Cam held them out to her, and she saw that they were labeled as morphine.
“The only thing this guy was going to do was take you out of here—and then who knows what else would happen from there.”
She stared at the paraphernalia in his hands but still didn’t lower her weapon. “This doesn’t make sense. None of this makes sense.”
“Until it does, we’re gone.” The words were a command, for sure. No more gentle talk.
“The phone—he was calling my father. Said I could talk to him.” She pointed to the silver cell, still opened on the floor. And then she backed up, reached down and grabbed it. A quick glance at the screen showed that it was password protected—and that the battery was nearly drained. “I want to talk to my father. You have to get in touch with him. This guy said he would bring me to him.”
Ignoring the weapon pointed at him, Cam strode over to her, closing the distance with two steps. He still held the plastic bag full of needles and the handcuffs as he stood with the barrel of her gun pressed firmly against the middle of his chest.
When he spoke, his voice was low and held the edge of a barely couched fury. “Did you tell them who you are? Did you tell them you’re Gabriel’s daughter?”
“I didn’t … I asked if he was okay.”
“You know you’re never supposed to admit to the connection.”
She nodded in agreement.
He grabbed her by the shoulders, hard, unexpectedly, surprising her. “Then why the hell did you?”
CHAPTER
6
R
iley winced when Dylan pressed her back against the cabana. Immediately, he stopped what he was doing and turned her.
Her skin bore a large, purple-and-black bruise that ran along her entire left side, which made him bare his teeth viciously. It had been hidden by her arm when she’d walked out here and he had a feeling she’d forgotten about it until now.
Something—or someone—had hit her. Hard. “Ribs?”
“It’s nothing. Job hazard,” she said as she wiggled out of his grasp, with him somehow ending up with his back against the cabana. “And you know you’d say the same thing to me.”
It’s true, he would. But he still felt the urge to kill whoever did this to her. An urge that was quickly replaced with others when Riley’s hand stripped him of his low slung pants, leaving him naked in the morning heat.
“You’ve always been protective,” she murmured. “You don’t care that it came back to bite you when I shot you?”
He gripped her shoulders tight so she couldn’t get down on her knees, even though he wanted her there so badly he could taste it. “You’d better watch out when you’re talking about biting, Ri.”
She smiled … always looked so damned pretty when she did that, more so now, with her hair tumbled down around her shoulders and her bikini barely still on her body. “Let me, Dylan. I promise, you’ll like it. You always do.”
He groaned against his will and let her sink down on her knees to the grass. In seconds, he was on the receiving end of the best blow job ever.
Her tongue played along the head of his cock as she stroked him. He had nothing to hold on to, could only lean against the cabana and fist his hands, because he wanted to touch her, even as she urged him to spread his thighs so she could cup his balls. Play with them until he realized it had been too long for him.
The truth was, it hadn’t been that long—but when it wasn’t Riley, it never seemed right. Always felt like he was cheating on her, although they were in no way committed to each other. Especially after their last meeting.
Riley was humming around his cock—the vibrations made him laugh and moan at the same time, guttural sounds that probably did wake up the neighbors.
He was too far gone to give a shit. And as hard as it was not to orgasm right then and there, he didn’t, managed to free himself and pick her up, bringing her over to one of the big lounge chairs with the nice comfortable cushions.
“Missed you,” he murmured against her breasts, the way he’d wanted to when he first saw her yesterday. Untied her bikini top, tugged at her nipple with his teeth and listened to her swallow a moan, her body straining into his, her hands between them, guiding his aching arousal inside her.
For a split second, they both stilled when he entered her fully, as though the understanding of the symbolism of being locked together wasn’t lost on either of them.
“I’m still waiting for your apology, Ri,” he told her, his body taut like a wire that had been pulled far too tight for comfort. Something hard and uncomfortable balled up inside his chest as he waited for her response.
When none came, he began to move, pumping her with a rush of power. Of heat.
