Hunted (47 page)

She nodded. “Yes,” she bit out. “He and his men.”

“Which men?” he asked, his voice still soft, but this time it was edged.

“Luther and Ivan. And another, but I already killed him. His name was Vescilly.”

The lines of his face hardened. “What else?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know. I don’t. I was in the hole.”

“Hole?” His thumbs rubbed across her hands. She shivered, still cold even though she felt the warmth from the car’s heater.

“In the basement, there were holes, cages sort of, in the floor. Not big, like a grave they’d lock you in. I’d angered him and he’d put me in there. When I came—came to, I heard her.”

He just looked at her.

“S-s-screaming.” She couldn’t look away from him and couldn’t stop crying. “She just kept screaming and I couldn’t see, just heard her.” Her jaw hurt from not breaking completely. “I hear her screams in my dreams. I’ll always hear her screams.” She sobbed and shook her head, slightly rocking. Grabbing his hands, she said, “She told them. I was tied to a chair by then, they’d pulled me out of the hole. He told me to watch, to see what happened to those who tried to escape. She told them. Swore, swore to him that her father would avenge her and when he did, Mikhail would know what hell was really like.” His hands squeezed hers.

He took a deep breath, swallowed, another breath, then whispered, “What else?”

And she told him. Told him of the terrors she’d seen in that basement, of the tortures endured, of the horrible ending at the graveside. Still she trembled, her words tripping over each other. With each detail he drew from her, she could feel him coiling tighter and tighter.

She was going to be sick. Nausea rolled in her stomach. “Move,” she whispered.

“She’s going to be ill, Papa!” one of the younger men shouted.

Cool night air hit her face, someone grabbed her shoulders even as her stomach heaved and heaved and heaved.

Her vision grayed.

* * *

4:01 a.m.

Antonio Calsonone took a deep breath of the Texas night air. The woman lay shivering on the seat in his coat, a blanket over her as well. The side of her head was bruised and bloody.

His chest hurt, his hands trembled.

Michael helped Miss Gaelord to sit, wiped her face and gave her a bit of apple juice.

She shook her head.

He took another deep breath, shoved down the rage he saw reflected in his sons’ expressions, in Giovanni’s glinting eyes.

Looking at Mr. Ngori, he said, “When we leave, you may leave. Not before.”

He studied the dark man, knew without a doubt this one would not give the Calsonones reasons to come back.

The car slowly rolled up a few feet and he climbed back in. “Gio, make the phone call. It’s time we go home. We have things to do.”

Not knowing if she heard him or not, he took Miss Gaelord’s hands in his and held them. They were cold; he rubbed them, hoping to bring some warmth to her.

“Make him pay,” she whispered, her eyes unfocused, even as she stared at him. “Please, please,
please
make him pay.”

He waited, watched as the lights from his own jet blinked through the night sky. Waited as his Gulfstream landed. He noticed the men Gio had hired were carting Jezek toward the taxiing plane. His sons climbed out. Michael stopping long enough to give some medical advice to Shadow.

Perhaps the boy had found his calling. Antonio didn’t feel the need to disillusion Michael with the knowledge Mr. Ngori could probably perform field surgery if the need arose.

“Godspeed, Calsonone,” Mr. Ngori told him, climbing from the car.

Antonio shook the man’s hand, then said, “I know you could have left well enough alone. But I do thank you for coming to me, even with this news.”

Ngori nodded.

“At least now I know, and we can finally bring Tessa home.”

Antonio leaned into the car, took Miss Gaelord’s hands, kissed them both, then her cheeks. Cupping her face he said, “When things are settled, you should come to Italy sometime. You will
always, always
be welcomed in my home.”

With that, he shut the back door to the limo and strode toward his plane. Gio and his sons waited for him.

It was time to avenge his daughter.

Chapter 35

6:31 a.m.

Morgan opened her eyes. Her head felt full. She blinked, then blinked again. Dawn lightened the room. At least she thought it was dawn.

Swallowing, wondering why her head didn’t hurt, she looked to her side.

Gideon sat in the chair, his fingers steepled, watching her.

