Veil of Justice, Shadows of Justice Book 3

by Regan Black

  But laughing while in an awkward position and covered with a rather heavy body wasn’t so easy. Gasping for air, she pushed against his shoulders, instantly hating the bony feel of him.

  "You didn’t used to hate me."

  "Don’t – hate – you," she gritted. It took all her strength to ease him over until the car bore his weight. Then she smiled at him to prove the truth of her statement. "I hate what prison did to you. Read me right or not at all."

  As his battered eyes locked with hers, she expected to be scolded for being grumpy. Instead her lips grew warm and her nipples pebbled beneath a silky, invisible caress.

  She didn’t close her eyes and arch into him like she wanted, like she'd done in their past telepathic encounters. "That's a good memory you've got."

  "I thought so." In her head, he sounded as breathless as she felt. His ghostly pale face told her how much this little test had cost him.

  "Can you remember how to get back in the car?"

  "Just give me a minute."

  It took closer to ten, but he made it, leaning heavily on the way. She only had to help him balance a couple times. "Now will you rest?" she asked when he was buckled into the passenger seat again.

  His head just flopped back onto the seat.

  She took that as a 'yes'.

  * * *

  Nathan struggled against the suffocating sensation of claustrophobia. Reminding himself this was his car, the pet project he'd rebuilt from the chassis, didn’t help much. Logic didn’t seem to have any effect against the unreasonable terror that clawed in his gut and scraped his nerves.

  He tried to focus on the positive, tried to find anything uplifting within his reach. The exercise proved he could feel more than just the momentum of the car. He could feel the purr of the motor humming through his muscles. It wasn’t much improvement, but it was enough to keep him hoping that he’d beat this damned virus sooner rather than later.

  The Paracuron Kristoff had used to paralyze him was definitely of the smart variety. Now that things had calmed down, he could feel it searching out and trying to latch onto his more vulnerable areas. Like this claustrophobia thing.

  It clearly wasn’t designed to kill him, since his heart and lungs were still functioning. It must not even be designed to mimic death for long. He came to this conclusion because Kelly had finally stopped shaking him to see if he was breathing. Now she just ran her fingers over his face and muttered in a voice too low to make out the words.

  Spending so much time on the telekinetic driving effort wiped him out. His systems were overwhelmed and his body out of shape. He’d worry that even Kelly’s thoughts were muddled and cloudy, except he felt himself drifting in that twilight between awake and asleep.

  Again her fingers caressed his cheek, the sensation cool and comfortable. "Just rest. We’ll get help soon."

  He took a slow breath, willing his lungs to fill just a little deeper this time. He wished for the umpteenth time that he’d developed a passion for limousines. The Mustang felt way too small. But rest was good. He could do that. Help he wasn’t sure about, it sounded like too much work. Rest was better. He dozed off, thinking of Kelly.

  Beautiful, careful Kelly filled his dreams and ignited his fantasies. Her dark, glossy hair fell like silk over his face and chest, a curtain enfolding just the two of them, keeping the world out. Her wide black eyes glistened with emotion. He wished like hell he could move. He wanted to touch her, to deliver with his body what he’d once promised with his mind.

  Her mouth covered his, hot and possessive, her breath drowning his. Her hands skated across his chest, his neck, firm and demanding. He willed himself to respond, to find a way to give her what she wanted.

  "This isn’t funny Nate. C’mon back," she ordered, her hands thudding against his chest.

  He tried to tell her he’d do anything for her, but she clamped her mouth over his, impeding his attempts at speech.

  Again her breath became his, filling him, fueling an onslaught of desire and need. He banded his arms around her, felt her breasts crush to his chest, felt her breathing catch. Ah, that was more like it. His lips found hers and he plundered, taking her like an open offering. He tasted and teased, mating with her mouth as he so desperately yearned to mate with her body.

  She wriggled, her hips grinding into his throbbing erection. She jerked and gasped, but he held tight.

