About to cause you. Not had already caused. Her cop radar flipped on, completing a revolution on her suspicion grid. Studying their suspect, Angela patted the back of the chair. “Take a seat, Ms. Munroe.”
With a nod, she stepped toward the table. Three strides later, wearing wariness like a flak jacket, Myst sank into the seat. “What time is it?”
Still standing just inside the door, Mac’s brows collided. He threw her a silent what-the-hell. When she shrugged, he glanced at his MTM watch. “Seven thirty-one.”
“You should probably clear out.” Twisting her blonde hair into a makeshift knot at her nape, Myst glanced at the window. “He’ll be here soon.”
“Who?” Weird. The conversation was right out of a mental patient’s playbook. The problem? Angela didn’t think Myst fell into the nuts category. The woman was tired, sure, but not crazy.
“Doesn’t matter. You won’t remember anyway.” Planting her elbows on the table, Myst leaned forward and dropped her head into her hands.
“No harm in telling us who he is, then,” Mac said, his voice coaxing as he approached the table.
Angela threw her partner a WTF look. She’d never heard that tone from him before. At least, not in an interrogation room. Usually, he hammered suspects with the cold, hard facts; striking fast and with brutal intent. But as he pulled out another chair, she got the feeling his playbook had just expanded to accommodate damsels in distress.
With a flip, he turned the chair backward, straddled it, then reached out and wrapped his hand around Myst’s wrist. Which freaking floored Angela, and as her brows got busy shooting skyward, she watched her partner pry their prime suspect’s hands away from her face. Okay, he was officially off the grid, four-wheeling it into dangerous territory. But Mac’s instincts were always bang-on, so she backed off and stayed out of it, waiting to see if Myst would respond to the “nice guy” routine.
Leaning in, he cupped both of his big hands around Myst’s. “Where’s the baby?”
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered, holding onto Mac like a lifeline. “I tried so hard to save her, but…I couldn’t and…”
As Myst trailed off, Angela’s throat went tight. Haunted. The woman was haunted by the memory, reliving it frame by frame. She could see it on her face—in her gaze—the force of it so powerful Angela ached for her.
As the swell rose inside her, she slid into the last chair. “What happened that night, Myst?”
Squeezing her eyes closed, Myst clung to Mac’s hand, then took a breath and raised her chin to look right at Angela. “Caroline was already on the floor…in a pool of blood…when I got there. God, there was so much and I called for help, but…” Myst shook her head and took a shaky breath. Angela breathed with her, empathy rearing its ugly head again. “She flatlined and I…didn’t have a choice. The ambulance was too far away. He would’ve died if I hadn’t…”
“He?” Mac murmured.
Their suspect nodded.
“Listen to me, Myst.” Folding her forearm on the tabletop, Angela leaned in. God, they were close…so damned close to getting the answers they needed. To getting the baby back safely. “You need to tell us where he is.”
“He’s safe.”
She shook her head. “You’re going to have to do better than that.”
“I wish I could tell you more, Detective Keen, but I can’t. He’s with people who care about him…who will raise him right. That’s all you need to—” She flinched, cutting the words off midstream as she rocked backward. Flinging off Mac’s hand, her head snapped toward the window. “Oh, my God.”
Mac stood, reacting to the terror in Myst’s voice. His eyes narrowed on the window. “What is it?”
“We need to get out of here.” Shooting to her feet, Myst skirted the edge of the table.
Angela leapt after her. No way would she let the woman pull a fast and fly. Not with a baby in the wind and more questions than answers. Reaching out, she grabbed the back of her prime suspect’s shirt and yanked, pulling her off balance.
As she stumbled backward, Myst yelled, “You don’t understand! I can feel them out there. It’s not Bastian, and I can feel…oh, God…no.”
The building rocked on its foundation.
Angela lost her footing, stumbled back a step and…holy hell. A dark shadow settled over the window, blocking out the night sky. Something hissed and glass shattered, blowing into the room like shrapnel, ripping into her upper arm. The pain barely registered before the blast picked her up and threw her. She went down hard, taking out Myst, hitting the floor butt first. They landed in a heap, her teeth slashing against the inside of her mouth. She ignored the taste of her blood, shouted for Mac.
