Hunted

by Clark, Jaycee

  She pulled her hand back to her side and looked toward the bedroom. Two more men came into the room and Michael jerked his head toward the bedroom. “Get him.”

  Then he nodded to her. “Come, pretty.”

  She shook her head.

  Luther, with the gun, reached out and grabbed her, jerking her forward and all but throwing her into Michael’s arms.

  She jerked, and the man looking down at her only smiled. “You know, I was going to make him suffer, try to convince him to pay me, but I think you’ll do nicely.”

  They all rode to an abandoned building. The street, the wooden stairs were rough beneath her bare soles. Why hadn’t they let her dress?

  In the building, he held her against him, whispered in her ear, “I’ve always loved beautiful things. You won’t have to worry about the man you’re with anymore. He never really appreciated you, I think. I’m Mikhail.”

  Mikhail? Not Michael. She shuddered, worried and scared. The windows were dusty, the room bare. No other sounds emitted from any room of the building. It was silent.

  “What the hell?” Simon said. He looked at her, and for the first time she saw the fear—no terror in his eyes.

  One man held him, the other two started to hit him.

  She trembled. “Please don’t,” she whispered, closing her eyes.

  “I don’t like to be crossed. You see, he owes me a lot of money. He gambled and lost, used too many of my goods and never paid me back. I demand payment, preferably in cash, to keep things even. Though I will often take payment in blood once a warning is sent.” His hand grazed up and down her arm, bunching and smoothing the silk. “I’ve warned him. It’s now payment time.”

  Oh, God. What the hell had Simon gotten into?

  The men kept beating him. The thuds and groans soon turned to pleas and begging to stop.

  Mikhail still held her and nodded to Luther.

  The man set a case down and opened it. Inside lay knives and cleavers. She felt the blood rush from her face, drain and buckle her knees.

  “Don’t worry. I won’t make you watch everything they do to him,” Mikhail said soothingly.

  She trembled. Not daring to say a word. She had no idea how long the other two had beat on Simon, it seemed endless, but maybe not. Simon’s handsome face, fair and quick to smile, was already swelling, blood welling from his nose, his mouth, his eyes puffing.

  The man holding him dropped Simon to the floor. The two who had been beating him looked to the man that held her.

  Mikhail said, “Do you know what they do to thieves in many cultures? What they used to do to them in our own cultures?”

  She looked at the man on the floor she thought she hated, and felt pity.

  “Do you?” Mikhail asked her again.

  Her gaze slid to him and she shook her head. Mikhail was taller than her, and she was five ten. He wore a neatly trimmed goatee, not quite blond, not brown either. His hair was pulled back in a smooth and short ponytail at the base of his neck. It should have made him appear more effeminate, but it didn’t.

  She knew he was muscular, could feel it in the arms that held her, saw it in the sharp chiseled Adonis features of his face. This man who claimed to like beauty also believed in keeping it himself.

  Oh, God, what was going to happen?

  “What the fuck?” Simon slurred. “What are you—hey, hey! Man!”

  She started to turn, but Mikhail held her shoulders and shook his head.

  Then she heard a bloodcurdling scream behind her. Without warning, Mikhail whirled her around.

  Simon kept screaming. One man sat on his legs, another on his chest, holding his arms straight out from his body. Luther held a cleaver and it dripped blood. Simon’s screams ricocheted around the room. And then she blinked and saw . . .

  A hand lay away from the wrist. The bloody cleaver.

  She swayed. “Oh, God.”

  Bile rose up the back of her throat.

  Mikhail pushed her away from him as her stomach heaved all over the floor. She heard Simon’s pleas, begging, screaming. She closed her eyes, her stomach heaving again. This time she heard the thud, the bone-chilling yell. And knew.

  The other hand.

  She couldn’t look, the floorboards, rough and wooden, tilted.

  She felt arms around her and screamed. And screamed. And screamed.

  * * *

  December 16

  Lincoln looked at the woman across from him as she picked at her food. He’d run down to the café around the corner and grabbed some pastries. Shadow had stayed with her until he returned, then left.

