Bringing Benjy Home (Security Ops)

by Brant, Kylie

  He wasted no more time. He marched through the house, past Lauren, who had come to check on the noise, and into his bedroom. His sister and Mae followed him. Without a hint of his usual fastidiousness, he began throwing clothes into his suitcase and slinging orders at Mac.

  “Get hold of the sheriff in Jaida’s county,” he said. Mac nodded. “Tell him to get out to Jaida’s, and fast. Rouse McIntyre, tell him to get our plane ready. Have him file a flight plan to the airport nearest Dixon Falls, regardless of size. I’ll need a vehicle once we get there.”

  “You got it.”

  Lauren’s gaze went from one man to the other. Trey’s face was terrible; the only other time she’d seen that expression was when her baby had been kidnapped. Her voice quavered. “Trey, what is it? What’s wrong? Is it Jaida? Is she in trouble?”

  Her brother’s face remained stoic, but his eyes were anguished. “I hope not.” The words were harsh, fervent. His gaze met hers. “I sure as hell hope not.”

  Time had long ceased to have any meaning to Jaida. She assumed it had been hours since the noises began, but how many, she couldn’t be sure. The only thing she was certain of was that the threat that had hovered on the brink of her consciousness since late afternoon had materialized.

  She’d spent the time in a numbed state of disbelief. There was no question in her mind that the stranger who had come to her door was the same man outside at this moment trying to break into her house. She was certain of it, just as she was certain of his identity. Somehow Benjy’s kidnapper had traced her here. She was alone, she was isolated and there was no way to summon help.

  She could rely only on herself.

  The realization had a curiously calming effect on the fretful jumble of half thoughts and fears in her head. She had no options, no recourse. She couldn’t try for the truck now. The creak of the heavy front door would give her away and she wouldn’t make it halfway to the vehicle before he came to investigate.

  That meant that she stayed here, in the dim light in the living room, and waited. Each minute was nerve-racking. If she allowed herself to, she could have easily lost control, focusing on the noises coming from outside, imagining with each renewed sound how much closer the man was to getting inside. But after the first long minutes of panic, she firmly banished those thoughts. She had other things to worry about right now.

  Like how to stay alive.

  Jaida had no illusions. Benjy’s kidnapper had come here to learn from her the boy’s whereabouts. And once she had seen the man, she’d be able to identify him, so her fate would be sealed. Once he had the information he sought, she would be expendable.

  She used most of the time she waited searching for a weapon. The results of her search were dismal. There were no firearms in the cabin, of course. There were several lethally sharp kitchen knives, but she seriously doubted her ability to use one on the man. She’d have to get very close to utilize such a weapon, and she simply could not take the chance of touching him. If he attempted to fight with her for the knife, his thoughts and emotions might transfer to her at his touch. She was unsure of her ability to protect herself if she found herself immersed in the twisted, evil workings of his mind.

  Her attention finally landed upon Granny’s selection of nonornamental canes. One of them could more accurately be described as a walking stick. Made of rough-hewn oak, it was solid and heavy. The handle was a round brass knob attached to the top. It would have to do.

  She grasped it tightly and padded soundlessly over to the lamp. She turned the switch off, plunging the room into darkness. Then she moved stealthily into the kitchen. The most obvious place to hide would be in the corner the kitchen door would make when it opened. But she would have to push the door out of the way to get at the intruder, and she couldn’t be sure that the precious seconds that would take wouldn’t tip him off to her presence. So she chose, instead, to stand back on the right side of the door.

  She would be immediately visible when he entered the kitchen, but she was going to have to hope that she could strike before he would see her. She had no doubts that he’d be armed, and once he saw her, she wouldn’t have much chance, regardless.

  He was in the cellar now.

  Jaida swallowed hard and hefted the walking stick into the air, fighting panic. She couldn’t allow fear to overcome her, not in these final moments when she was going to need every bit of wit and cunning. But the seeds of terror, earlier sown, threatened to spring forth, crowding rational thought aside. Her mind frantically sought a point to fixate on and immediately landed on one.

