Hunted

by Clark, Jaycee

  “I need to call Lincoln’s family,” Tarver said, and walked away.

  Sniffing hard, Jackson straightened, glanced to the side to see that Suzy was sitting up. Gideon was kneeling beside her, hugging the older woman. One of the DPS troopers patted Gideon on the back.

  Jackson took out his cell phone. His hands were shaking. For just a moment, he couldn’t remember the damn number. Finally the numerals clicked in his brain and he dialed.

  It rang. He could have used his contacts, but he hadn’t thought of that.

  “H-hello?” her voice asked.

  Words caught in his throat. He licked his lips, felt tears sting his eyes.

  “Hello? Jack?” she said again.

  He took a deep breath. “M-Molly?”

  “Jack?”

  He leaned his head on his knees. “Oh, God, Molly.” He tried to keep the tremor out of his voice, but knew he’d failed.

  “What? Jackson, what the hell is wrong?”

  He sniffed hard, straightened and said, “We can’t find her. The guards were hit, dead. Another in the hospital. We can’t find her, Mol. Can’t find her. I think he has her.”

  Silence. Then, “Jackson, slow down. I can’t understand you. Who’s missing? Who’s dead?”

  He wanted her here. Wanted to know she was safe.

  Biting down, wiping the tears away, he said the words he swore he never would again, “Oh, God. I need you here, Molly. Can you just get here? Please? I need you.”

  Chapter 34

  Near abandoned airfield outside of Dallas; 2:58 a.m.

  The phone rang again. Antonio reached over and answered it. “Yes?”

  “We’re here. I parked down the road. The other car, Jezek, two men and the woman, are all in the hangar with the plane.”

  “Which hangar?” he asked, wondering how much farther.

  “There is only one, Antonio. But you’d best hurry.”

  Antonio fisted his hand. “Just keep things contained, Gio, until we arrive. I don’t want that plane to take off.”

  “It won’t.”

  Antonio paused at the tone of finality. “What makes you so certain?”

  “Tony, this is not my first job. Dio. The plane won’t even start. My men made certain of that this afternoon when we arrived.”

  Antonio relaxed. Not that he didn’t trust Giovanni—he’d trust the man with his children—but, things happened.

  He covered the mouthpiece. “How much farther?”

  The driver shrugged. “Ten minutes, maybe, probably less.”

  Good. He nodded. “Soon, my friend. Oh, and Gio, call and have Vincient meet us with the plane at this airfield. No sense in coming all the way back into Dallas.”

  Gio chuckled. “I wonder that you have any faith in me at all, Tony. Vincient is only waiting for my call.”

  There was a reason Gio was his right hand.

  He hung up and looked at Mr. Ngori as his phone rang.

  The man’s features could have been carved in granite. “What?” He took a deep breath. “Yes, contact his mother. New York. Hell. No, I can’t talk now.” With that, he hung up.

  “Were they friends of yours?” Antonio asked him, knowing he must have learned that the house had been hit.

  Mr. Ngori simply looked at him. “Yes. But don’t worry. I know the value of family before friends.” He leaned up. “But if for some reason you miss him . . . then he’s mine.”

  Antonio stared into those dark, flat eyes. “One would hope so.”

  “Pop?” Michael asked.

  Antonio waved him away. “I need to think, Michael. Hush.”

  The car’s tires whirred closer.

  * * *

  3:02 a.m.

  Mikhail stared at the pilot. “Is this some trick? Because I assure you, you won’t even live long enough to regret it.” He pointed his gun at the man.

  “No, no trick. God, I swear!” The pilot, a kid, probably twenty-five, was easily bribed. He’d told the idiot they were saving his wife from her family.

  Why people bought into such drivel had always amazed him.

  She was still in his limo.

  Sven loaded their bags into the plane. Ivan stood on the other side of this stupid hillbilly.

  “Look, all I know is I showed up at eight to get things ready like we discussed. But it wouldn’t start. I don’t know what the hell’s the matter with it.” Kid looked again at the engine on the Cessna.

