Surrender the Dark (2 page)

She had barely moved an inch toward the edge when a low groan made her spin around. That was no puppy. She automatically dropped into a semicrouch, hands ready at her sides, her mind totally alert.

Another groan. She looked up; the hill above was all tumbled rock. “Idiot,” she said as she grabbed for her first handhold. She levered herself up about five feet, then over another five, then up two or three more. To her left was a small indentation in the rock. A cave?

Pressing her back to the rock face, she edged closer to the slitlike opening. A third groan told her she’d located her quarry. A high-pitched howl told her she’d also found the missing puppy.

She ran down a list of possibilities, swiftly discarding most of them. It wasn’t the pup’s mother; the groan had definitely sounded human, not canine. A lost hiker who’d been hurt? In the unexpected snowstorm the night before last? That was the most likely scenario.

That, however, didn’t explain why her instincts were screaming and her skin was crawling—familiar sensations she’d relied on every day of her life for years. Sensations that, thankfully, had been nonexistent for the last
two. Maybe she was simply overreacting to the first rush of adrenaline she’d experienced since seeking sanctuary in the gentle slopes of the Blue Ridge.

Blanking her mind and swallowing her concerns, staying focused and alert, she crept forward until she could peek inside the cave at the most unobtrusive angle.

A brief glance had her jerking her head back, banging it hard. She didn’t even register the pain as she dug her fingertips into the rock behind her so forcefully, her nails should have sunk into it.

No!
She trembled as spasms of panic clutched at her stomach and began a quick climb up her throat. It couldn’t be. Not here. Not now. Not anywhere. Ever.

An injured animal, a mangled hiker, even Smokey the Bear himself would have shocked her less. She was hallucinating. That was it. It was the only plausible explanation. A warped moment brought on from excess adrenaline and the memory of two years’ worth of nightmares. That had to be it. She wondered wildly if she wished and prayed hard enough, it would be something as simple as finally losing her sanity.

She was shaking uncontrollably now. “McCullough?” The name came out ragged and harsh and totally against her will.

The whine of the pup and another groan reclaimed her full attention. She turned, and like a witness to a bad accident, she looked again. Her hand found her throat, holding tight, as if to trap the flood of panic from escaping in an endless scream.

Dear God in heaven. Or, more likely, Satan in hell.

It
was
him.

Jarrett McCullough. Her own personal nightmare. Alive and in the flesh. Although from the looks of him, the living part was only temporary.

Bile rose until she tasted the bitter tang in the back of her mouth. She clamped her free hand to her stomach as nausea swelled. She was unable to deny the awful truth, yet did not want to deal with it.

She had to help him, though. It might already be too late. Despite his groaning, he was obviously unconscious and looked to have lost a good deal of blood. Certainly every second counted.

Still, she couldn’t make herself take even the smallest step in his direction. A rock slide wouldn’t have made her move toward him.

She knew that even the tiniest fraction of movement would bring her back into his world—a black, bottomless void that she’d barely managed to climb out of once.

The puppy yipped, drawing her attention to where it sat, just on the other side of McCullough’s outstretched legs. It plopped down and rested its head on McCullough’s calf, issuing a soft continuous whine. The unwavering stare from those small eyes seemed to mock her inability to take action.

She forced her hands to her sides and air into her lungs. Then, with a greater force of will than she’d known she still possessed, she dragged her gaze over the battered body of her ex-boss.

He was sitting, his back resting against the rock wall, his head tipped back and his mouth partially open. She
studied his chest and detected a shallow but steady movement. Anger and resentment took the place of nausea and fear. Well, most of her fear.

Even near death and with a cuddly puppy by his side, Jarrett McCullough somehow managed to look supremely commanding and not a little dangerous. His dark hair was damp and matted to his head. Dirt and stubble covered his face, but did little to blunt the sharp-edged features. Thick black lashes concealed eyes she knew to be soulless and gray. His body was big, broad, densely muscled, and highly trained.

Yes, Rae knew all about how dangerous this man could be.

And then there was the blood, most of it dried on him. She sucked in another breath of air. Dear God, hadn’t she seen enough blood in her life?

