The Deadly Series Boxed Set

by Jaycee Clark

  He smiled at her.

  “Looks like you’re charming all the ladies,” John said from the doorway.

  The little girl quickly jerked her hand behind her back.

  Ian reached out and rubbed her arm, smiling. “Yeah,” he answered John. “If I could only charm this one into speaking.”

  Chapter 10

  She clutched the teddy bear to her as the man tightened the belt across her lap. The seat was big.

  They were on a plane. He said he was taking her someplace safe. The lady was still with them.

  Where was Zoy? Didn’t Zoy get to come? She clutched the black bear tighter to her as he settled back into his seat and patted her hand. Telling her it would be all right.

  Earlier that day, they left the hotel and she had new clothes. A blue pantsuit with fat white buttons and a white collar. He even gave her a black coat that went to her knees. She wasn’t cold anymore.

  Where were they taking her? She’d tried to ask him, but her voice wouldn’t work.

  The man knew she spoke because he’d asked if she was hungry earlier and she nodded. He’d smiled then and called her Darya.

  Why did he call her Darya?

  Zoy had called her Ayrena.

  But the man called her Darya and he gave her the soft black bear.

  She buried her face in the fur and held on tight. They were going on a trip, he’d told her as they walked into the building with all the people. They’d been in a car all day, driving and driving. She wondered where they were going when they’d come here. Planes took off and zoomed away. Big and heavy as smooth painted metal birds.

  The man carried her onto one, telling her she was going to be like a bird and they were going to fly.

  She wondered if she’d see Zoy. Maybe someone else was bringing her sister. The man sat on one side of her, on the aisle, and the lady sat on the other side beside a little window. The man and lady had argued, or she thought so. Apparently they’d both wanted to sit on the outside.

  But the man was sitting there now, watching her, watching the lady, watching everyone. He always seemed to be watching everyone.

  Was he looking for her sister too?

  He looked at her and ran his hand over her hair, which the lady had braided. She waited. He seemed nice, but you never knew. Sometimes nice became mean.

  Like the other . . .

  No. No. She shook her head and put her thumb in her mouth. He frowned for a minute and she noticed his eyes darkened. He looked different with his hair cut and his smooth face. And the glasses. She liked his face smooth, it didn’t scratch her forehead or cheek when he held her.

  And for some reason, when he held her, she felt safe.

  She looked at him again. He’d keep the monsters away.

  Please let him keep the monsters away.

  The plane jerked as it moved. She looked out the window and saw the buildings going by faster, faster, faster. She squeezed the bear to her chest, scared.

  Her tummy tickled and she was pushed back into her seat. She held the bear tighter as she saw the tops of the buildings out of the window, and then the blue sky. She couldn’t hear. A loud hum filled her ears, her head.

  Her heart fluttered and she turned to the man, scared that they’d fall.

  He smiled and patted her hand. She sucked harder on her thumb and held her bear even tighter.

  Would they all turn into birds?

  • • •

  Rori watched the scenery whir by below. Frankfurt fell away and the German countryside below was dotted and squared in greens, browns, and grays.

  They’d left the Czech Republic that morning via Cheb and into Dresden, Germany. A few hours on the autobahn put them into Frankfurt in time to catch British Airways flight 905 that afternoon.

  She sighed and leaned back against the seat.

  That morning, a man, nameless, stopped at the hotel, dropped off a packet, taking a wad of money, and was gone. One of the men, Tanner, tall, blond brown hair, dark eyes and squared features, had gone downstairs to a shop inside the hotel and purchased them clothing. So that her passport didn’t look the same as what she was wearing that day, she put on one of Ian’s white T-shirts and her jacket. Quick snap of the digital, a few computer strokes, a bit of finessing and voila, new passports.

  She was listed as Lori Hightower, wife of Evan Hightower, businessman. They’d just adopted their daughter from an orphanage in Russia. They had all the papers to prove little Darya was theirs. The new family was flying home to London.