“Ange, incoming,” he roared as flames licked through the shattered window. “Get her out!”
Choking on toxic fumes, Angela ripped the Velcro away from her Glock. Screw his instructions. No way would she leave her partner. Not while they were under attack.
Screaming at Mac to stay clear of the window, she dragged Myst toward the door. She would shove the nurse into the bullpen with the other detectives then—
Huge black talons curled around the steel-framed window.
Time faltered, tripping into slow motion. Frame by frame, Angela watched the impossible unfold. Felt her heartbeat and the adrenaline rush. Smelled the smoke. Heard Myst scream and the animalistic growl as cinder block gave way, crumbling like dry earth beneath scaled talons and sharp claws. The thing snarled, fangs bared, black eyes flashing as it exhaled. Like pressurized gas, acrid air streamed through the hole in the wall. The blast picked Mac up and threw him through the one-way mirror.
As glass shattered and her partner disappeared, Angela palmed her Glock. With a battle cry, she pulled the trigger, emptied the entire clip into the monster clawing its way through the precinct wall.
Chapter Thirty-four
Heavy footfalls bounced off metal, echoing down endless corridors created by Port of Seattle authorities. Stacked like Legos beneath the open sky, shipping containers read like a maze, the twists and turns hemming her in until Myst didn’t know which way was forward or back. The nasty trifecta herding her between the boxes’ high walls added to the effect: suffocating her, closing the cage, marching both her and Angela toward a man-dragon neither of them wanted to meet.
Ivar.
The leader of the Razorbacks was in the shipping yard somewhere. Waiting.
Suppressing a shiver, Myst twisted her hands, fighting to loosen the zip-tie cuffs around her wrists. Made of thick plastic, the edges dug in, rubbing raw patches on her skin. She didn’t care. Time was running out. The dark-eyed SOB leading them into the heart of the shipping yard wasn’t slowing down, and with a pace that quick? It wouldn’t be long before she came to face-to-face with the head psycho.
Angela bumped her from behind. Losing her balance, she stumbled forward and tossed the cop her best what-the-hell glare. The detective kept coming, nudging her with her shoulder, pretending to lose her footing, and understanding struck. An act. Angela was acting her ass off, trying to stay close. With her arms crossed in front of her chest, she went along and tripped again, praying Angela had a plan.
The cop was smart…had lots of training. Maybe she’d figure out how to get them both the heck away from the bastards holding them prisoner.
The detective listed sideways and, bumping her again, whispered, “Get ready to run.”
Crap. That was her plan?
Under normal circumstances, it would’ve been a good one. Excellent, even. The only problem? Myst didn’t know which way to go. They’d taken so many turns she was hopelessly lost. The next kink in the plan didn’t make her feel any better, either. The guys surrounding them were fast, able to shift into dragon form in a heartbeat. No way they’d be able to outrun them.
But, God…what other choice did they have? Meeting Ivar wasn’t an option she wanted to entertain. Not after all Bastian had told her about the bastard.
Swallowing, Myst forced moisture into her mout
h, trying to forget what her captors were capable of, but the last half hour played like a bad movie in her head. The interrogation room, the explosion, and smoke. The screaming and gunfire. Sharp claws ripping through the police station wall. The tug and pull of being dragged backward through the hole by her legs. Angela being hauled out on her belly, too. The terrifying flight over the city and…the rough treatment when they landed.
Angela stumbled into her again.
“Which way?” she asked, glancing at the lead asshole to make sure he wasn’t listening.
“Next alleyway between containers…you go left.” Her eyes sharp, Angela scanned the narrow corridor. Stacked three high, the containers blocked any chance of escape. And with the Razorbacks in front and behind them? Yeah, the whole situation looked like a Hail Mary pass on an impossible playing field. “I’ll go right.”
She shook her head. “We stick together.”
“We’ll have a better chance if we split up. One of us might get out.”
“But—”
“Find Mac.” Angela whispered, glancing at the pair of Razorbacks trailing them. “Get to my partner, he’ll—”
A growl sounded behind them. “Making plans, females?”
