Hunted (11 page)

Chapter 8

Ashbourne-Reyer—hell, even he had trouble remembering what his name was—took off the jacket he’d had on and tossed it across a chair back. He rubbed a hand over his face. He was tired. Tired of the filth, of the pain . . . He looked to Morgan’s closed door. And he was tired of shattered lives.

Unclipping his gun and shoulder holster, he set them on the coffee table. Picking up his briefcase, he took out the laptop and booted up. He knew she was Morgan Gaelord, but he wanted to know more about Simon. She’d mentioned June? But she’d been in Prague with the Simon idiot. Hell, make it a year. He logged on to the website he needed, typed in his password and clicked and typed his way to searching for more information on the woman known as Morgan Gaelord.

He didn’t learn much more than he already knew, as he’d practically memorized her file before the operation.

The water shut off and he sat still and quiet, waiting, hoping she didn’t come in and want to know what he was doing.

Locks disengaged before she finally came out of the bathroom and stepped back into her room. He heard the click of her bedroom door. No problem. There wasn’t a lock on the door and there wasn’t any way out of the room other than through the living room. No one could get in without coming through the living room.

Hoping the computer would pick up something, he leaned back and drifted.

* * *

Dusk watched as Ebony landed in a tangle of naked bloody limbs. Luther, the guard, dusted his hands as if touching the body had been nothing more than dropping trash.

She didn’t look to the man beside her. She could feel him. Feel the heat from his body. Wind blew against her naked skin. He had taken all her clothing, forced her to go with them nude. Not that she could have fought them off. Not after she’d seen what they’d done to Ebony.

Dried, half-decayed leaves, dirt and other debris stuck to the body as the girl rolled over the ground. The summer night breathed hot and thick around them all. She felt him shift, knew he looked at her. She could only look away from the broken body and focus on the tombstones.

A cemetery. He’d brought them both to the cemetery. Would he finally kill her now?

Her face hurt, pulsed from the bruising and battering, her lips split and cracked—from the beatings and the fact he’d denied her food or drink for days. It was simply another form of his training, his teaching, his quest in breaking her . . .

Of course it was her fault he was forced to teach her the hard way. Mikhail brushed his finger down her bare arm, her skin crawling at the contact. It was desolate here. Lonely. Yet peaceful.

Would she finally find peace if he just killed her?

God, it would finally be over then. No more fear, no more beatings, no more trips, no more . . . Just no more.

But even if he killed her, he wasn’t going to make it easy. Tonight was just that. A lesson. A hard lesson, he’d told her as he’d made her watch what his men had done to Ebony.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Luther step back, pulling his gun free from a shoulder holster hidden beneath the dark jacket before looking back to Mikhail. She couldn’t watch. She simply couldn’t.

The man beside her, the devil himself, took a deep breath.

Stars glittered quietly from the dark sky. The headlights from his limo slashed across the quiet scene. The trees were dark, still and silent. She trembled. In darkness, things became black, white, silver—cold. Black on white, gray on shadows.

The leaves of the trees rustled near the wood’s edge.

So peaceful.

Please,
she begged. For what exactly she didn’t know. Mercy? She almost laughed at the thought. There would be no mercy for her.

Just as there was none for poor Ebony—the one who managed to escape. Who managed to get away. And for what? To be caught? Tortured? Raped? Brought to this old cemetery? A perfect place to dump a body. Who would look for a dead body here? If they killed her along with Ebony, no one would ever find her.

Mikhail grabbed her face, digging his fingers into her chin, and forced her to watch.

“This is what I do to those who try to escape me,” he said softly, his voice as dark as the devil’s pit.

She shut her eyes, the pain a forgotten pulse in the fear that suddenly pumped through her.

He tsked and tightened his hold on her chin until pain radiated up her jaw and she opened her eyes.

His eyes, blue as a summer sky, iced down at her. “You. Will. Watch.”

