The Reunited

by Shiloh Walker

  He’d let that girl get eaten . . . had crippled her. Just so it would happen.

  “Fuck.” She groaned, closing her eyes. This was way more than she was capable of handling. She was so far in over her head . . .

  I could kill you . . .

  Sensation swamped her—

  Awful cold closing over her head. Sucking her under. Stealing her away . . . and she welcomed it.

  “Not now,” she whispered, pressing a fisted hand to her temple. Mental breakdowns later. Much later.

  * * *

  TWO drinks later, Dru stumbled to bed.

  She was so bloody tired of all this, her head aching from the stress, body sore, eyes gritty. It wasn’t just the memory flashing, although it hit her hard. It was everything. The constant fear, her anger, the knowledge that it was just a matter of time before she was trapped into marrying that arse . . . it was a no-win situation. She would either find the evidence she needed before she married him, or she did it after.

  Well, not that it would be a real marriage. After all, she couldn’t exactly enter into a binding contract if she was lying through her teeth about who she was, could she?

  Yet another fear she carried. That Patrick would find out who she was . . . really. Oh, the false persona she was operating under was solid. It had been crafted by the best in the business. But all it would take was one person who knew her. One mistake. Anything.

  “Anything,” she mumbled. And I could be the next alligator meal.

  Sinking down on the bed, she curled into a ball and hugged her legs to her chest, still wearing her pants and tank top. Lying there in the dark, she closed her eyes and tried not to think. Tried not to think about all the ways this could go wrong. Just one slip-up. One mistake . . .

  Sometimes the urge to cry was overwhelming, but she never let the tears break free. The monster who was her fiancé had her room bugged. She’d found them all the first day she’d been in there. She was careful to ignore them, but she’d be damned if she showed her weakness in front of them. Snagging a pillow, she buried her face against it and fought to battle back the tears of weariness and frustration.

  Soon, she told herself. It was the mantra that had gotten her through all of this. Soon.

  Because it was better to sleep angry than scared, she pulled the image of that girl to her mind and let herself think about her.

  Sarah.

  A runaway.

  A girl who had been dead for well over a year, and who, somehow, was connected to Patrick.

  Just thinking of her, concentrating on the girl’s face was enough to let it happen, and one of the memory connections flared to life . . .

  * * *

  FLASH, flash flash . . .

  “Please . . . just let me go!”

  She huddled in the corner. He ignored the tears on her face as he studied her features. She was younger than some of the women he usually took, but she was too pretty for him not to take. “Are you a virgin?”

  Her porcelain-pale complexion flushed and she flinched as though he’d struck her, shaking even harder. “Let me go, please,” she pleaded. “My mom, my dad . . . they’ll pay. They have lots of money.”

  Patrick laughed. “They don’t have enough.” Then he nodded at his men. “Check her . . . and be careful.” He doubted she’d have a hymen intact, but if she did, the amount of money he’d get for her would double. She was extremely attractive and very young. Some men would pay a ridiculous amount of money for those traits alone. Throw virginity into the mix, and he could be looking at a very sizeable sum of money. Something about the horror in her eyes made him think it was entirely possible.

  As his men started toward her, she screamed and shot him a desperate look. “Please don’t let them touch me,” she begged. “I’ll . . . I’ll tell you anything. Just . . . just don’t . . .”

  He arched a brow. “Then answer my question. Are you a virgin?”

  She dunked her head. “Yes.”

  “Wonderful.” He smiled and jerked his head, calling his men away. She’d still have to be checked. But he’d have somebody inspect her who would know how to be cautious. “What is your name?”

  She swallowed and darted a look at him. “Sarah.”

  * * *

  TWO weeks after that, Sarah was dead in a ditch.

  Dru lay on the bed, dry-eyed and filled with the anger that had carried her through this job. Sarah had definitely been a virgin. Patrick had been very happy with that and he had a buyer on the East Coast who had wanted her personally delivered.

  Patrick had actually told the girl what was going to happen to her.