She clamped her ankles around his waist, her cries breaking through the quiet morning. She was disoriented. Ravaged. And when she whispered his name like a prayer right before she came, he took that as the apology he’d been seeking.
S
ky didn’t say anything, didn’t have to. The fear was evident in her eyes, even as she held the gun against him, the metal barrel pressing his chest.
He tried to keep his voice calm, but the anger came through. “You’re never supposed to tell anyone who your father is, Sky. Never.”
“I know. But he mentioned him first.”
“Did he give you any identifying information? Anything? Or did you willingly give intel to a man who wanted to kidnap you?” he growled. “You need to be smarter if you want to survive this.”
She nodded. Bit her bottom lip to stop it from trembling, but she didn’t cry.
He’d scared her and it had been exactly what she needed—and the last thing he’d wanted to have to do.
This was crazy. With Gabriel missing in action—if he was truly kidnapped, or dead—it ultimately meant Cam’s freedom. There would be no reason to stay with Sky. He could walk out of this house, leaving her, and this life, behind for good.
The only thing that could keep him from doing so was loyalty. But he’d never had that with Gabriel. Only fear and debt, and if Gabriel was truly gone, that would all be erased.
If …
So much depended on one fucking little word. Because this could all be a giant test.
If Gabriel was alive, Cam had the ultimate bargaining chip in his possession. Could be a win-win situation, either way.
He stared down at Skylar, who wisely hadn’t struggled against his grip, and released her. “You shouldn’t trust anyone. Not even me.” He took the cell phone from her hand, but left her with the weapon.
“I have to trust you. You’re the only thing keeping me alive.” She raised her chin defiantly, her voice shook slightly … and he wished to hell he hadn’t slept with her, hadn’t held her against him and let her take a piece of his heart, when he hadn’t thought he had anything left to give to anyone.
Before she could say anything more, he’d hoisted the dead man’s body over his shoulder and walked out of the bathroom and down the hall.
I have to trust you. You’re the only thing keeping me alive
.
For the moment, Sky was absolutely correct. And as he carried the body out the back door and down the deep snow on the steps, trying not to kill himself, his mind worked overtime.
These guys must’ve been close. Waiting all night for just the right moment.
He and Skylar could have been watched the entire time Cam had been holding her, fucking her—making love to her—and his internal radar hadn’t signaled a damned thing.
Because the danger wasn’t pointed at you
.
Until the men burst in, he’d been cautiously hoping the letters to her publisher were the bullshit ravings of an obsessed fan, that Gabriel was pulling some spy crap with his disappearance.
Now he knew differently.
He didn’t doubt that Gabriel was in some kind of trouble—didn’t doubt that, suddenly, too many people knew Sky was his daughter.
And Cam already knew something about these men—they were hired guns, muscle, prepared for an easy smash and grab of Sky. And they weren’t sent here to rescue Sky from him.
No, the one thing Cam knew for sure was that Gabriel Creighton would trust no one but himself with the job of keeping Sky safe, if at all possible. And the Gabriel he knew would make it possible.
Who the hell these men
did
work for was anyone’s guess. And he didn’t have time for guessing games. And that’s where thinking stopped and rote training kicked in, driving him to action.
He dumped the first body in the woods beyond the house. Then he did the same to the other two. If he buried them deep enough, it would be well past spring thaw before they were found.
He and Sky wouldn’t have the same luck staying invisible. Not if he didn’t act fast.
He moved cautiously toward the front of the house—even though as of last night the houses on either side of Sky were empty—scanned the area and found the truck with the plow they’d driven. He’d already fished the keys out of one of the men’s pockets, and now he slid into the driver’s seat. It was still warm.
He took down the plate number, dusted for fingerprints, and scanned those he lifted thanks to a nifty gadget, courtesy of Delta. Then he emailed the intel to Dylan, because talking to his friend now could only make things worse.
The truck was most likely stolen, and so he parked it a few houses down, by the woods and away from the bodies. He let the air out of the tires, made it look like it had been abandoned while someone went for help. Naturally, it would trigger a few alarms and maybe even bring the police around, but they’d have to hunt pretty deep to find the bodies. More than likely, these guys had popped the truck from a local, who would be only too happy to have it back.
