Darkest Night

by Megan Erickson

  Dead Eyes cocked his head. “I know who you are, and you’re not a dumb fuck. There a reason you’re not fighting me in an effort to get dead quicker?”

  Jock didn’t say anything. He’d learned a long time ago that silence was best. Silence made people uncomfortable. Silence made people talk. Silence prevented Jock from saying anything they could interpret. Silence was hard to read, especially Jock’s brand of cold, emotionless silence.

  Dead Eyes was a professional, though. He held Jock’s gaze for a long time before he shrugged and stepped back, gun still aimed at Jock’s head. He wouldn’t miss. Jock knew that as much as he knew he’d do anything for Fiona. Dead Eyes would not fucking miss.

  “Get that chair,” the man said, tossing his accomplice a rope. “Tie him to it, rope around his chest and the back of the chair. Rope holding his arms down on the arms. Don’t fuck it up or he’ll fuck you up. And I’ll let him, before I put a bullet in his brain.”

  The man sneered at both of them and limped over to a plush armchair in the corner. He pushed it to the center of the room, and that’s when it hit Jock that he should have left the bedroom. He should have kept them downstairs because now Fiona was going to see all of this. Jock hadn’t thought about that, confident he could take on the intruder. Now Fiona would watch while they worked him over. And he worried she’d make a sound or worse—she’d climb out and yell at them to stop.

  Jock let himself be pushed into the chair, and he rested his hands on the arms while the injured guy tied the rope around him, knotting it at the back with curses and mutters and promises of retribution.

  Dead Eyes pulled a bundle out of his jacket pocket and laid it at the foot of the bed, the same bed Jock had just been in, holding Fiona tight to him. Dead Eyes unrolled the bundle to reveal a whole lotta knives and other instruments of pain. Jock stopped watching. He stared straight ahead, just as the injured man came around the front of him and clocked him hard in the temple. Pain exploded behind his eyes, but he didn’t get close to losing consciousness. They wanted him awake for this, probably.

  He heard the whisper of a knife leaving its pocket. He continued to stare straight ahead. He shut everything off. Everything. He had to. He couldn’t focus on Fiona in the closet or anxiety over the pain to come. He had to get where he needed to be to get through this. He focused on one thing, and one thing only, and that was staying alive as long as possible.

  Then Dead Eyes leaned into him with his hands clasping Jock’s bound forearms on the arms of the chair. “Wondering why you’re not dead yet?” He didn’t wait for an answer, which was great, because Jock didn’t intend to talk. “You’re not dead yet,” Dead Eyes said, “because when we took the hit on you, we were told to make a statement.”

  Jock didn’t react. A statement meant they’d work him over, leave him a mess so whoever found his body—namely, his crew—would be scared shitless. Jock stared over the man’s shoulder, refusing to make eye contact. Jock was starting to suspect the man behind his hit had changed from his old enemies to a more recent one, and that was enough to numb his body as ice froze in his veins.

  “So, I was told to make a statement of you, and gotta be honest, I’m going to enjoy the fuck out of this. I also know the blond is somewhere in this house. I was told to make hers quick, but I’m not sure I’m too keen on this order after they showed me what she looks like. So I’m thinking I’ll play with you for a bit, go find her, take her on this bed in front of you, and then finish both of you. Like that plan?”

  They knew about Fiona. Jock fought not to show the fear he felt flooding his nerves.

  “I just like everyone on the same page and to know what’s going on.” Dead Eyes leaned back and twirled the knife in his hand. He gripped the hilt and slammed it into the back of Jock’s left hand.

  Jock bit down on his cheeks so hard that he tasted blood. He didn’t scream because that wasn’t how Jock processed pain. His whole hand was a burning ball of agony, and it was traveling up his arm like it’d been ignited. But he went to that place in his head, the place where he separated his body from himself, where he was just as dead as the man who stabbed him. He didn’t make a sound, but his chest strained against the ropes as he sought to inhale oxygen, his nostrils flaring.

  “Ohhh, you’re going to be one of those,” Dead Eyes said, gingerly holding another knife, this one slightly curved. “You’re going to be one I have to break.”