  And the girl had done something both incredibly brave . . . and incredibly foolish. More and more girls were aware of their bodies these days. Since the so-called buy had wanted a virgin with an intact hymen, the girl had decided not to have an intact hymen. Somewhere during the trip to meet her would-be owner, she’d done what she thought would set her free, or at least Dru assumed that was what she’d done.

  Nobody would ever know just what she’d done, because when Patrick’s men found her in the bathroom of the hotel and dragged her out to Patrick, she had blood on her thighs. And that prized hymen was no more.

  Patrick hadn’t handled it well.

  By the time his men were done with her, even her own father wouldn’t have recognized her.

  They left her, discarded on the street like so much garbage.

  And Dru had made it her mission in life to stop the monster responsible.

  * * *

  DREAMS awaited her . . . they rose up the second she fell asleep and pulled her under.

  Screaming.

  Just the screaming. That was all she heard at first. But then, slowly, she began to hear the whispers.

  Help us . . .

  We’re trapped . . .

  The voices of girls.

  Beyond that, another voice . . . a man’s voice . . . You’ve got to get away from him. Promise . . .

  Such a low, urgent plea.

  He’ll kill you . . . a woman’s voice. It was a different voice from the other voices . . . calm and controlled, where the others were panicked and terrified. Sad, though, like Dru’s death was a foregone conclusion.

  He’ll kill you if you’re not careful.

  Dru was trying to be careful. But she had a feeling she was dead anyway.

  He’ll kill you . . .

  In the dream, she saw the blood. She could smell it—thick and sickly sweet—hovering around her. She could taste the pain in the air, heavy with horror and despair.

  She wanted to run.

  He’ll just find you . . . he finds all of them.

  But he couldn’t find her. Not if she ran hard enough. She knew how—

  He finds them all . . .

  In her dream, she struggled to breathe while the sheets wrapped around her like chains.

  Gasping for air, she tried to break free of the dream, but all it did was shift . . . re-form. She was no longer running, but sinking. Struggling against the icy waters that sucked her under as the oxygen bled away.

  Through the murky dark waters, she saw a pair of eyes, staring down at her. Patrick. And he was smiling. She saw the empty void of his soul reflected in his eyes as he watched her.

  Did you really think I’d just let you leave . . .

  She hadn’t come here to leave—she’d come to die.

  Die . . . yes. She’d wanted to die. Hadn’t she? Water rushed into her mouth and she choked. But if she’d wanted to die, why was she fighting this?

  As her life trickled away, as she struggled to surface, her heart ached. Wept. Just let go . . . he’s already gone . . . you can go to him. Be with him.

  He . . . ? Who? She didn’t know, but she felt like she should.

  It doesn’t matter. Just let go. Then that monster can’t hurt you anymore.

  But she didn’t want to die.

  She wasn’t ready. Yes, you are . . . isn’t that why you came back here?

  “No!
”

  * * *

  I’M not ready, he thought dimly, watching her even as the darkness closed in around him. He wanted to hold her. One more time.

  “You must save your strength . . .”

  No. That wasn’t what he had to do. He had to find a way to make her understand. She had to get away—had to get away now, before it was too late . . .

  “You have to get away from him. Promise me.”

  She watched him, her lovely green eyes misted by tears. They were darker, it seemed . . .

  “Promise,” he demanded as he realized her eyes weren’t darker. Everything had gotten dark. He could hardly see. Fuck all. He couldn’t see. So weak, he couldn’t move. Desperately, he reached down and pulled the knife from his belt, shoved it into her hands. It was a workingman’s knife, too big for her hands, but it was something. He squeezed her hand. “Amelie, you must run. Now . . .”

  He wasn’t ready. He’d promised he’d see her safe. But he could not do that now . . .

  Her only chance was to run—

  FIVE

  RUN—

  Even as he came awake, that word echoed through his mind. Joss jackknifed up off the bed, one hand pressed against his gut, where he would have sworn he could feel the brutal, horrifying agony of a bullet lodged inside.

