Hidden Currents

by Christine Feehan

  "I'm not, Stavros," she whispered and the shame in her voice was real this time. "I'm weak. I should have been able to keep standing up to you, to have pride. I feel as though I've failed some test you set out for me."

  She rubbed the edge of the blanket against her trembling mouth. She wanted to go home--but home would never be the same--because she wasn't the same. She was no longer Sheena MacKenzie or Elle Drake. She didn't know who she was anymore. Her temples throbbed and the constant headache reminded her that she'd nearly burned out her talent fighting the energy field. What did she have left? Stripped of everything she was, everything she knew about herself, she felt like an empty shell with nothing inside.

  "Sweetheart, this was no test for you. There was never a need to prove to me that you were strong enough or worthy enough."

  Not for him. Never for him. To be a Drake. To pass on her legacy to seven women. To be strong enough to guide them over the coming years in the things they would have to learn to wield such power. She'd had power all her life, self-esteem, training, her body and mind fit, and yet now, at the first real test, she'd failed her seven daughters, her six sisters and every single Drake woman who had come before her.

  She was broken and there was no fixing her. Even if they managed to get her off the island and away from Stavros, she would never get him out of her mind, or his touch off her body. He had done what he set out to do and she was changed for all time.

  Elle shook her head and pushed back the tangle of bright red hair. She hated her hair because he ran his fingers through it constantly. He wrapped his fist around it and yanked her head back, forcing her to do his bidding over and over. There wasn't a part of her that felt clean, no part of her that felt as if it was hers. He had done that. Stavros. Even with the wild wind slamming into the villa and her sisters close, she felt terrified of him. He seemed invincible. Elle kept her head down, not wanting him to see her utter defeat at his hands.

  "Sheena." His voice was deceptively gentle, compelling her to look at him, her heart in her throat. "I want your obedience. You will have to live here of course, but I will make your world an incredible one. We'll have our children and our home away from everyone. You'll be protected and so will our children. Here, where I can make certain no outside influences adversely affect our lives."

  He sounded so reasonable. She couldn't help but wonder, with her sitting there naked, wrapped only in a blanket, bruises and whip marks crisscrossing her body, how he could sound so sane and reasonable.

  "You beat me."

  His eyelids flickered and her heart jumped, frightened she'd pushed him too far. It was such an edge, a balance, trying to maintain a semblance of control when she really had none. Control was an illusion.

  "I punished you, yes, because you misunderstood what I wanted from you. I want obedience, Sheena. I will take care of your every need, see to your wants and desires, even the ones you don't know you have, but in return, I need you to give yourself completely to me. Body and mind wholly into my care. My wants and desires should always be your first thought."

  Like a slave. Like the women his brother had stolen and crammed into his freighters to sell into a life of hell. She felt resistance pouring through her mind and fought to hold back her natural use of power. She didn't need him to beat her again. Her breath left her lungs in a deliberate long rush and she nodded her head. "I thought you were testing me, testing my strength."

  She shivered beneath the blanket and glanced again at the sky--at the clouds. Had it been her imagination? Was her mind playing tricks on her? The clouds looked like huge boiling cauldrons, a witch's ancient brew, roiling and whirling darker and darker as they spun. The rain lashed the glass, dimming the room even more. She hoped it hid her expression and the terror building inside her.

  Stavros had known she was psychic--that was why he wanted her--not because of any attraction to her, but because he wanted children from her. It was the reason he hadn't allowed his brother too close to her. She closed her eyes and pushed her face into the blanket. She could already be pregnant. It was possible--even likely--that a child already lived inside her.

  "Sheena?" Stavros left his seat and came to her, one hand sliding through the tangle of hair. She hated that. Hated him touching her hair. Hated having to sit, trembling, waiting for him to decide what she could or couldn't do. Whether she would receive pain or pleasure and she hated either from him.

  The lights dimmed, went brown and she heard his swift intake of breath. Elle's head jerked up, triumph rushing through her, adrenaline pouring into her veins, filling her, giving her strength. She could feel the energy field wavering, the noise in her head receding and power seeping in.

