Hunted

by Clark, Jaycee

  Morgan smiled. “Yeah, and most of the girls I knew were jealous as hell that they weren’t the lucky ones.”

  For a minute they shared a look that spoke of horrors neither wanted to discuss. “Well, looks like you got out.”

  A tremor shook her. “For now.”

  Amy frowned. “I feel that way too. Like any minute someone’s going to come through the door and drag me back.” She shook her head. “I’ll be damned if I let that happen. I’ll die first and hopefully take some of the sonofabitches with me.”

  Morgan swallowed, wishing she had that attitude, that drive. But she was too tired to fight anymore.

  Amy continued. “They ruined it all. I can never go home. They’re putting me in some damn protection program.” She huffed. “Which I figure, what difference does it make. What are we waiting on anyway? Why can’t I just go home?” She turned on the couch to face Morgan more directly.

  Morgan flipped another page in the magazine she’d looked at yesterday; the models still looked the same, the articles hadn’t changed and the cover was still torn.

  “I don’t know. They probably just want to make sure we’re all right. Not going to . . . ” What were they waiting on? “Not going to . . . ”

  Amy rolled her eyes. “Yeah, I thought so too, at first. I want to go home. Home.” She reached out and poked Morgan’s leg. “I know your name’s Morgan. Can I call you Morg?”

  Morgan raised a brow. For some reason the question seemed funny.

  “Are you always like this?”

  Amy nodded. “Used to be, and plan to be again. So where are you from?”

  What’s your name? Where are you from? Tell us! Damn it, tell me or I’ll make you scream! Morgan shook the memory off and shoved it away.

  “Hey, if you don’t want to tell me, that’s fine. I guess if you know I escaped you know I went by Sparkle. Stupid, freaking glittering candy cane.” She shifted, anger lacing the words. She reached over and pulled out a cigarette from a crumpled pack.

  Morgan wished Amy wouldn’t smoke, then grinned. They were lucky to be alive, and out, lucky to not be crack or heroin addicts, not to have some horrible disease, and she wished the girl wouldn’t smoke.

  Amy took a drag and glanced at her, those dark brows arching. “What?” she said as she blew out a stream of smoke.

  Morgan shook her head, still grinning over the ludicrous stupid thought. “Nothing.”

  “No, what?”

  She shut the magazine and stood and sat on the couch beside Amy. “I was fixing to tell you that it’s not healthy to smoke,” she said, laughter coming through.

  Amy grinned, those dimples pitting her cheeks, then laughed. “Oh, yeah, this nicotine is a bitch. God only knows what my body is trying to kick, the nicotine will definitely do me in.” She passed the pack to Morgan.

  What the hell. Morgan pulled one out, leaned over and let her friend light it up. A friend.

  “All right. I know we don’t want to be too forthcoming with where we’re from and who we are”—Amy waved a negligent, red-enameled-nail hand—“and all that crap. But I figure you and I can at least be honest with each other. So spill.” She stuck her hand out to Morgan. “I’m now and henceforth known as Amy. Amy Rodriguez.”

  Morgan smiled and shook her hand. “You’re supposed to do Rodriguez first.”

  “Huh?”

  “Bond. James Bond.” The nicotine burned the back of her throat and she coughed.

  Amy rolled her eyes. “Never smoked?”

  Morgan held the cigarette out and studied it. “It’s been a while.”

  “And you are?”

  I am? She licked her lips and took another drag. I am . . . the name she’d whispered in her head in the dead of night. I am . . .

  “Morgan Gaelord.”

  “See, not so hard.” Amy smiled. “From?”

  “Texas.”

  Amy took another drag. “California myself. Though now I have no idea where they’ll stick me.”

  They sat in silence for a while.

  “You got family?” Amy asked.

  Forget the cigarette. She hadn’t eaten and nausea rolled in her stomach. “Yeah.” She leaned over and stabbed it out in the ashtray.

