Hunted (5 page)

The words were spoken like anyone giving their name, but Dusk was under the distinct impression that Mr. John Reyer was not John Reyer at all. So who was he?

“
What
are you?” she asked.

He grinned. Shadow let out a rolling, rusted laugh. No one answered her questions.

The car drove further along the waterfront until coming to rest in a deserted lot. Warehouses loomed up on all sides. The car stopped, and the driver leaned over, popping the trunk. The dead man in the passenger seat did not seem to bother him. The driver got out and walked around, lifting the trunk lid. Headlights blinked across the way.

John Reyer, or whoever the hell he was, studied her.

“We’re ditching the car here and getting in one over there. From there we’ll take you to a safe house where you can change. We’ll let you in on a few things and try to answer your questions before getting out of here.”

He opened the door and held his hand out. For a moment she only stared at it. His words played in her brain.

 . . . found you . . . help you . . .

Get you out of here . . .

 . . . out of here . . .

 . . . help you . . .

She reached out and clasped the offered hand, letting him help her from the limo. The sharp click of her heels on pavement echoed against the buildings.

Cold air settled and swirled in the deserted lot, carrying the smells of stagnant water and oil. Dusk looked across to where the car was parked between two buildings and saw a figure walking toward them.

“You get her?” a female voice asked.

“Did you doubt it?” Shadow asked.

“With John, no. He’d talk the devil into selling his pitchfork.” She crossed the beam of headlights and Dusk saw the woman was dressed all in black. Black pants, leather jacket, gloves, boots, dark black hair slicked back. The only color was the paleness of her face. Maybe this was some dream, and Ms. Charlie’s Angel was no more real than the rest of this.

The woman looked at her. “Well, I bet that collar is fun, huh? Come, freedom awaits you.” She was American, or at least spoke with an American accent, Southern, from the sounds of it. “I’m Becca. You’ve met John and the other man is Shadow and the driver is George.”

Dusk rubbed her bare arms as the cold December wind blew against her bare legs and feet. It was so cold her nipples had hardened against the dress and goose bumps prickled along her arms and legs. She couldn’t stop shaking. And if she wasn’t careful, she’d fall in these damn heels.

Shadow shut the trunk and set plastic gasoline containers on the ground. He opened one can and the sharp scent of gasoline confirmed her assumption. He looked at her. “You really don’t have to worry.”

She didn’t reply.

“Come on, let’s get you into a warmer place,” John interrupted, reaching for Dusk’s arm.

She sidestepped and stared at him. His eyes bore into hers but he turned and walked toward the other car, which she noticed was identical to the one they’d left. Should she follow him? She looked around. She knew this part of town. What if she ran? Would they catch her? What were their plans?

You must do exactly as I say if any of us are to get out of this alive, understand?

 . . . help . . . out of here . . .

He stopped and turned around, waiting on her.

Did she dare go? If she didn’t, then what? She tried to think, to decide, but . . .

“No one is going to harm you,” he said, as if reading her mind, his voice dark and deep as the night.

Again, she looked around.

Decide.

Sparkle escaped. And others, she’d heard rumors.

She looked behind her. Then back at this man who was clearly waiting on her. He shot her jailer. Pretended to be something he wasn’t.

Dusk took a deep breath and stepped toward him, then another. And another. He waited patiently until she walked up to him.

His features were hard, unforgiving, yet the edge of his mouth tilted. “I was about to come get you. I really hate to do things the hard way.” He motioned to the car.

George slid behind the wheel. The man hadn’t said more than six words as far as she’d seen and heard.

When they were settled inside, she looked to John and wondered again what the hell was going on. “Are you a friend of Mikhail’s?”

His brow furrowed. “No one is a friend of Jezek.”

She sighed and looked out into the night. “Can I roll down the window?”

He glanced out at the other two people, Becca and Shadow—Norgi. The man did look like a shadow.

John answered, “You don’t have to ask.”

