Deception Island (28 page)

“My brother, I understand you, like no one else does. I know the devil that lurks within you, constantly seeking a way out. You are too frightened to let your guard down, because that is when the demon takes control. It is always there, always threatening to split open your skin and slither out. Like now. Join me, join your brother. Let go of the struggle to keep the mask on. Shed it and be the man you really are. You will never need to leave your son again. He can be with his father and his uncle—with his family.”

Rafe chose silence. To react was to make him vulnerable to the monster within. Gabriel understood him better than he'd thought possible.
Everything that's inside your head is inside mine
. Even after twenty-two years?

“Rafe,” whispered Holly urgently. “You are not one of them.”

He clenched his teeth. Oh, he was indeed one of them. He didn't want her pity, didn't want her making excuses for him. She knew now what she'd made love to.

“You don't know me,” said Rafe, quietly. “What Gabriel says is true. I've killed more people than I can count. I still see their faces—every one of them, frozen in the terror of the last moments of their lives. I can run away from it—I did run away from it—but they follow me, these people, everywhere.”

“You were under someone else's control. You were a victim, too.”

“There can be no excuse. Those memories are my price to pay.”

“You've already paid the price—you lost your childhood.”

“What price have I paid? I got to wipe away the past and start again like it never happened. Those people and their families paid the price, not me.” He hung his head, feeling every drop of weight in the humid air. “Only chance separated my path from Gabriel's.”

“My brother, you are beginning to see the truth. Many, many people paid the price for your freedom. My dear American friend, do you want to see the price I paid?” Gabriel tore at the buttons on his shirt.

Rafe yearned to turn away, but he owed it to Gabriel to witness this. He owed it to his
brother
. His gut churned as Gabriel yanked off the shirt. Gouged white scars crisscrossed his chest and stomach, and trailed into his waistband. Rafe gagged. The ground seesawed. Gabriel turned, slowly, revealing the same pattern on his back. Rafe had seen many whippings, but none like this. There were more scars than skin. How was he still alive?

“I didn't kn...” Rafe's throat closed.

“It was a warning. No one ever left the militia again.”

Gabriel slowly pulled his arms into his shirt and buttoned it, smoothing the iron-flat fabric. That was why he appeared stiff—the scars restricted his movement. His every move must remind him of the torture he'd endured, because of Rafe.

“I would have come for you, if I'd known,” said Rafe, testing his voice. It was the truth he'd clung to all these years, but suddenly it felt like a lie.
What truth ever existed for us?
An ember deep in the recesses of his brain began to glow. Had he buried the truth, like he'd buried the monster?

“You knew.” Gabriel's words were barely audible above the roaring in Rafe's ears. “My dear, can you guess why they whip you front
and
back? Because then you have no way to lie down, no relief from the pain. They rub dirt and shit into the wounds to infect them. The agony and the illness last for months. You cannot sleep, you cannot eat, you can only long for the pain to get so bad you will pass out. When it does, you wake to find rats chewing on the wounds. This pain...you cannot see a way out of it. It drives you mad.”

Rafe's breath came in ragged gasps. His brain screamed at him to block out Gabriel's words, to protect himself from losing his sanity. But that was the coward's way. This was what he'd caused. This was what he'd face.

“To start with, I kept myself alive by imagining that Raphael would come with his aid workers to rescue me, take me to a hospital where they would do their doctor magic and take away the pain and sickness. Sometimes I would hallucinate and believe he
had
come back for me. Then I would regain consciousness and find myself propped up on the same filthy mat on the same floor, chasing away the same rats. Always chasing the rats. One night I was too weak to scare a rat off—it kept coming back and feeding. I could hear its teeth tearing, feel it tugging at my flesh, and, oh, the agony—this is nothing you will ever know, no matter how much I hurt you. And I did not have the strength to lift my arms or legs to chase it away.

“Weeks and weeks and weeks went by. Raphael did not come. My brother—as I know now he is—did not come. You see, my dear, he was trained to believe that caring about someone was a weakness. I thought our bond was proof we had won, we had retained a little of our true natures. I found I was wrong, just as I had been wrong about his will to kill me with the machete. I was a fool. His training had worked better than I thought—far better than mine. These injuries you see, these scars on my body—they don't stop at my waist. They left me unable to father children. They robbed many futures.”