  Ian . . . no, Evan watched her. She didn’t have to look to see that, she could feel his gaze. She knew the second those dark blue eyes of his landed on her. It was a static shock. Out of the corner of her eye, she glanced at him. Clean shaven, his hair cut short, the British persona he had taken on as Hightower somehow made him appear a bit softer, more crisp instead of the sharp-edged and shifting Petrolov. He even added small wire-rimmed glasses. It was he who now wore the turtleneck, a dark plum one, black Armani pants, loafers and the gold watch.

  Amazingly it wasn’t even the visual disguise so much as this aura that seemed to surround him. The man didn’t just look different from Dimitri Petrolov, he was different. The way he sat, the way his head tilted, the way he spoke.

  Glancing at him occasionally, she couldn’t help but wonder who he really was. Was Ian his real name or just another alias?

  To be honest, if not for the eyes, she wondered if she’d even recognize him. Actually, she probably wouldn’t, because she’d only see the glasses.

  People saw what they wanted to see.

  The secret to a successful disguise was to tell them what they wanted to see.

  The little girl, dressed in a little navy and white pantsuit with a black peacoat, looked the part of a newly adopted daughter.

  Clearing her throat, Rori said softly, knowing no one could hear her, “You know, with her dark hair and those blue eyes, little Darya could easily be Mr. Evan Hightower’s daughter.”

  “She is my daughter,” he said, his words short and clipped, and undeniably British. “More importantly, darling, she’s our daughter.” His eyes bore into hers.

  Rori—Lori only nodded and gently brushed a wayward curl back off Darya’s forehead. A black teddy bear, Mr. Bear, bought in the gift shop on their way out of the hotel early that morning, was clutched to her chest. From the moment he’d given her the gift, she hadn’t relaxed her hold on it.

  Her thumb was again in her mouth. She had heard the men talking that morning, knew the girl had not been abused, and felt more for the child than she cared to. Thank God.

  Rori didn’t want to feel anything for the child, yet couldn’t help it. The thought of what she went through, of what still lay ahead, greased old memories and nausea through her. As hard a woman as she was, she wouldn’t wish that fate on her worst enemy. Locked away. Men with big hands, drunken laugher and . . .

  She shook her head.

  Every now and then Darya craned her neck to look out the window, but then she’d sit back and silently stare, rubbing the teddy bear.

  Mr. Hightower spoke softly to her. She wondered what he was saying to the child as she didn’t understand them.

  The child didn’t answer. They knew she spoke Russian because he’d asked Darya if she was hungry earlier and the child looked at him and nodded.

  He’d grinned. “Ah, so it is Russian, little one.”

  Since then, he’d been telling Darya one thing or another, and the child was glued to him.

  Rori remembered that too. Finally finding someone you wanted to trust, but were afraid to. Someone who seemed to care and you were too bloody afraid not to hold on to them, terrified they’d leave you behind and just as scared to get too close lest they turned on you.

  God she was tired. Wishing she had her laptop out of the overhead luggage compartment, she leaned her head back and closed her eyes. If nothing else, she could get a few minutes’ rest. Just a few . . .

  As the hum of the engines
filled her head, the rumble relaxing her, she dropped off into sleep.

  And into memories better left forgotten.

  She’d hidden in the closet. If she was very, very quiet, he wouldn’t find her. He couldn’t find her if she was quiet.

  She hurt. He’d made her do things she didn’t want to think about. Things that hurt, things that she knew were wrong.

  She was gangly, taller than most girls her age, and wished, wished with everything in her that she had the courage to run away.

  But he’d told her, warned her that the coppers would get her and bring her back, and when they did, she’d wish she were dead.

  She already wished that.

  She listened very carefully, fear trickling through her as surely as the blood from her nose where he’d slapped her.

  The sound of doors opening and slamming, mixed with his yells.