  He used her surprise to his advantage, pinning her beneath him. His mouth found the smooth column of her throat and he inhaled the untamed fragrance that was hers alone. Aiming lower, determine to feast on the sweet swells of her breast, her heated words finally registered on his lust-deafened ears.

  "Not the time, Burkhardt."

  Her hands weren’t clinging, weren't bringing him closer, they were pushing him away. "What the hell?"

  "You tell me," she answered, gripping his face in her hands, her eyes searching his. "One minute you’re squealing like a car alarm. The next you’re hard as iron and ready to do it right here on the road."

  He blinked a couple times, staring down at her. "I can see you." He combed his fingers through her hair. "It’s not just a memory or visualization. It’s real. Right now real."

  He shifted his hips, nearly sighed as his erection found the perfect nest between her thighs. If he never felt anything again, he could die a happy man.

  She caught her lower lip between her teeth. "Nothing gets past you." She pushed at him. "Except maybe that we’re lying in a ditch and it’s nearly dawn."

  Reluctantly, he slid to the side, but he kept an arm around her waist. The cool earth immediately chilled his side, if not his ardor. "It’s damp too."

  "Gee. Didn’t I mention that?"

  He sat up and brought her with him to sit in his lap. She was a delicious pressure torturing his long-denied physical needs. She scowled but he didn’t let her move. "How did we get out here?" He glanced around, but the tree-lined ditch didn’t give away much about the location. "Where is here?"

  She stared at him as if he’d just dropped from the sky.

  "What?"

  Her tongue darted out and slid over her lip. Her gaze fell to his mouth and he knew his eyes were reflecting the same hunger radiating from her. How was he supposed to ignore such a blatant invitation?

  "Kelly," he said slowly, struggling to keep his voice steady, "why do I feel almost normal?"

  "I don’t know."

  Her hands skimmed his shoulders, bringing his attention to his torn shirt. He gave her a little shake. "Tell me what you do know."

  "You –" She picked at the corner of the uppermost vital stat sensor on his chest. "You – well these things – started squealing. From what I know, they only do that when a patient flat lines in respiration or heart rate."

  He nodded, beginning to understand. He’d learned the same basics during his military training.

  "I pulled over, hauled you out of the car and started life saving measures."

  "Like mouth-to-mouth?" He gave her his cockiest grin.

  She scowled. "You would’ve preferred to suffocate?"

  "Not at all." He stole a quick kiss. "Thank you for saving me."

  In the poor light it was hard to tell by her face, but her body language said she was blushing. "So how’d you deactivate the virus?"

  "No clue." She shrugged. "I thought you did that. Especially when you suddenly...umm..."

  "Did this?" He kissed her, languidly this time, exploring her mouth and every delicious response in his body and hers. He kissed her until he felt her pulse racing to match his own.

  "Yeah, that," she said breathlessly, when he released her.

  He’d imagined this countless times during his incarceration. As the mission deteriorated, he’d lived from one moment of their link to the next, always hoping for more. More time, more detail, more depth. That hope, that search kept him sane in the bizarre and dangerous prison system. Now he understood that all he’d hoped and imagined paled in comparison to being with her in person.r />
  He smoothed her hair behind her ears, thrilled to move without laboring over each twitch of muscle fiber. "Your beauty stuns me, but your spirit leaves me humbled."

  Her eyes widened and her kiss-swollen lips gaped. "Who said that?"

  Nathan let his fingers roam over her dark, pixie-fine features while he debated his answer. "Can’t recall," he fibbed. "Someone old and dead by now, I’m sure." He certainly felt older after prison and without her he’d surely be dead. "Isn’t the thought alone worth another reward?"

  He made an exaggerated pucker, watching her eyes warm and soften, giving him every reason to hope for a willing intimacy from her. Then her head swiveled toward the sound of a large truck or transport lumbering up the road.

  She pushed up and away, but not before he caught the shadow of regret in her eyes. "We need to keep moving," she said, licking her lips again. "You ready?"