  Mikhail took a deep breath. “We don’t have time for this. Do you have another plane?”

  He should have learned to fly, damn it. Never saw the need. Until now.

  He knew neither Ivan nor Sven could fly. Which was why he’d hired out for this gig. Damn it.

  He looked toward the open hangar door. Not more than a barn, actually. Out in the middle of a damn field near the outskirts of the metroplex.

  The kid nodded. “There’s an older Cessna out under the shed. It runs, but only holds two, maybe three.”

  He nodded. “Get it running.”

  The kid nodded and smiled. “Figured you’d say that. I aired the tires up earlier, made sure it would start and ran a systems check. All it needs is fuel.”

  He took a deep breath, tried not to give into the desire to end this idiot’s existence here and now.

  Mikhail rolled his neck first one way, then the other, and checked his Rolex. Damn, they were behind schedule.

  “Sven!”

  “Yes?”

  He motioned out into the night. “Follow the boy, make certain he’s not lying to us.”

  They needed to get out of here. He could feel it, even if no one knew of this place. He was certain. It was why he’d picked the damn place. Not on any map, out of the way.

  He walked to the car, looked into the backseat at the naked woman. She didn’t move, barely breathed. The light glinted off her collar, off the manacles on her wrists, on her ankles, the gold chains. Turning, he paced to the front of the plane, then back to the hangar door.

  Take her with him, have his fun, kill her, dispose of the body, then he was flying to Cuba to have facial reconstructive surgery. No one would ever find him after that.

  * * *

  Pain knifed through her skull. Something kept her from moaning aloud. An instinct . . . a warning . . .

  Fear. It slid through her.

  Keeping her breathing even, she tried to breathe past the nausea that rolled through her stomach. God, her head hurt.

  Something was wrong.

  Think.

  She took another breath. And smelled him. The herbal scent of his cigars and his heavy, dark cologne.

  Oh, God.

  Mikhail.

  Lincoln! Was he dead? Alive? Oh, God.

  Staying as still as possible, she moved her fingers, felt the warm smooth leather beneath her. Where was she?

  The bing, bing, bing spiked through her brain, pulsing with the pain.

  Car!

  Warm leather . . .

  She was naked! Where were her clothes?

  Carefully, she opened her eyes. The interior was fuzzy, the edges blurred.

  Voices filtered as if down a tunnel to bounce off her eardrums.

  She swallowed.

  Felt the restriction.

  Panic clawed inside her. Collar! She was wearing a damn collar! The thing weighed around her neck, made her aware of the manacles on her wrists, on her ankles.

  Don’t panic. Panic can get you killed, her defense instructor’s words slid through her mind.

  Think. Think.

  Pain split her brain in two.

  Think, Morgan. You’ve thought past pain before. Do it!

  Weapon? She had no weapon. Hell, the bastard took her clothes.

  What did she have?

  Her nails?

  Surprise?

  She shifted, heard the slight tinkle of the chains against the manacles on her ankles.

  Chains.

  Surprise.

  Would they hold? Yes. Yes, they would. She�
�d been bound by the damn things enough to know.

  Come on . . . come on . . .

  Her heart slammed against her ribs.

  This had to work. Had to. She fisted her hands on the chains attached to each wrist manacle. Her fingers shook, felt numb.

  This would work. This had to work.

  Lincoln’s words shot from her memory: You’re a survivor. Don’t ever bloody forget it.

  A survivor.

  * * *

  3:12 a.m.

  Antonio climbed from the limo, waited while the others got out. Gio stood with two other men. “They are inside. Two are over near the other plane—” A small whir filled the air as it started.

  “Jezek, his man, Ivan, and the woman are inside.”

  “Her name is Morgan,” Ngori stated.

  Antonio nodded. “Yes, her name is Morgan, Giovanni.”

  Looking through the darkness, they fanned out and strode toward the hangar, its florescent lights slashing across the darkened landscape.

  * * *

  Morgan waited. She heard him walking closer. Heard the distant whir of a plane.

  Damn. A plane.

