Hunted (38 page)

“To each his own,” Gideon muttered, looking at her.

She could hear Jackson talking quietly to Lincoln in the kitchen. Other law enforcement officials moved back and forth through the house, connecting wires, some special system that Gideon wanted installed with cameras and heat motion detectors or something. Phones were being tapped and she had no idea what all else. There was a Texas Ranger here, someone from the sheriff’s department, Tarver—the fed she recognized from the day she arrived back Stateside—and a few people she didn’t know but who either wore badges or talked to someone who did. Shadow lounged near the doorway, as dark and foreboding as ever. The track lights from the entryway shined dully off his bald head. Every now and then she saw and heard Becca talking to people, that slow Southern slide of voice. She remembered Becca from Prague, from London, and wondered if Becca knew anything about Amy. Were they all coming back? Who was next? The doctor-driver George something or the other.

She shook her head.

Tarver and Lincoln were keeping the local and state boys at arm’s length, and her brothers kept asking what was going on.

She couldn’t tell them, not yet. Not just yet.

One of the cops walked in with a package under his arm. She watched as he talked to Tarver, who looked at her. Then he nodded, signaled to Lincoln. After a few short words, a motion to the package, Lincoln quickly took it, frowning.

The package was a large blue bubble-wrapped plastic envelope. The cop who carried it in pointed to it, then shrugged.

“I’m not letting her open it,” Lincoln said, low, yet she heard him.

Morgan stood, walked to the entryway and snatched the package away from him.

His eyes, those wicked black eyes, bore into her. “You’re not opening that parcel, Morgan.”

She tightened her hold on the smooth blue plastic, feeling the bubbles under her fingers. “Funny, it’s addressed to me.” Without looking back at him, she directed her attention to Tarver. “Is there a reason I can’t open this? Is there a bomb? Can’t y’all check for that?”

Tarver glanced at Lincoln out of the corner of his eye before turning that gray gaze back to her. “It’s not a bomb. No threat that we can tell. X-rays show it to be material of some sort—probably clothing. And a disc.”

A disc? Clothing? She glanced at the return address, saw there wasn’t one.

“Why can’t I open it?” she asked Lincoln, glancing back down at it, flipping it over then back to read the label. She returned her gaze to his.

His eyes narrowed at her. “I don’t want you to.”

A chill danced down her spine at his edged words. For a moment she stared at him, but finally had to drop her gaze.

Was she so scared now that she couldn’t even open a stupid blue envelope? Taking a deep breath, she walked back into the living room, feeling others follow behind her. She strode to the window, intent on opening the package.

Hands settled on her shoulders. “Do
not
stand in front of the bloody window, Morg,” Linc bit out behind her.

Damn, she hadn’t thought. “Sorry.” She shrugged Linc’s hands off and walked to the fireplace.

For another minute she stared at the address label. It was a printed label, the kind anyone could buy at an office supply store in sheets of thirty and run through their inkjet or laser printer.

“It’s already been dusted for fingerprints,” the cop that brought it in said from the doorway.

She glanced up at him. He could be no more than maybe twenty-one. Young, blond, fresh. Excitement shone in his eyes. At least she was a learning experience for someone. And for some odd reason, he reminded her of the college guys that used to drop down to Cheb for a weekend diddle with the whore they were given.

“Did you dust whatever it contained?” she asked him.

He shook his head. “Tampering with mail is a federal offense, ma’am.”

Tampering? Apparently they could dust the envelope, but not the contents. The fact they’d run it through X-rays to make certain she wasn’t going to open it and explode stilled the remark about
tampering
on the tip of her tongue.

She pulled the adhered tab away from the envelope, the glue stretching like pizza cheese.

“Morgan,” Linc’s voice was tight.

She ignored him and ripped the package open. Inside was a dark bundle in cellophane. She pulled it out, noticed the disc down in the bottom in a purple jeweled case. Upending the envelope, she dumped the disc into her hand.

A bag and a disc. She hadn’t ordered anything.

A white label across the silver disc simply read:
My special girl.

She frowned. My special girl?

A chill danced down her spine. She checked the date on when it was shipped out. This morning.

She dropped the blue envelope, tucking the purple disc case under her arm.

“Morgan?” Lincoln asked.