  "Yes, ma’am, more than. Can you tell me what you did while we’re moving?" Nathan jumped to his feet, marveling at his quick and apparently complete recovery. Nothing hurt. Not his head, not his feet, though they still looked like hell. He didn't even have any hunger pains.

  The scowl he associated with her thinking deeply, flashed across her brow. "It must’ve been Mira."

  He heard her voice, but didn’t register the answer. He was suddenly absorbed in the disaster zone that was his Mustang. "This baby’s not cut out for off-roading." When he’d left for this assignment it was in mint condition. "Good Lord! What happened?" he asked, running his hands gingerly over the rear fender, brushing at the top layer of mud. "She’s a mess."

  "That I can explain. Now, get in the car."

  He didn’t respond to her authoritative tone. He couldn’t. He just walked a slow circuit around his baby, feeling tears well up in his eyes. All the hours he’d put in. Hours that added up to days, weeks, and months of searching and installing every part. He’d lived and breathed every inch of restoration to make this classic Mustang a work of art.

  "She’s a mess," he repeated, rubbing at the dull ache lingering in his temple.

  "I’ve taken good care of her," Kelly insisted. "I don’t like it any more than you do. I just had to make her blend in around here."

  "Calisto, how could you?"

  Her head snapped up. "Pardon me? What did you call me?"

  Reluctantly, he looked away from the car to the woman. Face pale, her full lips compressed into a disapproving line, he struggled to recall what he’d said. He’d thought ‘Kelly’, but something else had come out of his mouth. "Calisto. Cali?" He paused as information and impressions rushed his consciousness. "Your real name. Your real, ah, self."

  Her eyes flashed hot with temper and something that might’ve been worry in a lesser woman. Then she ducked into the car and the engine roared to life.

  At least that sounded like the masterpiece he remembered.

  He heard the brake release and stood dumbfounded as the car slowly rolled forward. Yanking himself back to action, he reached for the door and jumped in, barely gaining his seat as she shifted into second gear. She was seriously pissed off.

  "What’ve you got against your real name?"

  "Same thing most kids with stupid names have. How long have you known?"

  There was obviously more to the story. "Not long," he answered honestly. "I’m not even sure how I know."

  "That must be Mira too." She sighed. "About your car – I’m sorry. I never intended you to see her so filthy. After Kristoff went after Petra –"

  "What? How?"

  "There was a case she consulted on that led to some revelations about his work. He didn't take that well."

  Nathan knew, long before the rest of the world, that Kristoff had been selling drugs disguised as supplements to the Army. What they gained in the field society paid for when the addicts tried to return to civilian life. "But what could Petra do?"

  "It's a longish story. I did what I could. Then I had to leave to protect myself and your sister. Your car was my best escape. And I’m sorry for the modifications, but they were necessary."

  He was trying to process the rest of it when the last bit sank in. "Mods?" his voice cracked. He cleared his throat and tried again. "What modifications?"

  "Mainly the back seat. I needed some covert storage. You might find it useful in the future."

  She was so cavalier he wanted to throttle her. "Right. Anything else?"

  "Not really. Your original plates are in the trunk, but I wouldn’t use them anytime soon. That’s why I brought three other options."

  Nathan looked at the info and navigation unit, a deviation from the original design, but required if you wanted to actually use the car on public streets. "There must be a faulty connection. The chronograph’s whacked out."

  She’d caught up to the container truck and settled in behind it before looking at the readout. "Nope. It’s right."

  Nathan blanched at the implication. "How long was I out?"

  "A little better than two days. Most of it with a nasty fever. That’s why I didn’t waste any time when your sensors started screeching."

  "Thank you," he whispered, realizing for the first time just how close they’d cut it. "Two days with a smart virus and a fever should’ve killed me by now."

  "Guess they don’t want you dead. Which should worry you more."

  She was right. And it did. He told himself he would’ve come to that conclusion sooner if he’d been thinking clearly, but the car was closing in on him again. He started to wonder if his claustrophobia was related to the car, to her, or the situation. What he felt in her presence and in her mind, aside from the physical, currently defied explanation.