He smiled, disentangled his hands and gave a small wave. “Hey, sweetie.”

She swallowed, realized the collar was gone. “Hey.”

God, she was tired.

He sat up, grabbed her hand and held on tight. “God, Morgan, I’ve never been so scared in my life.” He laid his head on their hands. “We thought . . . ” He shook his head. “You’re alive and well, that’s all that matters.”

She frowned, trying to remember . . .

“Lincoln?”

Please . . .

He blew out a breath. “He’s still in surgery. Tarver said his mom is flying in from New York, should be here later this morning. Dr. Nettleship checked with surgery and said that the surgeons think he’ll be okay. It wasn’t as bad as it could have been.”

Morgan sobbed. Thank God. Closing her eyes, she shook her head. “Is it over, Gideon? Please tell me it’s over. I really don’t think I can take anymore.”

He kissed the back of her hand.

“Jack?” she asked. “Is he all right?”

“He’s fine. He’s doing the admitting paperwork for Suzy. Her blood pressure skyrocketed.” Gideon sighed.

Whatever they were giving her was working. “I’m tired, Gideon.”

Images flashed off and on in her mind. Mikhail. Ebony. Gideon’s house. Lovell. The plane. Shadow. Prague.

“Will you tell me a story?” she asked.

“About what?”

She thought for a minute. “The computer nerd who fell in love?”

He scoffed. “How about I read to you instead?”

Without opening her eyes, she concentrated on his deep voice as he started
Jane Eyre
. It was always one of her favorites.

Smiling, she listened, prayed for Lincoln and finally drifted.

* * *

Calabria, Italy; November 15, 12:02 a.m.

Mikhail blinked, pain pulsing through his battered and beaten body. Nothing but jelly, he thought. His broken ribs bit into his fog, his busted-out knees knifed through the haze. His arm lay fractured and twisted at his side.

What else would they do to him? His body had been so used and abused, even he wouldn’t recognize himself.

He heard them talking, but couldn’t see.

He’d known. All along he’d known he’d pay for that Italian bitch.

Luther and Ivan were dead. He’d heard. They’d locked him in a damn box or something. It was small, so small he couldn’t straighten out. But he’d heard them. Heard his men beg, heard their screams, heard them betray him. And then . . . silence.

Mikhail knew it was his turn.

But he would not beg. He heard the sound of steel on steel. Like someone sharpening a blade. He tried to see, but his eyes were swollen shut.

* * *

Antonio Calsonone handed the blade to Gio. Georgio stood to the side, Santo waiting. Michael . . . ah, Michael’s face was streaked with tears. He’d been present while the other two bastards had died. Brave, foolish boy. But this . . .

He looked back at the man hanging before him, so bloody and torn that no one might realize he was alive.

Ivan and Luther both dead as they deserved, but this one . . . ah . . .

Blood pooled on the floor between the man’s legs.

Jezek whispered something.

“What?” Antonio leaned up, rage still pumping through him, knowing his beloved daughter had suffered this.

“Please,” the man whispered through busted, scabbed lips.

“Why should you get mercy? You offered none to my daughter.” He looked to Gio. “Get the box ready.”

Antonio took a deep breath. Even before coming home, they’d flown to Cheb, driven through the city and found the abandoned church and nearby cemetery with little trouble. It took a bit longer to find the grave, near the edge of the tree line. Antonio had finally found the dark narrow marker, the one next to it with kneeling, weeping angels—one with a broken wing. Thankfully, the ground was damp from a recent rain and it had only taken them another twenty minutes to find what remained of his daughter. Gio had checked the remains against Teresa Maria’s dental records. They’d matched.

Grief clawed through him.

He’d had to come home and tell his wife that their daughter was never coming back. Isabelle had not taken the news well. They’d had to call the doctor. Looking at his youngest son, he said, “Go check on your mother.”

Michael frowned. “Papa—”

Antonio shook his head. “Go, Michael.”

He waited until the young man had disappeared up the stairs of the cellar to the old cottage. Waited until he heard the outside door shut.

“Now we shall really make you beg.”

Jezek shuddered.

