"Please leave me."
Declan hesitated, for it was extremely rare for his brother to ask politely for anything and it gave him an indication of just how unsettled Van was. He got to his feet, put a hand on Van's shoulder for a moment then left.
He knew it would hurt. He knew he should take Declan's advice and destroy the transmission, but he couldn't. He had to know. He had to judge for himself.
He reached for the control to set the tape into play, his palm sweating.
* * * *
Declan found his brother in the courtyard of the Modartha headquarters an hour later. He was there to tell Van the ships were ready for flight and all personnel boarding. According to O'Rourke, the ships would be leaving within the next two hours. Van was sitting on a concrete bench with his knees spread, his elbows resting on them, his fingers threaded together and dangling between his legs. He was staring out across the meticulously groomed gardens that circled a small reflecting pool upon which black swans swam.
"We set to go, Dek?” Van asked quietly, sensing his brother.
"The troops are boarding now,” Declan answered. He came to stand behind his brother and put both hands on Van's shoulders, automatically feeling the tension bunched in the younger man's shoulders. Old habits die hard and he began massaging away the stiffness. “Collin says we'll be leaving as soon as you're on board the flagship."
Van drew in a long breath then exhaled slowly. “I want that man dead,” he said. “I want him so dead."
"You viewed the disk?"
"No,” Van replied. “Not yet."
"Couldn't do it?"
"I tried several times and couldn't make myself get past the title page. I made a copy then erased it from the system."
"That's for the best,” Declan told him.
"I feel like a fucking coward,” Van admitted.
Declan gave one last hard squeeze to his brother's shoulders then straddled the bench and sat facing Van. “You asked why I wasn't wearing my robe.” When Van remained silent, Declan said, “It was because I left the priesthood."
Van slowly turned his head toward his brother, his brow furrowed. “Why?"
A full minute passed before Declan replied. “There were many reasons, actually. Chief among them was the fact I found myself bored shitless in that calm, peace-loving environment. One can make only so much wine and honey and copy old manuscripts to disk.” He stared into his brother's eyes. “I missed the excitement, the risks, the authority I had as a Modartha operative, the autonomy.” He cocked one shoulder. “I realized I was addicted to the danger and I needed a fix."
"It comes with the job,” Van agreed. “So what do you want to do now?"
Declan looked out over the pond. “After seeing that tape, I wanted to reach into it and grab Doyle by the neck and twist until his fucking head popped off."
Van smiled grimly. “I imagine I will, too."
"I want back in, Vannie,” Declan said, turning to look at his brother. “I want to go into this fight at your side as one of your men. I want my job back as a Class Four Operative."
"I can give you that,” Van said. “It will be good to have all three of my brothers with me for this."
Declan breathed a sigh of relief. “Can you re-commission me or will I have to go before the Modartha Board or...."
"I am the Modartha,” Van said. “Go on over to supply and get yourself a uniform. I'll be on the flagship waiting."
Declan stood up and extended his hand to his brother. “Thanks, Vannie,” he said.
Van took his hand. “It's Commander Vannie to you, soldier,” he said, his lips twitching.
"That's my little bro, the hard ass,” Declan laughed.
* * * *
Liam and Patrick were already on board the Cúmac, Van's flagship when he strolled up the gangway. He saw Collin O'Rourke and Colm Donley off to one side, speaking with the captain, Seamus O'Leary.
"Everyone's here except for Dek,” Liam told his brother. “I don't know where he..."
"He's getting his uniform,” Van interrupted.
"He's back in?” Patrick asked and at Van's nod, he beamed. “The Byrne brothers are in the house!” he said, pumping his fist.
Van went over to the captain, nodding at the man who—although Van could fly himself wherever he liked on the expensive Fiach runabout that had been given to him at his promotion—he preferred to chauffeur him when the Modartha was on official Slándáil Phoiblí business.
"Everything is in readiness, Milord,” the captain stated. “We will leave at your order."
