by Isabel Wroth
“Veracruz told me just how well you can take care of yourself, and with that in mind, I say to you with the sincerest respect: you have no idea what you're dealing with. If you stay out in the cold on your own, you're going to die.”
As she'd just shot a man in her front yard and commanded her dog to kill another, Dillon didn't really have any hope of winning an argument to say everything would be fine, so she didn’t even try.
When she remained mute, Nasa dipped his chin to give her every ounce of his focus and made her feel rooted to the spot, bolted down under the weight of his stare.
Strangely enough, the tangible press of that stare didn't freak her out.
It comforted her.
Then it pissed her off because it comforted her.
Even if she could trust these men, she didn't need them. She had other places to escape and retreat to where the Leviathans couldn't get to her. Places Ghost would have a hard time even—
“I see the wheels turning in there, Tiger Lily,” Nasa told her quietly, interrupting the wild dash of her derailed thoughts.
“You're probably thinking the women's shelter you helped put together here in Dallas is a much better bet than throwing in with me and my people.
"Maybe you're considering utilizing the same folks, who create new identities for the women you help, to get you out of dodge and make you disappear.”
The shivering intensified because that's exactly what Dillon had been thinking about. It sounded like Nasa did, in fact, know everything, and Dillon was too mired in panic to feel relief of not having to keep her secret anymore.
“If that's what you want, I'll help you, no strings attached. But I want you to consider this: Three years ago, Ghost infiltrated my club by posing as a guy I hired to work urban investigations.
"When I tell you I dug deep into his background, I mean his five times great-grandfather, dead and buried, felt the excavation.
“Still, Ghost took on the guy's identity, his face, his fingerprints, learned everything about his back story and fooled me—a candidate for paranoid personality disorder—and twenty other men for an entire year.
"He ate at our table, protected our women, helped run our businesses, and we had no fucking idea who he was.
“When we started getting close to outing him, he took two of the club members hostage. While they were hanging from pipes like slabs of beef, the Leviathans came at the compound with rocket launchers and burned it to the ground with us inside.
“The only reason we survived was because I am a paranoid bastard and made my basement into a fallout shelter, preparing for the day when some unknown enemy would come for me and mine.
“If you go to the women's shelter, you'll be putting every woman inside at risk. If the Leviathans come for you, it will never again be a safe haven for abused women. They have enough resources left to kill anyone who helps you evade them.”
Just like that, Nasa made an argument Dillon was powerless to refute. There was no way in hell Dillon would bring men armed with rocket launchers and a willingness to use them anywhere near the shelter or risk people who'd help her escape.
Dillon was out in the proverbial cold just like he said, and the only options she had were to stay out on her own and risk waking up with a psycho leaning over her to make good on his promises, or to let Nasa and the leather-wearing men of Perdition protect her.
Whether he noticed her internal struggle or not, Nasa didn't comment.
“I'm not convinced Ghost doesn't have someone inside one of the three letter agencies on his side, protecting him and feeding him intel.
"It chaps my ass to know he was even able to breathe the same air as you, and I don't know why he gave a shit about whether or not you survived, but you have my word. I will keep you safe until I find out.”
In the quiet stillness of the bathroom, Dillon forced herself to accept the fact she couldn't do this on her own. After her time in the black site, she'd gotten serious about her own self-defense.
She could protect herself against one or two assholes who came at her in broad daylight. Evident by the fact she'd just killed a man to save herself, and while prepared to do it again, Dillon didn't know how many times she would be in a semi-controlled environment where she had the upper hand.
“No offense, but how do you think you can keep me safe better than someone else?” Dillon finally asked, flexing her fingers and squeezing her hands into fists in an effort to get the blood pumping.
Nasa gave an easy shrug of his shoulders and told her with absolute confidence, “The Perdition compound is an impenetrable fortress.”
“And yet I drove right in,” she commented dryly.
Nasa's lips pinched for a brief moment, a flare of annoyance stamped across his Nordic features.
“One of the guys does custom motorcycle work and was expecting a customer. I argued that the guy could ring the bell like every other mother fucker we don’t know, but Top and Gee convinced me the client was no threat.
“The background check I did held up to suggest he was indeed legit, so I left both the gates open for that client. Imagine my surprise when he didn't show,” Nasa shared with raging sarcasm.
“You happened to arrive just before the pre-programed timer kicked on to shut the gate, but I had eyes on you the second you turned onto our street.
"If you appeared to be any kind of threat, I'd have activated the road spikes, the steel pylons, and electrified the entire perimeter fence.”
Nasa went on to describe all the unbelievable fortifications he’d utilized to turn the compound into a defensible strong hold, and she just barely kept her jaw from dropping in awe.
“Unless the Leviathans roll up in a tank and aim the cannon barrel directly at the door, they're not getting in, and I'd see a tank coming long before it got anywhere close enough to fire off a round.
“Inside, every square inch of the compound is covered by cameras. There are no blind spots or places for enemy combatants to hide.
"Outside, I've got two hundred acres of land around us, and there are seismographs, thermal cameras, and perimeter alarms so sensitive I have a log of the nocturnal mating habits of the field mice and can tell you exactly how many fire ant piles there are on the property.