  “Me, too. Parents, three brothers, one younger sister.” She sighed and leaned back, her voice lowering. “I haven’t seen them in about two months.” She looked out the window. “Probably won’t ever see them again. Too dangerous. So I guess I should get used to saying, ‘No, I have no family.’ I’m told I was an orphan.”

  Morgan realized that it could be worse. What if they told her she could never, ever go home? Panic fluttered in her breast, and she twisted her hands together.

  “I’m alive and out and away. So, I won’t gripe, and if I stay in hiding, they can’t find me or my family.” Amy took a deep breath and huffed it out.

  “It still sucks,” Morgan said.

  For a moment neither said a word. “Can you believe it’s almost Christmas?”

  Morgan actually had no idea what day it was. It could be two days until Christmas Eve. Whichever, whenever, no holiday excitement filled her. No sense of joy or peace. Well, maybe a little. There was a peace in knowing you weren’t flat on your back, or side, or wherever the hell you were told to be, servicing.

  “So, Miss Morgan Gaelord, whereabouts in Texas are you from?” Amy asked.

  “Dallas, for all intents and purposes.”

  “Dallas, huh? Got a cowboy waiting on you at home?”

  Morgan only looked at her. “No.”

  Amy shrugged. “I did. Cutest thing in Wranglers and Justins.” A sad smile flitted at the corners of her mouth. “Guess he’s got someone else by now. Maybe one day I’ll actually find someone else. Though right now, all men can roast in hell.”

  The thought of any man tensed her muscles, screamed at and twisted her stomach.

  Morgan decided she didn’t want to talk about this anymore. “Can we change the subject?”

  Amy nodded. “Yeah, or I’ll need another cigarette.”

  “What are you going to do, Miss Amy Rodriguez?”

  For a moment, Amy said nothing. “I don’t know what the hell I’m going to do. You mean a job?” She shrugged. “I don’t know what I want anymore. I just try to concentrate on the fact that I’m out. I’m out and for the moment I’m alive.” She finished off the cigarette. “That should be enough. But I’m finding it harder and harder. I just want to go home.”

  Morgan nodded. “Me, too.”

  “I told them I wanted to be a cop. I don’t care where they put me, as long as it’s got a Hispanic community—I really can’t stand bigotry—and I want to be a cop. They’re working on the papers, I’m told.”

  Morgan thought. What would she do when she went home? Were they going to let her go home? Her rescuer had never said. Was that why he pushed so hard on her identification? Had Mikhail known who she was? Probably not. No. No, he’d wanted to know too badly. If he found anything, he might see her in an old magazine ad—back when she modeled. If he even recognized her. Hell, she didn’t even recognize herself and it had been well over a year since she’d been in any ads, from which anyone would learn the model was Liv Morgan. No one knew her real name. No one.

  Except those who rescued her. Could she trust them?

  Morgan thought about it. Ashbourne had been nice. No, more than nice. His eyes might disconcert her, but he was gentle and kind. He’d awakened her from her nightmares and kept the demons at bay, telling her some stupid story about his years at St. Andrews. St. Andrews. Men like that probably came from money. Average Joes didn’t go to St. Andrews University, at least that she knew. But what the hell did she know?

  Did it matter? Why couldn’t she think anymore? It was like she couldn’t hold a single thought. Everything just flitted through her mind in jumbled, tangled pieces.

  She rubbed her arms, felt the headache building in her neck. “Tell me about being a cop. How come you want to be a cop?”

&n
bsp; Amy’s eyes narrowed. “Because I’m never again going to be a damn victim.”

  Morgan frowned, wondered what that really had to do with anything, but didn’t say anything. If Amy believed that being a cop gave her power, who was she to disagree? She couldn’t even think about opening a door and walking out on the stoop, let alone down the steps and sidewalk.

  Haven or prison? Survivor or victim—sometimes there were no lines and only shades of gray.

  Chapter 10

  One week later; London; December 11

  Lincoln Jonathan Blade III sat in the conference room of the London office. The shop, Blade Jewelers, was busy today, but then this was New Bond Street and it was always busy. Today he was Lincoln Blade, this evening he’d revert back to Mr. Ashbourne. Hell, it was a wonder he could remember who he was.

