’d do whatever he wanted.
Think. Think.
She studied the streets and realized they were heading out of town, going east toward Tyler.
She frowned, not saying a word.
Morgan closed her eyes again and thought back to the moments on the stairs. Should she have done anything differently? She’d wanted to. But what if she’d made things worse? What if she’d gotten Lincoln shot? She realized she’d never seen Lincoln like that. Not even that night he’d killed the guard. A cold rage had burned on his unforgiving face.
Mikhail cleared his throat and she opened her eyes. He smelled the same, she realized, as he stared at her. As fast as an adder, he struck, backhanding her.
Her cheek throbbed, her eye two seconds away from popping out of its socket. How had she forgotten how hard the man hit? The coppery taste of blood coated her tongue.
She was not, not going through this again. His gun jabbed under her chin, forcing her to look into his eyes. “Now, Dusk, be a good girl and drink up.”
She shook her head and his eyes narrowed. “I can pull the trigger right now.”
Yes, he could. She could see that in his eyes. He had to get rid of her, she realized. Not just because she’d escaped.
She thought back over what Lincoln had said in the hallway . . . Let her go. Ebony. We’ve found out who she was. Calsonone’s daughter. Even if you get out of here, he’ll hunt you down.
Calsonone? Ebony? She was a witness. The only witness.
The gun pressed into her throat.
“Drink this, Dusk.”
She hated that name. Hated that he was still the same with that silky voice, the Adonis looks, the cold blue eyes. “You haven’t changed a bit, Mikhail.”
His breath was hot on her ear. “Nor you, my pretty. I’ve waited a long, long time to find you.”
She jerked, but he jabbed the gun harder. Closing her eyes, she opened her mouth and felt the liquid pour down her throat. She spit it back at him.
His eyes widened, then narrowed, rage hardening his features.
He slammed the butt of the gun against her temple. Pain exploded in her head and her vision wavered, nausea rose hot and thick in the back of her throat. He swayed before her, and she felt something warm trickle down her cheek, near her ear.
“Stupid kurva,” he growled, slapping her again.
She fell into the floor of the limo, tried to kick out, but someone sat on her legs, crawled up her body.
“No, no,” she whispered.
His laughter chuckled above her. “Yes, yes.”
The chilled champagne poured down her throat. She coughed, gagged.
He leaned down, his fingers gentle now on her face. “We are going to have fun.”
Morgan stared into his eyes, bucked against him.
“That’s it, fight it, it’ll work faster.” He flashed a smile. “But don’t worry, it won’t last too long. I want you coherent, after all.”
No!
He wavered again as the edges of her vision blackened. His grin was the last thing she saw as darkness smothered out the light.
Lincoln.
* * *
Mikhail looked at the woman unconscious beneath him. Her pulse pounded near that pouting collarbone. He reached for her T-shirt, pulled it up and off her.
Sven watched from the other seat, his face impassive.
“How much longer until we get to the airstrip?” he asked.
Ivan called back from the front. “Only about twenty minutes.”
Good. He nodded, sat back on his seat and took off the bottoms of her pajamas. When she came to, he wanted her naked. Naked and chained. It took no time at all to rid her of her clothing.
He was glad to see she’d gained a bit of weight. Her curves were more pronounced, her muscles lean and toned. He ran his hand up her calf, up her thigh.
No time.
He snapped his fingers to Sven. “Hand me the collar from my briefcase.”
The man arched a brow, then popped the lid and handed Mikhail what he wanted. Smiling, he pulled her naked body into the seat beside him. Her hair was too damn short.
He opened the collar, the jewels glinting in the dimmed lights as he fastened it on her long slim neck. But he had to admit, with this haircut, one could really see the collar.
He smiled, let her torso slide over into his lap.
Soon, soon he’d have her right where he wanted her.
* * *
2:45 a.m.
Jackson slammed out of the car door. Police cruisers were parked on the curb, an ambulance in the yard.
“Morgan!” he yelled, running for the house. He shook off an arm that grabbed him and flew over the threshold.
Two bodies lay in the foyer.
Oh, God.
Bile rose up hot and fast. He panted, swallowed past it and closed his eyes.
“Who the hell are you?” a voice lashed out.
“Tarver. FBI. This is a Jackson Gaelord. His brother owns this house.”
Jackson just stood, looking down at the bodies of Lovell and Becca. His gaze rose to the staircase, and chills raced over him even as his blood pounded hard and hot in his veins. Blood smeared down one side of the wall.
“Man on the stairs was barely alive when we got here. Still had his firearm in his hand. Bullet there in the wall,” the policeman said.
Jackson took a deep breath, went to step around the bodies, but the plainclothes cop shot an arm up and stopped him. “Sorry, you can’t go in there. You have to wait outside.”
Jackson swallowed. “My-my sister. Did you find my sister?”
“Look, man, I got tagged, just walked in the door two minutes before you. Alls I know is, I’ve got a dead Texas Ran
ger and a dead ATF officer.” He motioned to Tarver. “And now the damn feds. I don’t have a fucking clue what’s going on.”
“My sister?” he said again.
Tarver stepped in. “This was a joint operation. We were cooperating with the local authorities, guarding a Morgan Gaelord. Five-ten, one-forty, brown hair, blue eyes. Are there any other victims in the house?”
The detective shook his buzzed head. “No. No one else is here. First on scene did a search, nothing. Blood in the upstairs hallway.”
“Oh, God,” Jackson whispered.
“Looks like the perp, or perps shot the live one upstairs, he made it to the stairs, got a round off, then was hit again. Damn lucky to even be alive. Paramedics didn’t know if he’d make it or not.”
“Shit,” Tarver said. He was already on his phone. He grabbed Jackson and shoved him out the door.
Jackson made it to the curb before his knees gave out. “Morgan, Tarver. What about my sister?”
A car screeched to a halt. Gideon launched out, took one look at Jackson and paled.
“No, please, no,” Suzy said.
“Wh—what happened?” Gideon strangled out.
“They’re dead,” Jackson said.
Suzy moaned and collapsed. One of the DPS troopers caught her.
“What? M-Morgan?” Gideon whispered, his eyes glistening.
Jackson shook his head, couldn’t think. His sister. “I don’t know, Gid. They can’t find her. Lincoln was shot and was taken to the hospital. Lovell, Becca are dead in the entryway.”
Where the hell was his sister?
The image of the carnage, of knowing who had his sister, roared through him. He gave up the fight against the nausea, leaned over and vomited.
He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and hung his head between his knees.
He saw Tarver’s boots and jeans from his peripheral vision.
“We’ve put out an APB on your sister. I’ve got a recent photo faxed to the office, and it’s hitting the news. Also one of Mikhail Jezek, or as he’s currently known, Dimitrov. We’ll find them. Believe that. We’re checking the airports, train stations, bus stations and truck stops.”
The words bounced in Jackson’s head. APBs. Perps. Gunshots. Blood. Words and images flashed through his mind. For the first time in a long, long time, he couldn’t make sense of anything.
Hunted Page 35