She shook her head. Not cellophane. A clear plastic bag, like a Ziploc. She carefully unwrapped it, wrinkling her nose at the faint sour smell.

A dark cloth was inside.

Morgan’s heart tripped and the chill goose-bumped over her skin.

Morgan ripped open the bag.

A foul odor, rancid and rotten, rose up from the bag.

She wrinkled her nose and almost dropped the bag.

Her blood iced.

The bag was jerked out of her hand.

“Bloody hell,” Lincoln muttered.

That smell, she knew that smell . . . Somewhere . . . the hole . . . the basement . . . Ebony.

A tremor shook through her.

No, no, please no.

“Sit down, luv,” Linc said, his voice tight. “Tarver, have your lab get busy on whatever is in this bag.” She felt his hand on her arm, felt him guide her back to the chair. She all but folded into it.

No, it was just . . . it was just . . .

“It’s something . . . ” She licked her lips. “Something bloody, isn’t it?” she asked, her gaze zeroing in on the bag that Tarver was carefully handling and passing off to someone else.

Lincoln squatted down next to her. “Don’t worry about that now, don’t—”

“No,
you
don’t,” she interrupted him. She pointed to the envelope. “That package—parcel, whatever the hell—was shipped out this morning.” Her eyes locked back to his dark ones. “To here. Not the ranch, not the office.”

He could only shake his head, but she could clearly see the muscle tick in Lincoln’s jaw.

“Could someone please tell me what the hell is going on?” Jackson interrupted from behind her.

The disc!

With trembling hand, she opened the disc case.

“Careful,” Linc cautioned. “Hold it by the edges.”

She didn’t care about that. What had the bastard put on the damn disc?

Was it a CD? Or a DVD?

Deciding to take a chance, she stood, strode to the DVD player aligned perfectly in the black entertainment center. She grabbed the remote, turned on the widescreen TV. But when she hit POWER, music blared from the speakers. Havel danced on the air. Nervous, she dropped the remote.

Gideon bent down and grabbed it. “Let me. Just sit down.” He motioned with the remote back to her chair while pressing buttons.

The TV came to life, the screen going blue. For a moment, she wondered if perhaps it was a computer disc after all.

The DVD player loaded. The screen went black, then shifted to white. A chair sat against a white backdrop.

A man’s legs, dressed in a dark blue pinstriped suit, walked onto the screen and stood in front of the plain black chair.

Her breath froze.

His hands he kept to his side, but she knew those hands. Those hands . . .

A gold ring with a black stone. And on the black stone, carved in gold, was an intricate pitchfork, the base a devil’s tail, in the shape of a curved capital D.

She knew those hands.

Oh, God.

She whimpered.

“Sis?” Gideon’s voice barely pierced through her shock.

Those long-fingered hands, elegant and lethal, pinched the material at his thighs, pulling upward as he sat.

Her breath whooshed out.

“Oh, God. Please, no . . . ” Her hands shook as she held them against her mouth.

Someone stood behind her and she jerked from the touch, standing.

That face. Oh, God,
his
face. That perfect, devastatingly handsome face, smiled. The sky-blue eyes crinkled, but remained cold as he stared right at the camera. Right at her.

She stumbled back, moaning.

“Easy, luv.”

Lincoln. She felt him behind her, his hands on her shoulders.

That smile. She hated, hated that smile. The slow lift of narrow lips. A tremor shook her, twisting her stomach.

“Hello, my special girl,” Mikhail said. His voice still soft, still calm. And she knew, knew when it was like that, he was in a rage. Whispering, soothing, then he’d strike, still and deadly as a fucking cobra.

Mikhail leaned back in the chair and shook his head,
tsking
. “I’m very disappointed in you, Dusk.” A muscle near his temple jumped.

She saw it.

“He’s so angry,” she whispered.

“Or,” Mikhail continued, still staring straight at her, “should I call you Morgan?” His chuckle grated across the room. “Considering . . . everything . . . Ms. Gaelord does seem a bit formal, wouldn’t you say?”

“Bugger and blast,” Lincoln whispered.

No one moved. She couldn’t breathe.

He’d found her. Found her. And he was talking to her.