  Except he’d come awake like this a hundred times, a thousand. More. Ever since he was nineteen, and he’d stumbled across that mausoleum. Before that, he’d just dreamed about her.

  After that, he’d dreamed about his death. The bullet tearing into him. His knowledge that he’d leave her alone. That she’d be vulnerable, that he wouldn’t be able to protect her.

  So much worse. So very vivid.

  And anytime he was close to where he’d found her, close to the cemetery, the dreams were even more powerful.

  Apparently, Orlando was close enough to jack him up.

  Somehow, Joss didn’t think he’d be getting many restful nights. He was stuck here for a while.

  * * *

  “THERE’S nothing in these damn reports,” Joss growled, throwing down a thick stack of paper.

  Hours after he’d climbed out of bed, he was ready to fall straight back into it, but he didn’t know if he’d get that wish anytime soon. Taylor had kept his ass trapped inside this hotel all damned day, and he was about ready to go out of his ever-loving mind.

  And they hadn’t even done the thing that was going to really drive him up a wall. Joss had to assume they were still awaiting the arrival of whatever agent they needed to sync him with, but he wished they could get it the hell over with.

  Taylor eyed him from across the sleek, gleaming wood of the dining room table, one blond brow cocked. The boss had been doing the same thing Joss had—studying reports, photographs, websites—things that had Joss’s brains about to bleed out of his ears, but he looked unperturbed and collected, just like he had looked eleven hours earlier.

  Joss felt like strangling himself with his shoelaces at this point.

  “Is there a problem?”

  Shoving back from the table, Joss stood up and started to pace. The understated luxury of the hotel room felt like it was closing in on him. It was a nice hotel—nice with a capital N, meaning Jones was probably paying for it out of his own pocket. The Bureau wouldn’t spring for places like the Peabody.

  Jones normally didn’t, to Joss’s recollection, but maybe it had something to do with his new wife. Dez was stretched out on the couch, doing the same thing they’d been doing. Reading reports. Well, right now, she was pretending, but Joss wasn’t fooled.

  She was running on the same, maxed-out level of stress that he was, but he suspected she had reason. There were shadows in her eyes, sadness in her face. A ghost tugging at her, he could tell. Maybe more than one.

  He hadn’t done a damn thing yet and he was already going nuts. He didn’t even know why.

  Joss felt like his skin had shrunk down about two sizes, and he couldn’t stay there and keep twiddling his thumbs . . . waiting. Eyeing the neatly organized mountains of paperwork, Joss shook his head. “There’s nothing here for me, boss.”

  He lifted up a photograph, staring at the girl’s picture and wishing it would bump something loose inside his brain, but all he felt was a stir of pity, a rush of anger.

  She had been thirteen years old when she went missing.

  Yaeli was found three years later, thanks to an anonymous tip. The tip led them to an unmarked grave in Rhode Island. Her father was still in Mexico. Her mother lived in New York. They hadn’t gone to the police when she disappeared because her mother was in the States illegally . . . a common story. One that would have no happy ending, and possibly no justice, either.

  Joss stroked his finger down the picture. I’m sorry, sweetheart.

  If he was going to find any justice for her, it would be after they synced him with his next gift set, because he felt absolutely nothing now . . . except that pity, and the rage.

  Unable to stare into those dark eyes anymore, he set the picture aside and looked up at Taylor. “There’s nothing here for me. Call me when there’s either new information or you’re ready to do the mind-fuck on me.”

  He was done.

  He couldn’t keep reading about all those lost souls . . . disappearance after disappearance.

  Not when he kept hearing the sad echo of a woman’s soft cry in his mind.

  * * *

  “WOW. He’s as charming as ever,” Dez murmured as Joss stalked out. He didn’t exactly slam the door, but he definitely closed it with a lot of emphatic firmness, she decided. Slanting her husband a look, she added, “No wonder you two get along. You’re like birds of a fricking feather. Only he’s not as diplomatic as you are.”

