Hunted

by Clark, Jaycee

  “It wasn’t, was it?” Damn.

  Morgan licked her lips, dropped her gaze from his and shook her head, whispering, “No.”

  “Jezek . . . ” He noticed her flinch at the name, but he continued. Now was not the time to be gentle. Too damn much was at stake. “Morgan, he killed another girl, didn’t he?”

  Still she didn’t look at him, only at her hands, but her chin trembled.

  “Morgan.” He waited until her eyes rose to his. “That night in Berlin . . . You said he put a gun to your head. That he killed her.” Her eyes darkened with horror. Lincoln pressed on. “On the tape, just now, he mentioned you kneeling before him, alluded to putting a gun to your head before. Is that what you meant?”

  Her hands tightened on his. He hoped her brothers would stay silent. “I—I couldn’t help her, Lincoln.” She shook her head, her eyes seeing another time, another place. “I couldn’t help her.”

  “Tell me,” he coaxed. “Maybe we can still help her.”

  Morgan blinked, her eyes tormented, seeming even brighter against the black frames of her glasses. “No one can help her now. I don’t even know who she was.” Looking into his eyes, she took a deep breath. “He called her Ebony. Ebony.”

  Slowly, he drew the story out of her. Of the girl who got away. Of how angry her jailer was. How he’d asked if she was still thinking of trying to escape . . . And the rage that followed.

  “I woke up in the hole,” she whispered. “I told you I’d refused him.” She looked back up at him and he was furious all over again that this had washed the color from her cheeks. “Remember? When we were in Germany?”

  He sighed. Not surprised she was repeating herself. He’d been through this before, knew it wasn’t uncommon for the victim to lose their train of thought. Victim. He wanted to kick something. Bloody hell. He didn’t want her to be the victim right now, he didn’t want to be the bloody cop. He wanted to just be there for her.

  “Mikhail? You’d refused him, yes.” He cleared his throat.

  “I hadn’t been there long and every time he’d come and ask me if I’d had enough, I would just glare at him.”

  Her fingers remained fisted within his hands. “One visit, he asked me if I thought I’d still get away. I just—just looked at him and told him if it was the last thing I ever did, I would.”

  Lincoln didn’t speak, noticed her brothers didn’t so much as move.

  “He put me in the hole that night, of course he had to teach me my place first.” She shrugged. “I woke up and couldn’t move. God, I hurt, hurt so bad I wondered if he hadn’t killed me after all. I could smell the dirt and wondered where I was, but then I knew. Other girls had talked about the hole.”

  What the hell was the hole?

  Morgan shuddered. “Once in the hole and you’d do anything not to ever go back. Once was enough for me. At first it was the tight space, ya know?” She licked her lips. “I was so scared the walls would cave in. Scared that if I moved too much I’d be covered with dirt. So scared I didn’t even feel the cuts and bruises. But then I realized it wouldn’t have lasted this long if that were the case.” She glanced up and looked at Jackson. “It was a hole in the basement floor, you couldn’t sit up straight, could hardly move.” She shrugged and looked back to him. “Like a grave. I remember wondering if they’d just left me down there. If I’d—I’d finally pushed too far.” Her words were so soft, Lincoln strained to hear.

  “It was so quiet, I could hear rats. God, I hurt.” Her lips trembled and her eyes glazed. “It was so dark . . . so dark,” she whispered. “The worst is what you hear, yet can’t see. I must have passed out because her screams woke me up. The screams that go on and on and on and you wonder, is this only the first part? Do they lock you in this hole, give you some water from time to time only to take you out and kill you slowly?”

  Lincoln tightened his hand on hers. He wanted to stop this.

  She didn’t see him, he knew. Her eyes saw a different place, a horror he could only imagine too well.

  “I’ll always h-hear h-her screams, Lincoln. I wake at night hearing them.” Her voice trembled. “They took—took me out. I don’t know how long I’d been down there, I couldn’t stand so they strapped me to a chair and made me . . . ” Her voice faltered. “M-made me watch what they—what they did to her.”

  A single tear slipped over her lid, slowly dripped off her long lashes and trailed a path down her cheek.

  Linc reached up and flicked it away with his thumb.