“Did you miss me?” he asked softly. He leaned up, linked his fingers together as he placed his elbows on his knees. “Have you missed me? I’ve missed you.” There was that smile again. “I bet you’ve thought about me more than you would ever admit. Haven’t you?” His thumbs rubbed across each other. He’d always done that, twitched his fingers, rubbed his thumbs together while he was plotting and planning. “My special girl, off on her own, but with thoughts of me dancing in her head.” He tilted his to the side, as if studying her from across the room, not through a camera. “Have you dreamt of me?”

She folded.

Arms wrapped around her from behind. “Turn the bastard off,” Lincoln’s voice lashed out.

She shook her head. “N-no. Leave it.”

Someone helped her to a chair and she could only watch.

“I’ve dreamt of you. Shall I tell you, my girl, what I’ve dreamt of?” That mouth smiled, but it held no humor. “Perhaps I won’t tell you.” Again he chuckled and leaned back, calmly pulling his gun free, his right thumb rubbing along the barrel. His eyes never left the camera. “I always liked to keep you guessing, Dusk. Keep you on your toes. You were so much more . . . ” Mikhail’s eyes narrowed. “Enjoyable. Biddable. Controllable.” He drew the last word out. “And so damn fuckable.”

Her stomach rolled, and tears stung the backs of her eyes.

“My dreams of you,” he said, pausing, still caressing the gun, “are what I’m going to do to you when I finally have you back where you belong.”

She couldn’t look away. Could only sit frozen and listen. It was as if the last year and a half never happened. She was still Dusk. Still at Mikhail’s mercy.

“And I will have you again, my special girl. Doubt it not.” He sighed. “I believed you. You, Dusk. Out of them all, you knew the true . . . ” He pursed his narrow lips. “Lengths I would pursue to make certain my girls stayed where I put them. You must have forgotten Cheb. That lovely September evening. The basement.” He leaned closer to the camera, the gun held loosely in his hand. The gun he’d shoved into the back of her skull.

Morgan pressed back against the chair she occupied. All she saw, all she heard, was Mikhail.

“The hole. Did you forget the hole, my dear?” He smiled a full smile now, straight white teeth. “I can still see you in it. Still hear you whimpering, moaning, begging to be let out. Do you remember the rest, Dusk?” This time he looked down at the gun he held, caressing the trigger, then back to the camera. “Naked and kneeling before me. Do you remember? Apparently I should have ended it all with you that night.” He smiled.

The night in the cemetery.

“Oh, I bet you remember now, if you ever forgot. That night was the one that broke you . . . completely.” He breathed deep. “I could always smell your fear. It was beautiful. The way your eyes would widen, the way your pulse would increase and pound in that long neck, the way your breaths would quicken and your collarbone would pout until a man wanted to do nothing more than run his tongue over it. To taste the terror.”

She shook her head.

“Are you scared, my girl?” The smile left his face and she saw the rage, the hatred, as the polish fell away and his features tightened. “You should be. This time, I won’t be lenient. You lied to me.” Those eyes all but glowed out at her. “You promised, Dusk. You promised you’d never leave me. Remember?” He tilted his head. “Wondering where I am? Wondering how very close I just might be, are you?” He chuckled. “So are those guarding you.” The smile froze the blood in her veins. “I’m not where anyone thinks, but we wouldn’t want to give too much away, would we? What would be the fun in that?” He sighed. “It’s really disappointing Vescilly didn’t do as I’d hoped and bring you to me. You bested him, it seems. You were always a fighter. He
did
,
however, manage to get to the other one first, or I might not have found you so quickly.”

She straightened.

He smiled. “Sparkle always was a screamer.” He laughed. “You know, I never had the pleasure of breaking her in. Seems a pity now, as she rather reminded me of . . . well, Dusk, of you. She thought she could escape as well. Vescilly had his fun.” Again, the smile dropped away. “And I can’t wait to have my fun with you. This time, though, when you’re on your knees, naked and bloody before me”—he leaned back and tilted his head to the side—“I’ll make you watch, look into those icy blue eyes of yours as I put a bullet in your brain.” He raised the gun and said, “Click. My Dusk. My special girl. My slave.” He pursed his lips and blew her a kiss. “Mine.” He leaned close enough to the camera she saw the blond stubble on his jaw. “Sweet dreams . . . Morgan.”

The screen went black.

Chapter 28