  Jock didn’t bother to tell him there was nothing to break. He wouldn’t scream ever. He’d just retreat further and further into himself until he couldn’t remember his own name, until he was just flesh to poke.

  This time, the knife went into his side. The man knew what he was doing. None of these were kill shots, and with the knives still plunged into his skin, he wouldn’t bleed out either. There’d be fatal wounds later, but for now, the guy was playing. Just like he’d said he would.

  The next one flicked at his nipple, enough to draw blood. The wet bead trickled down his ribs to pool in the waistband of his jeans. “You know what this is, right?” Dead Eyes asked as he perused Jock’s body for his next cut.

  Jock didn’t answer.

  “No one wanted to take your hit. It was about to expire, and then a whale came in and snatched it, re-upped the bounty. Wanna know who that whale is?”

  Jock could guess. He didn’t.

  “Maximus,” Dead Eyes said. He placed the knife at the corner of Jock’s left eye and sliced right down his cheek.

  Jock flared his nostrils at the pain and at that damn name. Maximus had told them he’d make them pay. Jock worried for the crew—Roarke and Erick, Marisol and Dade.

  “Don’t know what you fuckers did to him, didn’t ask. Took the job because I’m out after this. Need a lotta cake to set me up for life. Thinking of moving to Sweden. Ever been there?”

  Jock had. He didn’t answer. He was having trouble breathing now. The knife in his side was leaking too much blood.

  “I’ve never been.” The other guy was all glee and friendship now that he was getting to watch Jock being worked over.

  “Heard it’s peaceful. I like peace,” Dead Eyes said, picking up another curved knife. He stuck it into Jock’s thigh, and for the first time, Jock wanted to howl in pain. There was nowhere that didn’t hurt on his body. He felt his head list and had to focus through the haze of pain to stare straight ahead. Dead Eyes leaned in again and wiggled the knife in Jock’s hand. “Heard the women there are fine as fuck. Your piece would fit right in. Maybe I’ll change the plan and take her with me.”

  Jock fought to stay conscious as Dead Eyes tossed a knife in his gloved hand. He flicked a tip on Jock’s ear, the part that was missing because Fiona had shot him. “Oh, see here? Ear is already damaged. Should we throw the whole ear away?”

  “Absolutely,” said the other man, who was standing too close to the closet doors for Jock’s comfort. He shifted his gaze to the man for a brief moment, and the pain swamped in. The place he relied on to protect him wasn’t working because Fiona had reminded him he had a heart, he had a core. He wasn’t all ice like he tried to make himself believe.

  Dead Eyes laid the knife at the top rim of his ear, where it connected to his head, but Jock was watching the other guy, who was now craning his neck to peer at the closet doors.

  No. He didn’t give a fuck about his ear, but they couldn’t find Fiona. But if he gave anything away, they’d know. They’d fucking know. Helplessness swamped him, because this would be worse when Fiona was taken. It would be playing out in front of him, right here, and he wouldn’t be able to do a goddamn thing about it. The man gripped the door of the closet and opened it.

  A lot happened at once. Dead Eyes whirled around. “What the fuck?”

  Something hard crashed to the ground from the closet, a form wrapped in a blanket, and Fiona emerged, gun in hand—where the fuck had she gotten a gun?—feet braced apart, eyes wild, hair a static mess sticking up at all angles.

  “No!” Jock finally scream
ed, and her gaze came to him. Pain was etched there. Pain and anger and so much fucking fire that the look nearly incinerated him. Jock wasn’t seeing so well, but he saw enough to know he’d love that woman for the rest of his life, whether the rest of his life lasted only the next ten minutes or the next fifty years.

  Fiona was brave as fuck, but she was one person, and there were two men in the room, both armed.

  “Don’t move!” she shouted, but like they were going to fucking listen. Jock surged against the ropes binding him, the knives holding him in place to the chair. But he couldn’t do anything. Fiona fired at the injured guy, but her aim sucked, even from close up, because she was shaking so goddamn bad. He knocked the gun out of her hand and wrapped her up in his arms. She fought, kicking and screeching, setting Sundance off a-fucking-gain. Dead Eyes stalked toward the bathroom just as the other man threw Fiona on the bed with a gleam in his eye that had Jock’s stomach sinking into the floorboards.

