by N. J. Croft
The man in black moved to stand in front of her, but she couldn’t tell what he was thinking. “Tell the truth, and this will be all over.”
“You really believe that?”
When he glanced away, she knew there was no help. This was going to happen, and she could do nothing. All the same, she couldn’t stop herself fighting against her bonds. It was futile and left her panting with frustration.
“Tell me about Descartes.”
The voice was soft, reasonable. She opened her mouth to answer, to tell them about the letter from her father, but couldn’t make the words come out. Her mind screamed at her to tell them whatever they wanted to know, whatever it took to stop them from hurting her. But she couldn’t do it. Something inside her would not allow her to give in to them; some stubborn, stupid streak would not give them the satisfaction. She glared into his eyes.
“Go to hell!”
He turned to the doctor. “Hook her up.”
The doctor selected a needle from the trolley. He tapped her arm again and inserted the needle into her vein, attaching it to an intravenous bag before nodding to the two men, who crouched down in front of Jenna.
“This is something Doctor Smith here has been working on for us. Just so you know, it’s a combination of truth serum and pain inducer.” He reached across and stroked a finger down over the skin of her cheek. “It’s very effective. You’ll want to pass out, take my word for it, but you won’t. So, you have one more chance. What do you know about Descartes?”
Goddamn fucking Descartes. She was beginning to hate the name.
She clamped her lips together and looked away.
“Go ahead, doctor.”
Chapter Thirty
The pain was instantaneous, sending burning needles of agony through Jenna’s arm, filling her whole body with fire. Every muscle locked against the pain, her back arched, and she couldn’t prevent the scream tearing from her throat.
The pain lasted for an age, finally ebbing to a throbbing ache. Her head fell forward, and she gasped in air.
“Feel like talking now?”
The words came from a distance. Her mind was clouded, hazy.
“Tell me about Descartes.”
She opened her mouth to answer, the words rising up in her throat, then she swallowed them down and took a deep breath.
Not wanting to see the pain coming, she closed her eyes tight. It hit her again like a sledgehammer, slamming into her. The torture was unbearable, but how could something be unbearable when you had no choice but to see it through? She heard her own screams as if from a distance, her mind spiraling out of control, closing in, red splashes on her closed lids shrinking to blankness.
Then she was floating.
The pain vanished, and she blacked out.
And she was dreaming. At first, she was flying through total darkness. Then small pinpricks of light appeared on the black landscape. They were stars, and she was hurtling through space. She had been traveling longer than she could remember, had lost control a long time ago, but now she could sense her ship losing strength, and she knew it would be over soon. A deep sadness filled her. She was so far from home, a home she would never see again.
In the distance, a blue-green planet gave her a flicker of hope. Would she make it? Then the ship sputtered beneath her, and she knew it was over. Instead, she was heading toward an orbiting satellite. Lifeless, bare rock. The land came toward her, slowly at first as the ship tried to regain control, then faster as it lost the battle. They crashed into an outcrop, the ship disintegrating beneath her. The last life-force dwindled to nothing, and she was alone in a barren land.
There was no life around her and soon she would also be gone. Would she go to join her people? Would they find her so far from home?
Jenna came back to herself, sobbing. Not from the pain that lingered in her body, but from the memory of overwhelming sadness. She’d been dreaming, but of what and where she wasn’t sure.
She lay curled up on the tile floor. Her face was wet; she was crying for something she didn’t remember and couldn’t understand. As she moved, everything hurt, so she wrapped her arms around her stomach and blanked her mind. Finally, she drifted off into a light sleep.
When she opened her eyes again, she had no clue how much time had passed. Her cheek pressed against the cold floor. A dark smudge of crimson stained the white tiles where she’d lain, but when she put her fingers to her face, it felt fine.
Pushing herself up, she stumbled to her feet and steadied herself with a hand on the steel table. The pain was gone completely, wiped away, though her limbs were stiff from lying on the cold floor, and she stretched. She crossed the room to a small sink against the far wall, the strength returning to her limbs, and ran the tap, putting her mouth to the water, spitting it out then swallowing. When she straightened, she peered at herself in the mirror and splashed water over her face before wiping it clean with the paper towels. Reaching up, she stroked a finger down her nose. Earlier, she’d heard the crunch as it broke, but now her face was perfect; even her split lip had healed.
What was happening to her?
She whirled around at the sound of the door opening. The running water must have masked the footsteps. A man entered the room—the man in black—and her stomach clenched.
The door clicked shut behind him, and she glanced over his shoulder.
“Don’t expect any help there. You can scream, and the guards won’t come. No one will come.” He examined her; his gaze sliding over her body then back to her face, a small frown forming between his brows. “You look surprisingly good. I was sure I’d broken that pretty nose, and your heart stopped beating there. We thought we’d lost you.” He took a step toward her. “And that would have pissed the doc off. He’s never lost one. Well, not without meaning to, anyway.”