  “They took turns raping her.” A muscle jumped in her jaw and the knuckles he brushed with his finger were white. “I remember Mikhail leaned over and whispered in my ear. ‘Watch,’ he said, ‘see what happens to those who try to leave me.’” She sniffed and shook herself free of whatever demons chased her. She licked her lips. More in control she said, “It made an impression, to say the least. She was . . . was so bloody. They had her wrists in chains at first, hung from the ceiling, like a dungeon. She just kept screaming.” Morgan shook her head. Her eyes glazed, the pupils dilated. “They broke her arm, kicked her knees out.” Morgan drew a shuddering breath. “When they were done, they put me in his car. He didn’t let me wear any clothes and I was so cold, and God, I hurt. I remember the sound of Ebony’s body when they tossed her in the trunk. They drove a ways out of the city to an old cemetery, near these trees.” Linc watched the long column of her throat as she swallowed, then swallowed again. “His man shot her in the back of the head and chest. Bam. Bam. Bam. Bam. Mikhail made me watch.” She frowned and shook her head. He felt a tremor run through her.

  Her voice was so quiet. “He shoved me forward toward the grave and I fell on my knees beside it.” Her eyes slid closed. “I can still smell the cold, still smell the fresh dirt, smell the blood, hers or mine, I don’t know. Probably both.” She opened her eyes. “It was dark and at night, but I could see her at the bottom of the grave . . .” Her eyes were shadowed. “The way her body—” Her voice trembled and she sniffed. “That poor girl’s body was all twisted. He put the . . . the . . . the g—” She stopped, bit down and looked at him.

  Linc wanted to stop her, but stayed silent. It was so quiet he could hear the others breathing.

  Her eyes stared through him. “He put his gun to the back of my head.”

  Linc fisted his hand, tamped down on the rage.

  “For a moment I was so calm and thought, ‘This is it. I’ll be shot and dumped in this shallow grave and no one will ever know.’” She took a deep breath. “All I could think about was the porch. The porch on the ranch. I just kept thinking, I’m at home. I’m at home.” Her voice broke, her chin trembled. “Here at home, s-sitting in the . . . in the swing and it’s summertime.” A lone tear shivered on the edge of her lashes before it trickled over and slid a long path down her cheek. Then another and another. “But he didn’t pull the trigger. He didn’t. He just waited and then—then I begged him to please not kill me.” Her cheeks puffed as she blew out a breath. “He told me this is what happens to those who try to escape because he’d never, ever let anyone go.”

  No one said a word. The silence was so heavy it smothered everything and everyone in the room. Linc rubbed her hands until her wide vacant eyes stared at him. “She—she had a family. She screamed at them that her father would avenge her. Something in her voice and eyes made me believe her.”

  She bowed her head and rocked forward. He could see the goose bumps on her arms where the sleeves had risen.

  “Morgan,” he said, swallowing. The more he learned, the faster the rage pumped within him.

  “That’s what he meant, Linc. That’s what he meant. Because last time he held the gun to the back of my head.” She shuddered again, almost bowed in half. “This time he wants to see my eyes when he puts a bullet in my brain.” Slowly she straightened, so pale he worried she’d pass out. “This time he won’t be lenient.”

  One of her brothers cursed.

  “No, Morgan,” Lincoln told her, taking her sho
ulders. “The bastard won’t get anywhere near you.”

  Jackson cleared his throat, still standing behind the couch, his arms taking his weight as his head was bowed. Without looking at them, he said, “What is this man to you? Why does he want you, Morgan?” Jackson lifted his head, a muscle bunching in his jaw, his eyes lit with emotion.

  Lincoln looked back to Morgan.

  She shook her head. “I can’t.” Her face crumpled. “I just can’t, Lincoln.” With more strength than he’d have credited to her, she stood and pulled her hands away.

  “You’re not going anywhere until we get some answers,” Jackson lashed out. “Sit the hell down.”

  She was trembling, he could see it. Bloody hell. Tears still fell down her cheeks. She rubbed her arms, not as if she was cold, but as if she was trying to get something off. “I—I need a shower. I’ve got to take a shower.”

  Lincoln cut Jackson with one look, stopping the man from saying whatever he was about to.

  Lincoln took her hands.

  “Please,” she whispered, her eyes as pleading as her voice.

