From the sound of things, Leo and Kane had distracted the shooter with some kind of decoy. Farrell didn’t know what was left, but the thought of the gunman getting antsy and taking a run at the kitchen spurred him forward at a faster pace. Kane and Leo could protect Jenna. He was almost sure of it.
But almost wasn’t good enough.
He crept quietly at first, trying not to make noise as he stepped over the dead leaves covering the ground, being careful to duck under low hanging branches that might snap if he pushed through them. He had worked his way along the side of the house and was almost ready to cut over to the back when something dropped to the ground not too far ahead of him.
It was dark, but his eyes had become accustomed to it while he’d made his way through the woods, and a moment later he spotted a dark smudge moving through the woods away from the house.
He gave up any pretense of trying to be quiet and sprinted through the woods in pursuit. Now there was nothing but the trees passing in a blur as he gave chase, the sound of displaced foliage, and as he got closer, the labored breathing of his prey.
He pushed his legs faster, trying to isolate his enemy’s footsteps as he weaved in and out of the trees, sometimes disappearing in the shadows only to reappear a second later. Farrell focused on the sound, the body in front of him propelling itself through the dense growth of the age-old forest.
And then he was there, right in front of Farrell, a black-clad figure a few steps ahead, racing through the woods with a rifle at his side. He was struggling. Farrell could see it in his gradually slowing pace, could hear it in the increasingly harsh breathing coming from him.
The realization gave Farrell a fresh burst of resolve. He pushed his legs faster, grateful for the regular boxing workouts whose effects still seemed to be helping him even though it had been weeks since he’d been able to train regularly.
He would settle for beating the man in front of him to a pulp.
He reached out as he got closer, the man’s jacket only inches from his hand, then launched himself at the figure. His hand closed around the nylon fabric, slowing the gunman down just enough that Farrell was able to tackle him from behind.
They both went down, and Farrell hit the hard ground with a force vicious enough to rattle his bones. His gun went flying into the undergrowth, but there was no time to try and retrieve it.
They were side by side now, each of them struggling to gain the upper hand. The man was wearing a ski mask, his face hidden behind the black knit. He was big, but clumsy, and not very fast, struggling to outmaneuver Farrell as he rolled his opponent onto his back.
Farrell got ahold of the sniper rifle in the other man’s hand and drove the butt of it into the man’s forehead. He screamed, instinctively holding a hand to the already-bleeding wound, and Farrell used the opportunity to throw the gun out of reach; a sniper rifle was no good for close quarters shooting. It was just in the way.
His opponent recovered quickly, landing a solid blow to Farrell’s jaw. He bit his lip and felt the blood begin to flow. It was the best thing for him, the punch immediately transporting him to the street fights that had been an outlet for his rage in the wake of his father’s death all those years ago.
He was like Pavlov’s dog: violence the ringing bell, blood his food of choice.
He elbowed the man in the nose, felt the cracking of bones through the mask. The man was still holding his gushing nose when Farrell grabbed a fistful of his jacket and rolled on top of him. Then there was nothing but his fists meeting the man’s body, the satisfying sensation of meat giving way under his hands, the crunch of bones as his punches met their marks.
But it wasn’t enough. The man was prone. It was difficult to gain access to his torso, and Farrell wasn’t aiming for a quick KO. He wanted to enjoy it. Wanted to take his time hurting the man who had shot at Jenna in the vineyard, who would have killed her if there hadn’t been someone to protect her.
He stood, pleased to realize he was barely breathing hard, and hauled the man up by his coat. Blood oozed from under the man’s nose, seeping onto the jacket, covering Farrell’s bloody hands in yet more blood.
He slammed the man against a nearby tree trunk. “Not such a big man without your gun, are you?”
He tried to answer, but the words came out in a mumble around teeth Farrell realized were broken.
“That’s okay,” Farrell said. “I’ve never been one for small talk.”
