Hunter (Decorah Security Series, Book #20): A Paranormal Romantic Suspense Novel

by Rebecca York

  “Yes. I sang that. But. . .”

  A groan from the floor made her turn. Reid was sprawled unconscious, but Kolb was lying on his back looking at her. A red stain spread across his shoulder.

  “Dr. Kelley,” he said in a weak voice.

  She knelt, felt the pulse at his neck. It was shallow but steady.

  He closed his eyes for a moment, then asked, “Where were you—”

  “Hunter saved me from the explosion,” she explained quickly. “We were hiding out—waiting for a chance to get out of here. Then Reid caught Hunter.”

  The doctor gave a tiny nod. “Were you listening to us?” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “I saw your computer file.”

  “My file?” She blinked. She’d been so careful to hide the drive in her pillow. Then the call about Hunter had come from Reid, and she’d forgotten all about the incriminating evidence.

  “It’s safe,” he said. After the explosion, I came to your cottage and took it. Now you take Hunter. Get him out of here. You can save him.”

  “I intend to.”

  He was silent for several seconds. “Emerson dug into my records. He knew. . .” He stopped and started again. “He forced me to come here. Work for him.”

  “I understand,” she said.

  “Go. Before somebody comes,” the doctor said.

  “What about you?”

  “It’s not a fatal wound.”

  “But you said—are you sick?”

  He gave her a steady look. “Stomach cancer.”

  “I—”

  He didn’t let her finish. “My car. . . at the side of the research building.” He swallowed, then continued, “A silver Honda.”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  “There’s a pass on the passenger seat that will get you out of this damn place.” He stopped, sucked in a breath. When he spoke again, his voice was weaker. “Keys . . ..” He gestured toward his right pants pocket.

  Kathryn reached inside and retrieved the keys.

  “Go. Then I can send a message to the media about Stratford Creek.”

  She wondered what he was planning.

  “Go,” he repeated.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  He gave her a long look, then sighed and closed his eyes.

  She stood, found Hunter leaning against the wall, his arms folded tightly across his chest and his pupils dilated. Beads of sweat stood out on his forehead. He focused on her as she hurried toward him, but he didn’t change his position.

  “Are you all right?” she asked urgently.

  “No.”

  “What did Anderson do to you?”

  “He. . . orders . . . to...” His face contorted and he raised his hands, pressing them to the sides of his head. She could see him fighting to say more, but no words came out. And the pain on his face deepened.

  She waited with her heart pounding, wondering what the hell Anderson had done to him. When he lowered his hands, she pressed her fingers against his cheek. “We have to leave. Come on.”

  When she gripped his arm, his whole body jerked. “I love . . . you. . .” he said. “I . . . don’t want. . .”

  “I love you, too,” she whispered.

  “Then . . . leave me . . . here.” The words were torn from him. When he finished speaking, his whole body was shaking.

  “I won’t go without you.” She tugged him away from the wall, watching critically as he swayed on his feet. Picking up the cap that had fallen onto the floor, she put it back on his head. Then she felt to make sure her own hat was still in place. Miraculously, it was.

  Pausing, she looked at the gun lying beside the doctor. Hunter’s eyes followed her gaze.

  “No . . . gun. . .” he said in a hoarse voice, his fingers closing tightly around her arm.

  “Okay.” He was obviously in no shape to handle a weapon. And maybe he thought that having the gun would increase their chances of getting shot.

  Hunter let her lead him across the lab. At the door to the hall, she paused, listened, then stuck her head out. The corridor was empty, so she hurried them toward the exit. Thank God the building was off by itself. And the lab was deep in the interior. It looked like nobody had heard the shots.

  “James Harrison,” Hunter gasped out as he stumbled along beside her. “Remember James Harrison?”

  “Of course. The man who tried to kill me.”

  “Kathryn,” he said in an agonized voice. “What . . . if someone had given James Harrison drugs that . . . that filled up his mind and made him follow orders.”

  “That didn’t happen,” she answered quickly.

