Dreamwalker (31 page)

Still abashed at the risk she’d taken with her commission, she bobbed her chin. Personal feelings had no place in her line of work, as she well knew from Felix’s training, but she couldn’t let Damon’s comment pass without defending herself. “He deserved it.”

Surprisingly, the Fed whistled, one brow raised in a look of admiration. Then the light in his eyes changed to one of calculation. “That might be a mortal blow for his organization.”

She blinked, his reaction reminding her again of their dissimilar backgrounds. Even Lucas, who was notorious among her brothers for encouraging her escapades, would have been bawling her out by now. “That was the idea.”

“Why’d you do it? I mean, not to be ungrateful for the timely distraction, but that wasn’t part of the plan.”

Rory shivered, suddenly intensely aware of her nudity. Moving away from Damon, she found a dry set of clothes—the baggy ones she used with her older woman guise—at the bottom of her bag and put it on, grateful for the additional protection. They couldn’t risk using the stove for fear of attracting attention, yet now that the fever of passion was spent and her stomach placated, she didn’t feel comfortable relying only on his heat to counter the cold.

He gazed at her patiently, once they were both dressed, clearly waiting for an answer. He even returned to the cot, deliberately adopting a nonaggressive stance by lying down.

Sitting at his hip, she hugged her legs to her chest and wrapped the thin blanket around her shoulders, wondering where to start. Considering she’d nearly gotten them caught, he deserved to know why she’d taken such a risk. “It’s crazy.”

“What is?”

Rory screwed her eyes shut, breathing deeply to hold back the flood of emotion that suddenly welled up, threatening to spill over. With her back to him, she poured out the story of the murdered hooker whose name she didn’t even know. All told, it still didn’t make sense to her why that death in particular had hit her so strongly.

Damon pulled her into his arms, enfolding her in male heat, regardless of her resistance. He brushed his fingers across her cheek. Only then did she realize some tears had leaked out, despite her efforts.

“I know how you feel.” He didn’t say anything more, seeming to understand that words wouldn’t help. He only rocked her, offering the comfort of his strong body and the steady beat of his heart beneath her ear. He didn’t judge her, returning undemanding silence for her temporary weakness.

Somehow, that was enough.

She took a deep breath, feeling the constriction around her lungs release its grip. This close to him, the familiar scent of sex and healthy male overwhelmed the musty odor of moss riding the chill air, bringing to mind laughter and excitement and— inexplicably—a soul-deep sense of profound rightness.

It was a scent Rory could never grow tired of.

And yet, the job would soon be over. How could she bear to give Damon up?

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Sudden, pointed attention, a straining effort flaring gold woke Damon from a light doze. Rory’s body was taut, her breath held for some reason. Extending his mental antennae, he opened his eyes to the dimly lit cabin, but saw and sensed nothing to explain her tension. “What is it?”

“Listen.”

A harsh sound broke the monotonous whistling of the wind through the eaves: the intermittent full-throated roar of a stuck vehicle being muscled out by brute force and sheer stubbornness. From the deep throb, it had a large displacement engine; therefore, not a Yugo or a Lada, definitely not a car. Maybe a truck. Despite the volume, it was still some distance away, since Damon didn’t pick up any emissions, other than Rory’s.

His master thief levered herself up, pushing on his chest with her forearms, her head tilted in a listening posture.

The engine throttled down and steadily grew louder, closer.
Company coming.
With the cabin probably the only building for miles, the likelihood that the vehicle was headed there was high. And, chances were, whoever it was wasn’t on their side.

If they were caught inside, they’d be trapped.

Jerking upright, Damon pushed Rory off him and twisted around for his gun. Springing to her feet, she scrambled for her penlight. Together they swept up all traces of their presence. He stuffed the survival blanket in his bag, the most revealing item of all, next to the nuke.

Unbarring the door, he turned to Rory and gestured her to stay back while he investigated the noise. Whatever vehicle had caused it was still too far for him to detect any emotions.