He let loose a round of punches to the man’s chest and torso. They weren’t designed to take him out. It was too soon for that. He was keeping his prey conscious and alive for his own benefit. Releasing all his fury — for Jenna, for Lily, for Erik and Lieve Karlsen, for Jenna’s beloved Mrs. Hodges — into the man’s slumped body.
His hands were starting to ache when he moved back to the man’s face.
“Tell me about the virus,” Farrell said between punches.
The man’s words were barely intelligible, but Farrell recognized the curse.
“That’s not what I asked for,” Farrell said, slamming his fist into the man’s cheekbone. “Where is it?”
The man started to laugh. It was the only thing that could have stopped the momentum of the beating, and Farrell hesitated, the maniacal laughter like fresh fuel on the smoldering remnants of his rage.
He reached into his jacket and removed the second gun he’d placed there when they’d armed up at Leo’s car. He tore off the man’s mask.
It was Borys Levchenko, brother of Deny Levchenko. Of Alex Petrov.
He held the gun to the man’s head.
“You think this is funny, Borys?”
There was a flicker of surprise in the man’s face, and Farrell flipped the safety off the gun, and pressed it against the man’s temple. “One more time. Where is the virus?”
The man shook his head. “Hope you like… football,” he said, an eerie laugh erupting from his mouth, echoing off the trees.
Farrell wanted to shut him up. Wanted to reduce him to a lifeless mass of flesh and bone. Wanted to leave him for the animals in the forest.
“Don’t do it.”
The voice came from behind him. He didn’t have to turn around to know that it belonged to Kane.
“We need him,” Kane said. “Jenna needs him to get back to your daughter.”
He wanted to deny the truth of it. To give into the desire to wipe Borys Levchenko off the map once and for all.
But Kane was right. Their time was up. They needed something to show for it if they didn’t want to be taken back into custody or be back on the run.
He lowered the gun and shoved Levchenko onto the ground at Kane’s feet. “Where’s Jenna?”
All he wanted now was her.
Twenty-Six
Jenna stood off to the side in the woods while Farrell spoke to someone from Kane’s office. She’d come running the minute they said it was safe, and he’d crushed her against him in a fiery embrace. He was bloody and beaten, but unbowed. Jenna didn’t know what had happened in the moments before she got there to find Borys Levchenko sprawled out on the ground, Kane standing over him with a gun while Farrell paced a few feet away.
It had taken less than an hour for all hell to break loose, beginning with the helicopter that had landed in the middle of the field behind the house. Several armed soldiers had spilled from the chopper followed by a steely-eyed man in a suit. He took control of the scene in a matter of moments, and while Jenna hadn’t been introduced to him, his commanding manner left no doubt that he was in charge. Even Kane was respectful, and Jenna waited patiently until it was time to give her version of the events.
There had been some argument over whether Farrell and Jenna would be allowed to go, whether the handing over of Levchenko constituted the fulfillment of their agreement with Kane’s superiors. In the end it was Kane who vouched for them, eliciting a hushed promise from Farrell in a hurried, private conversation that Farrell and Jenna would stay in Chamonix until given permission to leave
. Jenna had smiled to herself when Farrell’s eyes cut to her just before he agreed. He wouldn’t think twice about breaking the promise if it meant keeping Jenna out of the hands of the FBI, and she suspected Kane knew it.
“You okay?” Farrell asked, rubbing his hands along her arms as if to prove to himself she was still there.
“I’m fine,” she said.
But he wasn’t. She could see it in the tightness of his jaw, the wall that had dropped over his eyes. It’s what he always did when his emotions — rage, pain, love — became too much for him. There was no point pressing the matter. He would never confess to needing anything, and it would only hurt him to imagine she thought he needed anything at all.
“What now?” she asked instead.
He rubbed his jaw, and she didn’t know if it was a habit, something to keep his hands busy, or if he had been hit there by Levchenko. “They’re taking Levchenko in for questioning. Maybe they’ll get something out of him. Maybe not.”