She didn’t think of what his remark meant, didn’t want to think about it at all. Instead she rolled down the window and leaned back. Again the smells of stale water and oil filled the cold air. The old brick building on one side shadowed the metal warehouse on the other. She could hear the faint lap of water from the river, cars from the roadway, the hum of city nightlife. Shadow’s voice rumbled on the night air, mixing with Becca’s husky laughter. Then they walked toward the car Dusk currently occupied. When they were halfway there, Becca flicked a lighter and tossed it over her shoulder without looking back.

“You missed,” Shadow said.

“No, I didn’t.” A puddle caught, blue flames shot along the pavement, an arrow seeking its target. For one instant, nothing happened.

The first car exploded.

The back door opened and Shadow climbed in, George reversing even as Becca climbed into the front passenger’s seat.

She rubbed her hands gleefully. “God, I love doing that.”

“Pyromaniac,” Shadow said as the driver careened out of the lot.

“Bet your ass.” Becca turned in her seat. “Damn it all to hell and back, John. Get that collar off. Use your fingers for something.”

He grinned at Becca even as he reached inside the minibar in this car. He pulled out a leather case.

Dusk stiffened.

Would he give her something? Stick her in the arm? How would she know where they were going? Where they planned to take her, or what—

He unzipped it and said, looking straight at Dusk, his smile cautious, more reassuring, “Tricks of the trade.” He opened it and wicked picks lay in little holders. She scooted back, fisting her hands.

He sighed and in a softer voice explained, “They are lock picks.” He motioned to the collar. “To take that bloody thing off.” Blond eyebrows rose. “Unless you’d like to leave it on.”

The collar chaffed, but she’d become so used to doing what she was told without asking for help, she’d just left it alone.

He moved across the seat toward her. She leaned to the side, offering the left side of her neck to Reyer. She wondered if he could see the bruises on her neck from one of her clients. Which made her think of the john. She shied away from the thought, from her own demons—still too afraid to believe that hope might still be in sight.

But she also remembered Ebony. Ebony.

She shivered.

John’s elegant hands held a tool, the end no bigger than a metal toothpick, as easily as most men held their wallets. She wondered what else those long fingers were capable of besides killing and picking locks. His hand rose and she stopped breathing, felt him run his thumb gently over the bruises on her neck.

“What happened?” he whispered, his eyes lifting to hers.

She shrugged. “One . . . one of the clients liked it a bit rough.” She swallowed. “I thought he was going to kill me,” she whispered. “Wished he had when he was done.” She closed her eyes so she wouldn’t see into his and a tremor ran through her.

When she opened her eyes, she saw he still studied the bruises. His eyes narrowed and that already chiseled jaw hardened as a muscle ticked in his jaw.

There was something about this man, not that she cared, but she’d learned men gave off their own vibes. Some were screaming loud. Some raged like the worst storms at home. This man, though, his vibe was different, like the faint hum of evenings, that charge right before a storm, or the sounds one never notices unless the electricity goes out.

His fingers were warm, but even so, she wished she were away from him. Men were, in her recently learned opinion, bastards.

“I won’t hurt you,” he said softly.

She cut her eyes to meet his.

This close she could smell his cologne, sandalwood and the smoke from the cigars.

“You shared a cigar with him,” she said, not thinking.

Something flitted through his eyes and his hands paused. “Yes.”

“I hate that smell,” she whispered.

Those black eyes studied hers, softening at the edges before returning to her neck and the collar. “I bet you do.”

She heard the faint sound of the tool in the lock and the gentle click before he lifted the collar away. He reached out to touch a spot on her neck again, but Dusk jerked her head away.

He smiled and moved to the other seat.

Sirens pierced the air and twice they passed police vehicles moving in the opposite direction. Her hands fisted in her lap. Would the authorities turn around? What if someone had known? They would know—Mikhail would know . . .

This was never going to work.

The gun bit into the back of her head. Please don’t kill me, please, she thought, looking at the body in the grave. Oh, God!

 . . . “You’ll never get away.”

 . . . never get away . . . never get away . . .

Dusk turned in her seat and looked out the back window.