Of course, men with gunshot wounds thrown in the woods would show it was no accident, but he didn’t have time or choice on his side.
By then, he and Sky would be long gone.
His shoulder ached by the time he was done. He’d worked through the pain like a machine. He’d functioned with worse wounds, although he typically had a brother in arms to take care of him.
This time, he only had Sky, and she remained scared and unsure of everything. Still, she’d packed and was waiting for him when he walked back, and that was something.
I
t was hot and dark and impenetrable, but Gabriel had been in this position before, many times, and he couldn’t doubt his ability to get out of it. Not this time, not ever.
Doubting oneself was the first step to failing. Instead, he listened carefully, for the footsteps he knew would eventually come, an update on his status.
They would talk about Skylar again. And again, he would refuse to listen, believe or acknowledge that she was in danger. To let on was to admit weakness. He would not do that to his daughter, would not fail her.
Gabe Creighton grew up on Mercy Street, a place where he’d never found any. He’d escaped from a brutal existence as quickly as possible, using his smarts to get first a high school and then a college scholarship. From there, law school and then recruitment by the CIA.
It was exactly what he’d wanted.
The way he’d existed for the past four days? Not at all. Lying on his back, on the floor of a basement that doubled as a cement cell, he had nothing but time on his hands. Time to think.
The worst thing to happen to a CIA agent. Normally, in a situation like this, he would do something more productive, like recite Shakespeare sonnets or the multiplication tables. Anything not to go stir-crazy. To keep his mind alert so their plan to break him would fail.
But not today. No, today was best spent in the past.
A day to learn from mistakes, because he could never be sorry enough for what had happened.
There was no atoning. He’d never felt the need to do so before Mary’s death. Her murder.
All the same, in his book.
Strings of endless deals, either ending in sex or death, and he was still in the game, long after his colleagues were picked off. Burned out. Quit.
He’d thrived when he was undercover with the OA. Had chosen the name Sinister. That had been one of his favorites, although he’d felt like scum for two years, had done things in the name of the job that would’ve collapsed lesser men.
It had only served to make him train harder. And he would’ve gone on happily from one job to another, had planned to …
But he’d lost his mind when Mary was killed. He’d been lucky that Dead Man’s Hand hadn’t made the connection to him or to Skylar, lucky that Mary had been very careful in all her missions.
She’d never seen the assassination coming. Whether DMH had gotten a tip about her as a CIA agent or just suspected, he wasn’t interested in knowing. The end result was the same—DMH had killed her, and as a result he’d been trying to get close to the group for years. But his supervisors kept him off the case, told him it was far too personal a mission for him to undertake. That he was needed elsewhere.
He’d tried telling himself that he had something more important at home. That DMH played far too dirty. That he’d sidestepped a bomb when DMH hadn’t realized Mary had a daughter—or a spy for a husband.
Fate would not be that kind twice.
He made it his mission to learn everything he could about DMH, to work in tandem with the CIA, using his own man to do the jobs the CIA agents couldn’t—or wouldn’t. The plan had cemented itself in his mind, and Cameron Moore had been a big part of it from the start. He knew the boy had smarts, was tough, and figured after two years in jail he would be ready to sell his soul in order to get out.
But Gabriel had given Cam a lot of tools to better himself. He’d given the boy a career. And in return, he’d expected payback.
Gabriel was busy with his undercover missions, but not too busy to keep up with the chatter on DMH. Over the years, Cameron Moore had worked to take out two key players in DMH, as well as thwart many DMH missions.
It had worked well, kept him out of DMH’s way, even though he’d wanted nothing more than to be within their reach.
Ultimately, it wasn’t enough. And so, after Sky’s transplant, Gabriel resigned from the CIA, put safeguards in place to have the men and women who’d worked for him killed if he was captured, or missed a check-in. Which now he had.