“And he only made that one comment to you?” she asked. “About football?”
He nodded. “Although his brevity might have been because he didn’t have many teeth left by that point.”
The comment was delivered in Farrell's usual deadpan, as if the question were more a curiosity than anything else, and she had to resist the urge to break into hysterical laughter.
“We’re wrapping it up here," Kane said, glancing at Leo, talking to one of the armed soldiers who’d emerged from the chopper. “I’m going to fly in with Levchenko, keep an eye on things while we try to get more out of him. Stay here until you hear from me.”
“We can wait in Paris just as well,” Farrell said.
Kane shook his head. “That’s not our agreement. You stay here because I say you stay here, because that’s where Director Mitchell wants you for the time being.”
Farrell clenched his fists, and Jenna knew he was struggling against the urge to fight against the constraints placed on him by Kane and the FBI. “Fine,” he said tightly.
“I’ll be in touch,” Kane said. “Soon.”
“Counting on it,” Farrell said.
Kane turned, heading for the helicopter whose rotors had just begun to turn again. He ducked a little as he entered the wind created by the turning blades. A moment later Leo joined them as the last soldier jumped into the chopper. They watched as the machine lifted into the air, levitating and hovering for a moment before it banked sharply and disappeared beyond the trees.
The silence left in its wake was louder than any noise, and for a moment, they stood without speaking, staring at the place where the helicopter had disappeared. It was impossible to say how much time had passed, but the sky was still dark, and she had the strange feeling that no time at all had passed. That they'd been suspended in some kind of alternate universe, the rest of the world frozen while they’d been trapped in the house in the woods, while Farrell had single-handedly captured a man who might be able to put an end to the nightmare of the virus once and for all.
But not yet. They still had to find out where it was. And how close it was to dispersal.
Jenna took Farrell’s arm, avoiding his bloody hands, not wanting to hurt him. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s get out of here.”
Farrell nodded. “The least they could have done is give us a ride back to the car,” he said as they headed for the driveway at the front of the house.
“That’s the Americans for you,” Leo said. “Always cutting corners.”
Farrell snorted.
“Want me to drive?” Leo asked, glancing at Farrell’s hands.
“This is nothing,” Farrell said. “You should see the other guy.”
Jenna was surprised to hear herself laugh.
Twenty-Seven
Jenna filled the ice bucket with lukewarm water and set it on the bed next to a stack of towels and washcloths. Then she went to the bathroom, gently removing Farrell’s hands from the sink full of ice.
They’d driven back to the hotel in silence, booked a room for Leo, asked the concierge for some first aid supplies, and gone their separate ways. Jenna had gone to work as soon as they’d reached the room, filling the sink with ice and unwrapping gauze, tiny scissors, anti-bacterial ointment, and first aid tape. She’d never bandaged more than Lily’s scraped knee, but she wanted to take care of Farrell the only way she knew how. The way he’d taken care of her.
“Come on,” she said, leading him to the bed.
She sat him next to the nightstand and dropped one of the washcloths in the warm water. She took Farrell’s hand in hers, inspecting the bruised and swollen flesh, still smeared with blood, before taking the washcloth out of the ice bucket. She applied it carefully to his hand.
“It’s not mine,” he said.
“What isn’t?” she asked, gently dabbing at his skin.
“The blood. It’s not mine.”
She looked into his eyes and was transported back in time nearly six years earlier. She’d still been processing the nature of Farrell’s work, still trying to figure out how she felt about it, when he came home with bloody hands one night. Alarmed, she’d rushed to help him only to have him laugh, telling her the blood wasn’t his. She’d known then that it would never work between them, that the blood would probably never be his and she would never be able to live with the fact that he hurt other people for a living.
She looked back at his hand. “I know.”
He used his other hand to tip her chin, force her to look at him. “You know?”
She nodded.
“And what will you tell Lily about her father?” he asked. “What will you tell yourself?”