“ It's also a completely contained, self-operating system inside a Faraday cage, meaning no outside transmissions or satellite feeds can lock on to the building or anyone inside it via their cell phones.
“We use land-lines and coded cell phones I program, but even those calls are automatically bounced around through every tele-router I can connect to.
"If the world ended tomorrow via anything less than a full-on nuclear holocaust, we'd have clean drinking water, food, power, and shelter to live out our days in complete comfort.”
Even leaning on the side of desperately wanting to look closer at the compound that hid all those tactical advantages beneath a luxurious veneer, Dillon couldn't help but to point out the one fly in the offered ointment.
“If it's a completely contained system, how did Ghost get a call in with my cell?”
Dillon held her breath as she watched red stain Nasa's cheeks, the muscles in his forearms bulging as he clenched his hands into fists.
Even the vein above his right eyebrow popped, pulsing to express his fury. She braced herself for a scathing response, but even so visibly angry, Nasa spoke in a calm, moderated tone.
“I don't know.” Considering the way his lip curled when he said that, Dillon guessed those three words were the most heinous in his vocabulary.
“Ghost is the slickest piece of snot I've ever come up against, so my guess is he did something to your phone while he was with you.
“I cloned it in an effort to find out what he'd done, and was in the process of going through the code when Top came down and said you were in trouble.
"How long had you been working as a translator for Virginia PD before you got snatched up by the FBI?”
The smooth change of subject, and t
he subject itself, threw Dillon off balance enough to answer without thinking.
“About a year. How did you find out about... about the black site?”
With his gaze steady and solemn on her face, Nasa pointed toward the bathroom door with a little hike of his chin.
“Tobias told us everything.”
Visions of the man who'd come to her in the hospital after her release, swam through Dillon's memories, making her empty stomach churn with another wave of nausea.
“Tobias?”
“The guy who sent you into a tailspin when you saw him at your house. He was there. He put a stop to the interrogation, got you out, and took you to the hospital.”
Having spent so much time trying to block out those seven horrible days, it was physically painful to recall being helped.
Dillon definitely remembered waking up in the hospital, hurt beyond her ability to express. The nurses had been so kind, so gentle with her, telling her how lucky she was to be alive.
She remembered being told the extent of her injuries by a stern-faced doctor, and how she’d lost time because they'd had to put her in a coma to heal.
She remembered one of those kind nurses asking her if there was anyone they could call for her. If there was anyone looking for her, missing her.
While bawling her eyes out, Dillon told the nurse she had no one. At the time, Dillon wasn't sure what hurt worse: having torn open her stitches from crying so hard, or speaking those words for the first time and realizing they were the truth.
That night, a man she didn't recognize came into her hospital room. He looked so incredibly normal, nothing about him stood out. Even his jeans and a plain black T-shirt were nondescript.
He'd sat down beside her bed and stared at her with huge, emotionless brown eyes, and for some reason, she'd immediately thought of JAWS. Of that crazy boat captain describing shark's eyes—lifeless as a doll's.
He had just sat there, elbows resting on the chair arms, legs splayed comfortably, quietly staring at her, studying her like one might study a butterfly pinned beneath a pane of glass.
Dillon hadn't recognized him, but fear had skittered through her, making the heart monitor beside her go crazy.
His dark gaze had flicked from her face to the monitor and back almost casually, completely uncaring that Dillon was scared.
“The hospital staff believes my partner and I helped rescue you from a serial killer. That's the story you will stick to when your friends in the local police department come to question you. I would suggest you claim amnesia as to the how, why, and who.”
As he obviously knew the truth of where she'd been, Dillon had only nodded to say she understood. She would have said whatever the hell the dead-eyed man wanted her to say, so long as it meant never going back to that place.
“The two agents responsible for your current state are dead. Does that make you feel better?”
Clearly, he’d been waiting for an answer, and all she’d managed to do was squeak out a hoarse, “Yes.”
“Good. My superiors have admitted they made a terrible mistake, and the interrogation you've been through—at least in the eyes of the rest of the world—never happened.
"As we've determined you are innocent of the allegations of human trafficking and arms dealing, I'm here to give you a new identity.
“Dillon DeMarco will disappear. From now on, you'll be Dillon DeLoughrey. You'll have a new life wherever you'd like, all the proper paperwork, and money to start over.
"I understand this will not make up for what you've endured, but it is the only offer available.
“A therapist is recommended considering the trauma you've endured, but I would advise you maintain the serial killer story.” The 'or else' had been clearly implied, and Dillon knew exactly what 'or else' consisted of.
“Do you have any questions?”
So scared all she could do was breathe, Dillon recalled shaking her head mutely, her lips and tongue frozen stiff.
The heart monitor had been going so crazy a nurse hustled in and scolded Dillon's nighttime visitor for upsetting her.
Even in her memories, it was still one of the most disturbing sights in the world to see a completely different personality snap into place on the man's face.
He'd smiled with a grim kindness and apologized to both Dillon and the nurse, claiming he was trying to do his job and make sure what happened to Dillon never happened to another woman ever again.
