Darkness Bound (A Night Prowler Novel)

by J. T. Geissinger

  Caesar left the room, whistling, on his way to make an important call on his satellite phone.

  Time for stage two in his plan for world domination to be set into play.

  The moment the black hood was pulled over her head from behind and the line of bobbing boats moored at Pier 61 at the Chelsea docks vanished from sight, Jack experienced a terror so bone deep and incapacitating she wasn’t able to move her legs when a hand placed at the small of her back gave her a firm push forward.

  She’d tried to mentally prepare herself for death, but that’s like trying to mentally prepare yourself for childbirth, or being cheated on by the love of your life. No matter how well you think you can handle it, reality is a bitch with a twisted sense of humor.

  In such situations, dignity is the first thing that flies out the window.

  Jack’s frozen legs refused to bend. She pitched forward with a strangled gasp, sucking cold night air into her mouth through the scratchy cloth of her new headwear.

  The hand that had pushed her grabbed her arm before she could hit the ground face first. It was joined by another hand—big, with a vice-like grip—and Jack was pulled back to her feet and steadied.

  “Better get your legs working, Red,” said a gruff male voice into her ear. He was so close she felt his warm breath slide down her neck. “You’re gonna need ’em where we’re going.”

  Beyond the thundering of her heart and the roar of the blood rushing through her veins, Jack recognized that silk/sandpaper voice, though she hadn’t yet glimpsed its owner. Terror morphed instantly to rage, an emotion she was far more comfortable with.

  She hissed, “If I were you I’d be more worried about how well my hands are working. Because the minute they get the chance, they’re going to claw out your eyes, asshole!”

  A low chuckle. The musical chink of metal sliding against metal. Then his voice, now amused. “Glad to see we’re still on the same page.”

  “We were never on the same page, you lying, scheming, underhanded, son of a—”

  The cold bite of metal encircled her left wrist, then her right. A snap and a tug, and both her hands had been pulled behind her back. It happened so quickly it was over before she could react, before she could even draw in a breath.

  Handcuffs.

  The rage grew. Burning hot, engulfing, it felt as if she were standing on the surface of the sun. Her entire body vibrated with the urge to kick and hit and scream and claw and hurt him, hurt him, hurt him.

  Beside her, Hawk exhaled a slow, ragged breath. “Yeah. The feeling’s mutual, believe me.”

  Trying to regain a shred of her lost dignity, though her emotions were evident from the way her voice shook, Jack said, “This cloak-and-dagger routine is unnecessary. Just kill me now. Just get it over with.”

  Jack felt Hawk’s surprise. There was a beat of silence as he processed that. He answered ominously, “If I wanted you dead, woman, you already would be.” Then his big hand curled around her bicep, and he propelled her forward.

  He walked quickly, with purpose, his strides even and long. She had to hurry to keep up, but it was difficult, due to his pace, her blindness, and the way he kept her so close beside him, dragging her along. She muttered a curse as she lost her footing on an uneven patch of ground.

  Hawk’s fingers tightened around her arm. “What did I tell you about that mouth?”

  Judging by his tone, she’d found a sore spot . . . which she intended to ruthlessly leverage. In the darkness behind the hood, her lips formed a bitter smile.

  If I’m going to die, I’m going to piss you off as much as possible before I do.

  She didn’t believe for one moment that Hawk wasn’t going to kill her, probably in the most gruesome of ways. She’d seen the violence his kind was capable of. She knew the nature of these Shifters who called themselves Ikati was bloodthirsty, and utterly merciless. Their leader, Caesar, had slaughtered the Pope on live television during his Christmas Day speech, for God’s sake! Then on Easter, he’d murdered every important religious and political leader across the globe. The US, French, and Russian presidents; the UK, Israeli, Canadian, Japanese, and Italian prime ministers; the chancellor of Germany; the chairman of the US Joint Chiefs of Staff; the Supreme Leaders of Iran and North Korea; the two Chief Rabbis of Israel; archbishops and cardinals from various countries; Grand Imams . . . it had been a highly coordinated, perfectly planned, chillingly effective declaration of war that screamed in big, bold letters: WE HATE HUMANS.

