The Reunited

by Shiloh Walker

  It wasn’t enough. She wanted to see him terrified.

  A harsh jerk stripped her running shorts down to her ankles and Patrick came up behind her, kicked her legs farther apart. “Be nice to him, or when he gets his turn, he’ll tear you apart. I’ve seen him do it.”

  “He’ll be lucky if I don’t carve his dick off and feed it to him like a sausage.”

  A chiming sound filled the room, oddly out of place. Patrick grunted, moving in closer. It came again . . . followed by the ringing of the phone.

  It happened so abruptly, it caught her off guard, but Patrick moved away.

  Seconds later, over the sound of her own panting, she heard him speak.

  “Who the fuck is this?”

  His next words were filled with . . . well, if Dru didn’t know better, she might have thought it was fear.

  Minutes passed.

  The call ended and she braced herself. She’d caught her breath, she could fight longer. Harder—

  “Let her go. We need to go to the city,” Patrick said.

  The leather holding her restrained fell away and she sagged, falling to the floor.

  He touched her, and it was a shock as the flash, flash, flash came. He was scared. Damn scared. And pissed. Somebody knew . . . For a second, she was scared as well. But he didn’t know about her.

  Who the fuck knows—

  Going to kill—

  Terror flooded her and she thought of Tucker.

  But then sanity hit, realigned, as the flash settled into her mind. Patrick had spoken with a woman. Dru was safe . . . or safe on that front, at least. He didn’t know about her, about Tucker.

  And he was leaving . . . she could get the hell out.

  “You’ll be staying here, Ella,” Patrick said. “And don’t think of leaving. I’ll just find you . . . and you’ll be sorry.”

  “I think I’m rather done with this engagement bit,” she said.

  “Oh, no.” He knelt in front of her, stroked a finger down her cheek. “No, you’re not. But go ahead. Try. Run. I’d enjoy it. I can’t wait to break you, Ella. I really, really can’t.”

  She spit in his face.

  When he hit her, she moved with it, just at the last moment, enough to lessen the blow so she wasn’t completely dazed.

  As he left, she remained on the floor, pretending to cry.

  Their time was up.

  They had to move, and now, before he freaked and took actions to eliminate all evidence . . . which meant he’d kill his hostages.

  TWENTY-ONE

  THIS was a mess.

  Taige struggled out of the lethargy of the gray to find Jones staring at her, Cullen glaring at Jones, Dez standing in the background glaring at the two men, and the air in the room thick enough to cut with a knife.

  “Oh, hell.” She rolled onto her side, cradled her aching head in her hands, and wished she hadn’t given up drinking all those years ago. She could use a glass of wine just then.

  A hand curved over the back of her neck, and she turned her head, found herself staring into eyes of the color of the sea.

  “Here I was thinking it was Jillian who’d be hauled into this mess,” Cullen said, sighing.

  She stared at him, wishing she could make this easier on him. Poor guy. Saddled with two females who were going to worry him into the grave. Had to suck. Reaching up, she said, “You said you wouldn’t change me . . . now is the time to show it.”

  Thick lashes fell, shielding his eyes. “I’d do anything to make this easier on you,” he said hoarsely. “Some small selfish part of me thinks . . . this isn’t your problem. You don’t work for him anymore. None of this is your problem.”

  Then he looked at her, those blue eyes burning so hot.

  “But looking back . . . neither was Jillian. She wasn’t your problem, but you saved her, anyway.”

  “Suffering is everybody’s problem,” she said quietly. Slowly, not entirely trusting her queasy belly, she sat up. Her belly stayed settled. She hadn’t been prepared for the strength of that vision. Hadn’t been ready for the intensity of it, the power of it. It had damned near laid her low. “What’s Joss’s connection to this woman?”

  A strange, tense silence fell.

  Slanting a look at Jones, she found him eyeing her oddly. When he didn’t answer her, she pushed. “Well?”

