The adhesive rolled into little clumps against his fingers as he rubbed his jawline with water. He shoved his face and head under the faucet and let the cold water rush over him. He stood, shook his dark brown hair out and jerked the towel off the rod. It came out of the wall and clattered to the floor.
He left it there, tossed the towel in the sink and walked back out to the living room.
George had vials and syringes set out on the kitchen table along with tourniquets.
Shadow had made several sandwiches. Some carrot sticks and celery. John only raised a brow.
“She might be hungry,” he said.
John doubted it. He grabbed up one half of the sandwich and bit into it, not tasting what he was chewing. The water above had stopped. Becca’s laughter rang down the stairs and he wondered what they were doing.
* * *
Dusk looked in the mirror. The long black hair she’d had all her life lay on the floor in scattered wet clumps. She now had a really short bob. Not bob exactly. It was shorter in the back, lots shorter. The sides danced just below her cheekbones, almost touched her chin, and it kind of fluffed, or it did before Becca applied a tube of hair coloring. She turned her head one way then the other looking at her slicked new do, and vaguely wondered what it would look like finished.
The sunken eyes staring back at her were brown, thanks to colored contacts. Her eyes kept tearing up, but she was getting used to them.
She stared at the girl in the mirror and wondered who the hell she was.
Dark circles bruised her eyes, and her cheekbones, always prominent, bladed out, giving her a bulimic look.
“Okay, back in the shower with you. Wash it out and hurry into your clothes. John will be pacing and ready to go. You still have blood work to do. We don’t want to waste any time,” Becca said, her voice matter-of-fact and still Southern. At least there wasn’t the pretense with this woman that the man Reyer possessed.
But thinking about it all clawed the panic back to life.
No thoughts. Just actions. She’d lived by that for months. She could still do it.
Blood work. Shower. Dress. Blood work. The thought of more needles turned her stomach. Not paying attention to the hair, she climbed back in the shower and washed again, running the water as hot as it would get. She’d already used a good part of the hot water and now it was more tepid, but she didn’t care. It was a shower and no one was getting their jollies watching her.
Tears stung the back of her eyes, but she blinked them away. Don’t think. Just do. Move. Next step. Then the next. Next.
Hurrying, she scrubbed herself again, rinsed her hair out and quickly dried off, dressing in jeans and a white turtleneck. The undergarments were plain white cotton. It had been so long since she’d worn a bra, she just stared at it for a moment. She barely glanced at the woman in the mirror with old bruises mottling her exposed rib cage. Her hipbones, one sporting the vivid crescent scar, poked from her lower abdomen.
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Don’t think. Just do. Dress. She wondered how they’d known her size, though the jeans were a little big, but the brown boots fit perfectly.
In the bedroom, Becca stood with a hair dryer. “Hurry. Time’s a wasting and we still need to get to the Metro.”
“What?” she asked, sitting back down.
“They’ll be looking for you,” Becca explained as she brushed out and dried Dusk’s hair. “We’re splitting up here. The rest of us will meet you and John at a later location, then we’ll all head to London and lay low. Go through detox if you have to.”
Detox. Drugs. Was there a program to rid the rest of the poison the bastards had inflicted on her? Some way to purge it all out of her?
“John and I?” She watched in the mirror as the girl with the tired eyes and fawn-colored hair began to cry.
“Yeah, you and John.”
Alone with the man. The image of him slashed in her brain as she’d first seen him, standing in the room with Mikhail. She’d seen something flash in his dark eyes before his finger had reached out and caressed her cheek, before he’d said something about appreciating beauty. For one instant, she thought it had been rage, but his voice, calm and smooth, had made her think he was just like the others. All the uncaring others.
But he hadn’t been. The flicker of rage had been real and quickly hidden.
Rage for her?
One long tear trickled down her cheek and she didn’t even move to wipe it away.
Another followed. And then another.
No. No. If she cried, she gave them something else.
Sniffing hard, she didn’t think about the future or the past. Just the now.
She noticed Becca had even died her eyebrows. How had she missed that?
Concentrating on things around her, she noticed the scarred dresser, the simple single bed, bare floors, motel art on the walls.
Enough to look livable, but only for appearance sake. There were locks on the doors, beds, food, and warm water.
This was, after all, a safe house.
When the dryer stopped, Dusk gave herself one quick glance. Same hollow eyes, sharp cheekbones, thin neck. But the hair, a light reddish brown color, danced in soft waves around her head. Turning, she stood and followed Becca downstairs where the men were waiting.
Voices filtered from further back in the house. She hadn’t really paid attention to her surroundings when they’d arrived, but she noticed the downstairs was about the same as the upstairs, simple, no frills. Functional. The wooden floors were bare and her boots echoed softly down the tiny hallway to the voices.
Kitchen.
The men were around the counter and a simple squared wooden table. They stopped talking when she and Becca entered. Shadow laid his palms on the counter and glared at John. She wondered why.
John Reyer. He’d changed. His blond hair and the goatee were gone. Something else . . . Now his hair was dark, either black or almost so, short with a widow’s peak.
Dusk looked to the table where vials and syringes lay and felt the monster stir.
