by Jade Hart
At least the pain chased away the red fog and I settled back into my own thoughts, no longer plagued by the thirst for mayhem.
I blinked. One purchaser remained. He was on his knees, twisting his hands. The fire illuminated the planes of his face, playing with his sunken cheeks and haggard eyes.
“Why are you still here?” I asked, unable to stop the tremble in my voice. Every inch of me was drained. The whip-marks on my back bled, sending droplets of warmth through my top.
“I want a clean death,” the man sobbed hard. “I didn't want to do this. My brother organized it all. My HIV is too far gone. I don't believe raping a virgin will cure me. I want to die without that on my conscience. Please.”
How could I kill a man who confessed his innocence? I only killed monsters. This man was sick, no doubt, and who knew if he would’ve gone through with the rape, but I couldn't kill him. Not now.
I dropped to his level, resting my bloody weapon across my knees. “I'm sorry. But I won't kill you.”
He buckled, tears streaming. “I'm sorry. I'm sorry.” He rocked, holding his skeletal chest. “Please, forgive me.”
I reached out to touch his head, but pulled back. Maurice's warning came back to mind: They could contaminate you.
“Only you can forgive yourself.” I stood. This man was no danger.
I ran to the undergrowth and hacked at a branch holding green leaves. Rushing back, I threw it on the fire. Almost instantly, black smoke rose. It mingled with the dark sky, blotting out the stars. How Maurice's men with the Jeeps would see it in the gloom, I didn’t know, but I did my part.
Even though the area was secured, I didn’t let my guard down. Taking a deep breath, I investigated tent after tent.
Blondes, redheads, and brunettes. Girls ranging from Thembi’s age to late teens were bound to camp beds, drugged into oblivion. Their hair was brushed and draped angelically over the pillow; their gowns were pristinely pure. I had a terrible urge to cry. Thanks to Maurice’s research, these girls would wake up in a few hours none the wiser—healthy and untouched.
In the distance, a rumble of tires on gravel and 4WD engines drifted on the breeze. Help was here. I was free.
I waited till six pairs of headlights appeared. A man from each vehicle exited and ran toward the tents.
That was my cue to leave.
Maurice expected me to go home. To rest, heal, and allow him to dote on me for a few days. But I had other ideas. I agreed that it was too soon to go after Bazeer again, but it didn’t mean I was going to sit at home and twiddle my thumbs. I had certain matters to attend to.
Things involving a certain cop and some money.
Operation Counter-Attack had commenced.
*****
It was easy to find where Callan Bliss lived. The cop didn't guard his online footprint. Ten minutes spent on a Google search yielded his building address. And he called himself a cop. Did he not value his privacy? Was he not worried a disgruntled criminal would search him out for payback?
Pleased my plan had sailed so smoothly, I exited the small internet cafe on Hall Street, Bondi, and headed straight to a takeaway shop. After inhaling a chicken kebab and devouring too many pieces of Turkish delight, I was ready to hunt.
Luckily, no one noticed the black machete strapped to my back, merging with my black Lycra outfit. That would have been rather hard to explain.
Callan's building was in North Bondi, not far from the local town hub, but far enough away from the backpacking bar scene. The sun slowly set, dappling shadows on the beach-bunnies and tanned men playing soccer. Bondi curved around a gentle bay with icing sugar sand and old architecture that was run down but added to the seaside appeal. Shades of dove blue and pastel pink gave the town an almost whimsical air.
I strolled along the beach, soaking up the atmosphere, before I crossed the road and stood in front of Callan Bliss's apartment building. I scanned the buzzers, looking for the small plaque stating who lived where.
Got him. He lived on the top floor: 8D: C Bliss.
Silly man. He should never have his real name on these things—way too easy for people like me to find him. I didn't bother to buzz. He was, after all, on a plane, flying back from England after his romantic but idiotic attempt to see me—or at least, I thought he was.
With a full stomach, making sure no one was around, I ported into the foyer of the building.
I was welcomed by headache, cracked plaster-work, and crumbling bricks. For an expensive suburb, the buildings sure needed an overhaul.