  He glanced at his briefcase in the corner, glad the diamonds were back safely in the shop’s vault.

  He sighed and finished typing up the request for the Russian diamonds. He looked over the contracts with a small designer out of Arizona for their Las Vegas, Nevada, shop and wondered how many new artists they could sign in the new year.

  New artist usually meant new sales, but with economies he had to be cautious, yet daring at the same time. Location also helped determine the type of jewelry. He’d learned long ago that few things were universal. Gemstones and ore, yes. Designs, no.

  He tapped his pen on the blotter and rolled his neck. He had things to see to here with Blade’s. A longtime family business, he’d been cut off from it for years until the old matriarch, his father’s mother, passed on.

  Imagine the rest of the family’s surprise, to learn he’d inherited it all.

  And he’d made a profit, every year. Like his other area of life, running Blade’s was a game. Profit or loss, adding in new variables as often as possible. But still a game. Not as life-and-death as becoming other people. It was a wonder to him at times that he could remember his own name—Lincoln Jonathan Blade III. Between the family business and working for Interpol, he stayed busy. After the days in Prague, he was behind here in the office.

  He could no more give up one area than he could the other. In his mind, they were both who he was. But then the more . . . shaded part of his existence had come crashing into him just after he’d inherited and he’d still been bitter.

  He remembered too the day his grandmother tracked him down in New York and demanded he return to do his duty to the family.

  What duty? After his father was killed on a buying trip to Johannesburg, South Africa, the Blade family turned their back on the widow and young children. Thankfully, his mother had her own family in the business in New York. The two merging companies had allowed Blade’s to extend over the Pond, not that anyone in his family had remembered that. There had always been a bit of a grudge between his father’s mother, Vivian Blade, and his mother. Over what exactly, he didn’t know, nor did he care.

  Upon his father’s death, he, his mother, and his younger sister soon moved back to New York. He’d been fourteen and Veronica ten. He looked at the photo of the young woman on his desk.

  Veronica.

  Impetuous and foolish, but how she loved life, even at nineteen.

  He hadn’t lied to Morgan Gaelord about losing someone in the hells. Veronica had been taken off the streets in Amsterdam. And ransomed seven years ago. Of course, Vivian Blade, his grandmother, refused to pay ransom of any kind. It had taken him too long to obtain the millions they’d ask for from New York. He’d never been able to forgive his grandmother.

  Veronica had died because he hadn’t been fast enough.

  Lincoln fisted his hand.

  Two months later, his grandmother died, and he’d been in charge of the family business from this end as well.

  But someone who had been part of the case of his sister’s ransom had noticed what had happened, realized with his connections in the gem world that he might be useful.

  After months of training with an elite team—he’d lied and told his mother he was going on an extended buying trip—he’d learned things he’d never dreamed of before. They’d told him then it would probably only be once, maybe twice, but it went on. He knew dealers, traders, and dealing in diamonds was a commodity. The gems could be converted to cash and were much easier to transfer physically than what would equal five million EU or USD.

  Lincoln Blade took many business trips checking out new mines, finding new dealers, discovering the best in raw gemstones from the volcanic mines of Africa to the barren plains of Australia, to muddy riverbanks in India.

  Luckily, to keep the cover, he did manage several actual and factual business trips a year.

  The other trips were for something else altogether. He’d helped MI5 and 6, been a consultant for the feds in the U.S., and his current role was within a task force of Interpol. Skin trade was deep and dangerous, but it often fronted for other activities. Activities about which governments wanted more information. On that end, he’d found very little and passed on what he did discover. His job for the last three years was the girls.

  The girls. So many they’d helped get out, and so many, many more they had to leave in the hells. He closed his eyes.

  He knew it was risky bringing two girls into contact with each other. The team had rarely taken that venue, but he didn’t see a choice. The further he removed Morgan from Jezek’s clutches, the safer she’d be.

  But he also knew enough of the last girl they’d rescued thanks to her file, the doctor’s report and her mouth to know that she would be all right and make it. Protection program or no.