She told herself to leave. To run fast and hard, lock herself inside her sanctuary, throw every dead bolt, engage all the alarms. Barricade her body, sequester her soul. Forget she’d ever laid eyes on Jarrett McCullough again.

Yet she already knew she couldn’t do that.

She didn’t look up at the sky and ask “why me?” though the urge was close to overwhelming. One of the first things she’d learned while sitting in that fetid cell had been how futile and energy wasting asking that question was. She’d also learned that she was far stronger than she’d ever imagined. There had been many moments when she’d regretted that strength. This was one of them.

Shuddering, she clenched her hands into fists and swallowed hard.

Then she took that first step.

Jarrett never thought hell would be warm and soft. Since he was certain he’d end up there, he’d spent a decent amount of time contemplating it. And he had decided hell would be a deep abyss, void of anything that could allow a person to feel. No fire, no burning pits, no endless roasting. He knew from experience that the best way to punish a human was to deprive him of all sensation. In such a place, the slightest disruption of routine would be so blindingly excruciating that even the possibility of pleasure would be experienced as an agony.

He shifted slightly, and the warm feeling evaporated, replaced by a pain so intense, he couldn’t distinguish between hot and cold.

Maybe he was in hell after all.

“McCullough?”

No, he thought. No way. His mind refused to accept it. And yet, he knew that voice, would never forget it. There was no way Rae Gannon would ever end up in hell. She could commit the most heinous crime of the century, and still make heaven on the basis of past performance.

“I know you’re conscious,” her voice went on. “It’s been two days now, three if you count the day I found you. And God knows how long before I found you. You’re too stubborn to die, or you already would have. So open your eyes and let’s get on with it.”

The tone was the same: blunt, direct, and to the point. That was Rae Gannon in a nutshell. If a woman like her could ever really be categorized. But there was something else.…

Three days?

Vague recollections swam into his mind. A loud bang, then a car—his car?—careening off the road. Stumbling, then a white-hot sensation piercing his upper thigh. Mud, snow, cold. Blood. A wolf. Wolf? Yes, yes, he was hallucinating. A wolf pup. He had to silence it, but couldn’t. Got free. Ran. No energy to chase it. Had to reach a safe place. Walking, dragging himself, crawling. Sticks, trees, dirt, more snow. Blacking out. A rough tongue … licking? Licking his face. Cool darkness, safety, sanctuary.

He heard a noise, a groan. He realized it was his own voice and instinctively tried to stifle the sound. The images continued to assault him. Hands on his legs and arms, pulling, dragging. Endless. And the pain. Dear God, the pain. Another groan. Was it a memory, or was he making the sound now?

Jarrett worked hard to put his chaotic thoughts into order, commanding his brain to switch off this track and get back to the voice. Rae’s voice. Or had that been a hallucination too?

Was she really there? He tried to speak, but his mouth felt cemented shut, his throat too dry even to moisten his tongue, much less his lips.

“It’s bad enough,” she continued, her soft, steady voice a far more effective torture than the most demented terrorist could have dreamed up, “that I’ve been
hijacked into helping you again. But next time, if you have to bring along a sidekick, could you at least house-break him first?”

Two words opened his eyes. Hijacked and sidekick.

He shut them again immediately. The light was too bright, too white. He’d seen enough, though. It was Rae.

He tried again to speak as a dozen questions sprang to mind. There was important information he had to know right away so he could make plans, formulate a strategy, complete his mission.

All he managed to get out was a grunt.

An instant later a straw touched his lips, quickly followed by cool water. He was proud of his restraint as he let the craved liquid wet his tongue and trickle down his throat. It was followed by something bitter and pasty. He swallowed that too.

“Crushed aspirin,” she said. “You’ve been running a pretty good temperature and you wouldn’t swallow them whole.”

A cool cloth was placed on his forehead, which until that moment he hadn’t realized felt hot and feverish.

“Hi—” That was all he could manage. He worked hard to repress the frustration he felt at the discovery of his limitations.

“Hi?” There was anger and impatience in her tone.

He started to shake his head, but caught himself at the last moment. He had no intention of blacking out again. At least not until he got some information. “Jack,” he forced out, not recognizing the rough voice as his own.