"We're waiting on one of my brothers, Seamus. As soon as he's on board, you can take her out.” He glanced at O'Rourke. “Looks like a few more than twenty vessels are in the armada, Collin."
"I thought it best,” O'Rourke responded.
"Who's minding the store while you and Colm will be gallivanting with me?” Van asked.
"Men we can trust,” O'Rourke told him. “Brennan is being watched very carefully just in case he got any wind of what we're up to. I told my men to take him out if need be."
"He's a dead man anyway when this is done,” Van said, a muscle flexing in his jaw. “Him and Damhán both."
O'Rourke shrugged. “No skin off my nose,” he said.
"Or mine,” Donley agreed. “I wouldn't trust him any further than I could throw him."
"Let everyone know to maintain radio silence until we are over our targets,” Van said. “As soon as we know where the Resistance fighters are hiding, in which caves and where they are keeping the vessels they thought to use against us, snatch ‘em up, destroy the vessels and then let's hightail it back to Faolchú."
"That's what we've planned,” O'Rourke stated.
"Oh and when you home in on either Bailey's, Doyle's or Tara's heartbeats, I want to be informed right away."
"Where will you be?” Liam asked as he and Patrick joined the other men.
"I'll be in my quarters until we reach Madra,” Van said. “I don't want to be disturbed unless it's an emergency. Otherwise, you handle it, Lee."
Liam and Patrick exchanged a surprised look. It wasn't like their brother not to be on the bridge when his personal ship was leaving the docking station.
"Are you feeling ill?” Liam asked.
"I'm fine,” Van said. He looked at O'Rourke. “I want Doyle and Tara put in those separate containment cells I asked you to add to this ship. Understood?"
"Aye, Milord,” the captain replied.
"Bailey is not to be brought up onto the ship."
Liam reached out to grip his brother's arm. “Why not?” he queried, his forehead furrowed.
"Because she's carrying my child,” Van said.
"What?” Patrick gasped.
"You know that for a fact?” Liam asked.
Van replied he did. “I'll need to go down and fetch her myself and fly her home in a runabout."
"The transporter has been considered safe for pregnant women, Milord,” the captain said. “It will be safe for her."
"That may be true, but I'll not take any chances with my lady. I'll go get her,” Van said.
"Then you'll need escorts flying with you to watch your back,” Declan said as he walked up. “I can fly one of them."
"I can fly the other,” Patrick piped up.
"What am I, minced chutney?” Liam asked. “I'm a better pilot than either of you."
"I need you to help Collin and Colm,” Van said. He held up his hand. “Just do what I tell you for once without the older brother shit, okay?” At Liam's sullen mumble, Van told the captain to take the ship out then headed for the elevator that would take him down two decks to his quarters. He didn't give them a chance to question him further.
Once in his spacious quarters he locked the door and went to the Vid-Com control keyboard on his desk and took a seat. Reaching into the pocket of his tunic, he pulled out the disk he'd burned in the Com viewing room and slipped it into the processing unit. Once more his hand hovered over the key to star
t the tape and once again he couldn't. He closed his hand into a fist, relaxed it, made another fist, did that several more times before he finally hit the button, sitting back in his chair with his arms folded tightly over his chest, his body rigid, eyes glued to the screen, jaw clamped tightly shut.
As the first scene came into view, he felt his breath leave him in a rush and he had to gasp to draw another.
The Vid-Cam was centered on Bailey as she lay naked upon red satin sheets. Her arms and legs were spread wide, her lips parted, and her eyes staring into the camera lens. “Come to me,” she said and held her arms up.
Kona Doyle appeared with his back to the camera. He put a bare knee to the mattress and then slithered his naked body over Bailey like the snake he was.
Though the scenes that unfolded were disgustingly graphic and intense with acts he had never performed with his lady, Van kept returning his attention to her eyes. They were glazed, the pupils dilated. There was no doubt in his mind she had been drugged. Half-way through the disgusting thing, he thought he heard her speak his name and sat forward quickly, shooting out a hand to run the tape back. He listened closely, cocking his head to one side with the effort.