  Elle threw back the cover and half stood. Stavros still had his hand wrapped in her hair and he jerked her backward and down, taking her to the floor. Crouching over her, his eyes maniacal, his other hand fumbled in his pocket and he brought out a syringe, pulling the cap from the needle with his teeth. Elle fought him, but he knelt on her, one knee shoving hard into her stomach as he plunged the needle into her neck and depressed the syringe. Almost immediately the world began to fade, the edges getting blacker and blacker.

  Stavros bent over her. "I will find you, Sheena, and I will kill everything and everyone you love. There is nowhere you can hide from me." His mouth mashed down on hers, splitting her lip, biting her hard, tearing at the soft flesh deliberately.

  Mercifully the blackness spread until she couldn't hear, feel or see anything at all and she just let the dark take her.

  5

  JACKSON climbed into the helicopter and took his seat beside Jonas and Aleksandr Volstov, Abbey's fiance and former Interpol agent. He glanced at Ilya Prakenskii, Joley's fiance. It was up to Ilya now. He was an expert marksman, his reputation unrivaled, and he would need every bit of his abilities as a psychic as well as a marksman in the high winds. He would also have to use those abilities to keep the helicopter stable and depend on Hannah's precision with the wind in order to keep them all safe and provide the cover for the three men going in to rescue Elle.

  The moment they were settled, the helicopter lifted into the storm. Jackson could see Hannah on deck, her arms outstretched to the sky, her sisters positioned behind her, feeding her energy as she orchestrated the storm. She directed the wind ahead of the helicopter so that Ilya could keep it stabilized as they shot through the air toward the island. The pilot skimmed the surface of the sea, the waves slapping greedily at them, dousing them with salt spray.

  Where the waves had been four or five feet, the wind the sisters were generating pushed the waves into towering threats, powerful walls of crushing strength, white-caps that Jackson could barely make out in the pitch black of the night. The helicopter only gave off a soft green glow as it made its way toward the island, bucking and rocking, tossed from one storm cell to the next with only Ilya's will to stabilize them. As they approached the island, they went total blackout, cutting all light so they could go in with silent stealth.

  The pilot, Abel Williams, a man Jackson had fought three days and nights through thick enemy lines to get to when his helicopter had been shot down, looked grim and fierce as he struggled to keep the helicopter in the air. He'd come without hesitation, and never said a word when they told him he'd be flying in the black of night in the middle of a turbulent storm with choppy waves slapping at the bottom of the helicopter and occasionally washing inside through the open door.

  The coordinates of the two targets Matt and his team had sent for them to take out before they could put Jackson, Aleksandr and Jonas in the field were coming up fast. The helicopter's safety was paramount before anything else. The first target was a complex tower built for obvious communication, but that would have gone down with the generator. More important, whoever sat in the bird's-nest view could virtually see the entire island and, with the right weapons, defend it from sea, sky or land attacks. The tower and anyone in it, had to go.

  Abel came in hot, darting out of the sky, ro
ckets blazing orange-red streaks against a purple-black sky. He took the little helicopter in fast, fired and maneuvered away, skipping below the cliff line to prevent retaliation should the rockets miss. If the blast and ensuing rain of fire were anything to go by, he'd been dead on target. He was already heading toward their second destination.

  The lighthouse was next. Gratsos had a particularly large and well-manned lighthouse. Aside from the powerful lamp that warned off boats and ships from the jagged rocks below, the building housed several guards with high-caliber weapons and enough firepower to fend off a ship full of pirates. The guns boomed as they approached, shattering the night with a rumble like the clap of thunder. The wind howled and moaned and slammed at the lighthouse, ripping at the windows and roof as if trying to tear it open.

  Ilya and Jackson both put weapons to their shoulders, hands steady, looking for the mark they needed to keep the shooters silent until Abel lined up his craft in the wicked wind. Almost simultaneously they squeezed triggers and Jonas calmly reported, "Two kills."

