Dark Rules (The DARK Files Book 3)

by Vaughan,Susan

  Every second wasted ratcheted up the pressure.

  Chapter 12

  AS SIMON PULLED away from the dock, the three pelicans eyed him from perches atop the pilings. The bodyguards had disappeared by the time he tied up the dinghy at the Horizon’s stern. He congratulated himself on avoiding bumping the swim platform.

  Relieved to escape the oppressive atmosphere of Isla Alta, he sucked in the clean sea air as he climbed the short gangway. A small gray gull, or maybe a tern, dipped down to skim along the surface.

  Too bad this beautiful place had a history of such corrupt owners. First pirates and now a criminal selling pricey contraband. A modern-day pirate on an international scale.

  No sign of Janna. He expected she’d meet him on deck. “Janna? Where are you?”

  Only silence and the gentle lapping of waves answered his call.

  His heartbeat kicked into a gallop. What if something had happened to her? While Roszca kept Simon occupied, some of his goons could’ve sneaked onto the yacht. Her cover was good. So why take her?

  Another idea reined him in. Someone could still be on board. Waiting.

  He had no gun, no weapon of any kind. A tight ball hardened in his gut as he edged toward the companionway. If he could make it down to the salon, he could grab his Glock from where he’d stashed it behind the fire extinguisher. From now on when he went ashore, he’d stow it on deck.

  He flattened himself beside the open hatch and listened. An electronic hum was the only sound from below. The familiar smell of morning coffee drifted toward him. He sensed no movement, nothing out of order except the unnatural quiet.

  Silently, he grasped the railings and slid down the companionway in one motion. He reached to the right behind the fire extinguisher. Cold steel fit his palm. Gun in hand, he scanned the salon’s blue carpet and leather-upholstered seating forward to the captain’s console.

  Janna sat in the swivel chair, her head on the helm desk. She’d shucked the white shirt, but wore headphones for monitoring the listening devices.

  His breath hitched and cold sweat beaded his skin. Was she hurt? Drugged?

  Or worse?

  His brain screamed denial, and he could no longer keep silent. No one else seemed to be here. “Janna! Janna, are you all right?” He hurried through the salon toward her.

  She stirred, dumping the headphones on the console. Then she sat up with a jerk of alarm. “Oh, God!”

  That’s when he saw the scars.

  As many as nine or ten livid vertical stripes branded the middle of her back, new pink growth over seared skin.

  Burn scars in a distinct grill pattern.

  His nostrils constricted at the imagined smell of seared flesh. His brain spun in a sickening spiral. His heart slammed against his chest wall. What the hell?

  She popped from her seat and faced him, alarm on her ashen face. She snatched up the white shirt from the floor and jammed her arms into the holes, nearly ripping the garment in her haste.

  Too late. He’d seen the reason for the shirt. His head swam with questions, but before he could sort them out, she began.

  “Oh, Simon, I’m so sorry! I don’t know how it could’ve happened. I didn’t sleep much the past few nights. I know that’s no excuse.”

  “It’s okay. I—” He took a step toward her.

  She raised trembling hands as if to ward off blows as she backed against the console. “I’m sorry. I was listening to the conversation — Roszca’s long story, so very long — and, well, I just couldn’t keep my eyes open.”

  He halted, shocked at the fear in her eyes and defensive stance. “Janna, take it easy. It’s not the end of the world.”

  But she babbled on. “I’ve always tried to be professional. Falling asleep on the job is disgraceful. It’s unprofessional. I never… I promise it’ll never happen again. You’d be justified in sending me back to the control boat. You can request another tech officer. I should be reprimanded.”

  She continued, repeating the same self-accusations in whispery tones. Tears welled up. Crimson flagged her cheeks, and her breathing became rapid and shallow. She was hyperventilating. Panicking.

  To help her, he needed calm. He held out his hands, palms up, and spoke in what he hoped was a reassuring tone. “We’re cool, sweetheart. Let’s go sit down in the salon.”

  “No, I don’t want… I should check the settings…” A sob caught in her throat, and he thought she might keel over.