  He’d been looking in the refrigerator when she’d screamed. He’d raced up the stairs and into her room.

  Tears had tracked from her closed eyes to wet her cheeks. By the time he’d gotten to the bed she was jerking herself out of the nightmare, but she’d startled at his approach.

  Then her arms had wrapped around his neck as more tears poured out and she’d shuddered in his arms.

  That had been half an hour ago. Now they sat at the table in silence.

  “Want to talk about it?” he tried.

  She picked at the pastry, her eyes weary, her shoulders dropped. Finally, those icy eyes rose to him. “I keep dreaming about what he did.”

  He nodded. “I know.”

  “I don’t want to dream about it anymore, about him, about blood and screams.”

  He frowned and crossed his hands, leaning up on his elbows. “The girl again? The one you dreamed of before?”

  Her eyes didn’t leave his, and he saw it. That flash of terror, of pain, of dark, black secrets no one should know of.

  She swallowed. “No. A different dream. Of Simon, they day they took me.”

  Oh. Lincoln sighed. “Your sessions with Dr. Rothillow will be starting after the holidays. She’s still working with one of our other girls who’s on suicide watch.”

  Nothing, no emotion. Morgan shrugged.

  She was probably depressed and it didn’t surprise him if she was. Yet, considering the other girl. “Promise me we won’t ever have that particular worry with you.” He hadn’t meant the words to be that sharp, but couldn’t pull them back, or the panic that fluttered inside him at the thought.

  He frowned again, and leaned forward, reaching for her hand. “Promise me, Morgan. No matter what happens, no matter what the future brings, you won’t ever let him win, won’t give him that final victory over you.” He tightened his hand and rubbed his thumb over her left hand. Shocked, he looked down and saw she still wore the gold band he’d given her. He blinked and concentrated back on her eyes.

  Those icy eyes narrowed on him, then she nodded. “I promise. Sometimes, I wished he’d pulled that trigger that night by the grave. There were even times I wanted to break the window in my room and just end it all.”

  Linc didn’t say a word, just held her hand, stroking his thumb over her cold fingers.

  “But I never did. I just couldn’t.”

  “Because that would have given him everything.”

  She licked her lips and nodded. “Yeah, that would have given the devil my soul—or more accurately, the Devil’s Advocate—my soul.”

  Her fingers turned and linked with his.

  Why did she still wear the ring? Did she even notice? Of course, his was in his pocket, easily accessible if he needed it.

  “Can you really keep me safe?” she whispered. “Can you?”

  He squeezed her hand again. “They’d have to kill me to get to you.”

  Her eyes raked up and down him. “Mikhail and his men are good at killing.”

  He cocked a brow.

  “But then again,” she continued, “you’re rather efficient at it yourself.”

  Chapter 12

  Prague; December 19

  Jezek looked at the wreckage around him. His beautiful room was demolished. Blood still beat against his temples, roared in his head.

  What was left of an erotic Baccarat crystal sculpture he�
��d had custom made crunched under his shoe. There was another fifteen thousand koruny ruined.

  And that was nothing compared to the insult of it all. He honestly couldn’t remember when he’d been this angry.

  “There’s not a single trace of them?” he asked, piercing Luther with a glare.

  Luther shook his head. It had been two days.

  “The busboy in Germany from the Four Seasons had no idea. They were just Mr. and Mrs. Ashbourne. We’re checking rail stations to see about passes that fit that name.”

  He nodded once. Double-crossing bastard.

  Mikhail wanted the man who lied to him. Who took what was his.

  The diamonds.

  The woman.

  Dusk.

  Her eyes, that pale color of blue reminding him of light hitting the facets of the diamonds.

  Stupid bitch. He’d wanted the bloody diamonds for her. A gift, a fucking present.

  This was all her fault. If only she’d accepted him when he’d asked her. And she damn well should have accepted him. There were hundreds of girls that would die to have been in her shoes.