The staircase was a joke of bland tiles, and scattered letters dotted the floor. I wasn’t touching the banister for all the money in the royal family. I didn't need a microscope to see it crawled with germs.
Gingerly making my way upstairs, I passed two apartments per floor, a total of four floors. I stopped outside 8D.
I was pleased to see Callan looked after his place. A fresh lick of blue paint brightened his front door. The color was exactly like the sea on a summer's morning. I had the right apartment: it screamed ‘surfer’.
I ported again—the short distance didn’t hurt too much, and invaded Callan's private world.
The port amplified the cold seepage in my soul. It was a constant chill. My night of killing earned me five new marks. How many more could I endure before I was no longer me? Something was muted, emotion shaded with shadows, I was missing a spark—the spark who was Ocean Breeze. I was terrified that I was close to the end.
But to hell with all of that. I was in Callan's apartment! Snooping time.
He'd left his sliding door open to his balcony, and the air was fresh and salty. The view looked down the beach toward the crashing waves and seaside buildings of Bondi. His kitchen and living room were all open-concept with a surfboard in a rack by the breakfast bar. I didn't know what I expected, but a sleek black kitchen and chunky wooden counter-top was not it. His sense of style was bachelor but modern. It suited him.
A flat screen graced one wall, along with a massive painting of a rolling wave and tropical palm trees. His couch was comfy cream leather with throw pillows obviously from Bali judging by the thread and bead work.
There was a bathroom with a separate bath and shower; nothing flash, but it was clean, which was surprising.
I followed the corridor to his bedroom, not feeling guilty in the slightest for snooping.
The king-sized bed was decorated with a black and white checked bedspread. A stack of books was on the floor, with a pair of socks strewn beside it. I didn't want to admit, but I was looking for evidence of women. I knew he was single by how he pursued me, but it didn't mean he was averse to tumbling with a replacement until he found his ever-after love.
What was I? Ocean, stop it. You're nothing. Not even a minor diversion, certainly not his ever-after love. And if he had any disillusions about that, I set him straight in England. Pity I wasn’t listening to my own advice to stay away.
There was no evidence of female company. Not in the drawers, the bathroom, or the fridge. My nose wrinkled. There was only a moldy piece of cheese. He definitely hadn't had dates around in a while. I didn't know why that pleased me so much. You're a terrible liar, Ocean.
During my forage in his apartment, I hunted for my money. That was why I was here, after all. Not to see Callan, but to retrieve what was right-fully mine. If I could find my cash, I could leave, and he'd never know I was here. But no luck. I looked in all the obvious places—under the mattress, under the couch, in the oven. Nothing.
Night stole the dusk, and the shadows were too deep to do anything more than sit on the couch and scowl at the front door. I could turn on the light and keep hunting, but he’d see it when he came home. And I wanted this to be a surprise. Let's see how he liked being sprung upon when he was tired and jet-lagged, and most likely pissed at me for the way I treated him.
Another hour ticked past. How long till he came home? How long must I wait before I could get my money back? Sleepiness fought with incessant
anxiety that any moment he would walk through his door. He’d come home and find me here. I swallowed hard as I imagined myself launching into his arms and kissing him. My mouth watered. Would he taste like the sea he lived in?
Chapter Twenty-one: Callan
Ten hours I'd been in Korea, and for five of those I was unconscious. Sleep deprivation had finally caught up with me, and upon arrival at Kim's house, I passed out. He lived in a three-story monstrosity, held prisoner by a black steel fence.
I knew this house well. The room I stayed in when I participated in the school exchange was the same floral and white affair.
Now, five hours later, I was focused, excited, and ready to learn.
I descended the stairs from the top story and came face-to-face with Mr. Kim's maid. She was pretty, petite, and entirely too demure for my liking. Ocean filled my head again—her crackle and fire. Her tenacity. Why couldn't I like agreeable women? I rolled my eyes. Because I'd walk all over them and be bored within two seconds flat, that's why.
“You looking for Mr. Kim. Yes?” the maid asked.