  Except Dead Eyes never reached the bathroom door. The other guy never even got to unzip his pants as he intended.

  A nearly silent zrip sounded near Jock’s head, and the man standing over Fiona jerked, the back of his head exploding in blood and bone as he collapsed. Fiona screamed, Jock jerked. Another zrip rent the air, and Dead Eyes went down, a hole in the back of his head, forehead blown out. He was dead before he hit the floor.

  Jock’s muscles weren’t working well, but he turned his head to see Tarr standing in the doorway, holding a gun with a silencer at his side. His eyes were in shadow from his ball cap rim, but Jock knew that mouth, those wide shoulders, that red hair curling a bit beneath his hat. “Fuck,” was all the man uttered. He went to a knee at Jock’s side and slashed through the ropes with one of Dead Eyes’s knives. “Jock, you with me? You okay?”

  “Fiona,” he murmured, and then she was there at his side, crying hysterically, her hands shaking as she kept reaching out to touch him before pulling back. Finally she cradled his face, the side Dead Eyes hadn’t carved up. The sobs wracked her body so hard she couldn’t speak. “You okay?” he asked, and her head bobbed until finally she choked out, “Jock.”

  “I’m all right,” he muttered. His body felt warm, kinda soft. He wasn’t so sure he was all right, but he had to reassure her. Tarr was on the phone, rasping out a couple of short words.

  “How did you…how?” Jock mumbled.

  “Told you I’d keep an eye on you. By the way, the guy in the Challenger? Lured him from his car and knocked him out because they were going to kill him. Apologies for that, but he’s got a lump instead of a toe tag, so maybe he’ll find it in him to forgive me.”

  “Erick’s okay?” Fiona asked.

  “Fine. I laid him out downstairs on the couch on my way in. He’ll wake up soon. Called your crew. They know what happened. Now I gotta go.”

  “Go?” Fiona shrieked.

  “Oh yeah, called 911 too. Don’t care how you explain this, that’s on you. I kept you alive.”

  “We’re even,” Jock mumbled. “Debt paid.”

  “Never paid,” Tarr said on a near-silent whisper. He didn’t touch Jock but instead gave him a salute. “You’ll be okay. Help’s coming.” He pointed to Jock’s face. “Scar will look badass.” Then he shoved up the bedroom window and stuck a foot through and disappeared.

  Jock tried to focus on Fiona but there were two of her. Maybe three? He was floating now. Were they on vacation? Yeah, that was it. He was in a swimming pool, Fiona was walking toward him in a bikini, holding drinks with umbrellas that he planned to gulp down like shots, not caring they were girly.

  “Like that bikini, baby,” he muttered.

  “What?” She was sobbing, her hands fluttering over him like butterflies. Why was she crying? Where did the drinks go?

  “I’ll get next drinks,” he said, but the words didn’t sound right, slurred.

  “Jock!” she screamed, but he was underwater and he couldn’t hear a thing.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The two minutes and thirty seconds she spent in that bedroom with two dead men, a frantic dog, and an unconscious Jock were the longest of Fiona’s life. There was blood everywhere…so much blood. She stripped the sheets, tearing them with her teeth and pressing them to all the places where Jock was leaking blood. Sometimes he’d stir and his lips would move, but other than that he sat with his head hung between his shoulders.

  She barely kept her shit together. She talked to him, assuring him he was going to be okay because, if she didn’t keep busy, keep talking, she knew she’d be catatonic in the corner in the fetal position. She had to be strong for Jock. If it was her in the chair, he wouldn’t give up, and he wouldn’t break down.

  Thank God that Jock had insisted she keep her feet bandaged with heavy socks because she was walking in a mixture of blood…

  She shivered and pressed a strip of sheet to his face. His beautiful, proud, Viking face that that fucker had carved. If she’d wanted to leave Jock’s side, she would have gone over to that sick fucker and kicked him.