  Lincoln squeezed her hands, nodded, but said, “Fine, I’ll tell them all I can. But I’m sure they’ll still want to talk to you after I’m done.” For one minute he held her stare, then carefully reached up and brushed her tears away. “Come back down after your shower.”

  Her chin still trembled. “I’ve no right to ask you—”

  He placed his finger against her lips and wished like hell he could make this all go away. “Go take your shower, Morgan.”

  She licked her lips, cupped his face and leaned up, kissing him on the cheek. “You’re a good man. A good man, Lincoln Blade. And I thank God every night for sending you to me.”

  Morgan hurried from the room, a sob reaching his ears even as he heard her hurry up the stairs.

  He closed his eyes, shook his head. Blimey.

  When he opened them, both brothers were looking at him.

  Lincoln motioned to the chairs. “Sit down. You’re not going to like this, but I’ll tell you the story you’ve wanted to know.”

  Chapter 29

  Calabria, Italy; November 8, 11:40 p.m.

  Antonio Calsonone sat back in his chair and blew a stream of smoke from the cigar. The Calabrian winter night sat chilled at his back beyond the terrace doors—not cold. Not yet, but the wind off the Tyrrhenian promised a storm soon. Or perhaps it was just his own tension.

  The lights were dimmed, the villa quiet, most having retired for the evening. He knew Ricco was around somewhere. It would only take a shout or a moment to punch the intercom to have him coming.

  Antonio wanted to be alone, as there was much to think about. It was coming. The end of this entire mess. He could feel it. He hadn’t obtained the wealth and power he had by ignoring his instincts. Instincts often determined life and death. If more people paid attention to their instincts . . .

  He shook off the philosophical thoughts and glanced again at the photo of his daughter on his desk.

  What was Miss Gaelord to Jezek—Dimotrov—whoever the hell the bastard was.

  One thing Antonio knew. The bastard missed this last girl. He’d try again.

  Perhaps Antonio should have a talk with her. Or should he just leave it all to Giovanni?

  He sniffed and realized he was crying. Biting down, he tossed back more of the wine.

  “Pop?”

  Antonio didn’t turn. “Michael? What is it you need?”

  He heard his youngest son enter, heard other footsteps. Still he didn’t turn. He knew the footsteps of his sons.

  “We want to talk to you,” Georgio said, sitting in the chair opposite the desk.

  He turned then to regard his sons. “Yes?”

  They resembled each other in bone structure—his. Romanesque noses, high foreheads, strong jaws. Dark hair, but they all had the hazel eyes of their mother. His sons. Georgio, the eldest, married with three children of his own, lived not minutes away, having taking over the vineyards. Santo and his wife were awaiting the arrival of their second child. Michael. Michael was still deciding what he wanted to be.

  They all studied him, and Antonio, taking another sip of his wine, waited. They’d get out what was bothering them soon enough.

  Georgio cleared his throat. “Pop, we want to know. What’s going on with Tessa? You say you have it under control. She’s our sister,” he said, his hazel eyes blazing. “We’ve a right to know.”

  Antonio took a deep breath. “It’s being taken care of.”

  Santo stood, slapped his hands on Antonio’s desk. “That’s not what we asked, Pop. You’ve raised us to become more, to see beyond the old ways. We understand that. But some things never change. We want to know what’s become of our sister.”

  Michael tilted his head. “We’re not little boys anymore. We can’t be brushed aside like Mama, Bianca, or Lia. We want to know about Tessa as much as you.”

  Antonio closed his eyes, leaned his head back against the leather of his chair. Why couldn’t his children listen to him?

  No one said a word. Finally, he asked, “Where are your families?”

  Santo spoke. “Here. We decided we’re staying here until we know what we want.”

  His sons could be as stubborn as their mother.

  “Mama is worried about you,” Georgio admitted. “We all are, Pop.”

  Opening his eyes, he leaned up, clasping his hands on his desk. Staring at each of them, he said, “I don’t want you involved in this.”

  For a moment no one spoke. Santo cursed and stood, raking a hand through his hair. Michael just stared, his eyes filling. “She’s not coming back, is she?”

  Antonio saw no reason to answer his son. Why state the obvious?

  “What do you know?” Georgio lashed out.