  Trey. His name screamed into her mind, and she mentally clutched it as she would a talisman. It had taken him a long time to come to trust her, to depend on her ability to help him find Benjy. She would never betray that trust now and put that little boy at risk again. For Benjy’s sake, she had to escape the madman in the cellar. She would focus on Trey, on the strength and courage that were so much a part of him, traits that had drawn her to him, made her love him.

  She took a deep breath, feeling the terror ebb a bit, even as she heard the first step of the man on the cellar stairs. She fixed her thoughts on Trey, and a curious sense of comfort flickered through her veins. It was the same sensation she’d felt whenever she’d been held by him, protected by him For the first time since they’d parted she sensed his presence so strongly, could almost feel the strength of his will. It was a curious experience, oddly consoling, but she had no more than a minute to wonder at it.

  The waiting was over. The kitchen door was making its telltale creak as it was pushed open; the man was closer than she’d thought. He was through it before she had a chance to react.

  He must have sensed her presence almost immediately. When Jaida sent the solid piece of oak swinging through the air at him, he was already turning toward her. He didn’t have time to get out of the way, though. His arm came up, a gun pointed at her, before the oak caught him squarely in the side of the head.

  The gun flew out of his hand, clattering on the kitchen floor. It went off with a sound that tore through the night. The man crumpled to the floor in a heap in the doorway. Jaida stood over him, hands trembling on the heavy stick. Adrenaline and fear pounded through her, each vying with the other for supremacy. She wanted to run, but she was rooted to the spot. The man didn’t move.

  Had she killed him?

  The thought filled her with dread and nausea. She knew she needed to use the opportunity to flee, but first strained to hear any sound of his breathing. She lingered for a moment, before satisfying herself that she could hear the thready sound of oxygen being drawn in.

  Abruptly, self-preservation reasserted itself and she began to inch away from the body. She needed to get to the front door. Once she had it opened she could be on her way to freedom.

  She hadn’t taken more than a step before fingers clamped around her ankle. Jaida screamed and raised the stick again. The man was attempting to use his grasp on her to help him up, and bile rose in her throat.

  Evil. It rushed at her, transmitted by his touch, attempting to encompass her in its grasp. His thoughts were fuzzy, but his deadly intent wasn’t. He’d killed people before and they hadn’t mattered—they’d only been a means to an end. One more wouldn’t matter; she wouldn’t matter.

  The vision was upon her suddenly, curling from his subconscious like smoke under a door. The shot had been placed in the center of the forehead, and ugly laughter had sounded as he was praised for his accuracy. The boss had smiled at the way Weber had landed across his feet, begging for mercy like the dog he was . . .

  Jaida screamed again, almost gagging from nausea as the scene in the man’s mind engulfed her. She was still reeling from her unwilling foray into the bloodbath, when another brief flick from the man’s thoughts reached her.

  Now he was lying at this bitch’s feet, just like a dog, just like Weber had, and she’d pay for that; he’d make her pay. He’d have killed her anyway, but now he was going to do it slow and take his time
with her. Before he was done this bitch would be praying to be delivered to the fires of hell . . . .

  The hand grasped her more tightly and the man raised his head, using his other elbow to lever himself from the floor. Jaida struggled against the pervasive shroud of the man’s emotions and intentions threatening to suck her in. Her breath came in sharp little pants. Without conscious thought her hands brought the stick down again, this time striking the man across the shoulder and back. The hand on her ankle weakened; he slumped to the floor, but didn’t completely let go of her. His thoughts were growing weaker, like a transmitter whose battery was wearing down, but Jaida was still unable to free herself completely from them. She had to get away from him—she had to—before she was sucked in for good into that vapid morass of a mind. The pain was starting behind her eyes, clawing over her shoulders and down her spine. She brought the stick down once more on his wrist, stumbling away when his fingers finally released her, not only from a physical grip but from the more deadly mental one.

