Hunted (18 page)

Mikhail nodded.

“And if that is the case,” Romanovsky muttered, leaning back and watching the scenery, “you better hope I find you had nothing to do with her disappearance, or I’ll hand you over to Calsonone myself.” Those pale glacier eyes locked back onto him. “Understand?”

Mikhail nodded. “Yes.”

He couldn’t wait to get back to Prague. Damn it all. If ever he needed to find Dusk . . .

Stupid bitch. Ebony. He should have known. She spoke Italian. She swore her father would avenge her. Not that he would have known who she was even if she’d told him. But had she? He dug through his memory and came up blank. The girls became who he created. Their past didn’t matter to him.

Perhaps it should.

His men, he knew he could trust. If either of them said a word, they’d forfeit their lives to Calsonone. The only other person who knew . . . who had seen . . . who had witnessed this girl’s death was Dusk.

Dusk . . .

If he found Dusk now, there would be no playing, no dallying, no prolonging her punishment. One quick bullet to the brain—one he’d give her himself.

Now he had to find her for a whole other reason. She knew.

Sweat trickled down the back of his neck, sticking the silk of his shirt between his shoulder blades.

If he didn’t find her, Calsonone might. Then again, what were the odds of Calsonone finding a lost whore? Slim to none. However, when it was Mikhail’s dick on the line, he wasn’t taking any chances.

Calsonone could never find Dusk.

If that happened, Jezek knew he was as good as dead.

* * *

“Giovanni?” Antonio asked, still sitting, his elbows propped on the table, his fingers steepled.

“Yes?”

“Is the plane ready?” He wanted to get back to Calabria, to his family.

“It will be in half an hour, Don.”

Antonio stared down the long table with the empty chairs, some turned slightly away from the table, others pushed back under.

“What do you think?” he asked, tapping his fingers against his mouth.

For a moment the other man said nothing, then finally, “I think Jezek was lying.”

He thought so too. “Why?”

“I need a reason?” Giovanni sighed. “There was no emotion. The others, they were worried, concerned, even sympathetic . . . But he . . . he was too calm. Too controlled, no?”

Nodding, Antonio said, “You know what to do.”

“
Si
, Don. I will see to the matter.”

Antonio drew a deep breath and swiveled the chair. “I don’t want him dead. I don’t even want him pressed. Drop back and—”

“I know how to do my job, Antonio.” Giovanni rarely used that name. They had been friends since childhood, as close as brothers. Their mothers were still close friends, their children and now grandchildren played together.

Antonio blew a breath out. “I’m sorry, old friend.”

Giovanni poured them both wine and sat at the table to Antonio’s right. “You are not the only one who lost her, Tony.” Giovanni’s blunt finger tapped the photo in front of them. “I love her as my own daughter. I saw her take her first communion, I’m her godfather,
Il Mio Dio
.”

“I know, Gio, I know. I just want my little girl home and . . . ” The fear clawed up the back of his throat. “I’m terrified I won’t be able to make that happen.” His eyes rose to meet those dark one’s of his friend. “How will I ever tell her mother . . . ” He swallowed and ignored the tears stinging the backs of his eyes. “What will I do?”

Giovanni took a long drink of the deep red wine, the glass clinking slightly on the table. “You will do what you must, Tony.”

“
Si
, and God help anyone who’s involved.”

Chapter 14

Dallas, Texas; DFW International Airport; Christmas Eve, 4:26 p.m.

Morgan stepped out of the DFW International Airport and into the wet weather of December Texas. Drizzle fogged the world around her. She was cold and trembling, more from nerves than the cold. It was probably only about forty here.

For a minute she just stood there, euphoria at being back on her own land, in her home state, near home, mixing with trepidation of her arrival.

She watched the other travelers hailing cabs, getting into and out of cars, buses, airport shuttles. The bustle and activity jostled her and she realized how open she was to anyone who might want to find her. She glanced around and hiked her bag higher on her shoulder.

Morgan looked over at the man beside her, a day’s worth of stubble darkening his jaw. He was ready to see her to her home. Did she want him to? How the hell was she supposed to explain him, let alone anything else? Could she explain? No. Licking her lips, she followed him onto the airport shuttle and sat down. Neither said a word as the shuttle made its way to the rental car lot.