She clamped her lips between her teeth but didn’t speak. Her mind worked furiously. He was one man. If she could catch him off guard she might have a chance, but she had to bide her time.
He reached out, grasped the torn edges of her T-shirt in his hand, and ripped it open, baring her to the waist.
“Very pretty,” he murmured, his voice thickening.
Jenna swallowed her nausea.
“You going to play nice?” he asked.
She nodded.
“Had enough? Well, you’re still going to have to talk, but you be good and we might come to some arrangement.”
One hand cupping her breast, he stepped in closer and squeezed her nipple between his thumb and finger. A stab of pain shot through her, and he smiled.
“I wouldn’t want you going too docile on me—I like a little fight.”
He released her breast, his hands moving to grip her shoulder. Whirling her around, he slammed her face-first into the wall, then came up close behind, pushing his body into hers. His erection pressed into her buttocks, and she clamped her teeth together to stop the scream of rage.
He shoved his hand down the waistband of her pants, dragging them down over her hips. One thigh pushed between hers, spreading her legs. Jenna swallowed again, holding herself still.
Not yet.
She whispered the words inside her head while she waited for the best moment, when he was fully aroused and off guard.
When he stabbed one finger hard between her thighs, something exploded in her head. Her whole world faded to crimson, and a strength she hadn’t known existed welled up inside her. Heaving backward, her elbow caught him across the throat, tearing herself free of his grip, and he crashed to the floor behind her. She yanked up her pants, turned around, and strode to where he lay. He stumbled to his feet, but she felt no fear now. Her mind clear, her body strong—invincible—her vision narrowed to the man in front of her. Almost as if she moved in slow motion, she whirled and kicked. Her heel caught him in the chest, and his ribs caved beneath the force of the b
low with the snap of broken bones.
Shock flashed across his face, blossoming into pain. He stared at the dark wet stain of blood seeping over his shirt and clutched his hands to his chest, backing away as the pain merged with horror.
She stalked him then, until he came up against the chair she’d been strapped to earlier and fell back onto it.
Jenna came to a halt beside him, leaned down close to his face, and whispered in his ear. “The guards won’t come if I scream, but how about if you do the screaming?”
She reached out a hand and pressed his chest, heard the grating of broken bones. He opened his mouth to scream, but only a gurgling sound emerged from his damaged throat, and she swore. “Scream, goddammit!”
Loosening his shirt, she tore it away from his chest, but it was too late. White bone stuck out from his shattered rib cage. As she watched, he choked, his lungs filling, his hand clawing at his throat as he drowned in his own blood.
She stared down at his dead body and felt nothing but fury.
After crossing the room, she peered out the window, but the corridor was empty. She rattled the door, but she’d known it was locked. Finally, she went back to the body and searched through the pockets.
Nothing.
Returning to the door, she banged on the metal. “Help, he’s collapsed.” No one came.
After searching the room, she spotted the small surveillance cameras in each corner. Were they watching her? She sank to the floor, leaning her back on the door. The adrenaline seeped from her system, leaving her drained and shaky. A few minutes later, a sickly sweet smell filled the room. She tried to rise to her feet, but her limbs felt too heavy, and she crashed back to the floor. Her mind clouded, and eventually the shadows engulfed her.
When she woke again, she was on the steel table, her arms and legs strapped to her sides. The body was gone and the blood cleaned from the floor.
She tugged at the restraints, but they were steel, and there was no way she could free herself. Despair threatened to overwhelm her. She tried to concentrate on something good, and an image of Luke flashed into her mind. But he didn’t care about her. He’d been using her—nothing more.
With the death of her father, she was truly alone. She had followed her father’s lead and never let anyone close. Now it was too late, and there would be no one to mourn her.
Though while Luke had been willing to use her, for two nights he’d held her close while she slept, soothed away her nightmares.
She had to believe he cared.
She had to believe somewhere, someone was thinking about her.
Chapter Thirty-One
An image of Jenna flashed across his mind as Luke climbed out of his vehicle in the car park of the Flexley research headquarters.
The image was so strong that he paused, his hand on the car door. He closed his eyes, trying to capture the picture, but it was gone. He shook his head and slammed the door.
The building was in one of the industrial parks on the outskirts of London. It appeared prosperous; the gardens surrounding the area were well maintained. The car park almost full.
Gordon Haughton, the CEO of Flexley, came from old money. He had inherited the company thirty years ago after his father died in a boating accident—a rather convenient boating accident—that had handed the family fortune and companies over to Haughton at the age of twenty-eight.
He’d prospered suspiciously well since, which was one of the first things Luke’s team looked for when profiling companies for possible Conclave involvement. Luke had no doubt Haughton was involved with the organization; the doubt was whether or not he would talk.
The secret was finding something the person cared about more than their own life and wealth. Haughton had a wife and a six-year-old daughter. Rumor had it he doted on them. Luke hoped the information was true.
The reception area was huge, obviously set up to impress customers and potential investors. Luke knew the company was doing well despite the current state of the economy, again, another good indicator of the Conclave’s backing.