"Van...” she said a second before Doyle put his fingers to her lips.
"Aye, love,” he heard Doyle said. “I am your man."
"Bastard fuck!” Van snarled as the tape continued with Doyle sliding down Bailey's body to suckle at her breasts.
It was clear to him Bailey was under the influence of some potent drug and that she thought it was her husband who was making love to her. That explained her eagerness to take the man above her into her arms, to welcome him, to participate in the vile things he was doing to her. Had she known it was Doyle, she would not have been gazing at him with such tenderness as he put his hands on her, his fingers inside her, his mouth upon her.
Emotional pain unlike anything he'd ever endured blazed through the Modartha. His lungs felt squeezed of air, his blood racing through his veins so fast and so heavily it made him lightheaded. Nausea invaded his throat and every inch of his flesh crawled as though maggots were sliming across it.
"Bailey,” he whispered, unable to look away from his woman giving pleasure to Kona Doyle.
Tears blurred the werewolf's vision and his hand shook as he put it to his forehead where a brutal throb had begun over his right eye. He rubbed absently at the debilitating pulse, unaware he was doing so.
Doyle turned to look directly into the lens of the camera recording the scene and the smirk that pulled at his thin lips was vicious. His hands were buried in Bailey's hair as he held her to him.
"I can do whatever I wish and you can do nothing about it,” the Resistance leader said. “Ever again.” He reached down to pull Bailey up, turning her over to wedge his knees between hers.
He watched it all—Doyle forcing his tainted flesh into Bailey's tender body, Bailey lifting her legs to clasp them around the Resistance leader's hips, Doyle's hands going under her to lift her for his thrusting.
He heard it all—Doyle talking to her as though she were some dockside whore he'd hired for the evening, the sickening slap of the man's flesh against Bailey's, the grunts and groans from the bastard's throat.
He experienced it all—the shame of watching his woman—whom he had vowed to love and protect—being used in ways he would never have touched Bailey, the flicker of pain that spread over her lovely face when Doyle sodomized her, the humiliation that settled following that pain.
Her words slammed into Van like armor-piercing bullets. “That hurts."
"You'll get used to it,” Doyle hissed from between clenched teeth as he turned his head and sneered into the camera lens. “Eventually."
"No!" the Modartha bellowed and a scarlet red gleam pulsed in his gray eyes.
Agony ripped through Crevan Byrne and he slid from the chair to his knees on the floor of his quarters, his hands covering his face as the tape whirred on. He knelt there sobbing like a child, misery turning his crying into keening. He wrapped his arms around himself and rocked back and forth, the keening becoming a lost whimpering that would have broken the hearts of his brothers had they heard it.
"Mine,” he cried. “My Bailey."
The yeoman who at that moment was passing the quarters of the Modartha was startled to hear a loud roar come from behind the titanium doors. He stopped, stunned by the sound and pressed against the opposite wall as the roaring became a vicious growl accompanied by the unmistakable crash of destruction being done within the quarters. For a long moment the yeoman was unable to move, for the noise was so savage, so vicious he was terrified of making a sound, of drawing the notice of the beast behind the door. When at last he found the courage to peel himself off the wall, he sprinted down the corridor as though his life depended upon him reaching the safety of the elevator.
When Liam, Patrick, and Declan finally managed to pry open the dented, bulging doors of their brother's quarters, the destruction that greeted them was beyond their abilities to comprehend. Nothing was recognizable—not even their brother.
"He completely destroyed the room, tore it apart with his bare hands, he did,” the engineer told the captain later. “It looked as though a tornado had ripped through the Commander's quarters, taking out everything!"
"Vannie?” Liam asked as he tried to step over a clump of twisted metal only to have his brother bare his fangs and growl at him. He stilled instantly and brought his foot back. He held up a placating hand. “It's me, Van. It's Liam."
The creature who slumped against the far wall of the living section of the quarters had been caught in between transformation from man to beast and just stood there, growling with menace, its red-glowing eyes never wavering. Not yet fully wolf, it was a strange hybrid that was all the more unnerving to view. Bristly fur rose on its hackles and the leathery lips peeled back from the sharp, glistening fangs.
