Ocean Kills (Ocean Breeze) (13 page)

I pushed Holly gently into her mum's embrace, taking a step back. This was their moment; they didn't need me here to witness their overwhelming relief and love. I called my power, fighting against the blade of pain slicing my brain.

As the happy reunion dissolved, the father looked up and mouthed, “Thank you.” That was payment enough. They’d never know who I was, or where I came from. But I’d forever be classified as a guardian angel. I could live with that.

I arrived back in Holly's room with the envelope of cash in my hand. Fuck. I meant to give some to Holly. The next girl would receive a bounty of cash—courtesy of the monster who would've sold her.

The room swam as if I stood on the deck of a ship in a tsunami. My legs threatened to buckle, but I managed to stay upright. My eyes went black, leaving me blind for a moment: a lack of oxygen in my bloodstream.

Once my eyesight returned, I jimmied the key-card lock with the switchblade from my cleavage. It was now inoperable. It would give me more time if someone went to check on Holly and found her missing.

The corridor lights harpooned me with brightness. Squinting, I entered the next room.

Empty.

Groaning at the pain in my head, I hobbled to the next one.

Twins.

My heart stuttered. A gasp lodged in my throat. Double trouble—triple pain.

Big black eyes tilted with Asian heritage; they looked about fifteen years old, with braided hair and matching scarlet kimonos. I doubted they were Japanese, but that was how the boss wanted them presented.

Heat boiled my blood, but anger was good. It fought my weakness—gave me the energy to battle through the agony and keep going.

Internally, a clock ticked faster by the second.

I didn't have time for pleasantries; planting myself in front the bed, I said, “I'm not here to hurt you.”

They looked, wide-eyed, at each other and shuffled away. Their braids swung as they shook their heads.

I clambered on the bed, keeping my body as far away as possible, but close enough to take their hands. They tried to tug free, but I ordered, “Listen up. I'm here to save you, but you need to think about home, your parents, your address. Got it?”

Did they speak English? With a worried breath, I thought of Plan B. Take them to Maurice? He could figure it out.

They looked at each other, silent twin language going between them. Finally, one of them nodded. “We listen. We think of home.”

I relaxed just a little, only to tense again as I called the body-shattering power. “Good. Don't stop thinking of home.”

I summoned more pain, swallowing back nausea as my migraine tripled in agony. My entire body tried to shred itself to pieces. I wanted to claw my brain out, it was so hot with torture.

The funnel of speed ripped us from the sex prison, and we ported.

I was surprised when a house in urban America appeared. Were they adopted?

Before I could determine if this was the right place, the girls ripped themselves from my hands and bolted to the front door of a bungalow with Grecian statues standing sentry.

They hammered on the bell, crying, sobbing, hugging each other.

A petite Asian woman answered and crumpled to the floor when she saw her girls. A younger man, perhaps their brother, appeared, and also collapsed in shock. Voices raised in happiness and amazement. It was a tear-jerker to watch. I was a voyeur and had no right to be there. I'd done my part—they were safe.

I grabbed a handful of bills from my envelope and stuffed them into their letterbox. It would never pay for their ordeal, but it might help cushion the pain.
As if.
It was stupid to think that, but I wanted them to have something.

The sun winked as I ported. My nose gushed with blood when I arrived back in South Africa. I took a step in the twin’s prison, then crumpled to the floor. My brain sloshed around my skull. My vision was wonky and I threw up—all over the nice white rug. Serves the sex traffickers right. Who knew how many girls sat in this very room waiting for whatever atrocities befell them. Hundreds? Thousands? How many did I fail by not being here?

I struggled to my feet and jimmied the lock behind me. The corridor shifted and swayed, but I couldn't stop. Who knew how many girls I had yet to save? What time was it?

My consciousness flickered. One minute I was walking—the next, I was face first on the floor of the corridor. It was only brief, but it filled my veins with icy terror. I couldn't black out. Not now.