An anguished yowl surrounded Rafe, piercing his ears, his brain, his skin. His knees buckled and he slumped to the ground. The cry went on and on.
Shut up. Shut up
. He rocked, pinning his palms to his ears. Blackness circled his vision and closed in.

A voice echoed in his head—a voice he'd once known as well as his own. “Kill the woman and come home to your family, Raphael. Kill the woman and save your son. Kill the woman and show me you're sorry for my scars. Undo the past and be with people who will not judge you for what you have done. Let go the tremendous effort of hiding who you really are.”

Cold metal touched Rafe's palm. His fingers brushed over the scars and nicks in the pistol's bodywork and settled into the firing position they knew so well. One shot, and he'd earn Gabriel's forgiveness and give Theo a chance at a future. A flick of his finger, a microsecond. He'd done it before, so many times. He opened his eyes.

Chapter 29

Her blood racing, Holly turned to run. Rafe had morphed beyond her reach, just as he warned her he would. Two guards caught her, one either side. She thrashed, but others joined in, dragging her to the ground. They cable-tied her feet and her hands behind her, and stepped away to form a perimeter. She flipped and wriggled onto her back. Laid out like a sacrifice.

Rafe knelt on the ground a few feet away, his head bowed. His strength seemed to be seeping out, as if he was mortally wounded. And maybe he was, in his mind. She had to bring him back.

“Rafe! Remember Theo. Remember what kind of man you are, what kind of father you are. Don't do this to him—don't do this to yourself.”

He raised his head and eyeballed her, like some great beast. His eyes were dull and huge, just as they'd been when he'd tried to strangle her. He was right—she didn't know him, not this version.

“I nearly gave in to death,” Gabriel continued, speaking for her benefit now—Rafe was beyond comprehension. “That would have been easy. But I survived by thinking of the many ways I could get revenge on Raphael, one day. In my head I'd measure each possibility, test it, visualize it. Each day my body and my will became stronger. By the time I recovered, after many months, I had been relieved of my one weakness—I no longer cared about anyone. I was truly alone. That's a liberating moment. In a strange way, it completed my training.”

Rafe pulled himself up to standing, his gaze never leaving her, like a hunter tracking his prey. He began speaking, trancelike, in his native tongue. The same chant he'd used on the island.

“Rafe. Rafe! No!”

Nothing registered on his face. Nothing. The man she thought she knew was gone, replaced with this...robot. She wanted to leap at him and shake him until the good man returned, the one she'd been stupid enough to fall in love with.

He'd warned her not to get close. Love was the most dangerous thing in the world, he'd said.
I'm the kind who's not capable of loving a woman—and for her it could be dangerous.
He'd given her a chance to escape. Why the hell hadn't she taken it?

If she died now, at his hands, then maybe she deserved it. But Theo... And the women... If they fought back, with their sole weapon, they'd be mown down, or worse. So much of this was on her—she was the one who'd trusted Rafe, who'd brought him here, who'd given Amina the iPhone, who'd incited the women to rebel in a battle they couldn't win. Now they would all die, for nothing.

Rafe closed in on her, his face twisted way past handsome. She wouldn't shut her eyes. She would keep them focused on this unrecognizable creature, so he'd remember this, so she'd haunt him like all the others. How many faces were in the catalog of victims he carried in his brain?

“Rafe, don't do it.”

Nothing.

“He is mine, my dear. He always has been.”

Rafe straightened his arms and aimed the gun. She recoiled. This was it. Her last moment.
Click
.

Silence. He'd pulled the trigger but—nothing. She dragged in a breath. The men around her muttered. One laughed. How could that be? One of the goons had opened and checked the gun before he'd handed it to Rafe—she'd seen the bullets go back in, she'd heard him cock it. Rafe swore in French and tossed the gun onto the sand, striding to the veranda, rifle barrels trained on him. The guy who'd checked it picked it up, opened it, and shrugged, muttering to his friends. He cocked it, aimed it at the ground and pulled the trigger.
Click
.

Rafe picked up his rifle and slid something backwards, until it snapped. He strode back into position. Gabriel moved in beside him, smiling like he'd won.

He aimed.
Here goes
. The last seconds of her life and all she could think about was what a sucker she was. She wouldn't make that mistake again.
Obviously
. She let her eyes close, too beaten to be brave anymore. The only mental image she could conjure was of Rafe's face, of the intense look in his eyes in the seconds before he kissed her, in the moment he was at his least guarded, when she knew she was staring right into his beautiful, honorable soul. It had made her feel so wanted, so...loved. She would die a fool.