The contrary woman shook her head and picked up the nuke, sliding out the door behind him.

He hauled back on his protests, knowing they didn’t have time for argument.

Rory motioned toward the eaves of the cabin, lifting the suitcase meaningfully. He caught on immediately and went inside to get their packs. Rejoining her, he got down on one knee to give her a leg up. She stepped on his proffered thigh, then shifted to his shoulders, balancing herself with easy grace. He passed her the bomb, then carefully stood up while anchoring her with his hands around her ankles.

Using the cape he’d given her, it was the work of seconds for his master thief to stash the nuke and their packs high in the shadows in such a way that no one would readily notice it—a testament to her larcenous skills. When she was done, he released his grip, allowing her to drop lightly to the ground.

They moved away, covering their tracks to further conceal its hiding place. Then, against Damon’s protective instincts, they separated to find their own coverts. It made sense, however, since the area didn’t offer much. Two people together would have more difficulty avoiding discovery.

Damon found a dinky culvert, half-hidden by fallen leaves. It channeled a racing brook under the road but looked like it had space enough for one person. He turned to tell Rory to take it since she’d fit into it more easily, but she’d disappeared from view, her aura somewhere in the field behind the cabin.

He squeezed himself into the canal, sinking into water colder than a witch’s tit and smelling of rotting vegetation. It seeped into his clothes, raw and chilling. After this mission, he fully intended to soak his bones in sunshine and not come up for air until he was well-done. Maybe he could talk his master thief into joining him.

The minor weight of his .45 was a reassuring presence in the small of his back. That and the extra magazines might give him an edge against whoever was coming.

A slight adjustment to the leaves shielding his covert and he was as ready as he could be. His position gave him a worm’s-eye view of the track that led to the cabin; hopefully it was narrow enough to escape discovery.

Minutes passed with only vague pinpricks of light from between the trees, but a truck finally emerged, its long bed filled with several armed men. Damon’s shoulders tightened. Against so many, there was little chance of picking them off one by one. His and Rory’s best bet lay in going undetected.

The emissions that reached him confirmed his worst fears. They were alert and feeling mean, searching for the slightest excuse for violence.

Even before the truck came to a stop, Damon knew who would get out: Osum. The gang lord’s aura scraped at his mental antennae, all smoldering anger and rank with bitterness.

The truck passed out of view. It pulled up short of the cabin to judge from the emissions beating at him, the roaring engine falling silent. The wary sparks spread out, any noise they made drowned out by the thunder and driving rain.

Eventually, three thugs came into sight by the cabin and two disappeared inside. They quickly emerged, gesturing futility.

Osum bulled past them and entered. Green suspicion flared just before the large Kosovar came out, his thick body stiff with aggression. “This place stinks of fornication. Search the area! Whoever were here could not have gone far.”

Fuck.
Damon’s heart skipped when the bellowed order reached him. Their chances of escaping just dropped.

The thugs sprang to obey. Fourteen sparks of wariness spread out through the lightning-strobed night. A few followed the track; the rest took the cabin as a starting point and fanned out, kicking and prodding the slightest rise that could possibly conceal a person.

Those walking the dirt road didn’t go far. After one sank knee deep in marshy grass, they contented themselves with sweeping their flashlights along the track, loath to get any wetter than they already were. Transforming heavy rain into glistening curtains, the bright beams crept over the bowed tufts of grass, exposing each to careful scrutiny. They inched closer to the culvert, in between flashes of lightning. At any other time, such thoroughness would have been admirable, but not when Damon was the prey.

Sudden pain followed by furious chagrin warned Damon that something had gone wrong with Rory. A faint shout of discovery went up.

The beams stopped, short of the culvert. Then the searchers withdrew, retreating to the cabin. Fifteen sparks converged on Osum, one flaring with hostility.

Damon’s heart stopped as two of the thugs dragged forward a slender, unmistakably feminine figure. She looked so fragile cowering before the stocky gang lord.