  The entire massacre illustrated with chilling clarity the Ikati’s ability to bypass with ease even the most sophisticated of human security measures.

  So Jack had no illusions she would be treated well, or would be alive when the sun rose tomorrow morning. This was her final night on Earth, of that she was sure.

  What she wasn’t so sure of was the reason he’d wanted to meet at the docks.

  The “proposition” he’d offered in his emailed video had been ambiguous at best. In return for not releasing the photos of the two of them in flagrante delicto, she would be required to come to the docks at midnight three days’ hence, with nothing other than the clothes on her back. No handbag, no cell phone, no camera, no questions asked. She was to tell no one about him or their agreement, and he assured her all her communications were being carefully monitored, including her cell phone, email, work phone, and house phone, so he’d know if she talked.

  That was all bad, but what finally cinched the deal was the threat to her father.

  Hawk was oblique about it. The casual mention of “your father will suffer if you don’t comply,” was enough. He didn’t need to catalogue in detail what would happen if she didn’t show. She imagined her father’s body eviscerated as those others had been, the unfortunate twenty-six who had met their maker with their entrails arranged in a gruesome, glistening pink tangle on the floor around their heads.

  So she’d put her mail on a vacation hold. She’d paid her mortgage and bills in advance for three months. She’d run her daily route through Central Park six times in three days, trying to clear her mind and steel herself for the worst. Finally she’d taken a taxi in the middle of the night to the marina on the Hudson River.

  And now she was here, stumbling along blindly beside the man—creature—who had been the best sex of her life and would unfortunately also be the one to gut her like a fish.

  Hawk stopped. She bumped against him, sucking in a breath of surprise at the full body contact. He flinched away as if he’d been burned. “Step up,” he said curtly.

  “How high?” was her arctic response.

  There was a beat of what she imagined furious silence, then he put his hands under her armpits and lifted her from behind—easily, as if she weighed no more than a child—and deposited her unceremoniously to a surface that was, just slightly, rocking.

  A boat. They were on a boat. Dear God, he was going to dump her body out at sea.

  Would she still be alive when she went in the water? The thought of drowning, handcuffed, in a hood, made her shudder.

  She hoped he killed her before he threw her overboard.

  “Do us both a favor and stop thinking,” Hawk snapped, taking her firmly by the arm. He guided her around a few turns, down three steps, then pressed her down into a soft seat with his hands on her shoulders. Jack sat there rigid as a plank, hands clammy, sightless and helpless and hating the scared-dog trembling that wracked her body in spite of the long, slow breaths she pulled into her lungs in an effort to calm herself.

  Hawk stood too near. She imagined he was, at that very moment, withdrawing a knife from his boot.

  “The hood will come off as soon as we’re far enough away from land. The handcuffs . . . well, that’s going to depend entirely on how you behave.” His voice lowered. “And you should know, before you go trying anything stupid, you can’t get away from me. You can’t
overpower me. And you can’t hide anything from me. I’ll know what you’re thinking of doing before you do it, so again—don’t try anything stupid. I don’t want to have to hurt you, but I will if you make it necessary. Submit yourself to this, and in a few weeks you’ll be back home, no worse for wear.”

  Submit? A few weeks? I’ll know what you’re thinking? She needed answers.

  “You’re taking me somewhere.”

  She knew she’d guessed correctly when he remained silent. Relief flooded her body, a flower of hope blossoming in the hardpan of her terror. “Where? Why?”

  He made a small sound, quieter than a chuckle, and she wished she could see the expression on his face. Was he laughing at her?

  “Because there’s a story you need to write, that’s why. And it requires a little . . . research.”

  A story? Was this a ruse? Some kind of sick game to give her hope before he slit her throat and tossed her into the ocean?