She lifted her chin. “I’ll tell her that her father is a king. That he’s a warrior who will do anything to protect us. That she’s lucky to have someone who loves her that way.”
When he spoke again, his voice was gruff with emotion. “And you?”
“I’ll tell myself the same thing.”
He took the washcloth from her hand, threw it back in the water with a splash. Then he reached out with one battered hand and stroked her cheek, his eyes a storm of love and need.
She wanted to clean his hand, wanted to take care of him. But she couldn’t look away. Couldn’t tear her eyes from the gaze that held hers like a magnet. It sent a current of electricity zipping along the surface of her skin, a full-body chill that ran from the top of her head to the tips of her toes.
He stroked her lower lip with the fleshy pad of his thumb, and her breath caught in her throat, the gentle touch a reminder of what had been, a promise of what was to come. She opened her mouth, captured his thumb between her teeth, bit gently before sucking. He groaned. She understood now.
This was how Farrell wanted to be taken care of. This was how he wanted to forget.
She moved between his knees and slid her hands around his neck, pressing against his body. He was already hard for her, his erection pressing like a monolith against her stomach. He took his hand out of her mouth, slipped his hands into the hair at the back of her head and tipped her face to his. She closed her eyes and was waiting for his mouth to close on hers when she felt his breath on her neck.
Her nipples got hard as he lowered his mouth to the hollow of her throat, pressing his lips against her skin. She was desperate for his touch. Desperate to touch him. To feel his bare skin against hers, to open her body to him.
She slid her hands inside his shirt, let them travel carefully up the length of his back, not sure how badly he’d been wounded in the fight with Levchenko. He didn’t flinch, and she let them roam freely over his skin as his lips moved up her neck to her ear, his breath hot and urgent against her skin.
It was like blowing on a smoldering wildfire. Desire burst to life inside her body, unfolding like a hothouse flower under the sun. He nipped at her ear, his tongue mimicking the motions she knew he would make between her legs. Flicking and sucking and biting until she was unbuttoning his pants in a frenzy, desperate to distract herself fro
m the moisture pooling between her legs.
She unzipped his jeans and released his cock, letting it spring to life in all its massive, engorged glory. The cleft between her thighs seemed to swell at the sight of it, her body already preparing for the delicious invasion of it.
She took it in one hand and stroked the silky flesh, pushing him back on the bed with her other hand. He propped himself up on his elbows, watching through hooded eyes as she lowered her mouth to his tip, circling the hole while she stroked the length of his shaft.
“Fuck, you're beautiful, Jenna.”
His voice sent a rumble of pleasure through her body, the opening vibrations of an earthquake when the earth has just begun to move under your feet, the ground shifting in a way that was both exhilarating and terrifying.
She closed her mouth around his swollen head, sucking the tip while she stroked his length. He pulsed in her hand, his cock growing bigger and harder, and she lowered her mouth onto him bit by bit, taking him inch by inch until she had every inch of him in her mouth.
He hissed, pushing his hand into her hair, holding her gently there until his hips started to move. She moved with him, sliding up and down the length of him, letting him fuck her mouth while she stroked the base of his shaft, cupped his balls.
Her desire grew in direct proportion to his arousal, her pussy soaking her panties as he pushed into her mouth, pulled out. She could imagine him sliding into her the same way, his cock finding its way to the deepest, most secret part of her, mining her for every ounce of pleasure she had to give. Demanding that she take every ounce of pleasure she deserved. She wished she didn’t have pants on. Wanted to stroke herself while she sucked his cock, wanted to get herself off while she made him come. She’d entered that place where she had no inhibitions. Where the demands of her body were an all-consuming noise, a drumbeat that drowned out any rational thought.
He was moving frantically in her mouth when he pulled her off him, gasping for breath. He pulled her off the floor and onto the bed, then stood and stripped off his clothes. She could hardly breathe looking at him, at the perfection of his body.
Eternal (London Mob Book 3) Page 14