I nodded, looking around the living room for any glimpse of Kim’s wife. I’d grown close to her while living with them; it’d be nice to say hello. She was tiny, but had a temper on her, just like Ocean. “Do you know where he is?” I had questions for him. Lots of questions. Who I reported to. Whether I could pick my own cases. I had two in mind: hunt the Breeze family murderers, and help Wade with his missing girl mystery. And something top secret: investigate why Ocean could teleport. That one drove me nuts.
She shook her head, disappearing into a small office off the lounge. The bottom level was huge. A sitting room stuffed with white leather furniture, blobbing like islands on the black tiled floor. A pink rug, the size of my apartment, rested under a ten-seater dining room table.
Did Kim have dinner meetings here with the KCIA? Why had I never heard of them? How did Kim keep me in the dark the entire time I worked in Bali? I had a feeling he and Maurice Green would get along.
The maid reappeared holding a red envelope. Something about the color caused nerves of excitement and curiosity to dance over my body. The hard lump injected into my arm twinged, reminding me I might be in way over my head.
Somehow, in a whirlwind of craziness, I was the newest Abroad Agent Intel for KCIA. It was fucking awesome.
“This for you. Mr. Kim say you go home, and he will be in touch with assignments. Something came up. He unable to show you personally.”
I opened the envelope and found a business class ticket to Sydney, along with a new phone. I didn't recognize the brand, but it was sleek and reeked of up-to-date technology. My eyes widened. “This plane ticket says the flight leaves in one hour.”
“Yes, I was about to wake you. You are late. But I arrange driver, he is waiting.”
For the first time, I noticed my suitcase by the large front door. On the other side of the glass sliders, a limousine waited in the marble courtyard.
Guess I better hurry.
“Thank you,” I muttered, and bolted out the door.
*****
Ten hours later, I watched the taxi meter climbing higher and higher as I hurtled down the hill toward Bondi Beach. The flight was uneventful and I was unable to sleep because I was nose-deep in the missing girl's file from Australia. I thought I found a link to Bazeer, but I wasn’t sure.
My brain wouldn't switch off, and I was knackered again. So much for my five-hour nap in Korea. It was all beginning to seem like a weird dream. Did I really get diverted and injected with a tracking beacon? Was I really a secret agent for the Korean Central Intelligence Agency? I still had trouble believing it.
I relaxed into the vinyl seat as Bondi came into view. It was after nine in the evening and hard-core runners still ran on the dark beach, disappearing and appearing beneath huge spotlights. The waves were silver, thanks to the pregnant moon blobbing on the horizon.
Outside my building, I paid the fare, and punched the code to enter.
Something made my hackles rise. A smell, a sense—something was different.
I climbed the stairs slowly, trying to figure out why my instincts screamed. The stairwell was same old, same old. Nothing out of place. Perhaps a new tenant moved in while I was away?
I frowned as I slipped the key into my lock. A waft of a scent. Heavy, wild. . . infused with antiseptic. Some memory tugged at my jet-lagged senses.
My apartment was dark, the sliding door wide open how I left it. I wasn’t afraid of robbers. If someone wanted to risk climbing four stories, they deserved my crappy TV.
The scent was stronger here, enveloping me with the night breeze.
Breeze.
Ocean!
I didn't flinch, even as my heart kick-started and my hands instantly slicked with sweat.
She was here. In my apartment. She was here!
I moved slowly. Placing my suitcase down, I kept my back to the couch, where a silhouette rested in shadow. Was she here for me or her cash? Don't answer that.
Time to play a little game. My fingers shook as I tiptoed into the kitchen and slid my hand behind my microwave. My off-duty weapon was located there. Cocked and ready. Time to get a little pay-back for the embarrassment and humiliation she put me through in England.
I took the bullets out—just to be safe and took a deep breath. This could totally back fire on me. Served her right. She was horrid to me in England; least she could've done was agree to a coffee.
Ignoring my sane side telling me I was nuts, I spun on my heel, yelling, “Who the fuck are you, and how did you get in here?”