  “How do I know you’re not just going to release those pictures, even if I do ‘submit,’ or write this story? How do I know my father—”

  “One thing you’ll very quickly learn about me,” he interrupted, his voice like granite, “is that I keep my word. Remember that. And remember what I’ve told you.”

  I don’t want to have to hurt you, but I will if you make it necessary.

  She remembered with cheek-burning shame how he’d spanked her in the hotel room, how badly it had hurt, and knew without doubt he was entirely capable of hurting her. She guessed the bastard would probably enjoy it.

  Swallowing around the tightness in her throat, Jack remained silent.

  “Surprise, surprise,” Hawk said, moving away. “The viper can keep her venomous mouth shut.”

  His footsteps moved out of hearing range, and Jack was left alone in a room she couldn’t see, breathing in her own recycled breath beneath the uncomfortable hood, listening to the sound of big engines shudder to life as a foghorn sang a mournful bass note somewhere far off in the night.

  She wasn’t a whiner, he’d give her that much.

  Jacqueline Dolan was where he’d left her over an hour ago, sitting soldier straight and silent on the small beige leather sofa along the starboard wall in the quiet comfort of the cabin. The Pegasus was a beautifully restored forty-six-foot motorsailer he kept in the marina in Santarem for the monthly procurement trips he made for supplies, and she purred at a swift nine knots through the black Atlantic waters. He was seated astern at the helm, feeling the sea breeze sting his cheeks and snap through his hair, watching Jack through the small windows near his feet that provided an excellent view into the main cabin and galley.

  He glanced behind him. As far as the eye could see, there was only starlight reflecting off dark water. They’d left New York far behind.

  Time to remove her hood.

  He set the boat to autopilot, stepped out from behind the wheel, and ducked into the cabin.

  And Jacqueline stiffened and inhaled sharply as if someone had lanced her with a pin.

  She was afraid of him. Even if she hadn’t moved an inch, Hawk smelled it all over her. He knew her fear was justified—he’d told her he’d hurt her if he had to—but the knowledge irritated him nonetheless. He’d never intentionally hurt a woman before. He hoped that remained the case.

  Though if anyone deserves it, it’s her.

  Pushing aside his disjointed thoughts, he stepped in front of Jacqueline, and pulled the hood from her head.

  Blinking, she squinted into the light and turned her face away, but not before giving him a murderous glare. She breathed deeply, nostrils flared, lips flattened, and he simply stood and watched her, waiting for her to speak.

  As he’d instructed, she was dressed in sturdy, lightweight clothing: jeans, black T-shirt, long-sleeved cotton jacket that matched the tee, hiking boots. Looks a lot better naked, he thought, unable to press the smile from his mouth.

  “I have to use the toilet,” she said, looking away.

  “Be my guest.”

  She glanced up at him. Twisting slightly to the side to show him her handcuffed wrists, she said with barely repressed fury, “And how exactly am I supposed to manage that?”

  “Would you like me to take off your pants for you?” He smirked. “It’s not like I haven’t already seen everything you’ve got.”

  Jacqueline turned away, biting her lip. Crimson crept up her neck and spread across her cheeks. She whispered, “You’re despicable.”

  “And you, Red, are a bigot.”

  Her head whipped around. She stared at him open-mouthed, horrified. “I’m not a bigot!”

  Hawk crouched down on the glossy teak floor directly in front of her so they were eye level. She leaned back a few inches, caught herself, then lifted her chin and stared back at him in defiance.

  “You’re prejudiced, intolerant, and full of hate. You despise things you don’t understand, simply because you don’t understand them, and they’re different from you. That’s a textbook definition of a bigot.”

  She had the audacity to look outraged. “I understand you and your kind perfectly well! You’re the ones who are full of hate! You slaughtered dozens of people, just for sport, just to terrorize us—”

  “We didn’t do that!” He leaned closer to her, his pulse spiking, anger tilting toward fury as her eyes widened in alarm. “One of us did that, and believe me when I say I’d like to kill that traitor myself for what he did! He’s a rabid dog that needs to be put down, but you judged us all based on the actions of one! Then you convinced everyone else that we were all the same, that all my kind should be exterminated like some kind of rodent infestation!”