She could just disappear. She wasn’t stupid. Linc—she’d spent the entire trip forcing herself to think of him as Lincoln Blade—would help her. Wouldn’t he?

Once at the rental car agency, she stood just inside the vestibule. She kept looking over her shoulder, through the crowds, at the passengers and travelers disembarking on the shuttles. Any minute, she thought she might see
him
. Or one of his men.

Which she knew was stupid. She was in Texas. A world away from Mikhail, his bosses, his goons, his poison.

Rubbing her arms, she stood there as a woman with two children in tow opened the outer doors, allowing the cold inside the little alcove. The chilled north wind wrapped around her and through her coat. Not nearly as cold as it had been in New York or London or Prague. But then, cold nonetheless.

Her eyes were busy studying a group of people crossing the lot. One, a blond man in a trench coat. The build was right.

Her heart kicked, her breath shortened.

Run
.

A hand landed on her shoulder and she whirled.

Linc’s eyes narrowed as he studied her. “Calm down. It’s all right, luv. What’s the matter?” He looked over her head.

Morgan took a deep breath and darted another look over her shoulder. Where was that man? He’d been right there. “I—I thought . . . ” The man was nowhere. Had she imagined him? “I thought I saw him,” she whispered.

Warm hands cupped her face, forcing her to look back into his long face with its harsh lines and unforgiving countenance. “Morgan.”

She looked into his eyes, saw the understanding behind the banked rage. He shook his head, inhaled, and shook his head again, his eyes narrowing at the corners.

Morgan closed her eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. Come. I’ve gotten us a car.”

She let him lead her outside and across the lot. Still, she searched for the blond man she’d seen, the one who, for just a moment, made her think Mikhail was striding across the lot. They stopped by a dark blue Crown Victoria. Just as they were tossing bags into the trunk, a man strode up. She whirled.

“I wondered if I’d catch you,” the stranger said, his voice as slow and deep as the Mississippi.

Lincoln stepped in front of her. Without looking at her, he handed her the keys and said, “Get in the car.”

As she climbed in, she looked in her side mirror and watched them. Their voices were muffled since the doors were shut, but she saw the other man hand Lincoln something in a small black case—like a mini briefcase. Linc gave the other man money, and whoever the stranger was shook Linc’s hand before he strode away.

Lincoln jerked the door open and slid in. Morgan didn’t say a word.

He told her anyway. “I couldn’t carry a firearm on the plane. So our contact met us over here and gave it to me.”

She looked around the parking lot but didn’t see the man.

“His name is Tarver and he works for the feds. Not to worry though, he doesn’t know you or who you even are. Just that I’m placing another girl.”

He said it all so simply, as if they were talking about the weather. Morgan studied Linc’s profile.

“So I don’t need to worry about it?” she asked.

He smiled. “Not a bit.”

She sighed back against the front passenger seat.

As they pulled out to merge with the heavy Christmas traffic, she watched the people and the cars. SUVs mixed with sedans and pickup trucks. She smiled as she saw a man in Wrangler jeans and a silver belly cowboy hat walking a woman to a Jaguar. Texas. It was great to be home.

She couldn’t help smiling even as dread settled in her gut. Finally, she took a deep breath.

“I could just disappear,” she whispered as she stared out the window. What had she been thinking? Coming home? This was insane.

“You still can.” His hand reached across the console and grasped hers until she turned back to him. “I have to know
now
, Morgan. If you do this, there will
never
be any going back.”

She looked out the windshield as another car pulled in front of them into their lane as they left the airport, merging onto the highway. Morgan waited, not paying attention at first, then wondering how he knew where to go and how to get there. She frowned, watching and realizing he knew exactly where to go. “How do you know where to go?” she asked.

His cheek creased in lines as he smiled. “I studied the map on the plane. We go out to Cedar Hill, then you’ll have to let me know from there. And GPS—lovely invention that.”

If she went home. What did she do?