  He should take offense at the disrespect, but could not fault them.

  But Georgio closed his eyes and said, “Scusi, Papa, mi dispiace.”

  Antonio waved him away. “She was seen in a Czech club that’s not known for its . . . ” He took a deep breath, bit down and stood, looking out the window. “Its safety for young women.”

  “What does that mean?” Michael asked. Antonio closed his eyes. His dreaming son often ignored what he wished. In that Michael and Tessa were much alike. They’d been the dreamers. Teresa Maria wanting to be a designer and Michael a doctor.

  “What the hell do you think it means, Mike?” Santo asked, cursing again. “A whorehouse. She was seen in a brothel.”

  Antonio closed his eyes, taking a deep breath through his nose. It was the first time anyone put it quiet so bluntly. And though he knew, the words still sliced into his heart.

  “Which one?” Georgio asked. “Who owns it?”

  At least one of his sons thought as he did. He started to wonder if that was a blessing or a curse, but shoved the thought aside and turned back to his sons.

  “You know, don’t you?” Georgio asked. “Or at least have an idea what happened to her.”

  Again he saw no reason to answer.

  “Where’s Uncle Gio?” Santo asked.

  Michael, for all his dreaming, answered, “Watching. Waiting.”

  He looked at his young son, “Sì, Michael.”

  “Where?” Georgio pressed, his arms crossed over his chest, standing near the fireplace.

  Antonio sighed. “In America.”

  “Is she dead?” Santo asked. “Or just missing?”

  Antonio stared at Santo, those hard hazel eyes unrelenting.

  “Pop?”

  He shook his head, raked a hand through his hair and sat behind the desk, tired. “I don’t know, boys. I don’t know. But I fear . . . ” He stopped, cleared his throat, trying to get past the rock lodged there. “I fear . . . ” Again he trailed off. Instead of finishing he said, “I will find the bastard responsible. And he will pay.”

  “You’ve already found him, or suspect. Otherwise, Uncle Gio would be here,” Michael said.

  For a mome
nt no one said anything. Then Santo said, “She’s our sister. It’s our right to be involved, Pop.”

  Georgio walked over to his father, pulled out the top desk draw and removed the dagger there. The family dagger. Antonio didn’t move, even when the drawer stuck and he had to shut it himself. He stared into his eldest son’s eyes.

  Georgio narrowed his gaze, then sliced his thumb, passing the dagger onto Santo, who did the same, followed by Michael, who finally handed the old family heirloom to him.

  Antonio took a deep breath, tried to bite down past the tears, but still they stung his eyes. “I’d wanted better for you. For my sons. For my daughters.”

  Georgio shook his head, pressed his thumb to his father’s, to his brothers’. “This has nothing to do with better, Papa. It has to do with justice.”

  The oath was sworn, the blood pact made. Antonio hugged his sons, and wished, just for a moment, that he’d been a different man.

  * * *

  Morgan let the hot shower scald down on her. In the bottom of the stall she curled into a ball.

  Why now? How had he found her? Found Amy?

  Oh, God, Amy . . .

  The tears she’d held back, the emotions she’d kept in check, ripped through her. Sobbing, she covered her head with her arms, resting her forehead on her naked knees, the water beating down on her.

  “Oh, Amy . . . ” The sobs shook her, until she was too weak to even want to stand.

  Someone knocked on the door, but she ignored them. She closed her eyes, and rocked. Amy. Amy. Amy.

  Why hadn’t she checked her damn mail! Why hadn’t she tried to call earlier? Why couldn’t she have helped her friend?

  The image of Amy’s bloody shirt rose in her mind. Of his face, that smirk.

  She wiped her eyes, reached up and turned off the water. Had he been lying? Could he have been lying?

  But then, if he was, how would he have known about her and Amy being friends? Mikhail did nothing by chance or coincidence. Mikhail had a reason for every action, for every reaction, for every word.

  Climbing from the shower, she dried off, shoved her black-rimmed glasses on, and stood staring at the pale woman in the mirror with the bandage on her arm, which was now soaked. To hell with it. It’d dry. She’d have to go downstairs to get some dry bandages, but they could wait. Carefully, she unwrapped the white gaze, grimacing at the jagged scar with the black stitches. Lovely.