He approached the young man at the reception desk, who glanced up at Luke with a professional smile. “Can I help you?”
“I’d like to see Gordon Haughton.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No.”
“I’m afraid Mr. Haughton will not be able to see you. Could I ask the nature of your business? Perhaps one of our managers could help you.”
Luke stepped in closer. “Phone Haughton and tell him there is someone to see him relating to his recent business endeavors in Ivory Coast.”
“I’m afraid we don’t have any connections with Ivory Coast.”
“Do it,” Luke growled.
The young man glanced toward the doors where a security officer loitered.
“Call security, and I’ll find another way to contact Haughton, and you will lose your job.”
His hand hovered over the telephone, and then he picked it up, punched in a number, and held a murmured conversation Luke didn’t even try to pay attention to. He was certain the mention of Ivory Coast would get him the interview he needed.
“That was his assistant. She’ll give Mr. Haughton the message and get back to us. If you’d like to take a seat.”
“No.”
He leaned on the counter and waited. His cell phone rang. He pulled it out and checked the caller ID. Callum.
“It’s done,” Callum said, and Luke ended the call.
Across the room, a set of elevator doors opened, and a smartly dressed woman emerged. Somewhere in her forties, slim, beautiful, and he’d bet super-efficient.
She came to a halt in from of Luke and held out her hand. “I’m Juliana Wade, Mr. Haughton’s assistant, Mr.?”
“Hockley, Luke Hockley.”
“Well Mr. Hockley, if you could tell me what this is about, I could perhaps schedule you an appointment, but I’m afraid Mr. Haughton is very busy. So it would probably not be until next week.”
“You came down here just to tell me that?” He gave her a slight smile. “Look, we both know Haughton will see me. Could we take that as a given and move on?”
She raised an eyebrow but nodded. “Follow me.”
He could feel her giving him sidelong glances in the elevator as they rose to the top floor, but she didn’t speak again.
Once out of the elevator, she led him through an outer office, knocked on a set of double oak doors, and opened them without waiting for an answer. A man was seated behind a desk, and he rose to his feet as Luke entered the room. The woman left, the door clicking shut behind her. The man was tall and lean, with a thin face and dark hair streaked with gray. He didn’t smile, and he didn’t hold out a hand, just gestured to the chair on the other side of the desk and sat back down.
Luke took the seat indicated and waited for Haughton to speak. He needed the man off guard, and the best way to do that was to keep him guessing.
Obviously, Haughton had the same idea. For a minute, they sat in silence. Luke stared out the floor-to-ceiling windows and stifled his impatience while he waited for Haughton to break.
Haughton cleared his throat.
“Luke Hockley?” Finally, Haughton broke the silence. “I’m afraid I don’t know the name.”
“You wouldn’t,” he replied. “It’s not one I use these days.”
Luke had decided to use his own name; it felt strange hearing it after so long, but the time of hiding was almost done. It was likely someone in the Conclave had identified him by now, probably from surveillance feeds on Merrick.
If this thing worked out, the Conclave would fall, and as far as Luke was concerned, all those involved in it would also fall. It wouldn’t matter who knew his real identity.
And if the Conclave didn’t fall, the chances were Luke would be dead anyway.
“Hmm, H
ockley.” The man’s brows furrowed in concentration. “There was a company we did some business with, must be fifteen years ago.”
“That would have been my father. He’s dead.”
“I’m sorry.” Haughton was more at ease now. He sat back in his seat. “So, how can I help you?”
Luke allowed a small smile to curve his lips. “I’m looking for a friend of mine. She’s gone missing.”
Haughton frowned. “I’m not sure I understand. My assistant mentioned you had information regarding a business deal in Ivory Coast.”
“Not a business deal.” He studied the other man’s face to see if there was a reaction to his next words. “More in the way of a massacre, a whole village reduced to ashes. Does that sound like something your company might be involved in?”
If the shock was there, Haughton hid it well. His expression hardened. “I think you’re wasting my time, Mr. Hockley.”
“I hope not. As I said, I’m looking for a friend of mine.”
The change of subject seemed to throw Haughton. He shook his head slightly, and his frown deepened. “How could I possibly help you find this friend?”
“Let’s go back to the massacre.”
Haughton rose to his feet again and shoved his hands in his pockets. He turned to stare out of the window for a moment before turning back to Luke.
“I agreed to meet with you because—”
“You agreed to talk with me because I mentioned Ivory Coast. You don’t believe I know anything, but you can’t afford to let it pass. The Conclave doesn’t react well to stupidity in its members.”
Haughton swallowed—a telltale sign of nerves—and satisfaction washed through Luke. He realized deep down there had been a small niggle of doubt that they were wrong. That Haughton’s seeming involvement was nothing more than coincidence. Now he was certain Haughton was in this up to his neck.
He had to play him right, and maybe he would lead them to Jenna. Hopefully she had held out and they hadn’t broken her yet. She had to be alive, and while she might not know it, she had the answers.
