He nodded.
She leaned into Aidan’s side. “Awww. That’s so sweet.”
Nick frowned. “Could we just get back to business?”
Henderson cleared his throat. “I’ll have my contacts at Bush Intercontinental and the smaller airports to the north keep an eye out for Roubal and the others in case they aren’t heading to Brightwood Industries. If Kayla and Oliver are unconscious, Roubal will use a private plane to transport them.” He paused. “Actually, he’d probably use a private plane to transport them even if they weren’t. So my guys will alert me if that happens.”
If Roubal forced Kayla and Oliver onto a plane, Nick and Seth could shape-shift and chase it through the air. Even in bird form, they retained their preternatural speed and would be able to overtake them. Then Seth could teleport them both inside the plane so Nick could kill the bastards and save Kayla and Oliver.
And Nick did intend to kill the bastards. Roubal had orchestrated the kidnapping after Seth had wiped his memories. They couldn’t risk a repeat of this.
“I’ll also trace any calls or texts that go to your phone,” Henderson continued, “in case Roubal or one of his men tries to contact you.” He set a laptop Nick hadn’t even noticed him holding on the ottoman, then seated himself on the sofa and began typing away on the keyboard.
Seth caught Nick’s eye. “I’m going to bring Roland and Marcus in on this. If there are eight of us, we can each search a campus.”
“Okay.”
Seth closed his eyes.
A moment later, Roland and Marcus appeared, geared up for battle.
Marcus frowned at Nick. “What happened?”
“Kayla and Oliver have been taken.”
Both Marcus and Roland swore.
Nick let Seth and the others bring the two British immortals up to speed while he paced back and forth, his gut churning.
What if Kayla and Oliver weren’t at any Brightwood Industries campuses? What if they weren’t at any of Roubal’s homes? What if Nick and the others didn’t find them tonight?
Was Kayla okay?
She must be so afraid. She wasn’t accustomed to all this violence.
Had the bastards hurt her? Would they hurt her? Or worse… kill her?
Did they think that—because of her association with him—she was different, too? That somehow being with him had changed her? Would they cut her? Bleed her? Study her like a lab rat? Or did they plan to torture her in order to gain his cooperation? Because he was the one Roubal really wanted, not Kayla.
And what of Oliver? Nick loved him like a brother. More than he had loved his own brothers. Oliver hadn’t tried to stab him in the back multiple times the way his siblings had. Was he okay? Had they hurt him? Maimed him to keep him from trying to escape? Because Oliver would try to escape. He had served in the military before the network recruited him. And he had the skills to get his ass out of just about any situation. Right now he was probably fuming over his capture, mentally castigating himself for not keeping Kayla out of their enemy’s clutches, and plotting to kill every man he came into contact with and get Kayla to safety.
But if Henderson was right and Brightwood Industries’ security was tight, an escape attempt could endanger them even more.
“Are we going to do this or what?” he snapped, the wait killing him.
Everyone quieted.
Seth spoke. “We’re going to do this.”
Relief and anxiety warring within him, Nick nodded.
“You’re making a mistake.”
A deep voice penetrated the fog that enveloped Kayla. There was something familiar about it.
Thud. Thud.
A wheeze of a cough filled the air.
Her head felt thick, her thoughts fuzzy. A weird taste filled her mouth, which was as dry as though she had just jogged across a desert.
“You live with him,” another man said with some disgust. His voice was weaker… with age perhaps. “You know his secret.”
“What secret?”
Thud. Thud. Thud.
More wheezing coughs. “Fucking cowards! Why don’t you take these cuffs off and try that shit?”
She tried to kick her mind into gear. Was that Oliver? Where were they? Why was it so hard to open her eyes?
She tried to raise a hand to her face and couldn’t.
Shuffling footsteps sounded, accompanied by a faint, rhythmic thump.
The elderly man spoke again. “I want to know how Nicolas has stayed young all these years.”