  Eye to eye, seething, they stared at one another. He didn’t realize when it had happened, but he was gripping the sofa cushions on either side of her legs so hard his knuckles were white. He’d never before felt such a strong urge to wring a woman’s neck.

  “That king of yours, Caesar—”

  “He’s not our king,” he snarled, moving even closer until their noses were an inch apart. “He only thinks he is. He thinks he’s a god, in fact, but he’s nothing more than a moron with a god complex, which are two very different things.”

  One of her brows arched. With withering disdain, she said, “That must run in the family.”

  Throttle her? Kiss her? She deserved the first, but he found himself struggling with the second, a magnetic attraction equally as strong as it was repellant.

  What the hell is wrong with me?

  The smart thing to do was stand, so that’s exactly what he did. He looked down at her—pale and livid, watching him in silent fury—and realized how wrong Morgan had been to think they could change this woman’s mind. This plan was doomed to failure.

  From a safer distance, he said with deadly quiet intensity, “Let me ask you a question, Red. How would you like it if the entire human race was judged by the actions of, oh, say—Adolf Hitler? Or maybe Stalin? Or how about Charles Manson? Why is it you think only we must all be exactly the same as our lowest common denominator?”

  Her silence throbbed.

  “I’ll tell you why. Because you’re a bigot.”

  “Stop saying that,” she said with a clenched jaw. She shot to her feet, and he thought for a moment she might try to kick him in the crotch.

  Interesting. He’d found a sore spot. Which he intended to exploit to its fullest potential.

  “I’ll stop saying it when it stops being true.”

  They stood there in a silent stalemate, both breathing hard, until finally Jacqueline gave up. “Are you going to let me use the toilet or not?”

  Her hair, disheveled and damp with perspiration, was falling into her face. Her lips were skewed to an I-hate-you twist, slight lavender shadows beneath her eyes belied her fatigue. In spite of himself, Hawk felt a brief, unwelcome pang of sympathy for her
.

  He reached into his pocket and retrieved the small metal key. “Turn around.”

  She complied. Hawk turned the key in the lock, unclasped the handcuffs, and pulled them from her wrists.

  Then she whirled around and slapped him hard across the face.

  For a moment he was too stunned to react.

  “That’s for using me.” Her voice shook. Her eyes glittered vivid, furious blue. “And for threatening me and my family, and for calling me a bigot. And for putting a fucking hood over my head like I’m a prisoner being led to the gallows. And I don’t care how big and strong and scary you are, if you ever put your hands on me again, so help me God, I’ll kill you.”

  Hawk regained his composure. He slipped the cuffs into his back pocket and worked his jaw where she’d hit him; it stung. Snow White was stronger than she looked.

  He leaned in close to her face. “Okay. I’m reasonable. You get one, Red—and that was it. And so help me God, if you don’t stop cursing, I’m going to take you over my knee again, and this time you won’t like it nearly as much as last time. Understood?”

  Her only response was to blanch.

  Hawk withdrew. He jerked his chin to the companionway that led to her berth. “Head’s in there, so’s a bed. The whole boat’s been cleared of anything you might try to use as a weapon, so forget it. Try to get some sleep. You’ll need it.”

  Then he turned, slammed shut the main cabin door, went topside, and roared his frustration into the wind.

  “I don’t understand.”

  Standing on the narrow, silty banks of a sluggishly flowing river the color of a strong cup of coffee, Jack stared into the dense green tree line, not five yards ahead. The vegetation was so thick it appeared impenetrable, with visibility reaching only a few feet into the forest. Umbrella-shaped trees draped in moss towered over lower palms and shrubs of an infinite, endless green variety; and off in the distance a line of rolling hills climbed to taller peaks shrouded in thick mist.