Clawing at the wallpaper, and using the door handles as support, I heaved myself up. Gulping deep breaths, I opened the door of the next room.

A stunning woman, about my age, sprawled in the middle of the bed. She was out for the count, her skin covered in goose-bumps, wearing only skimpy lingerie. Her arm was thrown to the side with angry track marks in her veins.
Shit.
Would she be lucid enough to help?

I sat next to her, fighting the swirling vertigo enough to tap her cheek gently. “Wake up. Hello? Can you hear me?”

Nothing. No flicker of eyelids, no twitch of a toe. Out cold.

What should I do? I couldn't take her home. I didn't know her name or where she was from. Judging by her blonde hair and sun-kissed cheekbones, I’d say somewhere warm. I frowned, peering at her left breast. Above the swell of flesh was a tattoo of an outline of Australia with a flourish of writing: ‘
Made in Aussie. Gold!’

I never understood why people inked themselves. I had enough problems with my own skin marking me. I didn't care for more. But hell, didn't this help me a bundle!

But I didn't know anyone in Australia.
That's a lie and you know it. Callan. You know Callan.

I wasn't taking her to Callan. That was way too risky.

I could take her to Maurice. But Maurice was in England.

Time continued to tick as I pondered my options, each second cut into the precious minutes I had left to save the others. I couldn't fight myself. The decision was obvious, despite my lack of enthusiasm. “This is nuts,” I muttered, holding onto the girl's wrist.

My power erupted. This time something popped in my eye, distorting my vision. The room whisked into a blur of furniture and linen, and we flew as a million tiny particles to land in Kings Cross Police Station.

We crashed into an office chair which skittered across the ugly linoleum floor, bouncing into a door. The girl was a dead weight, landing half on a desk while her other half dropped to the floor.

“What the—?” a man yelped.

I couldn't see who spoke. My head roared with screaming body parts. I was blind in one eye and my mouth and chin were sticky with blood from my nose bleed. My fingers scrabbled to hold myself up as my legs gave out completely. It was no use. I kneeled, breathing raspy, close to passing out.

A burly man appeared in my line of one-eyed vision.
You have got to be freakin’
kidding
me!

Officer Wade, the cop who arrested me, blinked wildly. “Ocean Breeze?” He blew out a gust of breath; it hit me in the face, smelling of pizza. “Where the flaming hell did you come from?”

I swatted a weak hand in his direction.
Go away! Fuck
. This was
so
not a good idea. My stomach was wrung dry from lack of food. I barely had enough power to stay awake, let alone port back to South Africa. Coming here was a terrible idea. All I wanted was to find Callan and tell him to fix it. Give him the worry which drove me forward; share my burden so I wasn't so alone.

My heart raced. Such weakness in me—rely on another? Never. Panic latched hold, giving me enough fuel for a gurgle of power.

Officer Wade bounced off his heels, disappearing through the door.

I was left alone.
Good riddance.

What to do? I couldn't stay, but they needed to know where this girl came from. I grabbed a pen and paper and the girl slithered off the desk to land in a messy heap. Her lingerie didn’t conceal appropriate places, but I was too rushed to cover her decently.

I scribbled as fast as I could.

She was sold into sex slavery in Century City, South Africa. The man's name is Atsu Bazeer. I don't know who she is, or where she's from, but she needs a drug detox and for someone to find her family. I think she's Australian, based on her tattoo, but I'm not sure. It's up to you now.

OB

I put the note on the chest of the comatose girl, ignoring the fact I’d bled all over Officer Wade's desk and floor. Time to go. I flinched as the pain bubbled.

“Ocean!” A gruff voice full of the sea. A door slammed. “Shit. Wade, help me.”

Gentle hands plucked me from the floor, and pushed me into a chair. Why, of all shifts and days, was
he
here?
Quick. Move.

I panted heavily as Callan Bliss tipped my head to look into my eyes.

