by Sarah Wynde
Flickering was dangerous.
A ghost who took in too much energy could become what Akira called a vortex ghost. That had happened to his gran. When she’d died from a stroke, just three days after his deadly overdose, her despair and grief had left her trapped in a nether state, lost in some sort of energy sea. Desperately seeking a way out and unaware of the physical world, she became deadly to humans who were sensitive to the energy, such as Akira, and to ghosts. Dillon had been lucky his gran hadn’t inadvertently destroyed him.
In the void, his gran had been able to see the auras of living humans. She’d grabbed Akira’s iridescent blue aura and held on for dear life. Death. Whatever. In doing so, she’d pulled Akira’s soul right out of her body. It hadn’t been on purpose, though. It was just what happened to a ghost who’d lost control.
Dillon didn’t want it to happen to him.
And all he needed to do to prevent it was relax.
Relax, relax, relax.
Would the night never end?
But dawn finally came and then daylight and the train trudged on, wending its way through South Carolina and Georgia and into Florida and finally, right on time, depositing Rachel in Palatka.
Dillon felt enormously relieved to be back in Florida. The yellow brick and red roof of the train station, the occasional palm tree, the dry grass, it all felt like home to him. And Rachel was almost to safety. Soon he could stop worrying.
The bus would arrive in twenty-five minutes. And then from Palatka to Tassamara was about an hour. Dillon hadn’t texted his mom yet, but maybe he should do that now?
As Rachel took a seat on a bench outside the bus station, he looked around. The only person nearby was a skinny white guy, shaved head, zits, pacing nervously. Dillon was sure he’d have a cell phone but he looked skeezy. If Dillon had been alive, he would have avoided getting too close, maybe instinctively, maybe because of television stereotypes rooted deep in his subconscious. The guy fit his picture of a drug addict.
Dillon drifted closer, just as the guy’s attention landed on Rachel.
“Hey, baby,” the guy said.
Rachel looked startled. She didn’t say anything in reply, just glanced at the man and then glanced away but Dillon saw her throat clench as she swallowed nervously.
“Yeah, I was talking to you.”
Oh, hell. Dillon tried to think of what he could do. Set off an alarm? Make a phone ring? Then he scowled as he thought of another option. Something about it grossed him out but with a grimace, he stepped into the man.
The man shivered convulsively as Dillon’s energy hit him. He looked around, as if searching for an air conditioning vent from the overhanging roof, before shaking his head and saying, “Cold out here today.”
Rachel didn’t look at him and the man stepped a little closer to her. “You look pretty cold, too.”
Dillon followed him, feeling vindictively satisfied when the man shuddered again, until Rachel wrapped her arms around herself and tried not to shiver, too. Hell, he was too close. The cold was affecting Rachel. He stepped away, frustrated and angry at his own helplessness.
“So where you headed?”
Rachel kept ignoring him, but the guy kept talking. Dillon made his phone ring. The guy pulled it out, glanced at it, frowned, and stuck it back in his pocket. Dillon made it ring again. And again and again, but the guy paid no attention. He was telling Rachel his life story even though she still wasn’t looking at him.
“Damn it, damn it, damn it,” Dillon swore. If he set off a building alarm, people would come. But what if they asked Rachel questions? What if her picture was on the news already? What if they recognized her?
In all his years of being a ghost, he had never hated it so much.
This sucked.
*****
Sylvie was still fuming.
Her gorgeous dress, which had made her feel like a biker princess such a short time earlier, now felt like a badge on the proverbial walk of shame. Not that she would ever have spent the night with Raymond Chesney by choice, but wearing a crumpled evening dress while waiting at the front door of a suburban McMansion in the shimmering mid-day Florida light felt tawdry.
It was a good thing Chesney couldn’t read her mind or her emotions, or he would have fired her on the spot. She could barely keep her disgust from showing on her face. It was almost noon, Rachel had been missing for hours, and he hadn’t even asked about her.