  “Come out you, lit’l slut! I’ll find you, I will.” Slam.

  She covered her ears. And waited. He would find her and she trembled knowing it. She shook her head. Please . . .

  Her hands scrambled along the bottom of the closet and she felt the weight on the floor, circular and cold against her hand.

  It was heavy. Slam. He was coming closer.

  She picked it up . . .

  Please . . . She whimpered.

  • • •

  He watched the girl, her eyes closed, her cheeks moving with the slight movement of her thumb. His nerves were strung tight, but so far, so good. If they could get to his place once they landed, everything just might work.

  Darya’s fingers were white-knuckled on the damn bear he’d bought her. Poor kid. First thing he’d do is buy her some toys. She deserved some things to play with.

  Maybe a doll?

  What did little girls play with? He frowned.

  She twitched in her sleep, her smooth brow furrowing, and whimpered. Bastards. One day . . .

  Gently, he leaned down and whispered in her ear that she was safe. She twitched again and again he shushed her. She finally settled, and he pulled her against him, letting her head rest on his arm. She smelled of soap and some indefinable fragrance that always made him think of children.

  What the hell had happened to his life?

  If anyone had asked him a week ago what he’d be doing now, his answer would have been working.

  Working for Viktor Hellinski.

  Working for the agency and international task force trying to find out which brothels and bosses fronted terror networks. Period.

  Finding criminals even as he himself posed as one.

  Now?

  Now someone was trying to kill him. His cover had been blown, so more were trying to kill him, a woman he’d never met before was his wife, and they had a daughter.

  Chaotic. It was utterly chaotic and out of control.

  He hated things to be out of control.

  Strangely enough, he felt a bit of peace he hadn’t felt in a long damn time. Why? He had no idea and he didn’t want to know at present.

  The feeling was so vague and rare, he figured he’d best appreciate it and try to figure out what the hell they were all going to do next.

  First priority was Darya’s safety. For him, Britain was still too close to those who had hurt her, to Elianya, who wouldn’t think twice about eliminating a child.

  But Darya might not be his to protect. What would he do if he found she had a family somewhere?

  He shifted in the seat and took a deep breath. He’d make damn certain it was a safe environment to return her to. She and her sister hadn’t just appeared in Elianya’s porn enterprise. He knew, knew from firsthand experience that families in dire straits often did unspeakable things.

  Like sell their souls, sell their children. He’d tried not to judge, but damn it. How could any human being sell their child into the sex ring. He knew, as Dimitri, that many had not known, had believed their daughter or occasionally son was going to work. But just as many had known that their child was going to be lost in a world of sex and vice and they simply hadn’t given a damn.

  If Darya’s family was of the last, he’d simply kill them and be done with it.

  Rage flowed through him, a slow river of lava. He shifted again.

  And all this anger wasn’t doing him a bit of good. God, he’d love a cigarette—or as Mr. Hightower might think, a fag. But Brit or not, Hightower wasn’t the type of man to smoke, so the nicotine would just have to wait. Damn it.

  The voice in the back of his head asked what he was going to do with the little girl if she had no one else to go to.

  Giving up, he opened his eyes and stared at the overhead air vent.

  He had no idea.

  Turning, he looked down on Darya’s dark head.

  An innocent child.

  What the hell did he know about innocence or children?

  They should be protected.

  He’d stayed in this fucking game too damn long. He wanted out, out to have a real life.

  Like photographs in his mind, he saw his brothers and their families. Wives, children. The smiles, the laughter. Things he remembered from his own childhood. Not that he’d ever planned to have a family. Families were tools that could effectively be used against him. A wife and children could be exploited, harmed, even killed to teach lessons.

  He’d never thought about it until John had lost his family. Then he’d seen what his friend had gone through and vowed he would never, never put anyone in that type of jeopardy.

  Children should know safety. Know love.

  And where did that leave him? Or Darya?