He jerked, mouth falling open. I doubted I was a pretty picture right now. “What
happened
to you?”

My insides liquefied into an unhelpful mess, a geyser of tears threatened to erupt.
Get a grip, Ocean!
I wanted warm arms around me, gentle words to tell me I’d succeeded. I wanted help.

Callan turned to Wade. “Leave, please. I'll come find you.”

“What about the girl?” Wade pointed to the unconscious woman.

Yes, what about the girl?
Fireworks of panic whizzed in my blood.
The other girls!
I couldn't sit here and allow this cop to look after me. As much as I wanted to sleep for centuries and be told it was all okay, I couldn't. Those girls needed me.

I tensed, calling my weak power to percolate and build.

Callan's eyes shot back to mine. “Ocean. . . what are you doing?” He pushed sticky hair from my temple. “Don't you leave on me. Don't you dare.”

I was deluding myself if I thought I could do this again. I was on death's door. My body was ruined, put together all wrong. If I fainted on my way back to South Africa. . .
Don't think. Just leave.

I latched onto his sea-green eyes. His jaw clenched as something hot sparked between us.

Then my body exploded into pieces and a scream tore from my lungs.

His look of astonishment kept me company all the way back to South Africa.

Chapter Thirteen: Callan

O
cean.

She was here—in my hands. And then she wasn't.

Covered in blood, eyes blooming red with broken vessels, weak, and thin as a skeleton. And that scream as she disappeared wrenched my very bones. I wanted to hurl myself after her. To grab hold of the rush of energy left in her wake and disappear to wherever she'd gone.

Why was she so weak? Why did she look like she was about to die? What the flaming fuck just
happened?

Wade cleared his throat. “Um, did that really happen?”

Shit. He saw everything. It rattled me enough the first time, but this time—with that scream! Holy crap.

I crouched, collecting the note placed on the chest of the blonde woman. “I don't know what you're talking about.” I glared at him. “You saw nothing. Got it?”

He raised his hands in defeat. “Only you know what you're getting yourself into, but that sure ain't normal. I have a good mind to call the
X-files
or some exorcist. What the hell, Callan?” He took a deep breath, waving at the vacant chair. “Did you know she could do that?”

I scowled. How much could I trust Wade? “Yes, I knew. And no, you can't tell anyone, alright?”

“Is that why you're tracking her?” He dropped his voice. “Is she an alien?”

I rolled my eyes, cracking a small smile. “No, I doubt she's an alien. Just keep it secret for now, okay?” I held out my hand, urging him to shake it. “Please? For me?”

Wade slouched and shook. “Crikey, mate. ‘Course I'll keep silent if it means that much to you.”

A gust of relief exited my lungs. Thank God. Now Ocean's secret was safe, my gaze dropped to the note she left. Wade crouched beside the unconscious girl.

My eyes widened as I skimmed it. Atsu Bazeer. South Africa.
Sex ring?
What the
hell
was she caught up in?

Wade reached for his mobile. “I'll call an ambulance.” He left and his voice drifted back as he enlisted someone to find some blankets to cover the poor woman.

I nudged the heap of a girl. She hadn't moved. She was alive, just incredibly high. A corpse with a heartbeat. There was no point trying to rouse her. It would take days of detox before we knew where she originated, and how she ended up in a South African sex ring.

A large manila envelope rested on the corner of the desk. It had a blood-smeared hand print on it.

Ocean.

I scooped up the envelope and peaked inside. My jaw clenched. There were countless foreign currency bills; rand, the money of South Africa. Why did she have all this money?

The urge to protect her, to chase and stop her from doing the dangerous things she was obviously doing, closed my throat so badly I couldn't swallow.

I shot out of Wade’s office, bumping into Captain Gray in my rush. His eyes dropped to my hands clutching Ocean's note. “What's that, Bliss?” He reached for it, but I kept it out of grabbing distance. I quickly obscured the envelope of cash with my body, just in case he wanted a look at that, too.