  Amy Rodriguez wanted to be a cop.

  He opened the briefcase and pulled out another file. Marvelous. She’d been accepted into the New Mexico Police Academy in Santa Fe, New Mexico. They’d book her flight for later in the week and he’d send Becca with her to make certain everything went smoothly.

  Linc dropped the file into the case and sat back in his chair. He’d gotten no more out of the girls together than he had alone, but that wasn’t a surprise to him. It was one reason self-help and support groups were so bloody popular. People who had suffered could understand what the others were going through when other people never could. Standing, he decided that was enough for the day. Leaving them together was one thing. Too much time, too close, and Amy’s cover could be jeopardized. The whole situation would be hard enough on her, he didn’t want to compound the problem by taking a friend away.

  Problems, problems. What must a peaceful day feel like?

  Rising, he closed down his computer and walked into the shop.

  The day was busy. Two clerks nodded to him; his secretary was off on her lunch break.

  The cases gleamed under the strategically placed lights. Gems rainbowed from velvet-lined beds, gold shimmered, silver beckoned, and diamonds tempted. He took a deep breath, smelled the ammonia used to keep the cases spotless, and the mix of perfumes the sellers and customers wore.

  One day, all he’d have to worry with would be whether or not some sod wanted a trinket for his mistress or a more lasting and impressive piece for his wife.

  Today, he needed to check on Jezek.

  * * *

  Prague, Czech Republic; December 11, 6:29 p.m.

  Jezek listened to the messenger standing beside Luther.

  “And?” he asked.

  The messenger, a young man with spiked hair and too many body piercings for Mikhail to ever consider employing him, shifted his weight. Dressed in black, dirty baggy jeans, a red T-shirt advertising one of Germany’s hottest rock bands, and boots. Mikhail looked at Luther and raised a brow.

  “Well, I listened. The boarding pass for the rail read Amsterdam.”

  He turned his attention back to the youth. “Amsterdam.”

  “Yes, yes, sir. It’s in the Netherlands.”

  Mikhail smiled, not amused. “Yes, I know where the city is.”

  “Well, um . . . that is . . . ”

  Mikhail took a deep breat
h. Finally a clue.

  “Yes?”

  “They were arguing, quiet, but I heard them as I loaded the bags in the cab,” the young man said. He worked at another hotel in town.

  Mikhail stayed silent.

  “She wanted to head to Rome, then home. He said no, to stick to the plan.”

  The plan?

  Mikhail rubbed his jaw. “Did they say any more.”

  The boy shook his head. “No, sir. The man, Mr. Richards, looked up and motioned to me.” He shrugged. “The lady got in the cab, the man tipped me and climbed in. That’s all I know.”

  Mikhail nodded, disappointed, yet glad to have the clue. Someone who could talk with enough persuasion.

  He stayed his hand and said, “Thank you for helping us out.” He looked to Luther. “My man Luther will pay you for your trouble.”

  Luther tilted his head and took the lad by the arm. Shame, the boy wanted to help, but Mikhail could tell by looking in those eager green eyes that the boy would never do for one of them. And he knew too much.

  He listened as Luther lead the boy out, down the hallway, waited until he knew they were outside.

  Mikhail rose and walked to the window, looking down onto the side lawns. The boy looked out over the snow-covered land and said something, pointing to the tree line.

  Luther pulled a gun and shot him in the back. A clean kill, straight to the heart. Poor kid probably never knew what hit him. From here, with the moon washing the landscape in white, he could see the dark puddle creep across the snow.

  A lead. About damn time.

  He waited, saw another man come forward and drag the body away. Mikhail turned, strode across to the bar, and looked at the selection. After the last few days he had, he didn’t want to be soothed with a fine wine or the crisp bite of vodka. No, tonight he wanted absinthe—a bite from the green fairy. He poured himself a shot. At a hundred-twenty proof, the green Czech liquor should do the trick. Not that he wanted to get pissed. No, he just wanted something to take the edge off the rage. And this was as foreign a substance as he’d put into his system.