  He snagged her water bottle from the console as he grasped her hand and led her to the leather sofa. “Here, take a good, long drink and try to relax.”

  “But I—”

  “Shh, no more buts. Sit. Drink.”

  He hovered as she sipped water. Her breathing regulated, still rapid but deeper. She settled against the sofa back and closed her eyes.

  The time had come to confront what he’d only just begun to suspect. Fragments of memory hammered at him. The unnecessary glasses and loose clothing meant to conceal her beauty, her femininity. Flinching when any man put his hands on her. No pictures of Gabe. Not even a wedding picture. Gabe, who kept the finances and the key to his desk secret.

  Leave my marriage out of it. You have no idea what my marriage was like.

  Finally, the telltale marks on her back and today’s panic attack when she woke up groggy. She had been afraid of Simon, terrified he would strike her.

  But the person she really feared wasn’t Simon.

  Gabriel Harris had been more of a control freak than he realized. Much more. Pain chewed a path to his brain. Fury burned as hot as the grill that had branded Janna’s smooth skin. He clenched and unclenched his fists as he sought control. The last emotion she needed to see was anger, even if the anger wasn’t aimed at her.

  “How did you get those scars?”

  She raised her head from the cushion and opened her eyes. A tear trickled down her cheek. “You weren’t supposed to see them.”

  “How, Janna? What exactly burned you?”

  “I’m okay now. The gas-grill cooktop. In the kitchen. It was a long time ago. I … fell. I was clumsy.”

  “Clumsy.” He shook his head. “No way. I observed you whiz through the obstacle course during training. Clumsy you’re not. What happened? The truth.”

  “It’s not important. It doesn’t matter.” She started to push to her feet, but he laid a hand on her knee. She started at his touch but didn’t move away.

  “It matters to me. And I think what happened matters to you or you wouldn’t hide the scars. You recoil from even a gentle touch. Your condo has no pictures of your hero husband. You hide behind nun outfits and frames with clear glass.”

  A flush rose to her cheeks. Her chin firmed, but she wouldn’t look him in the eye. “That’s my business, not yours.”

  “When your business spills into our work and our friendship, it becomes mine. You’re not sleeping, you say. I bet you haven’t slept well in a long time.”

  When her mouth tightened, he knew he’d hit a nerve. She shook her head, and tears streamed down her face. Keeping the truth locked inside was eating away at her like a cancerous growth. She needed to cut it out.

  And Simon needed to help.

  He’d introduced her to Gabe. Then he’d abandoned their friendship. Abandoned her to the son of a bitch who hurt her. Who burned her. God knew what else he did to her. Simon felt guilt about Gabe’s death, but this was somehow worse. The tight lump in his gut solidified to lead.

  Since she wouldn’t open up, he’d have to pry. “You can’t keep this all inside. Don’t deny the truth. Gabe was worse than a traitor to his country and a control freak. The bastard abused you. How can you protect him? He gave you those scars. He branded you.”

  “Yes! Yes! Are you satisfied now?” She scooted away and shot to her feet. Stood trembling at the end of the cocktail table, her hands in a white-knuckle grip. “He hit me. He knocked me onto the grill and held me down until I could sme
ll my skin burning.”

  The agony in her eyes would haunt Simon forever. He rose slowly to his feet and started toward her.

  She backed up a step, and his throat constricted. He swallowed down the bitter bile.

  “Janna.” He approached slowly as if soothing a frightened filly, “I’m not Gabe. I won’t hit you. I won’t hurt you. Let me help.”

  A sob tore from her throat, a raw feral cry that slashed his chest. She buried her face in her hands. “I didn’t want you to know. I’m so ashamed.”

  She’d been protecting herself, not her bastard of a husband. The realization slugged him, shaming him and easing the unreasonable envy that had tightened his chest.

  Gently drawing her into his arms, he made comforting noises. When she rested her cheek on his shoulder, he kissed her hair, tangled and damp but silky and sweet-smelling, and laid his cheek against her head.