“What are you on?” George asked without preamble, motioning her to the chair.
She shrugged. “I don’t know.” Then rubbing her arm where Mikhail had jabbed the needle only as punishment, she said, “He . . . he wouldn’t let them give my anything. Not regularly anyway.” She shuddered. “Dame slipped me some X a few times, but he knew and she wasn’t allowed to give me anything else.”
John frowned, his eyes piercing her. “Why?”
“He wanted me to know . . . ” She sniffed and lowered her gaze. “To know everything. No floaters or soothers for me. There were the times he sent me on his trips. I got the special treat of his K trips.”
“His K trips? Ketamine?” Reyer asked, his voice edged.
She nodded, jerkily, and swiped at her nose. “Yeah. Another punishment, a game, enjoyment, whatever.” She shook her head. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
George motioned to the chair again, frowning, and said, “I’m going to take some blood. I can run a quick tox screen and let John know. Your urine didn’t show any narcotics. No heroin. No speed. No X. Anything else, other than the K, you know of?”
She shook her head. Watched as he tied her arm off with the pinching elastic band and took a syringe for blood.
“Well, the good news is that if you’re all clear, then you can go through a simple antibiotic and antiviral regime.” His voice was soft and flattened New England. His appearance hadn’t changed either from when she met him. Only Reyer had changed a disguise. Mr. Doctor/Driver George still had fair hair and concerned eyes. He bent toward her studying her veins.
She watched as he slid the needle under her skin and hit the vein his first try. Thank God. He capped the vial on the end and released the band. Her blood ebbed into the vial. She looked away and to the kitchen. Utilitarian. No life, no warmth. The white refrigerator was several decades old. The counters were painted blue, but yellow and red peeked th
rough the chipped paint in places. She watched the water drip from the faucet. The long fall of the water as it gathered before it dwamped in the sink.
She saw Becca frown at Reyer and wondered what message they were trying to pass between them.
George cleared his throat and she turned her attention back to him. “There, that was easy.” He filled another vial and one more, then pulled the needle out, swabbed, and pressed a cotton ball in the bend of her elbow, taping it down with a bandage.
At least she wasn’t a freaking junky. There was something to thank Mikhail for. Again the tears stung and again she sniffed. “I read once about heroin addicts and methadone.” He looked at her, his eyes hazel and sharp. “Back when I was in college,” she quickly added, wondering why she’d blurted that out.
“Well, if you’re not lying, then none of that will be a concern of yours.” He patted her hand. “Any other injuries we need to be aware of at this time?”
God, where did she even start? She only shook her head.
George tilted his head and studied her. “Not at this time, then? Well, when you’re in a safer location, we’ll run a full regimen of tests.”
She shuddered.
“I’ll give your antibiotics to John,” his soft voice continued. “The problem is that you can’t take it in your purse, like say acetaminophen or aspirin or something. The police frown on that. But you’ll have enough until the next safe stop.”
Next safe stop . . . The words echoed in her mind.
Was there a safe stop for her?
The memory of a cold gun biting into her neck had her reaching up to rub at her nape.
If Mikhail found her now, he’d kill her. Period. She’d simply attempted to escape him and she knew, had seen, that no one ever got away from Mikhail Jezek.
Chapter 5
Prague, Czech Republic; 2:51 a.m.
Mikhail Jezek did not like what he was hearing. He took a deep breath and looked out over the lights of the city. The luminous green lights of the castle hazed from the square. And somewhere out there . . .
“What did you find?” he asked.
“There is a Reyer registered at the hotel he mentioned, sir, but I don’t think it’s him.”
Still he didn’t turn around. He lifted the crystal tumbler in his hand and took a deep drink of the scotch. It did nothing to wash away the taste that things were going wrong. Very, very wrong.
He knew, knew when he saw the way Reyer eyed Dusk that he should not allow her to go. He should have just cut the deal with the diamonds and been done with it.
The faceted crystal bit into his fingers as he gripped the glass harder.
“Any sign of her?” he asked without turning around.
“No, sir.”
“Did you bother to apprehend the man who was passing himself off as Reyer?” He knew the answer before he asked it.
Luther cleared his throat. “No, sir. I’m sorry. We lost them.”
“Them?”
“The man and the woman.” Luther cleared his throat.
Mikhail turned from the window and leveled a look at Luther. “What else do you have to tell me? What is it you are afraid to report?” He tapped his fingers against the glass before taking another drink.
Luther didn’t drop his eyes to the floor. A reason that kept Luther with him. “The thing, Jezek—there’s a report from the police.”
He frowned, and the gnawing in his gut started to burn. His fingers bit into the rim of the glass. He picked it up and took another drink.
“There was a fire . . . A-a car, sir. And . . . ” Luther trailed off and cleared his throat again.
At the end of his patience, Mikhail snapped, “And?”
“There was a body inside. He was wearing one of our medallions.”
Mikhail bit down. Everyone who worked for him, for the bosses, earned a medallion. Those who lived and frequented the Devil’s Strip or Hell’s Alley knew of the medallions. No matter which family the guard or drone worked for, essentially they were all part of the same team. The medallions had been his idea and the bosses liked knowing there was unity among them all.