“Myst’s feeling sick.” Quick on her feet, Angela shrugged, playing the lie like a pro. “Just trying to calm her down.”
Asshole number one snorted. “Weak female. Don’t know why Ivar wants her.”
“She’s high-energy, Denzeil,” the lead asshole said, glancing over his shoulder. The chill in his gaze touched her, freezing her with fear before it slid over Angela. “They both are…good breeders.”
“So what, Lothair…” The third Razorback paused, a thoughtful look on his face. “They’re lab rats?”
“With fringe benefits.”
Denzeil’s nostrils flared. “Who gets the redhead?”
“Me.” The corners of Lothair’s lips lifted as he stared at Angela. “Can’t wait, either. Maybe I’ll fuck you before Bastian and his band of bastards show up. Got time before he tracks the signal and comes for his female.”
Bait. Myst’s stomach rolled. She was bait, and like chum thrown into shark-infested waters, Ivar would use her to lure Bastian into a trap. And regardless of the danger, he would come. Try to pull her out instead of letting her go…like he should, like she deserved. She’d abandoned him and yet…
God forgive her.
He would come, tear the shipping yard apart to reach her. She knew it like her own heartbeat and, as each thump slammed into her chest, two thoughts tore her apart, shredding her down the middle.
The first sounded like hope, a plea and prayer for rescue. The second hit with a one-two punch, equal parts guilt and dread. Her decision to run instead of talk to Bastian about a reality she didn’t understand might get the man she loved killed. And for a split second, she wanted to wish the love away, because without it Bastian wouldn’t feel compelled to come after her…would’ve remained safe, far away from Razorback claws.
The consequences of her action sliced deep. Pain spilled out, filling her so full she snarled at Lothair, a “Screw you” poised on the tip of her tongue. Angela kicked the side of Myst’s foot and shook her head, the message clear. Don’t react. The more you do, the more ammunition you give them to hurt you.
With a small nod, Myst acknowledged the wisdom, but it almost killed her. She wanted to launch herself at Lothair’s back and snap his neck. Yeah, it went against everything she knew about herself and her nature but…she could do it. Her knowledge of the human body gave her an edge. All those nice, neat vertebrae were easy to crack if you knew what to do.
The alleyway between containers came into view.
She heard Angela draw in a deep breath and then blow it out, preparing for escape. Myst did the same, filled her lungs and let it go, enriching her muscles with oxygen. The second she started to run, she couldn’t stop. Couldn’t look behind her. Or slow down.
His footfalls echoing, Lothair continued straight down the corridor.
And Myst got ready.
The instant they reached the gap between containers, they bolted in opposite directions: Angela right, Myst left. The Razorbacks behind them shouted, raising the alarm. Adrenaline screaming through her veins, Myst’s feet flew. The thud of heavy boots sounded behind her. Hot breath washed over the back of her neck, and she dodged, zigzagging to avoid capture. A huge hand flashed in her peripheral vision. She changed direction, skidding around a corner into a narrow alleyway.
“Shit,” a voice said, full of pissed off behind her.
The skitter of sliding feet sounded as he put on the brakes. Myst huffed in triumph as the Razorback collided with the container. Another curse joined a clang, banging around between the steel boxes, echoing into the night.
Without looking back, she sprinted toward the end of the ally and freedom: each footfall hammering against asphalt, her chest heaving so hard she couldn’t hear anything but her own ragged breath. She chanced a look over her shoulder. Rubbing the curve of his shoulder, Denzeil stood between the steel walls—thighs spread, boots planted—blocking the end of the alleyway, but…
He wasn’t moving. Was just standing there, eyes shimmering in the gloom, an awful smile on his face.
Terror flooded her, washing through her veins. Oh, God…no. Mind-speak. The psycho was communicating with someone. She could see the spike in energy. As his red aura flared, she came even with the end of the container and—
A huge hand shot from around the corner.