  “To my knowledge, there is no connection. She’s engaged to marry our prime suspect. She’s one of the suspects, although I didn’t share any information about her with Crawford. I wanted him focused on Whitmore, and only Whitmore, so he could find his own way through this mess.”

  Taige closed her eyes. Sighed. “A mess? This isn’t a mess . . . it’s a damned catastrophe.” She plucked through some of the tangled threads in her mind. By now, Jones knew she wasn’t a suspect, that woman, whoever she was. “Cullen, maybe you should head on back home. Get Jillian from your dad. I’m going to—”

  “Jillian’s fine. I’m sticking.”

  She cracked open one eye to stare at him.

  He stared back. “I can keep my ass in a room and work. I’m useless here and I know it, but I’m not going back to Gulf Shores when you’re about to plunge your neck into whatever mess . . . shit. I’m staying.”

  Taige groaned. She didn’t have the energy to worry about him. “Jones . . . this woman, whoever she is, she’s private. I don’t know how long she’s been working this, but she’s been doing it a long time and she’s willing to sacrifice everything. Whitmore has hurt her, more than once, and she takes it, because of the job. And if you think Crawford has no connection to her, you need to get your head examined.”

  A series of long, terse curses filled the room, and Taige was surprised enough to drop her hands and stare at the man.

  Damn. That was more emotion than she thought he was capable of. “You okay there, Jones?”

  He shot her a narrow look. “Do I need to pull him out?”

  “You can’t,” she said honestly. “Even if you sent people after him, it wouldn’t work. He’s on a mission of his own now. Trying to pull him out would do more harm than good.”

  “Fuck,” he snarled, spinning away. Dez, silent until now, moved and went to him, laying a hand on his cheek.

  He caught her wrist.

  A long, tense moment passed. “She’s private,” Taylor finally said into the silence. “But she’s got connections damn high up. Somebody with enough pull to help create one very, very solid identity.”

  “Shit.”

  Taige remembered the flash of echoes she’d caught from Joss. The images he’d shoved back behind walls so thick so he wouldn’t have to look at them, think about them.

  Living in denial might just cost him something very, very dear, she realized.

  TWENTY-TWO

  A vague sense of calm had settled over Joss. He was cool with it.

  A quick stop by the room he still had here at the hotel—damn, this was turning into an expensive trip—and he had dry clothes on. Then, with Nalini walking along at his side, they were gone, out of the hotel and moving.

  Every so often, she’d touch his arm.

  He didn’t think he wanted that, but every time she did it, whatever shiftless thoughts formed in his mind just faded away.

  Job to get done, all that mattered.

  “So, do we have a plan?” Nalini asked once they were outside of the city.

  “I’m kind of thinking along the lines of: Get there. Get those women out. Burn the place to the ground.”

  “Nice idea . . .” She chuckled. Then she touched his arm again. “But we can’t do that—you realize that, right?”

  The splintering, massive burden in his mind was pushing him too hard, and that fragile calm danced away. “Don’t see why not.”

  He wondered if Jillian could burn things. If she could, he could . . .

  There was one of their people who had that ability. Just one that Joss knew about. Maybe Jillian had it, though . . . he wondered.

  A hand closed ov
er his wrist.

  “Damn it, boy.” Nalini sighed. “You’re killing me. All you had to do was ease up on the ice, like the kid said.”

  A wave washed over him.

  Blanketed him.

  For a moment, he couldn’t even see. If he could think, that might have bothered him, seeing as how he was still driving.

  “Easy, Crawford . . . I got it . . . easy. Easy . . .”

  * * *

  AS Crawford swung his head to glance her way, Nalini smiled.

  He didn’t smile back, but that didn’t bother her.

  She suspected he wasn’t really the happy-go-lucky type.

  And he was going to come after her if he figured out what she did. Her ability to control people through the power of touch wasn’t a pleasant one, but it was useful.