  Abel fired several rockets, taking the lighthouse from several levels as he nosed the bird up and then down. They hit within moments of one another, lighting up the night, flames shooting into the air and lighting the grounds with a towering inferno. Wreckage rained into the sea below, coating the roiling water with blackened, charred debris, some floating on the surface and others sinking like stone.

  The helicopter darted across the sky to hover directly over the grounds nearest the front door of the villa. Ilya took out a guard on the roof as Jonas dropped a rope through the door of the swaying helicopter. A bullet thunked near Jonas's head and he drew a weapon, but Ilya's rifle fired a second time and the shooter went down.

  "Clear," Jonas snapped tersely. "Go."

  Jackson went first, fast-roping down, weapons on his back and in his belt and boots. He was barely down when Jonas slipped out to follow him. Aleksandr came last, and all the while, Ilya continued shooting, clearing the area around them as the helicopter retreated.

  "We're going silent," Jonas hissed into the radio. "Disrupt communication."

  All of them shoved silencers on their weapons and slipped into the shadows. Ilya in the helicopter and the two ground teams would have to pull attention away from the villa while the rescue team went in to extract Elle. At the same time, Ilya would send out waves of energy that would interrupt all radio communication between Gratsos and his guards.

  A man ran around the corner right into Jackson, his gun pressed tightly against Jackson's ribs. All he had to do was pull the trigger. Jackson drove his knee upward into his assailant's groin and dodged to one side, bringing up his own weapon and firing three rounds at close range. The body dropped away and he cursed, shoving the heavy corpse away from him.

  Jonas flicked a glance at Jackson. "You hurt?"

  "Just my pride. Let's move."

  "We're going in," Jonas advised.

  It was the call Matt and his teams had been waiting for. They needed to provide the distraction, keeping the guards focused on them and away from the house. Team two, Rick and Jock, were up now; they had to make their way to Gratsos's helicopter. Rick was a crack pilot and he'd be flying the bird out over the sea. Gratsos couldn't be allowed to use the helicopter to escape or follow them off the island and they could ditch the bird at sea and make Gratsos suspect for a short period of time that Elle had been taken out that way.

  Jock and Rick, hearing the soft whisper, immediately set out over the rocky terrain toward the helicopter pad. It would be heavily guarded. It was Gratsos's fastest way off his island and he would want to keep it safe. With his tower and his lighthouse gone, he had to know they were under attack and if he was smart, he would tell his men to keep the way open.

  They ignored the sporadic gunfire around them, staying low to the ground and heading for the helipad. Above them, Ilya's rifle was loud, a deliberate attempt to draw attention. Rick fired two shots, taking one guard down and winging a second as they ran.

  Ilya finished off the second man before the guard could get a round off. The storm was slamming the island now, the wind frenetic, yet not coming near their helicopter. He marveled at Hannah's ability to command and direct the wind. On board the ship, Sarah was feeding her information, keeping track of each member of their teams. Hannah was working at keeping the storm directed at the enemy while aiding their own people.

  Ilya had always admired the Drake sisters and the smooth way they fed each other energy, a blending of their skills and abilities so that when they worked, it was a seamless effort. He knew the kind of toll sustained use of psychic energy took on the conductor and the Drakes were pouring everything they had--everything they were--into the effort to get their sister back. He couldn't imagine what would happen to his Joley if they didn't get Elle back. Her bright, restless spirit would be quenched.

  The helicopter lurched and slipped sideways as a mortar round came too close.

  "Where the hell did that come from?" Ilya demanded, swiveling around.

  Abel had already set the helicopter skimming through the sky, nearly heading straight into the wind before Hannah could adjust to their abrupt movements. She brought the wind around them. The sea looked dark and ominous, the storm creating mini water cyclones, twin columns dancing across the surf. He followed the performances as the cyclones made their way to the shore and touched down on a pile of boulders near the small dock.