  “No, sweetheart,” he said, “I’m the one who’s ashamed. I should’ve been more of a friend. I should’ve known. I should’ve stopped him from hurting you.”

  More to the point, what should he do now while they were in the middle of a deadly game with Viktor Roszca?

  ***

  Janna opened her eyes to darkness. The smell of a charcoal fire drifted through the porthole. She rolled over on the sheets, remembering. After her appalling lapse and panic attack, Simon had herded her to her bunk for some rest. She hadn’t thought she could sleep, but apparently exhaustion overruled her nerves.

  So now Simon knew.

  He didn’t know the whole story. But enough. The worst part. An ocean of tears and pain filled her, until it overflowed in another flood of tears. She rolled into a ball and let the shame and sorrow soak her pillow. Now that he knew, what did that mean? Should she tell him the rest?

  When the tears subsided, she washed up. A cold wet cloth on her eyes allowed her to see what she hadn’t before. Simon hadn’t been repulsed. He hadn’t berated her for allowing Gabe to abuse her.

  Instead, he blamed Gabe.

  And he blamed himself for not intervening.

  He was right about the fault being Gabe’s. And Sarah French was right that Janna had accepted that intellectually, but not emotionally. Before Simon left her in her cabin, he announced that he wanted the whole story. Telling him more might help heal her damaged soul. But what damage would the shameful truth about her disastrous marriage do to their tentative new friendship?

  When she came up on deck, in clean white shorts and a tank top, she was still pondering.

  Beyond Horizon, the velvety night was broken only by the lights from Isla Alta. On board, tiny white lights circled the afterdeck. A glowing hurricane lantern sat on a low table between two padded deck chairs.

  Simon was just laying two juicy steaks on a hibachi. He’d changed from his natty mobster attire into cargo shorts and a palm-tree-decorated shirt. The light breeze scents of the sea and hibiscus blooms blended with the charcoal smell.

  “I heard you moving around, so I figured it was safe to start dinner. My mouth’s been watering for these babies since we left Gitmo yesterday.” His face fell. “You ordered veggies in New York. You’re not a vegan, are you?”

  She shook her head, amused at his horrified expression. “Still a carnivore. Make mine medium rare.”

  “A woman after my own heart.” He beamed his cocky grin as though nothing had happened, as though a time warp had hurtled them back two years.

  “I’ll see about a salad.” She turned back to the companionway.

  “All done. Baked potatoes too.” He gestured at a small table where a bottle of red wine and two goblets sat. “Open the wine and relax.”

  “Aye, aye, captain.” She eased into the deck chair beside the table and picked up the corkscrew.

  Conversation remained light during their delicious dinner. Simon coaxed her to talk about her travels with her diplomat parents. In turn, he regaled her with stories about his days at the Baltimore track.

  “Did you want to be a jockey?” she asked over coffee.

  He shrugged, wagged his head. “Yeah, but then I grew and it wasn’t an option. Doc insisted I go to college.”

  “He’s the stable manager who helped you.” When he nodded, she continued, “Why law enforcement, the DEA?”

  “Old buddies from my days on the street were dropping like proverbial flies. Some to crack cocaine. Some to drug-related gang violence. Without Doc, I could’ve met the same end. I wanted to make a difference.” Zeal sharpening his gaze, he leaned forward and flattened one hand on the table.

  “Were you stationed in Baltimore?”

  “Miami for a time, then the Northeast, Boston. My last case was stopping heroin traffic. I was with a task force that took down the gang of a Mexican drug lord named El Águila. I never learned if they rolled up the big honcho though.”

  She laid a hand on his and forced herself to leave it there a beat, to show him — and herself — that she trusted him. “Then you have made a difference. You should be proud.”

  His brown eyes softened with sadness. “Maybe. But I screwed up. I failed to make a difference when a friend ran into trouble.”

  He meant her. Her stomach clenched. Confession time. Simon wouldn’t back down or give up. He’d made the decision for her. “I didn’t run into trouble. Trouble crept up on me so stealthily that I didn’t know what was happening.”

  He poured more wine for them and leaned back in his deck chair. “Gabe had the charm and ego of a confidence man.”