“Jack who?”

He felt the surface he was lying on—a bed?—dip down, as if someone—Rae?—were leaning on it.

“I didn’t see anyone else,” she said. “No tracks. Just you and the puppy.”

Puppy? Jarrett frowned, then spent the next few seconds smoothing his expression. Even his skin hurt. He shut out the questions the mention of a puppy brought to mind and focused instead on his original concern.

Another sip of cool water. He swallowed several times, then again after the straw had been taken away, just to see if he could make his throat work. It was still scratchy and raw, but already it felt better. And the pounding in his head was no longer louder than his thoughts. He rested for a moment, then tried once more. “Hi … jack?”

He heard a sigh of disgust. “No, I—we—haven’t been hijacked. Sorry. Poor choice of words. I just meant that I found you out there dying, and since it was unlikely anyone else would happen by to rescue you, I felt compelled to undertake the task.”

The now tepid cloth on his forehead was replaced with another cooler one. He waited a minute or so, absorbing the mild relief it brought, then chanced opening his eyes again. He stopped at a squint, and her blurry frame came into view.

“What happened, McCullough? Were you
trying
to get yourself killed on my mountain?”

She was sitting to his right. There was light behind her, which he realized was muted by blinds and gathered curtains. Carefully, he turned his head a degree or two.
He could see the corner of a table by his side, in front of her knees. A nightstand. He must be on a bed. Where, he didn’t know. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know. That bothered him too. He’d never considered himself a coward.

“On second thought,” she went on, “don’t answer that. I don’t want to know anything except when I can get you out of here.”

Jarrett knew she had every right to be upset. He should count himself fortunate she hadn’t just shot him and put him out of his misery—and hers.

“Tell me,” he managed.

“You’ve been shot,” she said blundy, rightly assuming that was what he wanted to know. “Nasty exit wound too. In the right thigh. No sign of infection, which is a miracle considering how I found you. But you lost enough blood to keep you out of it for a few days. You’ve also managed to cut, scrape, or bruise most of your body. And I’m pretty certain you’ve banged up a couple of ribs and maybe dislocated your shoulder.”

She could have been discussing the weather, for all the concern in her voice. Still, she had taken him in. Jarrett slowly shifted his head back and chanced opening his eyes a bit more. Finally, he looked at Rae.

She appeared exactly the same as she had during the five years she’d worked for him. Until he saw her eyes. No, he decided. There wasn’t anything familiar in those pale blue eyes. There wasn’t anything there period.

“Where am I?” He closed his own eyes, the effort too much. Whether it was talking to or looking at Rae Gannon for the first time in two years, he couldn’t—wouldn’t—guess.
“How …?” he added, his voice a mere rasp.

“You’re in my home.” She slid the towel off his forehead. After a long pause he felt the soft jab of a thermometer being stuck into his mouth. “And you don’t want to know how.” A minute or two passed in silence, then she slid the thermometer out and made a noncommittal grunt. The bed dipped again, and when she spoke, it came from farther away. “Suffice it to say, your type of training doesn’t seem to disappear.” There was a pause and the sound of a door opening. This time her quiet voice barely reached him. “No matter how much I might have wished it to.”

Jarrett struggled to open his eyes again, but even after making himself turn his head several degrees right and then left, he couldn’t find her. She’d left him. He let out a careful sigh. His ribs felt tight, probably taped. They ached and his shoulder was a steady burn. He vaguely remembered slamming it against a tree to knock it back into place after he’d stumbled from the wreckage of his car. It wasn’t the first time he’d knocked it back into place. He carefully probed his torso. It was hard to tell with the tape, but he didn’t think he’d fractured anything there. He’d done that enough times too. That left the bullet wound.

He wiggled his toes, more to take his mind off the rush of unwanted feelings that the unplanned return of Rae Gannon to his life had brought on than because he really feared he’d lost the use of any of his extremities.

He ran a few other checks on his person and decided he was better off than he felt. The loss of blood had
been his worst enemy. A few days, a week or two at the most, and he’d be able to do what had to be done. Unfortunately, he barely had a week.