  Jones shrugged. “Crawford can use diplomacy when he has to. Right now, he doesn’t have to and he’s pissed off. I’ve run him into the ground lately. There’s just no . . .” Sighing, he dropped his pen onto the table and rubbed his eyes.

  “No choice,” Dez finished for him. Absently, she rubbed her arms and then reached for a blanket. She was cold to the bone, something she might as well get used to, because she couldn’t do her part on this job until Jones had done his part. She was the cleanup crew, and the cleanup didn’t start until everybody else had finished.

  Morosely, she stared at the door, still feeling the heavy weight of Joss’s presence. “Can he do this?”

  “Yeah.” Joss was right about one thing. Going through the files, photos, and reports wasn’t anything he needed to be here for. It was busy work, something Taylor had hoped would keep the guy occupied while they waited.

  Obviously it hadn’t worked. Joss was keyed up over something, and Taylor didn’t think it was just the mind-fuck. And that mind-fuck was going to be brutal. Worse than normal, because the more complex the gift, the longer it took Joss to acclimate. The psychic he was planning on using had the most complex set of gifts Taylor had ever seen . . . even more complex than Joss’s ability to mirror anybody’s gift set.

  Still staring at the closed door, he blew out a breath. He wished he could act like he wasn’t worried, but this sort of thing was harder on Joss than the man liked to show, and the word mind-fuck didn’t exactly bring up images of hugs and kittens.

  Right now, he was probably heading straight to his room to psych himself up for what was to come. Knowing Joss, his form of psyching himself up involved getting himself good and pissed at Taylor. There may or may not be copious amounts of liquor.

  That was fine. It wasn’t anything personal toward him, Taylor figured.

  “You don’t sound too certain there, baby,” Dez said.

  He slanted a look at her and shrugged. “Oh, I’m certain. Hell, he’s the only one we’ve got who can do this.”

  “This has gotta be the craziest gift out of any of them,” she murmured. “And it’s not like any of us have normal ones.”

  “Joss is . . . unique,” Taylor said after a moment. He pushed away from the desk. Scowling, he though
t back to the past night and Joss’s wisecrack about asking Dez on a date. “He’s also a moron if he thinks I wouldn’t deck him if he tried to ask you out on a date.”

  Dez slid him a sidelong look. Something about the smile on her lips sent his blood straight to the boiling level. Of course, everything about her had that power. “Oh, I think he knows that. Somehow, I think he’s known that all along. He was just jerking your chain . . . funny, that. He actually realizes you have a chain to jerk. Most people don’t.”

  “Sure I’ve got a chain . . . and a ball.” He gave her a smile. “And it’s got your name on it.”

  “You calling me a ball and chain there, Jones?”

  He bent his head back over the pages spread out before him. “Why, yes, Jones. I think I am.”

  She snorted and adjusted the blanket she had draped over her, shivering a little. He could see her from the corner of his eye and he watched as she stretched out, wished he could say she was relaxing, but he knew better. She hadn’t slept well ever since they’d wandered through a dark, supposedly abandoned warehouse. He’d gotten the address from Jillian. Everything else had come from Dez.

  It had been full of ghosts. New ones . . . mostly female, mostly young . . . and all of them had screamed. They wouldn’t rest for her, not until they were laid to rest, but Dez couldn’t do this job and they couldn’t afford to let her work it until they had the men responsible in custody.

  That was what was really getting to her, knowing she couldn’t help. The tension in her eyes, the rage in her soul, all of it would eat at her until they’d laid those souls to rest.

  Something they couldn’t do without Joss.

  And they couldn’t do that just yet, either.

  “Who else are you going to have him sync with?”

  Tapping his pen on his desk, he pondered just how he was going to make this happen.

  Taige was going to have his ass. Cullen would go for his throat.

  But he couldn’t damn well help it that they’d brought their daughter to Disney World and she’d picked up on a slave ring, could he?