“All what years?” Oliver countered, his voice pained. “He’s thirty-six fucking years old!”
“Bullshit! He’s my age if he’s a day!”
“You’re insane.”
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Ragged breathing broke the silence that followed.
Someone spat.
“What is he?” the old man demanded.
“A security guard,” Oliver answered.
Thud. Thud.
“What is he?”
“An artist.”
Thud. Thud.
“What is he?”
“A Canadian with dual citizenship.”
Thud. Thud. Thud.
“Fuck!” Oliver shouted. “What the hell do you want me to say?”
“That he’s immortal!” the elderly man bellowed.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Oliver wheezed.
Kayla finally managed to pry her eyes open and stared down at her lap.
She blinked. Blinked again. Her hair hung down around her face in a mahogany curtain. Her head ached as though someone was pounding away at it with a sledgehammer. Just shifting her eyes from side to side to gain a better understanding of her position hurt, but she did it.
She was sitting—or rather slumping—in a chair. Her chin nearly touched her chest. A zip tie bound her right wrist to the chair arm. Her left arm was similarly bound.
She tried to move her legs and was a little surprised to find she could. Her ankles must not be bound.
When she raised her head just enough to unobtrusively survey her surroundings, pain shot through her neck.
Gritting her teeth, she ignored it.
The chair that held her captive graced the center of a cavernous room full of large crates and bulky, dark gray plastic containers the size of footlockers. Oliver sat in an armless chair several yards away. Clearly they perceived him as more of a threat, because his wrists were bound behind his back, his ankles were zip-tied together, and thick rope crossed his chest, securing his torso to the back of the chair.
Her heart sank.
His mouth and nose bled. The left side of his face was red and swollen and sported multiple abrasions painted with blood. His left eye was discolored and had begun to swell.
A big bruiser of a guy wearing dark olive cargo pants and a pale gray T-shirt drew his right fist back and slammed it into Oliver’s stomach, then followed it with an uppercut to Oliver’s chin.
Thud. Thud.
How long had they been beating him? Who were they? How long had she been out? And what the hell had happened? How had they even come to be here? The last thing she remembered was going to the dentist.
“Nicolas Belanger hasn’t aged since I saw him in Vietnam shortly before the official police action began.”
Her gaze shifted to the speaker.
A frail old man leaned on a cane a few feet away from Oliver and the bruiser. He stood about five feet eight inches tall and looked like he didn’t weigh much more than Kayla’s hundred and five pounds. Thin white hair cropped short allowed glimpses of the age spots that decorated his scalp.
Oliver shook his head. “Nick wasn’t even alive during the Vietnam War. That was his grandfather, you psychotic bastard.”
“Bullshit!” The old man motioned to the bruiser.
The bruiser delivered several more punches.
Oliver’s head snapped back. Glaring up at his attacker, Oliver spat blood in the man’s face.
The bruiser stumbled bac
k and quickly drew the tail of his T-shirt up to wipe his face clean, revealing a jagged scar on his muscled abs. Then he roared and hit Oliver in the side and in the stomach.
Oliver coughed and wheezed and glared up at the man.
Wow. If looks could kill…
The old man took a step closer. “We both know it was Nicolas. He’s immortal. And I want you to tell me how he came to be that way.”
Oliver shook his head. “You’re delusional.” He looked up at the bruiser. “Your boss is delusional. He’s sick, and it’s fucking with his head.” He looked beyond the old man.
Kayla followed his gaze.
Four more men wearing olive cargo pants and gray T-shirts stood some distance away, their arms crossed over their chests as they watched.
“Your boss is delusional!” Oliver called to them, his voice echoing a bit in the large chamber. “An insanity plea might keep his sorry ass out of jail, but it won’t do shit for you. You’re all in full possession of your faculties and will go down as willing accomplices if you don’t put an end to this.”
The bruiser delivered a right hook.