Gabriel laughed, and spoke to Rafe in their own language. Ick. So the last thing she'd hear would be the voice of that psycho. She tried to block out the sound, zeroing in on the crash of the nearby waves, ready to wash away her poor excuse for a life.

Click
.

Really? What was this—Russian roulette? She opened her eyes to a squint. Gabriel had pushed the barrel aside, his hand still on it. He spoke quietly to Rafe, still smiling. Rafe's dead gaze swung from her to Gabriel. So that click—it wasn't the trigger, but Rafe disarming the gun, on Gabriel's order? Rafe pressed a button and the magazine dropped out into his hands. He slid something backward and a round flicked up and landed on the ground.

So Rafe had tried to kill her, and
Gabriel
had spared her? Not how she thought this would go. She slumped, her muscles giving up the effort. Life equaled hope. She would survive this, goddammit, like she'd survived every other fucking mess in her life.

“I have a buyer for her and many costs to recuperate,” said Gabriel, switching focus to her. “I would have gladly given up three million dollars for the privilege of watching you kill this sorry pig of a woman, Raphael, but maybe this is a sign I should take the money. Adaptability is the key to survival. We will take her with us and drop her at the transit point. She will be with her new owner in hours. This operation has become profitable after all, in many ways.”

Rafe spoke to Gabriel in his own language, his words mechanical. Gabriel gestured at one of his men and rattled off orders, which were relayed into the hut.

Two men pulled Holly to her bound feet and dragged her backward to the helicopter, as Theo stepped, blinking, through the doorway of the building.

“Papa!” He scrambled down the steps and ran. Rafe crouched, and Theo disappeared into his arms. Rafe's voice rolled over her, in the same melodic, soothing French tone he'd murmured on the hammock. She'd thought it so beautiful. Not anymore.

Behind her back, she opened her fingers and dropped the four amulets. They hit sand with a series of thuds. Rafe had got Theo back. That was all he cared about—all he was capable of caring about. He'd warned her of that, from the outset.

An hour ago she'd have sworn the best place for Theo was with the father who loved him so desperately. But what was stronger—Rafe's parental instinct, or his preinstalled flip switch? How long until Theo saw that side of his father, if he hadn't already? She'd been so ready to believe the best of Rafe, despite all the evidence.

Theo's slight body shuddered with sobs. Rafe rubbed his back, his hand splayed across the kid's ribs, their heads bowed together. Tears pricked her eyes. At least the boy had found a place of comfort and security after all that turmoil, however temporary.

The goons slid open the helicopter door and threw her into the hollow shell at the back. Her elbow whacked a metal box, shooting pain up her shoulder. Awkwardly, she twisted herself into a sitting position on the floor, leaning back on the box. A man followed her in—the thug who'd held her back while Amina was killed. He sat by the open door, facing her, gun at the ready. She was out of options, out of ideas, alone.

Well, hell. Alone wasn't such a bad place. She was still alive. And she had the knife. With luck, Rafe would be past remembering that.

She closed her eyes and let her head fall back against the box—sending a signal to the soldier that he could take it easy. Her gut burned from Gabriel's punches, her arm throbbed from the gunshot wound, and she couldn't open her left eye even if she wanted to.

Urgent voices filtered in from outside, punctuated by quick footfalls and heavy thuds and scrapes. Out of the windows she could just see the tops of trees against the bruised sky, but occasionally a man would pass the chopper's open door, carrying a box or bag or some other item. They were moving out—before Rafe's backup could get there, if the guy even existed. She didn't know what to believe anymore. She strained to pinpoint Rafe's and Theo's voices. Nothing. The men had talked about leaving on a boat—had the
capitaine
and his son joined them? Her heart twisted. She'd never see them again.

Well, good
. When she got out of this mess—and she damn well would get out—she'd find that cabin by the sea and grow into an old hermit. Maybe she'd adopt a dog. Yes, a stray mongrel, to remind her of the dangers of letting people in.

After a while, the noise outside subsided. The helicopter pilot pulled himself into his seat, put on headphones and started pressing buttons. A man ducked into the hull, striking up an animated but hushed conversation with her guard. Gossip—she'd recognize that tone of voice in any language. The confrontation between Rafe and Gabriel must have been quite the soap opera. The new guy settled into a spot near the front, facing backward. More eyes on her. They fell silent as footsteps approached. The helicopter blades whined.