  But it was not any of them he wanted. He learned that in the last few months. Surely that had been enough to disillusion her and have her begging him to take her back. He’d given in when the diamond dealer had asked for her, thinking that this would show her again the kind of life she could have with him. Fine things. Fine clothing. Fine wines.

  Him.

  Now she was gone. The glittery diamonds were gone.

  He wanted her back, and she needed to be taught a lesson. Maybe she’d orchestrated all this.

  “Sir?”

  He jerked his head up to the man standing just inside the doorway. His other personal guard, Vescily. “Yes?”

  “There’s a message from the bosses. There’s a meeting scheduled in Amsterdam next week. They asked that you attend.”

  He closed his eyes, focusing back on the fact there was a business he was in charge of for several families. They all paid him well for finding new girls if the opportunity arose, making certain girls stayed in line, made a profit and didn’t talk—or escape.

  Did they know of Dusk?

  Asked to attend? He rubbed a hand over his face and waved his hand at Vescily, who turned and closed the door. The bosses never asked. Everything was a command.

  Speaking of Amsterdam,” Luther continued. “We found the man and woman who posed as Reyer and Dusk at the hotel here in Prague. They were pros. I don’t know who they worked for, but they were pros.”

  “How the hell do you know that? Did you learn anything at all?” Mikhail kicked a piece of crystal out of his way and paced to the door, then turned and paced back to the window.

  Luther didn’t answer.

  “Well?” he asked again.

  “I learned all I could from them. Which is why I know they were professionals. They didn’t give any useful information.”

  “Who?” he bit out.

  “I don’t know, Jezek. Perhaps you should wait a bit and let this die down. If they were professionals, then you could be risking—”

  “I didn’t ask you for your opinion on whether or not we should continue to look for them.”

  A muscle ticked in Luther’s jaw and he tilted his head. “I believe it to be a multilateral operation with several nations working against the trade.”

  Mikhail scoffed. Stupid idiots.

  “Forgive me for stating the obvious, but she was a whore. If you continue to look for her, continue to kill those with possible information, the heat will turn up on us, and the bosses may not be . . . pleased.”

  No, they would not be. Which was why he was in charge of keeping things quiet. Damn it all. How had things gotten so badly out of hand?

  He sighed. “Keep looking, but don’t kill anyone else. You’re right. We can’t draw any more attention.”

  For a moment, Luther said nothing, then, “As you wish. Sooner or later something will turn up. Wait until they are confident in their safety. They’ll make a mistake and then you’ll find them.”

  One day.

  No one made Mikhail Jezek look like a fool. No one. And he could see that faint question in Luther’s eyes . . . a whore. That she might be, but she was his whore. If no one else understood that, he really didn’t give a damn.

  * * *

  Safe house; London; December 23, 2:54 p.m.

  Almost a week passed without anything happening. She kept waiting for Mikhail to suddenly be on the stoop of the flat, for one of his goons to walk into the kitchen, shoot her rescuer or Shadow, who came and went.

  They did tell her that Amy had made it safely stateside and was settling into her new home.

  Morgan envied her. She was in limbo. Not home, not away. Not existing really. The nightmares didn’t stop, the fears kept eating at her, until she hardly ate herself.

  George the doctor dropped by one afternoon to give her a new regimen of antibiotics, take some more blood and tell her that her HIV test came back negative. They took her to a doctor’s office, where a female gynecologist performed a pelvic and ran more tests.

  They were waiting on those test results. The woman had asked questions, but Morgan hadn’t been able to answer a single one. She hadn’t wanted to be there. Only at Ashbourne’s threat of sedating her to get the test performed if they had to, did she consent. No one pushed her to answer the doctor—though the doctor gave her brochures on group therapy.

  Yeah, like that was going to happen.

  She hated this. Christmas decorations were up all over the city, multicolored lights and trees in windows. Red bows and wreaths decked everywhere.

  None of them actually bloomed the holiday spirit within her or made her feel any better. Not really.

  She wanted to go home.