  “Kathryn. . . listen to me. I can’t . . .”

  “Please, Hunter,” she begged as she pulled open the door. “You have to be quiet; someone might hear us.”

  He stopped talking, and she led him around the building. To her relief, a silver Honda was waiting where the doctor had said it would be.

  Hunter was silent for a little more than a minute. Then he started to mumble again. He was saying the words to the song she’d been singing while she’d fixed breakfast. Only they were all jumbled up. God, had he totally lost his mind, she wondered with a sick shudder.

  “A time to kill. A time to mourn. A time for every purpose under heaven,” he crooned.

  When she opened the back door and picked up the blankets she found on the seat, he stood with his legs stiff, his shoulders rigid.

  “Get on the floor,” she told him.

  He made a strangled sound but obeyed, and she pulled the covering over him, eying the camouflage critically. In the dark, it might work.

  Inspecting herself in the mirror she adjusted her cap so that the visor hid most of her face. Then she started the engine. Hunter was still mumbling under the blanket as they pulled onto the road.

  God, she needed help. Even if they made it off the base, Emerson would send men after them. They needed a place to hide. If she called some of her friends, could they tell her where to hole up?

  At that moment, the phone on the seat beside her rang. Startled, she stared at it. The caller ID said Decorah Security, emergency line.

  God, what was that? Some place called Decorah Security was calling the doctor. She hesitated for long moments, as the phone kept up its insistent ring. Finally, because it wasn’t an internal call, she took a chance and answered it.

  “Hello?”

  “Who is this?” a deep male voice answered.

  “Kathryn Kelley.”

  “Kathryn, this is Jonah Raider of Decorah Security. We’ve been trying to contact you. Why are you on Dr. Kolb’s line?”

  Blocking out Hunter’s rambling speech from the back seat, she answered, “He’s been shot. I’m trying to get Hunter out of here.”

  “Who is Hunter?”

  “The man I was hired to work with. It’s a long story. Why are you calling the doctor?”

  “He’s the only one in there we thought might be willing to help you. All calls are blocked, but we figured out how to get through to him.”

  “He’s still on the base. I have his car. I’m driving toward the gate now. He gave me a pass that should get us through.”

  “Good. We have a unit stationed in your vicinity. We can’t go in because if we got caught on the grounds of a U.S. government preserve, we’d risk getting shot and branded as traitors or saboteurs. Our agents are in position a couple of miles down the main road. Turn left when you leave the grounds.”

  “I understand,” she whispered.

  She felt like a drowning swimmer who had just been tossed a lifeline. “You . . . you have men up here?”

  “Yes. Standing by.”

  “Okay, I’m in a silver Honda. Could you have a doctor available?”

  “What happened? Are you all right?” She glanced at the back seat, seeing the large bulk under the blanket shaking. A shiver of fear went through her as she lowered her voice. “It’s Hunter.”

  “Is he wounded?”

  She gulped
, gripped the wheel, fighting not to let the fear swamp her. “Shell-shocked or something like it. I can’t say any more.”

  “I understand. Good luck.”

  “Thanks.” She was overwhelmed as she hung up.

  Hunter was still talking to himself in the back seat.

  “We’re almost to the guard station; you’ve got to be quiet,” she told him. “And don’t move.”

  Thankfully, he stopped his babbling as the car slowed.

  A sentry stepped smartly into her path as she approached the guardhouse. The gate beyond it was closed, blocking her exit.

  As she came to a stop, she willed her hand to steadiness and rolled down her window.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am; you can’t leave the grounds,” the sentry said as he approached the car.

  “I have a pass,” she replied, struggling to keep her voice even as she prayed that Hunter would keep quiet, prayed that the guard wouldn’t glance into the back seat and ask what she was hiding under the blanket.

  Quickly, she handed the laminated plastic card through the window.

  He inspected it, then gave her an appraising look. “I’m sorry,” he said again. “There’s been an incident. All passes have been temporarily suspended. Didn’t you hear the directive from the Chief of Operations?”