Horrified, the only thing Dillon had thought to do was sit there looking as traumatized as she honestly was. Watching the man transform right before her eyes was like watching some kind of grotesque demon put on a new human meatsuit.
Even worse, his good ‘ole boy charm and the illusion of caring about his job, protecting women from monsters and evils of the world, had made the nurse flush with arousal.
After she promised to be back with some things to make Dillon more comfortable, the agent left, but not before giving her a look that would have made her piss herself if she hadn't had a catheter stuck up her urethra.
*****
“Dillon?” Nasa's voice pulled her out of the past, and she opened her eyes to find him staring intently at her.
“Is he here right now?” Nasa gave a jerky nod, and Dillon sucked in a slow, shaky breath. “I want to see him.”
“That's not a good idea—”
“I wasn't asking. I want to see him. Now.”
Nasa searched her face for what felt like hours before answering her.
“I'll get you some pants.”
Dillon snorted derisively; the anger she’d replaced her panic with gave her the strength to get up. It was purely out of spite that she denied herself the small protection wearing clothes would bring her.
She had on a shirt and her underwear, which was more than she'd had the last time.
“Why? He's already seen me naked, covered in my own blood and vomit. This is a step up.”
After sucking in a tight breath, Nasa pushed to his feet and waved a huge hand at the bathroom door.
“Not sure what you're hoping get out of him. He crawled inside a bottle and hasn't come out yet.”
Dillon followed Nasa out and down the hall, reaching for Elka just to reassure herself her faithful hound was still with her.
Nasa gave the closed door he stopped at a cursory bang of his fist before throwing it open and moving aside to let Dillon pass.
The first thing she noticed was the smell of booze. The next was the impressive number of empty bottles lined up neatly on the coffee table. A blond man sat on the couch in nothing but a pair of sweatpants, a weird looking cast on his left arm, and a pair of dog tags hanging around his neck.
His skin was tan, his arms covered in what looked like burn scars and tattoos, and when he looked up at her, the face was all wrong.
He wasn't who she'd been expecting. There was nothing unremarkable about his face or the brightness of his hazel eyes.
Sure, they were currently bloodshot and glazed with whiskey, but there was life and feeling swimming there. A conscience. A soul.
He looked at her like he was bracing himself, expecting her to lash out or maybe sic Elka on him.
“I was expecting the other guy,” Dillon finally said, watching the surprise flicker across his face.
“The other guy?” he slurred.
“He never told me his name. Brown eyes, brown hair, sorta reminded me of a robot.”
Blondie snorted, his eyebrows bouncing up before he lifted his nearly empty bottle and took a long pull.
“John Lewis. Not sure if that was his real name or not. I'm Tobias Michelson. Real name.”
Dillon frowned, drawn forward by her curiosity to sit beside him. She took the bottle when he offered and took a sip, feeling the whiskey burn all the way down to her empty stomach.
It felt like she exhaled flames, but it tasted much better than the lingering tang of bile.
When she gave it back, Tobias finished off the last of the alcohol befo
re carefully setting it down in the spot beside the rest of the empties.
“When he came to see me in the hospital, Lewis said the other two are dead. Is that true?”
“Sure is,” Tobias told her, slightly rolling his S’s. He leaned over to rustle around in a bag beside him for another bottle, giving her a glimpse of four long scars across his back.
They looked just like hers, and vaguely she remembered someone wrapping themselves around her, protecting her from the tearing burn of the whip.
A man's voice bubbled up from the quagmire of the memories she'd worked hard to repress—Tobias's voice—coming in and out like a cell phone with spotty service, telling her to be strong. That everything was going to be all right.
Tobias had to hug the bottle to his chest with his broken arm, twisting the top off with the other in a practiced move.
“Still don't know why Lewis did it, but he did. Never hesitated. Just blew'em away and asked me if I needed anything else. Fuckin’ psycho.”
“What happened to your arm?” Dillon asked, needing to think about someone other than John Lewis.
Tobias gave her a sloppy grin and lifted his arm up to show off his unusual cast. She winced to see the rows of stitches, the horrible bruising.
“Your hellhound got me.”
A glance at Elka revealed a calm, unrepentant stare from soft golden eyes. “Erm, sorry about that.”
“Don't be.” Tobais gave Elka a look of warm admiration. “She's a great dog. Did her job just right. Doberman?”
“Doberman wolfhound.”
“She is one bad bitch. I like her.” Elka gave a little growl in response to being called a bitch. “Guess the feeling's not mutual.”
Tobias's chuckle died off and amusement turned to emotion, as it often did with someone who'd downed enough liquor to completely destroy a liver.
“I quit workin’ for the FBI after the doctors said you were gonna live. Walked the fuck out and enlisted in the Army in hopes I'd die in some desert, but after six months in the suck, the guys started calling me Achilles. Couldn't get shot or blow up no matter what I tried, and I tried a metric fuck ton of dumb shit.
“After only two short years, my CO decided I was insane, pushed for a medical discharge before I got my team killed or somethin’.