  She had to take in everything he was feeling, and damn, he was feeling a lot. Too much, really. Enough to leave her reeling as she laid her impression on him. Almost enough to make her vision fade out. She clung to consciousness by the skin of her teeth, channeled more into him, felt him resist . . . then, eventually break.

  That’s it, man . . . come on, I can help. I can help . . .

  As he swayed under the weight of what she laid on him, she was left staggering under the burden of what he was carrying—all the stuff he’d acknowledged . . . and all the misery he’d been hiding from. It was enough to break her, if she let herself think about it.

  But Nalini hadn’t come this far to break.

  None of them had.

  Filtering all that ragged, rampant emotion out of herself, away from him, she breathed through it, focused, breathed . . . and she might have even prayed a little. As the worst of the grief finally passed, she found herself fighting tears at the depth of the pain building inside him.

  Pain.

  Anger.

  Too much of everything, all because he wouldn’t open his damned eyes.

  She wanted to smack him. But it was going to have to wait. He was finally calm. Or calm enough. If she hit him, the impression would fade and then she’d have to start all over again.

  He was steady, for now. That was all that mattered, all that could matter, as they hurtled down the highway into the coming twilight. He couldn’t get through this thinking about everything that had him so burdened.

  But even as they sped down the highway, that ever-present threat lurked in the back of her mind. Not much time . . . not much time at all.

  * * *

  GETTING a message to Tucker was as easy as she’d expected, even with a guard lurking outside her door.

  The fool thought having her sent to her “rooms” would do much good.

  Pissant.

  He’d do well to be more paranoid, she thought.

  The last time she’d been out here, Dru had managed to stash several throwaway phones and not a one of them had been found. Including the one she’d managed to tape to the back of the bathroom sink. It was out of sight, inside a plastic bag, and once she’d pulled it out, she plugged it in and let it charge just enough to send the text. As it was charging, she finished up everything else she needed to do.

  Running gear—excellent clothes for tonight. The tights would be horribly hot, but it didn’t matter. They were close-fitting, they let her move, and when paired with a long-sleeved black shirt, it would help her hide in the dark.

  She twisted her hair into a tight braid, securing it with a band, and tucked it inside her shirt. A quick look at the phone told her it still needed a few more minutes. No surprise there.

  That was fine. She needed a few minutes herself. Taking up position with her back against the door, she did the one thing that was crucial. Dangerous, possibly, but crucial. Her shields were faulty, weak, frail, and if she didn’t do something about it, all it would take was the wrong touch from the wrong person at the wrong moment and she was done for.

  Psychic shielding wasn’t like putting on a jacket and taking it off. It took practice and patience and control. If she didn’t bolster the shields when she felt them faltering, she was, plain and simply, fucked. With her back lodged against the door, she closed her eyes.

  This was always the worst. When she meditated, she had to let her guard down to some extent. Leaving herself unaware. Exposed.

  Lesser of two evils, Dru, she told herself. Do this now . . . or have one of them touch you later and you know what will happen then.

  She could control the flashes, and break away when she had to, but if she faltered in her control, then she could lose herself. Not an option.

  So . . . do it now.

  Endless moments later, she emerged from the light trance, panting slightly, a light sweat on her skin. And the restlessness that had hovered just outside her awareness faded a little as her shields settled smoothly back into place. She could get through this. She would get through this.

  All she had to do was get the hell out of this house.

  That part might be tricky.

  She didn’t take much. The clothes hanging in the closet didn’t matter. Her cash, she was definitely taking that. She didn’t worry about the fake IDs or the credit cards he’d given her. One quick glance at the cell phone told her that it had maybe a quarter of a charge on the battery.

  Good enough. She sent the message before she unplugged it and then wrapped up the cord, tossed it under the sink counter so it was out of sight.

  There was one last thing she needed. It was stashed inside her makeup case.

  A place Patrick just never would have thought to look.