Sitting in the car with Chesney at the airport had been a nightmare. The plane had a mechanical problem, they needed a part, the pilot had to get the right paperwork . . . it had been one thing after another. But between bouts of spitting fury at the incompetence around him, Chesney had been on his phone, business as usual. During one particularly long conversation about some legislation that Sylvie knew nothing about, he’d actually relaxed. And then when they’d finally taken off, he’d slept on the plane as if nothing worried him at all.
Of course, Sylvie probably should have done the same. Instead, she’d had no sleep, and her eyes burned with exhaustion. At least the tiny airport they’d landed at had had an ample supply of free coffee. Sylvie had downed five cups while they’d waited for the rental car to arrive.
The door opened.
“Sir!” At the sight of Chesney, the man who’d opened the door stepped back, pulling the door wide and gesturing them inside. “Rosario didn’t mention—”
“Rosario didn’t know,” Chesney interrupted, brushing past the man. “I need to talk to Mateo.”
Holy fucking shit. Every bad word Sylvie knew—and an extensive vocabulary of obscenities was part of a Marine’s basic training—raced through her mind at light speed. She’d speculated on the plane, of course. Flying to Florida—okay, it was weird. Especially given that Lucas had made the connection between Chesney and the drug cartels based on a bust in Florida. And Chesney’s question about whether Sylvie spoke Spanish troubled her. Still, even her conversation with Lucas at the party hadn’t really convinced her that her boss was involved with Mexican drug dealers.
Rosario, though, wasn’t a common name. But it was the name of one of Chesney’s maids, the woman who’d left his office in anger last Sunday afternoon. Why would Chesney be visiting someone who knew his maid? Who called him sir? Who lived in a ritzy house in a Florida suburb? And all while his daughter was missing, presumed kidnapped? Sylvie hated the way the pieces were adding up, but she followed Chesney inside the house.
Two men were standing up in the spacious living room to the right, both Hispanic, mid-thirties, reasonably attractive and dressed well in casual jackets and shirts unbuttoned at the collar. Only the shorter man appeared to be carrying, his shoulder-holstered gun obvious. Sylvie wished she could blame the jittery feeling running down her spine on the coffee.
The taller of the two men scowled, asking, “¿Qué hace usted aquí?”
Sylvie had told Chesney she’d failed Spanish, but it wasn’t because she couldn’t understand the basics. Years of moving from neighborhood to neighborhood, many of them Hispanic, meant that she could get by, but with an accent that was a crazy mix of Caribbean Spanish—Puerto Rican, Cuban, Dominican—and Mexican Spanish. Her high school Spanish teacher had not approved. But she tried not to let her understanding show as Chesney responded, in his own heavily accented Spanish, “The bastards have kidnapped my daughter.”
The man’s face stilled, his nostrils flared, and he gestured to the door of the nearby office. “Come. We’ll talk in private.”
Sylvie followed Chesney, expressionless, trying to be the perfect blank automaton bodyguard who saw nothing, heard nothing, understood nothing. At the door of his office, the man paused. He gestured in her direction with his chin. “Who’s this?”
Chesney waved off the question. “She’s coordinating with the search team in Washington.”
The man looked Sylvie over, his mocking gaze trailing up her body from toe to head, with a lengthy pause on the black leather cupping her full breasts. Sylvie gritted
her teeth, trying not to flush and mentally cursing her fair skin, Chesney, and the asshole that stood in front of her. He raised an eyebrow at Chesney.
“We were at a party. She’s not important,” Chesney snapped.
The man shrugged. “Privacy is best.”
“Wait here,” Chesney ordered Sylvie in English.
She nodded and dropped her gaze. She wasn’t scared, not exactly, but for the first time the balding, pudgy man in front of her felt potentially dangerous. He was angry, but there was determination behind his anger. She didn’t want his attention on her, but as he turned to enter the office, she took an impulsive step forward. “Sir?”
“What?”
“Restroom?” she asked, trying to sound like a charmingly helpless girl. “And maybe some food? And then if I could get access to a computer, I could help Ty, Mr. Barton, with analyzing the security footage.” Her heart was beating much too fast as she waited for Chesney’s response. She could call Ty or text him, but a computer link and a reason for steady communication would make her feel a lot better.