Sucking in a sharp breath, Myst skittered sideways and ducked low. She heard a growl. Felt the grab and pull as he fisted his hand in the back of her shirt. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed her into a dead-end alleyway. She twisted as she stumbled, trying to get her feet beneath her. She must find a way around him, but as he approached, a massive shadow against the rising moon, Myst knew she didn’t stand much of a chance.
Making twin fists, she brought her bound hands up. “Stay away!”
“No chance of that, female.” Dark red hair pulled away from his face, black wraparounds concealing his eyes, his mouth curved at the corners. “But I like your style.”
“You won’t like it when I snap your neck.”
“A fighter.” He grinned, flashing his straight white teeth. Flexing his fists, he came within striking distance, daring her to hit him. “I like that, too. It’ll make taming you far more interesting, don’t you think?”
As far as taunts went, that was a good one. Especially since the bastard accompanied the words with movement. Step by step, he moved in for the kill, crowding her, pushing her back into a corner she held no hope of fighting her way out of. “It won’t happen. I am Bastian’s.”
“I know,” he said, an undercurrent of excitement in his tone. His nostril flared, and Myst realized she had said exactly the wrong thing. “But possession is nine-tenths of the law, and I have you now. Do you think he will want you back when I am through with you? After I have ridden you hard…taken everything a female can give a male?”
Balanced on the balls of her feet, Myst kept pace with him, pivoting, keeping him in sight as he circled her, looking for an opening. The soft tissue of the nose. Raking his eyes with her fingernails. Booting him in the balls. All viable options. The last one, though, was her favorite. “I’ll never give you the satisfaction…Ivar.”
“You already have.” He walked around her again, staying just outside her strike zone. “Owning you, fucking you, feeding from you…seeing you locked in cellblock A with my daughter growing in your womb? That’s all the satisfaction I need.”
Daughter? Myst frowned. What the hell was he talking about?
Keeping her guard high, she stared at him from between her fists, mind working overtime. Dragonkind didn’t produce girls so…
The answer hit her like a sledgehammer.
Ivar was a scientist and, like her mother had always done, dealt more in results than reality. All things are achievable through scientific exp
erimentation. How many times had she heard that growing up? She’d lived the obsession—knew exactly what had driven her mom—and saw the same commitment in the man backing her into a corner.
She met his gaze through the dark lenses hiding his eyes. “You’re manipulating chromosomal DNA.”
“Smart female,” he murmured, a sick sort of approval in his expression.
“It won’t work. You’re chasing—”
He struck so fast she didn’t see him move. Grabbing her by the nape, he buried his fingers in her hair. Fear lit her up, making her vicious. With a twist, she slammed her bound fists into him. She connected: once, twice. The third time he cursed as his sunglasses went flying. The Oakleys clanged against the shipping container. Myst screamed and struck again. His eyes flared, shimmering with violence, illuminating the darkness with a pink glow.
“You son of a bitch.”
Lashing out again, she thrust her knee up, aiming for his groin. He shifted and, without mercy, cranked her head back, raising her onto her toes. With a curse, she held the tears back, refusing to show weakness or acknowledge the pain, and kicked him again. He took the hit on the thigh and shoved her against the container wall.
Cold steel bit into her spine and reality hit hard. She couldn’t win. He was too strong. “Get off me…get off me!”
“Lesson one…don’t tell me what to do,” he said, aligning their bodies, pressing in until he pinned her. Unable to move, she turned her head away, gagging as he dipped his head. The warm rush of his breath touched a second before his mouth brushed her cheekbone. “Lesson two? Give me what I want, and you’ll live.”
“I’m not giving you a thing.”
His lips curved against her skin. “Hmm…female. You smell so good. Bet you taste even better. Give me a sip, sweetheart…a little taste of all that energy.”
Her stomach rolled. She swallowed, fighting to keep the bile down. “Go to hell.”
Ivar snarled, the sound hissing next to her ear. Fear ripped through her, gathered speed, twisting her energy into the force of a hurricane. For once, she let it go, embraced the wildness she’d always felt, rode the whipping wind inside her, settling into the eye of the storm. From its center, she controlled the tempest, defining the boundaries as Ivar cranked her head back and dipped his head.
Fury of Fire Page 32