  Morgan had moved the chair to the side of the window so she could look outside. She wasn’t allowed to actually sit or stand in front of the window—easy target, she was told.

  The ring of the phone startled her. She heard Ashbourne’s voice answer, then sharpen.

  She listened.

  “When?” Silence. “You’re certain? Both of them? Berlin and Amsterdam?”

  Again silence as he waited for whoever had called to answer him.

  Tension tightened her shoulders and worry knifed in her stomach. She was safe. She was safe.

  “They know, then. Bloody hell. No, we’re leaving. We’ll be out in ten minutes. We’ll need tickets. Yeah, yeah. Bugger it then, charge it.” Silence.

  She frowned.

  “I don’t give a damn. Under my name. My real name.” His steps hurried into the living room and she stood. He was still on his phone. “Does it matter? They obviously followed my alias, we can’t very well use that now, can we?”

  He covered the mouthpiece. “Get packed. We’ve got to be out as soon as possible. They’re too close.”

  Morgan didn’t have to be told twice. She all but flew up the stairs, threw her clothes, what little she had, into the overnight bag, raked her travel-size toiletries into the smaller zipper pouch and shoved them all into the bag. Zipping it, she glanced around, saw the paper on her nightstand from Amy and shoved it into her pocket.

  “Hurry, Morg. We’ve got to get to Heathrow. Shadow will be here in just a few minutes.”

  A dozen questions swirled in her mind, but she didn’t ask any. This was not the time. Morg. He’d called her Morg. No one had called her that since her brothers, though Amy had asked to.

  They’re too close . . . The words echoed in her, wrapped, like black wings around her nerves. Morgan shuddered and shoved the thoughts away, focusing on packing her things.

  Had she gotten it all? Was that everything? She rubbed the ring around her left finger, as she’d grown accustomed to doing when worrying.

  She shrugged into her peacoat and walked out the door into the hallway.

  He stood there looking at her, his own bag in his hand. His black eyes glittered down at her, hard and sharp, his feature
s carved and intense. “I need you to listen to me, can you do that?”

  Wordless, she nodded.

  “I know you met me as John Reyer, played a wife to John Ashbourne. Now I need you to remember to call me Linc. Do you think you can do that? Pretend we’re together? I’m a businessman and we’re flying to New York, or Chicago, or wherever we get tickets to.” Those dark black eyes bore into her, a muscle in his jaw ticked near his ear.

  She swallowed. “I can do that. Who am I?”

  He stepped forward, dropped his bag and pulled a hat from under his arm. It was black, what her grandmother would have called a flapper hat. He shoved it on her head and pushed her strands of hair up into it. Raking his gaze over her, he said, “You want to put the contacts on?”

  She took a deep breath, now soothed by the smell of his cologne rather than frightened. “Do I need to?”

  “Might not matter.”

  “What do you mean?”

  The door opened and he shoved her aside, pulling his gun.

  Shadow looked up the stairs. “It’s me.”

  “What’s going on?” Morgan asked against the wall.

  Reyer-Ashboure—no, Linc—turned to her. “What did I just tell you my name was?”

  “Linc.”

  He smiled and picked up his bag, holstering his gun. “Actually, it’s Lincoln Blade.”

  She stopped on the top step and turned. “Are you kidding?”

  He frowned and motioned her ahead of him. “About what?”

  Morgan took a deep breath, trying to calm her nerves, and hurried down the steps. Trying to keep the fear at bay, she looked at Shadow, and pointed to him. “His name stays the same and it’s a really cool name. Shadow.” She turned back to Lincoln Blade. “Who in the world comes up with your names?”

  He shared some look with Shadow, who said, “The team will be in to clean this flat in five minutes. They’re waiting for you to get out.”

  Before she realized it, they were outside, in a car and zooming through London. Several times Ashbourne’s—no, Lincoln’s—Lincoln’s phone rang and he barked responses and orders into it. She didn’t listen. It was just another part of this odd and unreal journey she was on. Going, going, running, running, hiding, hiding. She sighed.