  She stroked Jock’s hair just as the rumble of a muscle car sounded on the street. She knew that engine—it was Roarke’s. The car shut off just as sirens sounded in the distance. She took Jock’s pulse but didn’t know enough to tell if it was weak or strong. All she knew was that it was there, his heart was beating, and he was breathing.

  Roarke and Wren were at the door in less than thirty seconds. Roarke skidded to a halt, hands on the doorframe, while Wren ran into the back of him and peered into the room.

  Roarke’s eyes were huge, and Fiona wondered what the fuck he was thinking. “Help” was all she said, one ragged word that sliced up her throat like razor blades.

  “Oh, Fi.” Wren’s hand covered her mouth as Roarke stepped to Jock’s side, checking his pulse and running his hands over his friend’s body. “Fuck, fuck, fuck. Erick is downstairs laid out on the couch like he’s taking a nap, but he’s got a massive lump on his head. What the fuck happened here?”

  “Someone Jock knows…” Fiona wrung her hands, staring at the blood on them, so much blood, so fucking red.

  “Fi.” Wren’s voice brought her back to focus.

  “Someone he knows knocked Erick out so these two men didn’t kill him, then he came up here in the middle of…this.” She gestured to Jock’s body as another sob rocked her. “He killed them both, then jumped out the window. Gone.”

  “Jesus,” Roarke said. “We’ll deal with that later.”

  The sirens were screaming now, sounding like they were right outside the house, thank fuck. Roarke took off downstairs and returned with two paramedics who took one look at the room and swore. They immediately tended to Jock, but just the sight of them touching his body was enough to cause Fiona’s heart to beat out of her chest. Jock would hate that, fucking hate strange people touching him, handling him, talking to him. Oh God, he’d hate this so much.

  He’d done this for her. He’d stayed silent and let them stick knives in him because he’d been stalling. She had enough presence of mind to know that. Her J.

  The paramedics stayed calm as they worked on extricating him from the chair. The knives were embedded in the wood, and they had to pull them out in order to get Jock’s body loose. But the jostling was causing more bleeding, and as each second ticked by Fiona felt more out of control.

  They wrapped a cuff around his arm, and then one paramedic looked the other in the eye, communicating something that Fiona could tell was not good. “What?” she screeched, surging off the bed where Wren had been holding her. “Is he okay?”

  “Ma’am, I know this is hard, but we need you to calm down so we can do our jobs.”

  “He has to be okay!” she screamed, knowing she had to shut up but not able to. “He has to be, he has to be!”

  Roarke was at her side now, trying to get her to sit down, but she fought him. Kicked and scratched as she saw them lower Jock’s body onto a gurney. What if they took him away and this was the last time she sa
w him? What if…

  She fought harder and didn’t calm until she felt a slight pinprick in her arm, and then her body was heavier…was she floating? She was floating. She sank into a cloud and she slept.

  * * *

  Fiona sat in a chair with her knees hugged to her chest and kept her eyes on Jock, where he lay in the hospital bed. She hated seeing him like this, but she’d also seen him with multiple knives sticking out of him. Hooked up to an IV, clean and bandaged, was preferable. He was breathing, heart beating, sleeping. He was alive.

  She’d heard he’d woken up briefly when they’d first got him to the hospital and pumped him full of blood. His only word had been Fiona, and Roarke had assured him that Fiona was fine, just sleeping off a sedative. Jock had stayed conscious long enough to answer a few questions, and then passed right back out.

  Watching Jock sit in that chair while those men hurt him, absorbing the pain with a blank face, would forever be one of the worst things Fiona would ever witness. He’d been so strong, and part of her had wanted him to cry out, let it go, rage and thrash and be angry. But he hadn’t; he’d sat there like he was a pincushion made to bleed. It had nearly killed her.

  She’d remembered that he’d shoved her purse on the shelf, the one with her gun. So as silently as she could, she’d pulled out the gun. Of course the one guy had heard her so she’d had no choice but to draw the gun on them, although it hadn’t been effective. She didn’t want to think about how badly it could have ended.

  Jock’s hand twitched and she reached out, lacing her fingers with his. “J,” she called. His eyes worked beneath his closed eyelids, and his forehead creased. She didn’t want to wake him up before he was ready, but damn she wanted to see those eyes.