Gabriel climbed in, still fucking smiling, followed by Rafe, carrying a sleeping Theo. Relief washed over her. Hell, that was dumb—of any of her enemies, Rafe was the most dangerous. Not only physically, but because he knew how she fought, knew what to expect, knew about the knife. His gaze flicked around and locked on hers. His eyes had lost their white-rimmed wildness, but there was no hint of emotion. Just a cold, hard stare. Not the man she thought she knew. She dropped eye contact.

Rafe and Gabriel sat along the wall furthest from the door, Theo sighing as he resettled onto Rafe's chest. Yearning clawed her stomach. How stupid had she been to picture the three of them, together? The two of them were a unit, and she was alone. The whine climbed in pitch. The helicopter shuddered, rose and angled forward.

She curled her bound feet underneath her and let her bent legs drop to one side, ignoring the stiffness in her injured knee. Retrieving the knife would require a few gymnastic maneuvers. Her guard shot her a look. She winced and stretched her neck from side to side, feigning sore muscles. Looking bored, he fixed his gaze out the open door. They were heading over the sea.

If Holly managed to get away—
when
she got away—she'd track down Amina's lobby group. If she could cut the cable ties, maybe she could take a flying leap out the door as they approached land? Not her best plan ever, but options were few. She'd rather deal with the sharks down there than those up here.

She twisted her arms to bring her hands to the knife pocket, her muscles screaming with effort. Blood squeezed out of the bullet wound and dribbled to her elbow. She ignored the bite of pain. Her fingertips came up an inch short of the zipper. She drew her legs higher and tighter. Her swollen knee burned, ready to pop. If anyone looked right now, her contortions would look mighty suspicious. Rafe pointed to the windscreen of the chopper and spoke to Gabriel, taking his attention away. The other guard turned to look, too.

She pinned the zipper between two fingers and eased it open. The engine's roar and the whip of the wind masked the rasp of the parting teeth. She caught the top of the knife and worked it out of the pocket, every nudge straining her forearm to near snapping point. Finally, she closed her palm around its familiar shape. Hallelujah. She straightened her legs, hiding the knife in the arch between her back and the metal box, and inhaled crisp air. Her leg muscles pulsed, grateful for the reprieve. A breeze played with the clammy skin on her face. She closed her eyes for a second, willing it to cool her down.

Leveling her breath, she popped the blade, coughing to mask the click. With one wrist jammed over the other, the angles were awkward, like doing something tricky in the mirror. The tremble in her arms wasn't helping. She parked her face in neutral as she experimented. She jimmied the knife in under the plastic and flicked. It held. She repositioned it and filled her lungs, willing her strength to pool at her right wrist.

Flick
. The knife slipped, slicing into something too soft to be the ties. Her left wrist. Shit. She bit her lip, waiting for the pain, to tell her what she'd cut. Surely an artery would spurt blood from the get-go? The sting came, clean and sharp. Warm liquid trickled into her left palm and seeped through her fingers. Ounces of it, not pints.

Change of tactic. Swallowing, she maneuvered the blade so it faced upward, away from her skin. She seesawed the knife, keeping it firm against the plastic. Slicked with blood and sweat, the handle kept slipping in her fingers. Finally, the bond released. She pulled it from her wrists and tucked it into her trousers. Last thing she needed was for the severed tie to go skidding along the floor.

She shifted position, scooting her feet as close to her right butt cheek as she could, and twisted her arms as far around as they'd go. Sweat tickled her forehead. No matter how much she strained, she was still a good five inches short of the ankle ties.

Unless she sat on her knees or tipped forward flat onto the floor, the logistics of freeing her feet while pretending her hands were bound were impossible. Either move would draw suspicion. Damn. She'd never make it past the guard and out the door with her feet tied, let alone swim. She'd have to risk sneaking her hand out from behind her. If anyone noticed, her plan was toast. She gripped the knife and inched her hand along the floor, her pulse drumming.

Rafe looked her way. She darted her hand behind her back, her cheeks chilling. His gaze rested on her pocket. The zipper gaped—she hadn't thought to do it up. Game over. Lines bunched on his forehead. His focus scooted around the cabin, to the faces of the guards and Gabriel. Checking if they'd seen? Dammit, was he on her side or not? He leaned toward Gabriel and the guy nearest him, and spoke in words she couldn't understand. Her stomach fell.
Not
on her side.