  Reflecting on the emotional prison she’d existed in — still existed in — squeezed her throat and chest with a strong fist. Unable to swallow even a sip, she set down her goblet. “He swept me off my feet. He was the perfect gentleman before we were married.”

  He’d seemed like the responsible, reliable type she ought to marry, not an unconventional rebel like Simon, who challenged her studious nature and teased her and lured her to the wild side. But she couldn’t say that.

  A motor started up at the island dock. A moment later, a speedboat rumbled past, headed toward the mouth of the cove.

  “Regular patrol,” she said when Simon stood with his hand on the gun in his belt holster.

  “You heard them too? They circled the island three different times last night. Roszca takes no chances.” He subsided into his chair and rescued his wine as the speedboat’s wake rocked the Horizon.

  Chapter 13

  HER TANK TOP and shorts should’ve had Simon ogling her breasts and long legs. But her pinched mouth and hunched shoulders grabbed him more. “You really don’t sleep, huh?”

  “Not for a long time.”

  Gabe had controlled and abused her. He’d ground her self-confidence under his heel and turned her nerves into Mexican jumping beans on steroids. Bastard! If only… But Gabe was dead, out of reach of retribution except in whatever flaming maw of hell had swallowed him.

  Like water in a kettle, Simon heated inside, but his steam found no outlet. He clenched his fists and willed his voice steady and soothing. “Can you tell me? About how he changed, what he did to you? Will you tell me?”

  Pain darkened her silver-gray eyes. “I’ll try. Sarah French — that’s my counselor — advised me to tell someone, but I just couldn’t. Until now.”

  He scooted his chair beside hers and took her trembling hand in his. “Go ahead.”

  She swallowed, a strained gulp, as if emotion tightened the muscles of her throat. “You know most of it. He exerted more and more control.”

  “How? I want to know what the bastard did.”

  “I had to go home directly from work or with him. He went with me to shop. He wouldn’t let me see my friends. I don’t know how, but he arranged something with the tech lab chief to not assign me any work outside the lab itself. I had to account for every penny and every minute. He isolated me.”

  As she talked, the fury inside him built to volcanic until his vision blurred with a red haze. Every
new detail slugged him for not having seen, for not remaining her friend, for not saving her.

  Keeping hold of her hand, he struggled to maintain a gentle grip — on her and on himself. “This didn’t seem weird?”

  “I knew he was a domineering kind of guy, but I went along at first because he insisted his demands were to bond us as a couple.”

  “At first. What changed your mind?”

  “He became jealous. I had to wear shapeless clothing so I was unattractive to the hordes of men in his imagination. He’d wake me up in the middle of the night to berate me about who I’d been with or where I’d gone.” She closed her eyes and her shoulders shook. “Then he’d… he’d want…”

  “Sex,” he finished for her. Her shudder told him how pleasant the sex had been. No wonder she couldn’t sleep. Her so-called loving husband’s perversity made his stomach turn. “What did you do about it?”

  She ducked her head, the layers of her gold-highlighted hair dipping onto her cheeks. She shed no tears, but perspiration sheened her face in the warm night. She gripped his hand as if she’d fly away if she let go.

  She raised her gaze to his. “Simon, remember who I am. I’m supposed to be this brilliant geek, but coping with my husband’s demands stumped me. I kept trying to solve the problem, to find the answers.”

  He should’ve guessed. His lips curved with bitter humor at her unique approach. “Like you’d tackle a tough technical glitch in a surveillance camera or a—”

  “Hard drive. Exactly.” The corners of her lips quirked but didn’t form a smile.

  He held up a hand. “Don’t tell me. You researched it.”

  Finally, she awarded him a tiny smile. “All the data I found online described the controlling behavior, but the solution was always counseling. So when persuasion and compliance didn’t work, I sought help from Dr. French.”

  “Private counseling so the agency wouldn’t know.”

  She nodded. “And so Gabe wouldn’t know. First, I begged him to go to marriage counseling, but he scoffed.”

  Teeth gritted, he said, “Was that before or after he burned you?”