Chesney looked to the man next to him. Tall guy nodded—he must be Mateo, Sylvie thought—and then gestured to the man who’d opened the door. “Ari, take care of her.” He turned to the shorter man. That conversation lasted longer and strained the ability of Sylvie’s Spanish to understand, but it sounded as if Rafe would find her a clean computer, no files on it, with a secure network connection.
In the bathroom, Sylvie stared at her reflection in the mirror. Her hair was almost back to its original color and it should have looked good: the copper with her blue eyes and pale skin had always been more flattering than the brown. But instead she looked tired and worried, with dark smudges under her eyes and pale lips. This was a mess.
What would happen if she walked out the door? Right now. Just walked out of the bathroom and then out the front door and down the street? She had her ID and her cell phone. She could call a cab. She wasn’t sure where in Florida they were, but she could find a street sign.
Chesney had been rabid about not letting anyone know Rachel was missing, though. Would he trust her not to talk? And even if she hadn’t already had reason to suspect Chesney’s involvement with the drug cartels, she would have recognized these men as dangerous. No, leaving now wasn’t an option. Not a good one, anyway.
She pressed her hand to her stomach, comforted by the solid feel of her gun hidden behind the layers of chiffon and the cell phone she’d tucked into the pocket next to it. Everything was going to be okay, she told herself, wishing fervently that Lucas were with her. Maybe she should call him? But the last two times she’d tried, her calls had gone straight to voicemail. And with Chesney within hearing distance, she hadn’t wanted to leave messages.
Outside the bathroom, Ari had a sandwich waiting for her, while Rafe arranged a laptop at the dining room table, plugging it in, then sitting down in front of it while it booted up. Sylvie knew she should talk to them, smile, pretend to be friendly and sociable, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. She ate in silence until Rafe finished logging in and connecting to the network and stood, gesturing to her to take his seat.
“You look familiar,” he said as she sat. “Have we met?”
“I don’t think so,” Sylvie responded. He was staring at her, curious but not concerned, so she tried to ignore the itchy sensation of his attention on her and focus on the laptop.
Ty and Lucas had updated Sylvie regularly through the night. Lydia’d had her stomach pumped in the emergency room—drug overdose, the doctor said. Ty and James finally caught up to the GPS tracker in a cab, but the driver claimed to know nothing about it or Rachel, and Ty believed him. Lucas and the others had worked the building, Lucas looking for anyone who was thinking about Rachel or Chesney or kidnapping, the rest trying to sound casual as they asked about a short, dark-haired girl. Eventually Ty had sent two people back to the house to set up a recording device on the phone and wait for a ransom call.
But without Chesney’s help and unable to mention Rachel’s disappearance, Ty had had a hell of a time getting the footage of the security feeds from AlecCorp. About an hour ago, he’d texted her that they’d finally gotten the feeds posted to a secure server and were reviewing them.
Opening a browser, Sylvie logged in to her account and opened a chat window. You there? she typed to Ty.
Yeah, came the quick response.
What’ve we got?
Inside/outside, eighteen cameras. Twelve hours each, from 7 to 7. Focusing on the doors for now.
How’s it looking?
Nothing yet.
Sylvie hated that answer.
How’d you finally get the video? she typed.
Don’t know. Pretty sure your boyfriend had something to do with it.
Sylvie could almost see the grin Ty would be wearing as he typed those words. Reflexively, she started to type a protest, and then paused. Boyfriend. Hmm. She felt her lips curving slightly and backspaced to delete, before typing, He there?
No, left a while ago. I’d been working my way through the list of AlecCorp head honchos, trying to find someone who’d answer their fricking phone on a Saturday morning when some guy showed up, flashed a badge, and told the dude at the front desk to give me what I wanted.
Sylvie frowned. Had Lucas contacted the FBI? Would Ty be upset about that? She wished she was in the room with him so she wouldn’t have to guess how he was feeling. Problem?