  "Where are we?" he asked in an effort to discover something useful. "Two days on the road is more than enough time to get to Chicago."

  "On the programmed expressways, I’d agree. On the run, skirting civilization, a road trip takes a little longer."

  She stopped speaking, but he sensed there was more to it.

  "And?"

  "And we’re not going to Chicago." She cleared her throat. "I made an executive decision while you were burning up. I’m pleased to announce we’re almost there."

  The sun highlighted the ribbon of old highway stretched out before them. "Why south?"

  "You needed medical attention. You still might."

  "I feel great."

  "Uh-huh."

  The look she sent him took him back to his internal debate about her effect on him. Did he really felt great or did she just give him the illusion of feeling better? Did it matter? "I feel as strong now as I did before I went in."

  She thought the ‘uh-huh’ that time and an additional word: Mira.

  "Who or what is Mira?"

  "She’s a nurse from the prison infirmary. She’s the only sensible explanation – about you feeling all better that is. When she healed me, she must’ve left behind enough energy for me to send into you when you flat lined."

  "You’re saying when you gave me mouth-to-mouth, your breath had healing properties."

  She shrugged. "It’s the only logical answer since I’m not a healer."

  He wasn’t sure he bought it. "Logic. Okay. I’ve met some good nurses in my time, but come on."

  Her fingers twitched on the steering wheel. "My info’s sketchy, but I’ve heard some healers leave a residual behind."

  "With what sort of half life?"

  She shot him an impatient look. "Apparently at least a couple of days."

  He couldn’t blame her for getting snippy. As much as he tried to curtail his questions, his curiosity and a healthy measure of skepticism kept his mouth going. "So Mira was your inside connection."

  She frowned, her vivid brows furrowed in consternation. "No she wasn’t. I didn't have one."

  "Then how’d you break in?"

  She didn’t seem to hear him, her concentration on the road as they merged with more traffic. He took a mental peek and heard a flurry of thought. Refusing to intrude further, for now, Nat
han retreated to give her space and a little peace. He’d prefer that she share the whole story willingly. Soon.

  * * *

  Kristoff struggled to think through the violent pounding of blood in his skull. He’d been seeing red, literally, since waking to find Simon carting him toward a public hospital. Apparently he'd driven the ambulance off the road, rolling it into a ditch and Simon had been worried.

  Worried! It grated.

  Fortunately, he'd woken in time to talk sense into his young assassin. With the ambulance associated with a prison break, they’d stolen a car from the hospital employee lot in order to get out of town. Unwilling to push his luck, Kristoff avoided his previous shelters and ordered Simon to break into an office building at the earliest opportunity. Though he hated huddling in the maintenance basement like a common man, it had been a prudent decision.

  "Tell me again," he ordered.

  Again, Simon related the same nonsense about ghosts who shared his new concern for Kristoff. What had made the boy capable of warmer emotions? This sort of lapse could undermine everything. The last thing he needed was an insane assassin on the payroll.

  Kristoff rolled his chair closer to Simon’s and braced his elbows on his knees until their noses nearly touched.

  "How did this ghost make you feel?"

  Simon’s gaze fell. "Sad and scared."

  "About things you’ve done?"

  He shook his head and his clear, bright eyes met Kristoff's. "No. About you."

  Kristoff tried to digest this again. He'd nurtured Simon's gift for murder for years. He’d trained him, trusted him, catered to his every need no matter how dark or violent and yet somehow, during this critical mission, Simon had been compromised.

  It seemed like yesterday they'd enjoyed the success of Simon's first official execution. The task Kristoff had designed to frame Nathan Burkhardt and bring that extraordinary talent within his grasp. He'd spent years bonding Simon to him in a way that shouldn’t be vulnerable to suggestion from an outsider.

  Unless…

  Kristoff leaned back, keeping his expression neutral. "Simon, what will you do if I die?"