  He didn’t have a fucking clue.

  Mr. Evan Hightower closed his eyes and still his mind wouldn’t settle.

  He glanced at the woman posing as his wife.

  Lori. She was asleep, or at least resting. Her hand lay on the armrest, long-fingered, free from rings, and short buffed nails. Her cheeks were smooth and the pulse in her neck jumped against the white collar of her shirt. The dark purple jacket she wore brought out a blush in her cheeks. Her dark brows, arched and high, made him want to smooth his finger over them. That ridiculously short hair made him want to run his hand over her scalp.

  She frowned, her head jerking to the side. He looked at her face, still smooth. Settling back he tried to think. He looked at Rori again. Her hand fisted on the armrest.

  He reached over Darya, who was slumping down partially into his lap, and put his hand atop Rori’s, rubbing the back of her fist. He could see the line of vein running along the back of her hand, felt the ridge where the blood flowed.

  Her muscles tensed in her arm.

  He frowned again. Shifting, he gently shook her shoulder. She tried to pull away and he tightened his hold, shaking a bit harder.

  Her eyes shot open and she jerked in the seat.

  He studied her. “Easy,” he said. “You were dreaming.” And from the looks of it, not a pleasant one.

  Her eyes wide, she glanced at him, then at the little girl between them. She took a deep breath, her chest rising on her inhale, and barely shook her head.

  His hand lay again atop hers, hoping to calm her, to take that haunted look from her eyes. A look he’d never seen in those icy eyes, a shadow he didn’t like seeing there.

  He felt the tremor even before her hand turned and her fingers laced with his. She didn’t say a word, just stared out the window. He looked at their hands, his dark and tanned, hers long-fingered and elegant, her nails trimmed short, practical. Her fingers were white-knuckled.

  He rubbed his thumb across the back of her hand, still staring at their joined hands.

  The woman didn’t look at him again; the pulse pounded in her neck and sweat beaded on her forehead.

  Some dream.

  Still rubbing her hand, he leaned his head back and closed his eyes, the warmth of the child nestled up against his side.

  What did he honestly know of family?

  Chapter 11

  Near Glen Affric, Scotland
>
  November 7

  Rori looked out at the pine-covered slope. Loch Affric, dull and gray, in the late afternoon light, shone through the trees.

  They had been here for a week.

  The lake—loch—would be beautiful in the summer months. She was in bloody Scotland. How in the hell did she end up here? She was still trying to figure that one out, as she had been for almost a week.

  They’d landed in London and spent two days in different hotels, while Ian had changed his identity yet again.

  No more Evan and Lori Hightower. Now they were Ian and Rori Kinncaid. Ian Kinncaid. Kinncaid. She’d run a search on the name after they arrived here and found several lists. Granted, this was Scotland, Kinncaids everywhere. But with that spelling, there was a branch in America and a family in particular who owned hotels. Was he part of them? Not that she’d been able to find thus far. So was Ian Kinncaid simply another alias or not?

  Their current residence was an old Georgian manor house, built after the uprising of ’45, or so she was told. History had never really been her thing. She saw no reason why people felt they had to know every little date that ever happened in past lives. She didn’t care. Now was all that was important, and how one went about spending it, dealing with it and living it. Tomorrow would come, and depending on whether or not you buggered the day would affect the next day.

  She looked out the window; the pines and bare trees obscured a clear view of Loch Affric. The day was cold, the clouds low, hiding the mountains that surrounded them.

  The place made her twitchy, out in the middle of bloody nowhere. The only sound, the birds. Not that it was a bad place, she rather liked the quiet, but even her place in County Waterford wasn’t this remote. She thought she’d lived in the country, but this . . . this was almost desolate, lonely.

  So why hadn’t she left. She could have at any time, she knew. But there was Darya . . .

  And she wanted the time away. No one demanded anything of her here. She didn’t worry about the next job. There wasn’t a next job. That made her smile.