  The freedom from the vision was dizzyingly relieving, but her limbs, earlier frozen, had returned to life. She ran drunkenly across the dark cabin, bumping into furniture that had remained in familiar locations all her life. At any moment she expected to feel that hand on her again, to be vacuumed back into that sick mind. She had to avoid that, had to, had to . . . .

  She struggled with the dead bolt and chain for endless seconds before she finally had the door open. Then she was racing down the front steps, avoiding the lane, heading for the wooded area surrounding it. Bushes tore at her clothes; tree branches reached for her throat and face. Bringing her hands up to protect herself, she barreled on. She didn’t try to remain quiet. The sounds of her pell-mell flight into the woods reverberated with the snapping of twigs, the pounding of her steps, her ragged breathing.

  She didn’t care about the noise; she didn’t care about the darkness surrounding her. All she knew was that she had to get help. She had to get help before the man reached her again.

  Sobbing, she put on a burst of speed.

  Spotlights beamed across the area in front of Jaida’s cabin. The lane was filled with four sheriff’s cars, and Trey could see several men caught in the lights. He left his rental and sprinted up to the man nearest him.

  His uniform identified the man as a deputy, and his scowl said Trey’s presence wasn’t going to be accepted readily. “Who’re you?”

  “Where’s Jaida?” Trey demanded.

  The younger man tucked one hand into his belt and let the other hover menacingly over his firearm at his side. “I’ll ask the questions ‘round here. Who are ya, and whadda ya want?”

  “I’m the one who called your office. Now, where the hell is Jaida? Is she here? Is she all right?” When it didn’t seem as though answers would be forthcoming from the suspicious deputy, Trey brushed past him, intent on searching for Jaida himself. She had to be here; she had to be safe. The fear that had threatened to swallow him the entire flight across country was rising again, panic rearing its head.

  “Here, now, hold up, I’m talking to you. Sheriff?” the deputy called. “Sheriff, you better come over here.”

  Trey ignored the man’s call, just as he ignored the portly-looking sheriff making his way over to him. His gaze scouted the area frantically, before landing on the porch. Relief filled him. In a few strides he was across the lane and taking the porch steps two at a time.

  “Jaida.”

  She stiffened, pausing in midsentence. Turning from the deputy she’d been talking to, she watched in disbelief as Trey moved toward her, like a specter from her dreams. She was afraid to answer, afraid to move, as if to do so would dissolve this mirage before her eyes. And then she was caught up in his very real arms, her head bent back to receive his very real kiss. The connection was there, crackling and urgent. His mouth was hard, bruising her lips, and she responded suddenly and totally without reservation. She let go of the blanket someone had placed over her shoulders and it slid to the ground as she wound her arms around Trey’s neck. He hugged her tightly, but it wasn’t tightly enough. She could never get close enough to him.

  “Trey.” She sighed against his lips.

  There was a nervous throat clearing from the deputy on the porch, and another voice angrily demanded, “Miss West, are you all right? See here, mister, this is a crime scene, and the perpetrator is still on the loose. Y’all can’t just go barging in here and—”

  Trey raised his head. Now that he had convinced himself that she was in one piece, his gaze moved down her body, cataloguing the scrapes and bruises that marred her skin. That gorgeous hair was a mass of tangles, and her clothing was torn and dirty. His jaw tightened at the evidence of her trauma, and his eyes chilled.

  “He came here,” she whispered, the words shuddering out of her. “And I couldn’t get away. I couldn’t call for help. I had to fight him off, and then he touched me and I saw . . .” Her breath hissed in an almost painful gasp. “Oh, God, Trey, I had to hit him again and again, and I couldn’t get away . . . .” She took a deep breath and he rubbed her back soothingly, pressing her face against his chest.

  “I thought I’d killed him,” she murmured, her voice muffled against him.

  His hands were all the comfort she could ever wish for. “I wish to hell you had,” she heard him respond. And at his words, the horror of the past few hours finally began to recede.