No. There was a pause, and then another word followed. Grateful.
Sylvie thought she probably shouldn’t write what she was about to write on a computer that was not her own, but she couldn’t help herself. When we get Rachel back, can we maybe look for a new job?
Assuming we aren’t fired?
Sylvie smiled. She could almost hear the dry edge to Ty’s voice and as tired and worried and scared as she was, she felt much better knowing that he was there at the other end of the computer screen.
Unemployment would be nice, she typed. But yeah.
Afghanistan might be hiring. Poor Ty. Losing a client was any security consultant’s nightmare. After coming back to the United States with a flawless record overseas, this must be killing him.
How about another egotistical movie star? she typed. Until they’d taken the steady job with Chesney last winter, they’d done a stream of short-term gigs, including some actors. The work had been inconsistent but given the circumstances that would be fine by Sylvie.
We’ll see, he typed.
Good enough. Time to see if she could spot anything on the video.
Server log-in? Where do you want me to start looking?
Ty typed the codes that she could use for access to the video. As Sylvie entered them, she almost imagined she could hear their computer expert screaming at them for using an unprotected chat line to transmit confidential information. But she didn’t give a damn if anyone else looked at video footage from AlecCorp and Ty apparently didn’t either.
K, ready, she typed.
Ty didn’t answer.
What do you want me to look at? she typed.
Still no answer. She waited and then tried again. Where do you want me to start?
Nothing.
For a little while, as she wrote to Ty, Sylvie had been able to forget where she was, to pretend that she was sitting at any desk anywhere. But with Ty not responding, the attention of the two men at her back pushed insistently at her awareness. She glanced over her shoulder. Yes, they were both looking at her. Ari, the door opener and sandwich maker, smiled but the other man stayed stony-faced and grim.
Sylvie turned back to the computer. Ty?
Sorry, popped up in the chat window and she felt a wave of relief. James found something. Take a look. He added a camera number and time stamp codes.
Sylvie clicked through the server looking for the right video. Her fingers tapped impatiently against the tabletop as she waited for it to stream until, deliberately, she stilled them. Five cups of coffee, she remin
ded herself. That was why she was jittery. Not because the attention of the men behind her was dangerous. She took a breath, feeling again the comfort of the weight against her belly, but resisted the impulse to touch it.
The video finally started streaming. Sylvie watched as Rachel walked toward a door, her hands held above her head in the traditional gun-at-one’s-back position. Rachel pushed open the door and exited. No one else ever entered the camera frame.
Sylvie scowled and dragged the play icon to the left to rewind.
Smart kidnappers, Ty wrote. Watched for the cameras. Someone must have been waiting for her outside.
Maybe, Sylvie typed in response. She watched the video again. Then a third time. Then she typed, Look at her legs. The bottom of her dress.
What do you see? Ty asked.
Do you have the time stamps for when she arrived? Sylvie answered. She wanted a clearer picture of Rachel.
She had time to watch the video two more times before Ty sent her the codes she wanted. Then she watched the other video, looking at Rachel carefully as the footage showed her coming up through the basement parking garage with Chesney. Ty, Lydia, and Mark were close behind them, but James must have stayed at the car.
Rachel wore a long-sleeved, high-necked, full-skirted black dress. It was velvet and Christmas-y and not inappropriate, but also not her usual taste. Sylvie eyed it intently. Then she flipped back to the other video and watched again. “Clever, clever girl,” she muttered under her breath as she realized what Rachel had done.
The chat icon blinked in the corner of her screen. What do you see? Ty had typed the question again.
See the dark line at her knee? Sylvie wrote. When she raises her arms, her skirt lifts, too. She’s wearing rolled-up leggings under her dress. And a shirt.
You sure?
She looks heavier than usual when she enters. And she’s sweating. She’s got layers on. She waited for Ty’s response. From the very beginning, Rachel’s disappearance had felt wrong. It made no sense for a kidnapper to try to take her out of AlecCorp in the middle of a party. Kidnappers stopped cars, shot bodyguards, grabbed the kid and ran.