“What about my brothers? Amy couldn’t go home, couldn’t ever go back. If I take that road, what about my brothers?” She pulled her hand from his and cupped her elbows as she crossed her arms. The seat belt pulled against her as she turned to look at him.

He took a deep breath and changed lanes. “Either you see them one last time for good-byes and explanations, or we tell them you died.”

Died.
It would kill them. She glanced out her window, saw her pale face in the side mirror and wished she knew what the heck to do.

The tires whirred over the overpasses, down the exit ramps, halting at lights. She ignored it all. She had to decide what to do. Go home, or run.

When they were off the freeway and the traffic lightened, his deep voice rumbled in the car. “If you told me the truth about Mikhail Jezek not knowing who you are, then you’re of the lucky few who
can
go home.”

She glanced back at him, not able to see his eyes behind the dark shades. “Did you tell me the truth?” he asked.

Morgan nodded. “Yes. He wanted to know too much, tried everything to get me to tell him, but I wouldn’t. So he just called me Dusk. Said he’d have given me another name anyway. But he sometimes liked to know the real identity of those he fucked. Then it became a game to him,” she whispered, looking away. “He said it was like a mask. But he knew me, would always know me, no matter what name I went by, or what he called me. I was the same. I was his.”

The trees blurred by, the buildings.

After a minute, she realized he wasn’t going to say anything else and was thankful he left her to her thoughts.

Lincoln gripped the wheel.
No matter what name I went by, or what he called me. I was the same. I was his . . . I was his . . . I was his . . .

He flexed his fingers. Why did this one woman get to him more than the others? Was it the fact he’d looked for a sister once? Had searched, but was too late? Was it the brother in him?

No, he was honest enough to recognize the feelings, whatever the bloody hell they were, were not those of a brother. Not that he would, or could, ever act on them.

He paid attention to the traffic, heard Morgan sigh more than once, saw her twisting her hands together in her lap.

To go home. Did she want to, or was he pushing her? Should he send her on her way with a new identity?

No. Though he wondered if
that
decision was for her, or for her brothers. For some damn reason, the clarity he normally had in all the other cases seemed lacking in this one. Things were blurred, lines he’d never seen before were suddenly taunting him to cross them. And he had no idea why.

Bugger it. He rubbed his face. Perhaps it was time he got out of this business. This was probably his last job anyway, since Jezek had gotten so close to him. Those he worked for would not, under any circumstances, want their task force compromised. He knew that. Probably time. He had his own business to see to on both sides of the Atlantic, and thank God they didn’t have a bloody thing to do with skin trade, drug trade, or murder, missing women. No, he only had to worry about jewels, the
c
s, his employees, new artists.

But for now, he had to worry about seeing one last girl home.

Home, where she’d hopefully be safe. He glanced in his mirror again to check to see if they were followed. Two vehicles had been with him since the airport. One was a sedan with an older couple in their seventies, maybe a bit younger. The other was a family, three children and two in car seats. He knew neither of the two vehicles was tailing them.

Not that he expected them to be. Yet, he still answered to a commander of the task force who was the liaison between the governments involved, and that was always sticky. The bureaucracies would want to know everything there was to know about Morgan Gaelord and the man who had imprisoned her. He hoped they’d leave her the hell alone.

The bustle of city traffic faded the further out they drove. Since there was traffic, he decided to just stay quiet and give her time to think. After several minutes, more of the town dropping away, he asked, “What are you thinking about?”

He thought she wouldn’t answer him when she admitted, “What if I get there and my brothers want nothing to do with me?” Her brows creased above her nose.

Lincoln took another exit and tapped his fingers on the wheel. “I daresay that’s not right. Why would they have reported you missing? From all I’ve gathered on them, they care, Morgan.”

She looked at him. “Do you have any siblings?”

He took a deep breath, felt the squeeze on his heart. “I did.”

“What happened?”

Lincoln huffed the breath out he’d been holding. “She went to Amsterdam to party, got in with the wrong crowd, somehow they realized who she was in regards to her family and held her for ransom in one of the brothels. A few days later, they moved her to Moscow, but we couldn’t find them.” And they’d tried everything. They’d looked, he’d hired everyone he could, followed all the damn rules, and for what? To find her body in the Moscow River
.