  Her palms dampened and her stomach rolled again.

  Please, please, God. Please.

  She felt him looking into the car. Closed her eyes and made herself relax. Just like before. Before when you were with him. Relax.

  His hand touched her leg, then grasped both ankles, pulling her slightly across the seat. Her skin squeaked on the leather.

  He stopped. She could feel his eyes on her. His man said something to him she didn’t catch.

  “I don’t care, Ivan. We need to get going.”

  With that, she felt him lean into the car, the air thickened, tightened. Or maybe it was just the blood roaring in her.

  He pulled her into a sitting position and she stayed limp, let her head loll against the seat back.

  His hand was cool against her face. “It’s a shame I have to kill you,” he whispered. His lips touched her cheek and her nerves skittered.

  They moved to her mouth, light as butterfly wings. Then he straightened, leaned in to pick her up. She felt his hand under her knees, the other behind her.

  Now!

  She twisted, brought her hands up and quickly wrapped the chain around his neck. He was leaning into her. Morgan shoved away from him, pulling him with her, but tightening the slack in the chain.

  “Bitch!” he hissed.

  He lost his footing.

  She pulled tighter, digging her naked heels into the floorboard, twisted the chains around her hands.

  All she could see was his eyes, his hands were going for his gun.

  Her arms shook.

  His eyes bulged.

  Something thunked into him. A dart with a red plume. His eyes widened, glazed, then he went limp.

  Still she didn’t let go.

  “Cara, let go,” a man said behind her, from the other door.

  Her arms were shaking. She jolted as hands covered hers, pried her fingers off the chain. “Let go,” the voice said again. She shook her head, crying, shaking.

  His hands unwrapped the chains as he continued. “You don’t want to kill him. That would link him to you forever. Let him go. He is mine.”

  She shook her head. “He’ll—he’ll come back. Come back. Won’t be—Can’t.”

  “Cara, he is mine.”

  The chains went slack in her grasp. Someone reached through the door where Mikhail lay half sprawled and hauled him between two other men.

  Men she didn’t recognize.

  A coat was thrown over her. “Come, let me help you.”

  Arms reached for her and she bolted again, pressing back against the seat. Her vision was still blurred. She blinked, tried to focus.

  A man, dark of hair, Mediterranean complexion and dark, flat eyes, stared at her. “I mean you no harm.” He motioned beside him. “Here is your friend. Mr. Shadow Ngori.”

  She blinked. Shadow sat on his haunches beside the open car door. She sat in the middle of the backseat looking one way, then the other.

  God, her head. She reached up and touched the side of it. “Come on, Morgan. It’s all right. You’re safe.”

  Safe?

  Shadow spoke slowly and softly as he always had. “This is Calsonone. Antonio Calsonone. Ebony’s father.”

  For a moment, the words meant nothing, then they fell into place.

  “Ebony?” she whispered.

  The unknown man leaned down again into the car, forcing Shadow to stand beside him. “Sí, Miss Gaelord.”

  She looked at him, blinked, felt the tears running down her cheeks even as she trembled. “What was her name?” she asked him, looking into his dark eyes. “Ebony was Mikhail’s name for her. What was her real name?”

  She shivered.

  “Tessa,” he said softly, looking away, then back at her. He cleared his throat. “Teresa Maria.”

  She dropped her gaze from his questioning one. “Come, let me help you.”

  This time she didn’t shy away from him as he reached in to lift her.

  Another voice said, “Here, let me, Papa.”

  She shook so bad, her teeth rattled and pain knifed through her skull.

  Darkness pressed in and receded. “You are safe,” a voice spiced with Italy said against her hair.

  She must have passed out briefly, because next thing she was aware of, she was sitting in another limo. She looked around at the men, noticing it was slightly easier to focus this time. Who were they all? Shadow sat beside her. Mr. Calsonone on the other side. Three young men sat down on the sides of the limo.

  No Jezek. “Wh-where is he?” Her heart skipped. What if he’d gotten away? What if . . .