He looked down at his ring. The design matched that of the medallions, which were simple silver pieces the size of a coin. An engraved D—a pitchfork and devil’s tail wove the letter together.
If someone had been found with the medallion, it meant one of them was dead.
“Explain.”
“Our informant said the car was a black limo, or appeared to be. The man was sitting in the front seat and appears to have been killed by a gunshot wound to the back of the head before the fire started. He was not certain though. The only thing known is the medallion found on the remains.”
Peter. He knew. Without being told, Mikhail knew.
Just as he knew that Dusk was gone.
Fuck!
He threw the glass against the wall, shards shattering down in a crystal fall. “Damn bitch!” Zmrd—the asshole. He’d find the bastard! And her! Kurva! Rage hot and thick roared through him.
He glanced around the living room of his home, not seeing the expensive furnishings of leather and silks, ignoring even the scantily clad women draped on the chaise. He kicked a stand that held a priceless Ming vase. It crashed to the floor and he stamped on the pieces that were left.
No one, no one left him. And by God . . .
His heart pounded in his head, roared against his ears.
This was the second girl this month he’d lost, if in fact . . .
He vaguely heard Luther say something, heard the clatter of heels as the women scurried from the room. He didn’t care.
Damn it all to hell and back.
The bosses would not be happy. He wasn’t to lose another. Mikhail Jezek didn’t lose anything. And he never let down the bosses. No one, no damn one made him look bad to the bosses. Not ever.
Dusk. He saw her fighting him, saw the anger in her, heard her screams in his head as she’d been taught her place.
He could still see the pale glacier eyes staring at him in fear and submissiveness as she’d begged for her life, as she’d promised not to ever escape.
“N-no. No, I promise, I won’t ever do that. I won’t ever escape.”
A roar ripped from his chest. He’d actually thought, actually believed he could change her, let her see all he’d give her, make her accept her place with him. He picked up the side table from the end of the sofa and tossed it, the lamp, its custom-made Moravian crystal shade, shattering as it hit the hard floor. He wished it was Reyer’s skull.
Bastard. How dare he take what was Mikhail’s. No one, not a single soul took what belonged to Mikhail Jezek. Reyer, or whoever the hell the bastard was, would pay and pay dearly for taking her.
Mikhail took a deep breath, trembling with the force of controlling his rage. When he opened his eyes and saw the destruction, he fisted his hands.
“Find them.”
“We’re checking the hotels in the city,” Luther said.
Mikhail took another deep breath. He’d have to report the loss of another girl. The bosses would not be happy.
He kicked a piece of the lamp out of the way. “You stupid fool. They’re not in the city. Get the word out. I want someone at every embassy, every bus station, the airports, and the border crossings.”
He’d known.
The calm look of Reyer had warned him. The man had been too calm. Too still.
Had she known?
Mikhail closed his eyes and thought about Dusk. That swarthy, exotic skin, the dark black hair, the icy eyes. She hadn’t known. He’d seen the fear in her eyes, the worry, even the hatred as she’d stared at Reyer when the man had touched her.
So who was he?
It didn’t matter. That man would die. Whether or not Mikhail killed Dusk right off was another matter. If she’d left willingly, then he’d make her suffer. If she was an innocent pawn in all this, some move against him . . . He’d see.
No one left Mikhail Jezek.
> “Find them,” he lashed out again. “Contact me as soon as you know something.”
He walked across the room, the rage still riding him hard. He needed to get rid of it so he could think. Where were the women? He went in search of the stupid little pretties that would have to suffice for a current replacement of those who angered him.
Dusk . . .
* * *
Near the German-Czech border; 3:02 a.m.
The checkpoint was open this time of night. Why, she wasn’t certain and didn’t care. They would know. Someone would know. They always knew. How had she thought she’d get out of this alive? Her hands wouldn’t stop trembling.
Mr. John Ashbourne, no longer Reyer, reached out and clasped her hand, leaning down to say, “It’s all right, darling.”
The name change didn’t really surprise her. For some reason, it seemed one of the more normal things of the whole damn night. Her brain couldn’t seem to wrap around everything. Not quickly enough. Things were going so fast.
Mr. and Mrs. Ashbourne. They were heading to Berlin to fly home after a mini vacation, but she had fallen ill. Good thing she looked the part.
Ice chipped through her veins and she looked around, not wanting to lean on Ashbourne, but not wanting to draw attention to them.
They had to get away. The feeling the noose was closing in on them would not go away. It was as if she were still forced to wear that damn collar, but this time, it squeezed, like angry hands. Waiting, just waiting for her to make one wrong move.
The old building was probably built back during the Cold War and hadn’t changed too much since. Scuffed and scarred linoleum, no longer a color other than gray, covered the floor. There were four people in front of them, all college students from the laughter and sounds of things. One was sick, still drunk and swaying, but still grinning. She vaguely wondered if they’d just hopped over the border from Germany to have a bit of fun like too many others she’d known. Maybe so, but they seemed harmless enough.
Harmless? What the hell did she know of harmless?
Every face she saw as a potential danger. Someone watching her too closely.
Hunted Page 5