Fear trembled through her.
Please,
she thought again, still not knowing for what she was begging. Finally, she blinked and turned her gaze to Ebony, whose arm lay at an odd angle from her body, the head twisted, covered with her long black hair.

She felt more than saw Mikhail nod. Luther pointed the gun at Ebony’s still figure on the ground and pulled the trigger. Once. Twice. Dusk jumped with both shots. Then Luther lowered the gun a fraction and fired off two more rounds into Ebony’s torso. Oh, God.

Oh, God. All she could see was the still figure on the ground. Dead. Ebony was dead. After everything else, her body would be hidden here. Never to return home. Home to her family.

Oh, God.

Slowly she blinked, felt the tears she’d hidden from him so many times rush and heat the back of her eyes. She looked at him. Was she next?

 He smiled, shoved her forward and waited, made her watch while his men rolled Ebony’s body into the grave. The sound of the body thumping into the grave tangled and shuddered through her brain.

Mikhail shoved her harder and she stumbled, her feet tangling. The ground bit into her knees as she landed beside the grave, a small whimper moaning through the night, her fingers flexing in the loose dirt.

She heard the sound of a gun leaving its holster. The hiss of steel on leather. He leaned down and whispered, his breath hot in her ear, “Would you like to join Ebony?”

Her body trembled, her blood froze and she couldn’t think, couldn’t think. Her chest squeezed tight, her breath wheezed out.

He waited.

Her chest shook as she inhaled. Oh, God. The dark grave, the pale shimmer of limbs mocked her.

Her hands fisted in her lap, the knuckles marred and dirty. Trembles wracked her body.

The cold hard barrel of the gun bit into the base of her skull.

He waited.

She flinched and her trembles increased. A sob threatened up her throat.

Help me,
she silently screamed. And knew no one would answer. The image of her parents, of her brothers, of Suzy flashed through her brain. She closed her eyes and focused, tried to see the ranch, her room, the bright sunny days heating her skin.
Let me be there. Let me be there. Let me be there
.

But the fear kept her here—here beside a grave.

“Would you like to join Ebony, Dusk?” She could hear the smile in his voice.

Still she couldn’t move, only trembled, her head bowed.

Think of the ranch. Think of home. Home. Home. Home. One day. Please . . .

He waited.

“P-p-pl-please,” she whispered, so quietly she wondered if she’d actually spoken out loud.

“What was that? I didn’t quiet catch it. Did you say something?”

She licked her chapped and cracked lips. “P-please,” she said a bit louder.

“Please what, Dusk?”

Her body shook on another breath. “Please d-don-don’t kill me.”

He pressed the gun harder against the base of her skull, and she cried out, throwing her hands out to keep from falling into the grave.

Oh, please God, don’t let him kill me
.

A sob choked out into the air. The grave yawned as if waiting. Waiting for her. Just for her . . .

Slowly, he pulled the gun away.

She didn’t move, didn’t dare to move. It was a trick. He would put a bullet in her brain and chest as coldly as Luther had done to Ebony.

He leaned down and whispered in her ear. “You see, I can be lenient.”

She blinked.

Lenient? She blinked again and trembled, saw he held out his hand. She raised a trembling hand. She couldn’t hold in the wince as he helped her to her feet, her ribs bruised and stabbing pain through her.

As she stood, she swayed, but he tightened his hand on her arm.

She finally raised her eyes and looked at him.

He’d won, hadn’t he? She’d begged to live and he’d won.

Mikhail Jezek nodded back to the grave. “This is what happens to those who don’t listen, Dusk, to those who scorn what I provide them, to those who try to escape.”

She glanced to the side, down into the grave, the dark shadow open wide as if waiting to be fed again, and shuddered. If he’d wanted to, he could have killed her and tossed her in. Would it have been easier? Tears fell and trickled down her face.

“You won’t ever try anything so foolish, will you?” he asked her softly.

For a moment, she didn’t move, didn’t speak. All she could see was the dark pit, waiting . . . asking . . . whispering . . .