  “I was out jogging,” she improvised.

  “Please step out of the car and come with me.”

  She looked again at the gate. If she’d thought she could ram her way through it, she would have. But she knew that a frontal assault wasn’t possible with the doctor’s car.

  “Come with me,” the man said again, leaning down to open her door. When she sat frozen in place, he reached inside and efficiently unbuckled her seat belt.

  Before he could straighten, the back door of the car shot open and Hunter sprang out. In a flash of motion, he leaped toward the sentry. Catching him by surprise, he landed a powerful, two-handed blow on his back.

  The guard went down, just like Anderson. Kathryn watched in a daze, hardly believing the sudden reversal of fortune. Hunter might be practically disabled, but every time she needed him, he came through for her.

  She was still standing there, wondering what to do next, when he turned and sprinted inside the guardhouse. Moments later, she heard a whirring noise, and the gate began to swing open on well-oiled hinges.

  “Go!” he shouted to Kathryn as he stood breathing hard and holding on to the edge of the doorframe, looking as if he would fall over without the support. It was obvious that the sudden violent activity had drained him again.

  “Not until you get in the car,” she shouted back.

  He made a grating sound of protest. “You cannot stay here. Colonel Emerson will send men. And. . . and Anderson knows you are not dead. He knows . . . I want to get you. . . away.”

  She folded her arms across her chest and bluffed through her teeth. “If you don’t get in the car, I’m not leaving.”

  His features contorted as he remained clutching the doorframe. Either he was holding himself up, or he was trying to keep from moving forward.

  “Do you need some help?” she asked, starting toward him.

  “No.” He sucked in a strangled breath, then let it out in a rush. Slowly, dragging his feet, he walked toward her. The misery on his face made her throat constrict. He looked like a man in great pain, or a man walking the last mile to his execution.

  “Everything’s going to be all right now,” she told him quickly. “As soon as we meet up with an outfit called Decorah Security. We’ll get you to a doctor and find out what Anderson did to you.”

  He shook his head as he slid into the passenger seat and leaned back against the headrest, eyes shut, teeth clenched.

  The moment he closed the door, she gunned the engine and shot through the open gate, turning left as Jonah had directed.

  She glanced in the rearview mirror, half expecting another vehicle to materialize out of the darkness. But hers were the only headlights on the road, in front or in back of her. It looked like they were in the clear—so far. And if the cavalry was really just around the bend, she and Hunter could make a swift escape.

  They were on a stretch of rural highway that wound through deep woods. There were no streetlamps, and her headlights stabbed through the dark, illuminating a sharp curve ahead. Narrowly avoiding a tree that loomed in her path, she slowed her speed as she leaned forward, searching for signs of the rescue team. Probably she was still too close to the grounds, she told herself.

  Beside her, Hunter sat rigidly, his hands clasping and unclasping in his lap.

  “Can you tell me what’s wrong?” she asked.

  “No. I cannot tell you.”

  “Something you don’t want me to know about?” she asked gently.

  She heard his breath rattle in his throat. “Kathryn, listen to . . . me,” he gasped out. For long moments, he was silent, breathing rapidly. Then he began to speak again. “Listen hard,” he said in a voice that was thick with agony. “What if someone—what if Anderson pumped drugs into Harrison—drugs that made him do what Anderson told him to do. What if Harrison . . . wanted to tell you about it, but he couldn’t say it?”

  “What?”

  He gasped, twisting in his seat, his hands clamped to the dashboard. “Drugs. Can’t tell . . . you,” he managed, then made a strangled sound of pain that seemed to well up from the depths of his soul.

  “Hunter?”

  “I . . . love . . . you. Think! Think!” he demanded, turning toward her, his eyes fierce, his face distorted by some inner agony she could only imagine.

  Staring into the darkness beyond the headlights, she tried to make sense of what he had been saying since Kolb and Reid had shot each other. She’d thought he was out of his head. What if he was desperately trying to give her a message?