Oliver swore, then laughed. “If you don’t believe me, ask his son. This man suffers from dementia and his cancer treatments have muddled his thoughts even more. His own son said so the first time this asshole mistook Nick for his grandfather.”
Kayla saw one of the men look uncertainly at the others. When the rest remained resolute, he clenched his jaw and glared at Oliver.
Great. They all were either sheep incapable of thinking for themselves or were simply too greedy to pass up whatever paycheck they would receive for being here.
The bruiser hit Oliver again, so hard his chair nearly tipped over.
Oliver grunted. A muscle in his swollen jaw tensed. “You can hit me all damn night,” he gritted. “It isn’t going to change the fact that Nick is just an ordinary guy.”
The old man looked over at Kayla. “What of the woman?”
Oliver tensed. “What about her?”
“She’s not ordinary,” the old man said. And the gleam in his pale blue eyes as they met hers sent a chill coursing through her.
Oliver snorted. “How do you figure that?”
The old man moved in her direction, his steps slow and careful. The knobby knuckles on his hand whitened as he gripped the head of his cane. “I saw pictures of her car in the aftermath of her accident. They had to use the Jaws of Life to extract her. And I saw the blood on the sheet that draped her in the hospital as Nicolas and the others rolled her out of the elevator. There’s no way in hell she came away from that with just a broken arm and a few bruises.”
Kayla held his gaze, unable to look away from the avarice it reflected.
Oliver snorted. “Ever hear of airbags?”
“She isn’t even wearing the cast.” The old man gave her a greedy once-over. “So she clearly heals quickly.” He stopped before her. And though he spoke to Oliver, he didn’t look away from Kayla. “If you won’t tell me what I want to know, she will.”
Kayla clamped her lips together in a mutinous line.
The old man smiled. “One way or another.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Send Marcy in.”
One of the men spoke into a walkie attached to his shoulder.
Kayla shared an uneasy look with Oliver.
A door on one side of the room—the only entrance and exit she could see—opened, admitting a stern-faced, heavyset woman carrying a kit.
The door swung shut behind her. The thick heels of her shoes clunked on the floor as she crossed to stand beside the old man.
She nodded at Kayla. “Is this her?”
“Yes.”
She crouched down, set her kit on the floor, and opened it.
Kayla’s nerves rattled when the woman drew on vinyl gloves.
“What are you doing?” Oliver asked.
The bruiser hit him. “That’s none of your concern.”
The woman wrapped a rubber tie tightly around Kayla’s upper arm.
Kayla strained against her wrist restraints. “What are you doing?”
The woman said nothing as she tore open a moist towelette and swabbed the bend of Kayla’s elbow. She didn’t meet Kayla’s gaze when she drew out the kind of needle used to draw blood.
Kayla moved her elbow from side to side, avoiding the needle. When that seemed unlikely to deter the woman, she braced her feet on the floor and shoved her chair back.
The old man swore. “Nelson!”
One of the four silent men in the distance strode forward and moved around to stand behind Kayla. Leaning down over her, he gripped her forearm and biceps to hold her arm still. His body kept the chair from moving, his grasp on her arm so tight it would leave bruises.
The woman palpated the bend of Kayla’s arm with two fingers, then inserted the needle. As soon as she connected a vial to the tubing attached to it, blood slithered through the needle and down the tubing to collect in it.
Kayla’s doctor’s office drew blood for routine tests every year during her annual physical exam. But they never filled more than five vials.
This woman took more, then filled a bag as if Kayla were donating blood.
All the while, Oliver cursed and threatened and suffered more punishing blows from the bruiser.
The old man smiled, revealing slightly crooked teeth. “Whatever’s different about her, whatever Nick has passed on to her, we’ll find in her blood.”
“You aren’t going to find anything, you crazy fuck!” Oliver shouted, then shifted his gaze to the woman. “And any medical personnel who work for you will lose their licenses and face criminal charges once their part becomes known.”
The woman glanced at the old man.