  Chapter 17

  They’d taken turns answering the sheriff’s questions until Trey, seeing the exhaustion on Jaida’s pale face, finally put an end to them. “Let’s wrap it up, Sheriff,” he said flatly. “Jaida needs some rest, and you have enough to keep you busy for the next several hours.”

  The stout officer studied him with shrewd brown eyes. There was a long silence as the man contemplated Trey’s words, before nodding slowly. “Mebbe you’re right. Beggin’ your pardon, Miss West, but you do look all done in. We’ll clear out of here for a while—give you time to rest—and be back at first daylight. Won’t do us any good to search for your intruder till then, anyway. Whoever he was, he ‘pears to be long gone from here.” Leveling a look at Trey, he continued politely, “Of course, we’ll check out the information you were able to give us.”

  Trey nodded, not at all offended that the man wasn’t going to take him at his word. He had to respect the man for doing his job thoroughly. His office had dispatched several cars out here at Mac’s call, and one of the officers had met Jaida, panting and stumbling on the road. It was a faint relief that since he hadn’t been here to protect her, these men had come to her aid with admirable speed.

  The fact that he hadn’t been the one do so would haunt him for the rest of his years.

  After directing them not to disturb the crime scene in the cabin, the sheriff gathered up his officers and the cars headed back to town.

  Trey tightened the arm he had around Jaida’s waist and turned her gently toward the cabin. They mounted the steps without a word, but he noted her visible hesitation before they crossed the threshold.

  Lights were blazing in the living room and kitchen, and Trey stood still, his gaze sweeping the area. Furniture was slightly akilter, giving the room an askew look. Even from this distance he could see that there was some blood on the floor in the kitchen area. He had assured himself earlier of the extent of her injuries, so the sight didn’t fill him with anything other than grim satisfaction. That feeling faded, however, when he noticed the chunk of plaster missing from the wall. There was a small, unmistakable hole in the center of it.

  She noted the direction of his gaze. “He had a gun,” she explained unnecessarily. “It flew out of his hand when I hit him the first time, and it went off.” She surveyed the damage in the wall silently for an instant, and her voice held a note of detachment. “He must not have been able to spot the gun in the dark. Or maybe he wasn’t thinking clearly enough to look for it. The sheriff found it under the table.”

  Her lack of expression about the matter was his undoi
ng. Shock was starting to set in, as she was beginning to realize just what had happened here. What could have happened. She was safe, but he felt an overwhelmingly primal instinct to assure himself of that fact, in the most primitive, satisfying way possible. His arms tightened around her as he fought for control.

  She welcomed his embrace, desperately craved it. Only his touch could stamp out the horror of the past few hours. She needed this and more. She wanted to lose herself in the passion again, and convince them both that the nightmare was over.

  She raised her face for his kiss, and his lips crushed hers with a desire she fully reciprocated. The overpowering emotion in him transmitted to her, and she stiffened in discovery at the voyeuristic peek into his thoughts.

  Her hands became urgent. She started to unbutton his shirt and then, frustrated by her lack of progress, pulled the tails from his jeans and smoothed her hands up his waist. Their gasps mingled as the current flickered to life beneath her touch. With fingers unusually clumsy, Trey unbuttoned her blouse and dispensed with her bra. Her brief feeling of satisfaction was interrupted by his mouth on her breast, and she cried out brokenly. His mouth was hot, wet, compelling. He caught up a handful of her gauzy skirt and raised it above her thighs.

  The night air was cool, even in the cabin, and Jaida gasped as it rushed across her thigh, her breasts. Somehow she managed to get his shirt open, and her hands clutched his chest. A rumble sounded beneath her fingertips as he responded to her touch, and then time seemed to catch them and speed up to an almost dizzying level. He was moving her backward, his chest hair brushing across her breasts, his mouth fastened over hers. Jaida felt the table at the back of her hips.

  Then Trey’s hands were under her skirt, knowing and seeking. Her panties were pulled down, his hand moving between her legs. She was lifted a little, so that she sat on the table’s edge, and he moved between her opened thighs.