Chapter Twenty-two: Ocean
Sleep shattered. I was under attack. The men I killed in the game reserve roared back to mind. They’d resurrected. They wanted to kill me. Black smog settled over my senses, telling me to inflict pain. Ravage. Murder.
I shot off Callan's couch, unsheathing my machete in one fluid movement. I huddled, snarling in the darkness. Where was the enemy? Who was about to die? The strange anger receded leaving me confused.
My chest rose and fell hard. I blinked.
Callan freakin' Bliss aimed a gun at me, his legs apart, face unreadable. Shit, the guy held a serious grudge.
A tremor of warning ran over my flesh. My heart did some crazy Latin move leaving my lungs wheezing. Tension uncoiled from my limbs as I turned into a puddle of need.
He was delicious. Dangerous. Angry.
He didn't turn on the lights, but prowled toward me with liquid grace, seething with the sea’s energy.
“Is that my t-shirt you’re wearing?” His voice was a growl.
Lustful infatuation star-burst in my belly. Why did he have to be so sexy? I reined in my inappropriate thoughts and welcomed anger instead. “I used your shower, too. You’re late. You were supposed to be here yesterday.”
“Says who?” His eyes glittered.
“Says the flight from Manchester.” I desperately wanted to ask where he went. But I kept my lips closed. I wasn't interested. Yep, I’m lying to myself again. I was in huge trouble. Who knew pulling a gun on me was such amazing foreplay? My machete grew sensual in my hands. I stroked the shaft before resting the blade tip on his shag-pile rug.
Callan's hand shot out and flicked a switch. I winced; the overhead light blinded me. He turned the dimmer so the glare diminished to a soft glow.
My eyes fell from his face to the glint of light on the muzzle of his revolver. That was sexy as hell. Flames of need ignited. All thoughts of finding my cash were drowned by the urge to stroke him. Pet him. To see if his skin was as soft as it looked.
“Are you planning on shooting me for wearing your t-shirt?” I cocked my hip, daring him. I couldn't tear my eyes away. This was a very bad idea—I shouldn't have come. I was in deep trouble with the way my body totally disregarded me, snarling for his touch.
Callan scowled. “The t-shirt I can live with. How the flaming hell did you get in here? How did you know where I lived?”
I bristled. Was he not happy to see me? Then a shot of guilt reminded me of the way I treated him in England. He kinda deserved to be pissed.
Well, I was pissed too. He stalked me and invaded my private emails. I was the one wronged here—not him. “Probably the same way you found out where Maurice lived.” I glared, clenching my hands harder around my machete.
He gave me a reluctant smile. “Fair enough.” Eyes dropped to my weapon. “You figured you needed a sword in Bondi?”
“No. I took care of some business before coming here.” I sheathed it and placed it on the coffee table, baring my empty palms. “You're safe now.” I smirked.
“I am so relieved.” He held up the gun, placing it beside my so-called sword. “Now we're both unarmed.” He half-smiled, eyes lingering on my torso. “It's quite a welcome home—drawing a knife on me in my own apartment after the way you behaved in England. A bit of warning would've been nice.”
The coffee table was between us, but the air crackled with a fusion of energy and awareness. This man was totally delusional. I laughed, my temper hot. “You have nerve saying that after you stalked me.”
His eyes snapped to mine; their green was a deep emerald tonight. “Stalked you? I didn't hear from you. What was I supposed to do? I thought you were dead! Then you kick me out within ten minutes. It was humiliating.” His body tensed. “You really are a piece of work. I don't know why I bothered.”
My chest tightened. Was he finally giving up? I straightened my back. Of course he gave up. Why would he chase someone who obviously didn't want him? I was a bitch, and I’d ruined whatever might have been between us.
My head dropped. “I'm sorry, Callan.” The words were out of my mouth before I could think.
He blinked, eyes heavy with jet-lag.
“I was rude to you in England, and I shouldn't have come. But I need that money. If you give me the envelope, I'll leave.” Something tickled my scalp—rejection. It hurt more than I thought. Served me right. There was only so much a man would take before he threw it away. And I couldn't chase him. I didn't chase friendship or love. I chased monsters and killers.