“Where is the safe house?” she asked.

“A few more minutes. It’s a townhouse in a quieter part of town.”

Dusk shook her head. “They’ll know,” she whispered, the last of her words breaking.

John studied her. “Not for a while, no. If Jezek checks, there will be a John Reyer fitting my description along with an appropriate woman checking into my suite at the hotel where I was staying.” He leaned back. “We have several hours in any case.”

“Unless someone sees something about Peter they recognize, then it only takes one phone call to Mikhail,” she said, rubbing her arms, the trembles starting now that the reality began to set in. “He’ll know. He knows everything.”

She glanced again over her shoulder into the inky black night lit only by the streetlights.

John shifted in his seat. “You’re out, that’s all that matters.”

“Others thought they had gotten out too.”

“Who?” he asked.

Ebony had believed. She must have. Dusk didn’t answer him. An image of dark, rage-filled eyes flashed into Dusk’s mind.

She shook off the memory and looked where they were going. Trying to pay attention to the landmarks. She noticed a hotel, one she’d seen before. These were streets she’d toured months and months ago with a man she thought she’d been in love with.

What if this was all a ruse? What if it was a trap?
Please, no.

“How do I know you are who you claim to be?” she asked. “You could be a drug dealer that is pissed at Mikhail and I’m only payment for some wrong.”

Once she said the words, the thought, like a poison, spread. It wasn’t as if it hadn’t happened before. Drugs, money owed, greed—those were the reasons she’d ended up in hell to begin with. One devil she knew, the other she didn’t.

One killed slowly, painfully, and enjoyed it.

The other with lightning efficiency.

Her hands wouldn’t stop trembling.

Shadow placed a hand on her knee and she jumped.

He spread his hands out, palms up. “You’re safe. We’re not dealers. We’re with a task force inside Interpol.”

“Interpol?” Relief dared to raise its head. “What task force?” she asked, looking from one to the other.

“It’s . . . ”

“Settle down,” John interrupted Shadow. “We’re not going to harm you, though I can see where you might have trouble believing that.”

“Can you?” she hissed. “Can you really?”

For one long moment, no one said a word. His eyes again made her think he could see all the way to the very center of her. Very quietly, very precisely, he said, “Yes. I bloody well can. I once lost someone in one of those bleeding hells.”

Chapter 4

John shifted in his seat and saw Shadow exchange a glance with George in the rearview mirror.

Things were not going exactly as planned, but then again, when the hell had they ever?

“Take me to the embassy,” Dusk tried again.

He had to give the woman credit. Though she was clearly terrified, she still had spine. And anger. Lots and lots of anger, not that he blamed her.

He cleared his throat.

“It’s on Trziste. I know this section of town. I remember. Take me there, please.” She paused, her voice cracking. “Please. If you’re here to help me, you can take me to the embassy.”

Becca turned in her seat. “Hon. That would be the dumbest thing you could do.”

He watched the girl’s arched brows frown. “I don’t see that.”

“Do you have a passport?” Becca asked, her voice no-nonsense. Before Dusk could answer, she trudged on. “No. On that it would be pointless. You’d then have to fill out paperwork, answer questions, which our embassy would then have to follow up on and verify. And once that happened, if it even took that long, Mikhail Jezek would find you.”

He watched the color slowly fade from Dusk’s cheeks, watched her cross her arms over her middle, holding tight to her elbows. “He’ll kill me. He’d kill anyone, but he’s already angry with me. God, he’ll kill me as slowly as he can.”

She’d said it so quietly, he had to strain to hear. He wondered what she meant, but figured now was not the time for a debriefing.

He watched her take a breath, her collarbone protruding, the other bones of her arms and legs too noticeable. It wasn’t surprising to him. She looked like the others, half-starved, horrified, and wanting to go home.

She shook her head, blinked and nodded. “I can’t go back now. It’s done. He’d kill me either way. You’re right, the embassy would probably be stupid.”

Silence descended after that and no one spoke, until finally George pulled to a stop in front of their flat on the Vltava River. About bloody time.