He shook his head. “It’s all bullshit. Go ahead.”
The woman drew out a large self-adhesive bandage about the size of the knee bandages Kayla had kept on hand when Becca used to spend hours running around on the playground, learning to skate, or riding her bike. Carefully removing the paper backing, she applied it to the bend of Kayla’s arm above the puncture. Then she packed everything away in her kit, rose, and left.
Chapter Fourteen
Oliver suddenly began to laugh.
He laughed and laughed as if someone had just told him the funniest joke he’d ever heard.
The old man glared at him. “You think this is funny?”
“I think it’s fucking hilarious,” Oliver responded around a chuckle. “The guys are going to bust a gut laughing when they find out about this.”
“No one is going to find out,” the old man stated, his voice cold and sure.
But Oliver shook his head. “Oh, someone will find out.” His tone added You’re kidding yourself if you think they won’t. “Because the joke is on you. I’m in the witness protection program, dumbass. You think the feds won’t come knocking on your door when I don’t check in?”
The men in the distance exchanged looks.
The old man scowled. “What are you talking about?”
“You should’ve done your homework. Not only would it have confirmed that Nick isn’t who you think he is, it would’ve revealed that I’m not who you think I am either… if you’d dug deeply enough. You think I’m just Nick’s roommate? His personal assistant? You think I just order his art supplies and help him sell his paintings? Try to arrange showings that will get his career as an artist off the ground so he can ditch his security gig? You think it’s just coincidence that they placed me with a man who is well-schooled in hand-to-hand tactical fighting?”
“Who placed you?”
“The feds.” Oliver laughed again and spat blood. “I’m of no further use to them if I die, so they found me a really good babysitter. If anything happens to me, you’re done. That’s what’s so fucking funny. All your assets will be frozen, your passport will be confiscated, and you’ll spend the rest of your short life in jail because you went after Nick and got me instead. And I’m not talking about the bullshit sissy
jail they send rich men to when they fuck people over and steal millions or billions. I mean the jail in which you’ll become your fellow inmates’ punching bag and find yourself some guy’s girlfriend until the cancer kills you… if the nightly ass-poundings don’t kill you first.”
“You’re bluffing.”
“Am I? A man like you probably has a shitload of resources at your disposal. If you were playing with a full deck, you would’ve used them and performed due diligence before kidnapping the two of us. You shouldn’t have just checked out Nick’s background. You should’ve checked out mine.”
The old man puffed up. “I—”
“If you had,” Oliver continued, “you wouldn’t have missed the trail of breadcrumbs the feds left when creating my new identity. Any talented hacker could discover them.”
Silence fell.
Oliver gave no indication whatsoever that he was lying. Even Kayla began to wonder if at least some of it might be true.
“But,” Oliver said, “I’m nothing if not an opportunist. The feds wouldn’t value me otherwise. So I might be willing to make a deal.”
Though the old man arched a brow, Kayla could see that Oliver’s words disturbed him. “Why make a deal when all I have to do is kill you?”
Oliver sighed. “Did you not hear me say that if I don’t check in, they’ll show up at your door? When the feds forced me into witness protection, I tried to slip away. A lot. They had me working at a fucking gas station halfway between two small towns way out in BFE. And every damn time I did get away, they managed to find me and forced me back in. I don’t know if they put a chip in my fucking head or what. But the feds always find me no matter how careful I am not to leave a trail. They just got tired of looking, so they finally agreed to place me in a larger city where I wouldn’t be bored off my ass all the time. It’s harder for them to protect me here, so they stuck me with Nick.”
The bruiser hauled off and hit him again. “I call bullshit.”
“Call bullshit all you want,” Oliver growled. “And while you’re at it, call the US Marshals Service, ask for Deputy Henderson, and mention the name Spencer Zaveri. If you don’t feel like looking the number up online, you’ll find it on my phone.”
Broken Dawn (Immortal Guardians Book 10) Page 23