  The slim vial was actually hidden inside one of her tubes of lipstick. The syringe and needle were secreted inside what appeared to be a mascara wand. Having those suckers made had cost a pretty penny, but it had been worth it. As she drew up a dose, calculating it carefully, the phone in her pocket vibrated.

  She pulled it out. Checked the message.

  I’m here. Had a feeling it was coming. Ten minutes away.

  Tucker and his feelings. Texting him back, she deleted both messages from the memory and slipped the phone back into the zipped pocket of her top. Then she studied the syringe.

  She wasn’t sure who was outside her door, but she had an idea. It wasn’t Minton. Minton had left with Patrick earlier, his good little dog. So it was likely either Peretti or Rawlings. Both of them, miserable bastards. They weren’t as big as Minton, thankfully. Wouldn’t need to use as much.

  It left just a little bit of the opioid mix, enough for another dose. She had one more needle, and that, she tucked inside her sports bra. Would have to use the same syringe, not very sanitary, but oh well.

  The liquid inside that tube wasn’t anything the U.S. government would approve of. Tucker had gotten it for her, slipped it into her hand. For when you need a way out. At first, she thought he meant killing herself.

  But then she’d realized what he was talking about.

  She couldn’t take anything recognizable as a weapon into this.

  But there might come a time when she had to get away, and this very illegal opioid compound would swing the odds just a little bit.

  Fight her way out . . .

  Get free of this place.

  It was time. Tucking the vial into another zippered pocket of her shirt, she stared at the door. Took a deep breath.

  An image of Joss’s face flashed through her mind. Regret, anger, misery twisted her heart, but she shoved them all aside. They’d never really had a chance anyway. Not if he’d dismissed her as easily as that.

  “Fuck him.” He didn’t matter. Couldn’t matter. And if he was involved in this nightmare, then he’d have to pay as well. Swallowing the knot in her throat, she curled her hands into fists. Thought of all the nightmares. The screams. The memory flashes into Patrick’s mind . . . how many women had suffered.

  No more. It stopped now.

  It was time to get this done, get the hell away from here, and burn as many bridges as she could while she did it. Then get the hell away.

  The one thing she
thought she could go after . . . it no longer existed.

  She was going to finish the job she’d set out to do. She had the bits and pieces in her mind now, and that was what mattered.

  Bits and pieces. Like bread crumbs, she supposed. Or stones . . . stones that made up the trail she needed to follow. It blazed hot and bright in her mind now.

  So hot. Burning bright.

  “You’re so fucked,” she whispered, thinking of Whitmore.

  So very, very fucked.

  Casting a quick look at the door, she headed over to the window and peeked outside. Men on the perimeter, inconspicuous and well dressed. They had a pattern, one she’d tried to learn before, but she’d never been out here long enough up until this trip. This time, she’d been out here for more than just a meal, or a dip in the pool. She’d managed to make better note of the areas they patrolled, their timing, all of it.

  It wasn’t going to give her a lot of time to make a break for it, but as long as she got out of the house, she figured she’d be okay.

  Carefully, she lowered her shields . . . careful, careful . . . The last thing she wanted was a quick visit from her unwanted lover or whoever Joss was. She felt nothing, though. Just cold, empty silence.

  Good, she thought, ignoring the hollow ache inside. That was what she wanted, right?

  Turning away from the window, she made for the door, pressed her ear to it. It was quiet, but she wasn’t fooled. Somebody was out there. Peretti, Rawlings . . . maybe one of the others she didn’t see much at all.

  Who didn’t really matter, though.

  As she backed away from the door, she looked around. Distraction . . . needed a distraction. Just inside the doorway there was a table with a crystal decanter. It was pretty, expensive as hell, and heavy. Filled with water every morning, it sat there, along with two glasses. She had the syringe in one hand, uncapped, ready.

  Smiling, she picked up one of the glasses, moved a few feet away from the door, and then turned, hurling it against the far wall, where her guard would have to come inside to see it.

  As it hurtled through the air, she dropped in a slump, carefully, holding the needle.

  The door opened.