  “Relax, cara,” Mr. Calsonone said. “He’s with my men.”

  Men. She shook. Where were they taking her? The car didn’t move.

  “I need your help, Miss Gaelord.”

  She tried to blink.

  “She has a concussion,” someone else said.

  She didn’t look to see who, only focused on the father. She heard the crunch of ice. Someone handed her a cold towel. He was young. The eyes hazel, the hair black . . . the features . . . “You look like her,” she whispered.

  He smiled, sad, and pressed the towel to her head. “Family resemblance. We need your help,” he said, looking into her eyes.

  Slowly, she nodded.

  “Keep this to your head,” he told her, sitting back with the other two.

  Mr. Calsonone tilted his head toward the boys. “My sons.”

  She could see now that his hair was streaked with silver.

  He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a photo. Her gaze dropped to it. A beautiful young girl, dimples deep, rosy cheeks, dark eyes and hair, smiled at the camera. “Do you know who this is?”

  Morgan stared at the photograph and felt the sting of fresh tears. Trembling, she reached out and ran a hand over the photo he held. She didn’t want to take it. Licking her lips and wishing the nausea and dizziness away, she nodded. “She’s smiling,” she whispered. “I never saw her smile.” Then, realizing she hadn’t really answered his question, she said, “Yes. Yes, her name was Ebony, at least in hell it was.”

  The man nodded, glanced at the photograph and then returned the picture to his pocket. “Her name was Teresa Maria Elena Calsonone of the Calsonones. We called her Tessa. I need you to tell me what happened to her. Can you do that? Can you tell me where she is? What he did with her?”

  She looked at Shadow, who nodded. “Tell him.”

  Morgan could only stare at this man, studied the dark eyes, the hair, the features.

  She swallowed. How could she tell him this? “You don’t really want to know.”

  The back door opened and she startled as another man climbed in.

  “My man, Giovanni. Please excuse him. He was making certain Mr. Jezek will not escape.”

  Mr. Giovanni gave her a slight nod as he settled next to one of
the younger men. “Don’t worry. He won’t escape.”

  She didn’t ask. Didn’t want to know.

  “Did he kill my Tessa?” Mr. Calsonone asked.

  Morgan stared at him, remembering the gunshots, the grave, the screams. She nodded, jerkily, the muscles all but screaming in her neck.

  “When?” His eyes were hard.

  She shook her head. “When I was in Cheb. Over two years ago. It was September, I think. Days, time was hard to keep track of then.”

  He nodded, took a deep breath even as one of the others cursed. “Where is she? Can you tell me that?”

  The warm trickle of tears glided over her cheeks and she did nothing to wipe them away. “In Cheb, the Czech Republic. Th-there are ab-abandoned churches. She-she managed to escape. Rumor had it one of his guards helped her.” Morgan shook her head. “He found her though. I don’t know where or how. He never said, but we heard how he killed the guard who helped her escape.” She took a deep breath. “He buried her in the little cemetery beside the church.”

  “Which one?” Calsonone asked.

  “I’m-I’m sorry, I don’t-don’t know. I only know because—” She licked her lips. “Because he made me watch.” The tears fell faster. “The church was dark green or blue, at least it was two years ago. Two onion-domed spears, maybe two, three stories. The graveyard is across the street, beside a chain-link fence and a small forest. He b-buried her at the edge in another grave. The tombstone was narrow, so dark I couldn’t read it.” She tried to stop the shivers, the memories slamming into her. “But the one beside it had four kneeling angels. One of them was missing a wing. That’s all I know. That’s all I remember. I’m sorry.” Her chest hurt, caught on the sob. “I’m so, so s-sorry. I never . . . never knew her name, but I never forgot her. Never.” God, how could she?

  He reached up and wiped her eyes. Very softly, he asked, “What did he do to her?” His eyes glistened, but no tears fell. “Do you know that? Did he make you watch that as well?”

  Her heart skipped a beat and her breath froze. Screams . . . the hole . . . the men . . . Her breath came hard and fast. Panting, she closed her eyes.