And an image of a life forgotten, of her brothers sitting at the table yelling at her, at each other before they all broke into laughter, filtered through her mind.

She closed her eyes on that stupid ray of foolish hope. There was no hope for her.

She finally raised her eyes to him. Slowly she licked her lips, then shook her head. “N-no. No, I promise, I won’t ever do that. I won’t ever escape.”

He smiled.

She would never escape . . .

But she had.

The graveyard changed and she looked around to the hotel room. To the closed door that opened. And in it stood Mikhail and behind him Luther and she knew . . . knew what they would do to her.

She screamed . . .

* * *

Ashbourne jerked awake to screams. He grabbed his gun and raced to her room, only to throw open the door to a lighted room. She tossed on the bed, crying out again, the covers tangled around her.

He hurried to her and set his gun aside on the nightstand.

“Wake up,” he said gently, reaching for her.

Her face twisted and she moaned. “Please, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Again she screamed, the sound twisting ice in his heart.

He gathered her close, even as she shoved and strained against him, tears tracking down her face. “No. No. Nooooooo!”

“Shhhh . . . ” he said, rocking her. “Shhh . . . Morgan. Wake up. You’re safe. Come on, wake up, Morgan.”

She stilled her struggles.

“That’s it, Morgan,” he said against her hair, still rocking her. “Wake up. You’re safe here. You’re not there anymore. Never again.”

Her chest shuddered against him, even as her breath hitched and her tears turned to sobs. She finally quit straining but was still stiff in his arms. Her sobs wracked her slight, bony frame.

“Shhh . . . You’re safe, Morgan.” He wondered if he repeated it enough, if she’d finally believe him. He knew, down deep, the woman would never truly feel safe again. Mikhail Jezek had stripped that from her.

“H—he—he’ll kill m-me,” she whispered on a sob.

He looked at the window, at the bright sunny day, and wished the blackness and evil in this room didn’t exist.

“No,” he told her on a sigh. Though he offered no promises.

She nodded against him. “He-he told me. Told me what he’d do. Sh-showed me.” She shuddered. “He’d enjoy it, too. Killing me. M-making me scr-scream and beg like Ebony.” She shuddered again and sobbed. And sobbed.

“Shhhh, Morgan.” He rocked her.

“He’ll find me and he’ll kill me. He promised. Gun to my head. The grave.”

Gun to her head? Bloody hell. He held her tighter. “Shhhh . . . ”

“He killed her and he made me watch.”

In her dream? Or in reality?

“He promised, if I ran, he’d kill me. Just like her.” Her hands fisted against him.

He sighed, knowing the road ahead had just begun. “No. No, he won’t.” He set her back from him and waited until those wet icy eyes met his. God she was beautiful. “He won’t. Not while I’m watching out for you. Do you trust me?”

Her eyes looked deep into his, so long and so intensely he wondered what all she could see.

Her tongue darted to wet her lips. “I trust no one.” Her head slowly shook back and forth, but her eyes begged him even before she spoke her words. “You’ll keep me safe? Please? Please don’t let him kill me.”

He closed his eyes and pulled her to him, letting out the breath he’d been holding.

What all had she witnessed? More than the others? And if so, why? A murder? Did they actually have a witness to murder?

Morgan shuddered against him again. He’d wait and press her for details later. For all he knew, it was just a nightmare, brought on by their flight and threats she’d heard.

Some cases were easier than others.

And some reached in and ripped his heart out.

Chapter 9

En route to London; December 3, 3:25 p.m.

Late that afternoon Mr. and Mrs. Ashbourne boarded the Eurostar in Berlin. She read the itinerary, knew they passed through Hamburg, Bremen, Dusseldorf, Cologne, or Köln, as the locals called it. She didn’t care what the town was called as long as it put more distance between her and Mikhail Jezek and his men. They were to pass into Belgium and then into France, and finally onto London. But none of that really mattered.