"It's all right,” Liam said, motioning Patrick and Declan back. “We'll leave you alone."
A low, brutal growl that passed as agreement came from the being and its snout rippled with indignation as it scratched one talon-tipped paw on the carpet, shredding it.
Declan's gaze went to the Vid-Com where the last scene on the tape was frozen. It was a particularly graphic shot of his brother's wife. He put a hand on Patrick's shoulder. “Go to the Com Officer and have him cut the power to the Vid-Com in Van's quarters."
Patrick shifted his gaze to the Vid-Com screen on Van's desk and then away, his cheeks turning red. He nodded and hurried off to do as Declan ordered.
"We won't be able to shut this door again,” Liam said and he was uneasy leaving Vannie in the condition he was in.
"I guess that means we'll stand guard until he reverts,” Declan suggested. He, too, knew how dangerous it was to leave Van as he was.
"Whoopee,” Liam said without enthusiasm. He took another step back from the door, shaking his head at Van's low, deadly growl. “Take it easy, little bro. We're just gonna camp out here in the hall until you get yourself together."
The Vid-Com screen went black, drawing the beast's narrowed eyes to it. It stared at the dark screen for a moment then slowly turned its head toward Liam. The black lips skinned back from the fangs and the hiss that came from its mouth was filled with rage. It took a step from the wall, dragging its claws along the metal.
"You didn't need to be looking at that,” Declan defended his decision, wincing at the sound the claws made as they dug deep grooves in the wall. “It was a false rendering of your lady anyway."
The red eyes undulated with fury for a moment then subsided to a greenish glow that finally settled into dark gray glint, but the beast still showed its teeth and, in the doing, let its anger be known.
"We hear you,” Liam said.
"Stop gouging the fucking wall,” Declan complained. “That sets my teeth on edge, Vannie."
The sound grew louder for a moment then abruptly stopped. Both men thought they heard the beast chuff with amu
sement.
Liam made a motion for Declan to drop down to the floor of the corridor with him. “Shut the fuck up and move slowly, brat,” Liam advised.
Declan snorted softly. It had been years since his older brother had called him that. To Liam, Patrick was Punk, Declan was Brat, but he'd never given Van a demeaning sobriquet. Van had simply been little bro.
Sitting down so they faced Van over the destruction of his living quarters, the two brothers drew up their knees. They knew it might be a long vigil they would be keeping.
Chapter Seven
Bailey looked down at the pinprick in the crease of her arm and wondered what Doyle had injected into her. She rubbed the tips of her fingers over it, flinching at the pain. The last thing she remembered was his hateful grin and the knowing look on Lady Tara's face as the guards had wrestled with her, holding her for Doyle to use the Vac-Syringe. When she awoke, she had a brutal headache and her body felt as though she'd been put through a wringer. She wasn't wearing the clothes she had on when she was given the injection, and there were now bruises on her arms and legs and thighs that gave mute evidence of what Doyle must have done to her while she'd been under the influence of the med.
That she'd been raped and sodomized, she had no doubt, for she was sore and hurt in places she should not have. Her main concern was how much—if at all—she had cooperated in her own defilement. From the sly looks Lady Tara and Doyle were giving her she couldn't help but wonder if they had not recorded what had apparently taken place and, if they had, that they'd find a way to get it to Van.
"He's going to make you wish you'd never laid eyes on me, Doyle,” she swore as she got up from the bare mattress upon which she'd been sitting and walked to the locked door of her stony cell. She winced, feeling every ache and pain in her battered body.
There was a grid of bars set at eyelevel in the middle of the wooden door and she wrapped her hands around the metal and looked out. All she could see was the rocky wall in front of the cell and though she tried hard, she could hear no sounds beyond her cell. Frustrated, she went back to the mattress and sat down, drawing her knees up. The loose white cotton gown she wore did little to keep the cold away so she wrapped her arms around her shins and lay her cheek on her knees.
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