“And then, dear Jezek, I will toss your body into a box and bury it.” Antonio took the blade from Giovanni. “I’ll just make certain you’re still breathing when I do. I believe my daughter mentioned something about me showing you what hell is really like, yes?”

* * *

Dallas, Texas; November 15, 5:11 p.m.

Lincoln slowly opened his eyes, glad the fog kept the pain limited. He sighed. He vaguely remembered being extubated. Today? Yesterday? His throat still felt raw, but he could breathe.

He could hear something.

Crying.

He opened his eyes further. Jumbled memories assaulted him.

Morgan laughing. Jezek, the gun. Morgan’s terrified gaze, and his own fear he couldn’t save her.

He heard the bleep of the EKG as it kicked up speed.

Someone moved near his side. “Shhhh, rest,” her voice floated over him. “You’re safe.”

He closed his eyes, fighting the meds that lulled and beckoned.

Morgan.

A feather-light touch brushed across his forehead. “I thought I’d lost you,” she whispered brokenly.

Something in him shifted, loosened.

“I made you something,” she said softly. “I can’t put it on you, since you’re hooked up to everything. And you might not even want it.”

He tried to open his eyes, but couldn’t.

“They found the ring in your pocket.” Something changed in her voice. “That was fun to explain to your mother. Who is very nice, by the way.”

In his mind, he could see Morgan frowning.

“Anyway, I’ll put it here in your hand. Shadow said you always carried it in your pocket.” He felt warm metal slide into his palm as her hand held his. His ring, though something was different about it.

God, he was cold . . .

Her warm lips touched his cheek, his forehead.

And his heart sighed as the meds pulled him under their protective blanket.

Perhaps there was a future for them after all.

Epilogue

Six months later; Calabria, Italy

Morgan stood at the edge of the family plot, the large mausoleum standing proud and depressed in the afternoon light. She wiped her tears away, the crying jag she’d had a few minutes before calming now. The late May air was heavy and still.

She studied the nameplate.

Teresa Maria Elena Calsonone.

Morgan took a deep breath and set the group of white and yellow daisies on the cold marble. She sat on the bench.

Saying good-bye sucked. She’d made her peace with Amy, who was buried in the mountains of Taos, New Mexico, her body discovered at a place called Tres Piedras. Amy. Anger still rose hot and fast in her at the stupid loss of her friend, at the others that had been nothing more than a way to make a bit of fast money. She’d been told that Becca was the informant. Apparently there was an offshore account, computer files, photographs, an entire log of what she did.

However, no one ever told Morgan
why
. Greed, she got, but
why
? If the woman had wanted money, Morgan would have paid her. Why had women, survivors who fought and clawed their way back into the world, have to pay the price Rebecca Linsey had asked.

She closed her eyes, tilted her head back and took a deep breath, letting the quiet Italian sun bathe her in a soothing embrace.

There were things she could change and things she never could.

Morgan knew that. She opened her eyes and looked again at the marker.

Ebony—Teresa was at home with her family.

And Mikhail, the man who had created such pain and agony, was dead.

She received a phone call from Don Calsonone not three days after she woke up in the hospital. She didn’t ask, didn’t
need
to ask if the bastard had suffered. She still remembered the emotion in Don Calsonone’s eyes when she’d told him everything. It was all in Calsonone’s expression, in his voice, in the knowledge he’d known what was done to his daughter.

She looked at the white marble and wondered if she should say something. Nothing came to mind. Morgan had never been one to talk at grave sites.

She still had no idea what Shadow had told everyone. No one had asked her any questions, and if they did, she simply didn’t speak of it.

Birds chirped from the poplar trees and the heady wind carried the smell of lavender and curry on it.

She glanced back over her shoulder to see Lincoln and Calsonone talking several graves down, on the steps of another mausoleum. Looking back at the grave, she said, “You’re home now and I hope you’re at peace.”

Morgan cupped her elbows and walked up the path toward the men. Teresa was at peace.

When she caught up with them, their conversation stopped. They all walked in silence from the cemetery with its huge mausoleums, its guardians of marble and granite, and weeping, praying angels.