  A shadow moved in the darkness. Even with his night-vision scope he could barely make out the whisper of movement, but it had been there--someone flinching in the face of the sea's wrath. He was using thermal imaging, because in the heavy wind and storm, it would be easier to pick up body heat. The nest was below him and would be getting ready to fire off another round, their gun well hidden.

  "Ten o'clock," he told Abel, his voice grim. "Take them out."

  The pilot lined up the shot and took it. The blast flattened rocks and sent two men scrambling. Ilya shot them both and turned back to protecting his team. "You're clear, keep moving."

  On the ground, Ilya could see Rick and Jock shimmy ing through the foliage toward the helicopter pad. There were two men between them and their target. Ilya shot one of them and instantly a third man rolled out of the foliage practically at Rick's feet, his gun flashing. Rick was already diving over him, his own gun bursting forth an orange-red glow while Jock fired several shots into the chest of the fallen man.

  Rick and Jock systematically began to set up a field of claymores surrounding the helipad to slow down anyone coming after them. Rick climbed into the helicopter, powering it up, needing to get it warmed up and ready for flight while Jock lobbed several flash-bang grenades into the air in a circular pattern designed to create the loudest, noisiest and most shocking distraction he could make, trying to draw attention to the helicopter area.

  "Get this bird moving," Jock snapped, leaping in. "We're sitting ducks here."

  It would take at least two or three minutes, maybe longer depending on how well the helicopter was maintained and they would be at their most vulnerable. They would have to depend on Ilya and their claymore field to protect them and it felt like an eternity.

  At the generator, Matt and Kent separated and went at it from either side. Both slapped a block of C-4 on the sides of the large machine. The C-4 was already prepped with the blasting cap, detention cord and time fuse. Using hundred mile an hour tape--duct tape--they secured the blocks. Shoving the fuse igniter onto the time fuse, both twisted the ends until they were totally snug.

  "Get ready to pull pin," Matt said. They looked at each other. "One, two, three, pull," Matt ordered.

  Both twisted the rings a quarter turn simultaneously and pulled the pins. A soft hissing sound and a small amount of gray smoke accompanied by the familiar scent of time fuse burning told them they'd better run like hell. In one and a half minutes a man could run a good distance, even in the dark on uneven ground. Knowing the generator was going up behind them gave them both a rus
h of adrenaline, enough to help speed them on their way. Matt could hear Kent laughing as they ran, heading for cover, both counting almost automatically in their heads and then leaping at the last moment behind the rocks they'd already scouted for cover.

  The flash was bright and hot and very loud. They both admired their handiwork, the orange-red glowing cloud with bright sparkles and then the concussion as the air surged toward them. The roar passed over them, their heart and lungs reacting. Kent laughed again. "Man, I could use a smoke about now. That was great."

  Matt grinned at him and then glanced at his watch. "Come on, you whack job. We've got a lot more fun before we're finished."

  Teams one and two were to make their way through enemy lines, creating as much havoc as possible to keep all attention diverted from the villa. They had to get back to the south dock and destroy the boats and the dock. Tom and Luke would take their boat and gear around to the small dock and everyone would rendezvous there.

  It sounded easy enough, but as Matt and Kent began to make their way through the trees and rocks toward the dock, they found small groups of guards had set up some razor wire across roads and some of the more open meadows. Kent swore as he removed his favorite combat jacket to throw over the razor wire, stepped with his boot and leapt free. Matt followed.

  "We have to take the jacket, Kent," Matt announced. "We can't leave anything behind."

  Kent swore again. It wouldn't free easily and would come away in shredded chunks, slowing them down considerably. As they worked the material loose, they heard the small snap of a twig, just up ahead. The two men looked at each other. The razor wire was strung at the entrance to a field, one that most of them would have to cross in order to get through to the southern dock. The field was a perfect choke point. If Gratsos's guards had a nest set up to ambush anything moving through that field, it would be essential to take out the nest.

  "Matt," a voice whispered in his ear. "We're coming up on your left."