  “Drugs. . .Harrison. . . a time to kill. . .”

  Suddenly, in a blinding flash, the pieces of the puzzle dropped into place. God, Emerson had told her from the beginning that they’d used drug therapy on Hunter. Apparently, he hadn’t been lying. They used drugs to reinforce his orders. And tonight, Anderson had given him an extra big dose—along with some specific instructions. Instructions to kill her. And instructions not to tell her what had been done to him.

  Her gaze slid to the large, dangerous man sitting next to her. The man she had come to trust above all others. She was hoping against hope that her theory was wrong. Yet as she looked at him, she knew the truth. His body was shaking, and his hands were clasped tightly in his lap as if he were trying by brute force to control his actions.

  Anderson had given him something all right. A lot of something. And Hunter had been fighting it with every cell of his being, fighting not to follow the directions zapped into his mind. And doing his damnedest to let her know she was in danger—from him.

  The anguished look on his face and the tension in his strong hands told her he was losing the battle for control.

  Fear shot through her. What the hell was she going to do now?

  Her foot bounced on the accelerator. If she slowed the car, maybe she could jump out. Run for help to the men who were up ahead.

  But it was already too late. Beside her, Hunter made a sound that was part protest, part growl, and lunged across the space between them.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Hunter’s body twisted. His large hands angled toward her neck, brushed her skin in a parody of a caress. She tried to dodge away from his grasp. But there was nowhere to go in the close confines of the car as it hurtled along the darkened road.

  “Don’t. You don’t want to hurt me,” she gasped.

  “I don’t,” he sobbed out. Tear tracks ran down his cheeks. The hands in front of her shook, and his face twisted with the force of his resistance as he tried to pull away.

  But the compulsion had been too deeply imbedded in his mind. He had been fighting it since she came into the lab, she knew, and now he had all but lost the battle to resist.

  �
�I . . . must,” he gasped as his powerful fingers closed around her flesh. Even as he began to squeeze, he made a moaning sound.

  “Hunter, don’t,” she gasped with her last bit of breath. Desperate to free herself, she jerked her foot off the accelerator and slammed it onto the brake pedal.

  Her hands on the wheel kept her in place. Unprepared, Hunter was thrown forward. For a few seconds, the pressure on her neck lessened. Then it was back, tighter than before.

  The car skidded sideways as she raised her hands, trying to pry his fingers loose, but she might as well have been prying at large metal hinges that had snapped shut. Her fists pounded his chest and shoulder, but it was like pounding against a brick wall.

  She could hear his breath rasping in and out of his lungs, even as she struggled to drag in air. But there was no oxygen getting to her brain.

  She felt the car dip as the wheels on the right side left the road. Maybe they’d slam into a tree, she thought with some part of her mind while her vision swam, and the blackness of the night closed in around her.

  As she felt consciousness slipping away, she dimly heard Hunter make an agonized sound of protest. Then the tension on her neck was suddenly gone—allowing her to drag in a grateful draft of air.

  With a mighty effort, Hunter swung away from her and yanked on the door handle beside him. As the door slammed forward, he threw himself from the car and into the darkness.

  She screamed, even as her foot found the brake again and mashed down. The car ground to a halt, and she leaned against the wheel, hearing the shrill sound of the horn as she gasped for breath.

  “Hunter, Hunter,” she sobbed out as she threw her door open and scrambled from the car into the darkness. Standing made her head spin, and she had to grab the top of the vehicle to stay erect.

  Her throat felt like raw meat, and it was agony each time she swallowed.

  She had seen a flashlight in back when she’d covered Hunter with the blankets. Opening the back door, she fumbled along the floor, found the light, and switched it on. Then, still gasping in strangled breaths, she turned and began to stagger back down the road, training the light on the shoulder as she searched frantically for Hunter.

  Behind her, she heard footsteps pounding. Moaning, she tried to run but only succeeded in stumbling. Strong hands caught her, and she started to struggle.