“What do we have here?” Osum tipped her chin up.

A savage growl rose from the gang lord’s thugs at the face revealed, and they drifted closer, a predatory motion that made the hairs on Damon’s arms stand on end.

Rory had transformed her features to exotic beauty, doe-eyed and fine boned. All budding, virginal delicacy made all the more tempting by the way her wet clothes clung to her body. The frightened expression on her face would have moved a stone statue to pity.

Damon had to admire her instincts for self-preservation. With most other sex slavers, an exceptionally gorgeous woman could be sold to special markets and was therefore more valuable. That alone might have given her a better chance at survival.

Osum, however, was a different proposition altogether. Since he had no qualms about selling women for snuff sex, Rory’s gambit would not necessarily help. And from the gang lord’s disregard of his men’s response to their captive, her looks might actually have increased her danger.

Despite their situation, Damon didn’t pick up anything from her stronger than apprehension, a core of cool determination suggesting she was already plotting her escape.

Taking his cue from her, he counted off the opposition. The truck had carried fifteen men. Two held Rory captive. Another two stood by the door to the cabin. Three flanked Osum, leaving seven straggling in from the fields. Too many to pick off, if they remained in visual contact of each other, and too spread out to eliminate in one strike.

But if he had to take anyone out, it would be the gang lord as the leader. Damon wouldn’t shed any tears over the necessity.

“Where is your companion?” Osum’s growl was nearly lost in the storm.

Rory’s lips moved, though Damon didn’t catch what she said. Her answer or the blank look she gave Osum earned her a slap. She must have rolled with the blow since she didn’t radiate that much pain, but Damon felt it like a pile driver to the groin.

The gang lord grabbed her by the hair, yanked her head back, and leaned down in a show of dominance. Then he flung her away and spun around to glare into the night. “Coward, if you do not come out, I will give this woman to my men to rape. She will die slowly. You can watch.” The raw determination Osum radiated underscored the fury in his voice.

The gang lord would do it, too. He already sold women to be killed; what was one more?

Duty demanded Damon remain where he was. One of them had to survive to take the nuke to safety. With his master thief captured, that left him.

His heart rejected the argument. Even if Osum killed Rory, there was no guarantee the Kosovar would leave. More likely, he would order another search. Abandoning her to the gang lord’s tender mercies wouldn’t further Damon’s mission—at least that’s what he told himself.

Another slap cracked out, louder in a momentary lull between thunderclaps and gusts. Rory reeled in the grip of her captors, radiating more pain than before, though she still didn’t make a sound.

Torn in opposite directions, Damon dug his nails into his palms, fighting to make the right decision. But he couldn’t live with himself if his master thief died for his sake. She hadn’t signed up for that.

He couldn’t sacrifice Rory.

Faced with no other choice, he slipped out of the culvert, tugging the loose tail of his shirt to ensure it hid his .45. Using the rain and storm to muffle his movements, he waded through the drowned grass, trying for a better position.

One thing was certain: Osum wouldn’t kill him out of hand. With luck, Damon could take out enough of them for Rory to escape, maybe even enough that she could complete their mission.

The gang lord cocked an arm back, massive fist raised in threat. This blow would be no slap she could shrug off.

“Don’t.”

“Who is there?” Osum demanded, wariness flaring.

Damon stood up, his empty hands hanging at his sides.

The thugs reared back, surprise a violent flare of yellow erupting in their auras. Their Uzis came up, a few covering Damon, the others turning to face the storm-swept night, as they clustered closer together, drawing confidence from the reminder of their superior numbers—but not without a double lash of doubt and fear at his sudden appearance in their midst. As Damon had intended. If he could come out of nowhere, who knew what else was out there? He’d use every advantage he could get.

“You!” The large Kosovar’s heavy features twisted with rage. “Always you, lurking in the shadows, watching, watching, watching. Now, here?”

No one made a move toward Damon, depending on their firepower to control him. Good. He’d hoped Abdou’s reputation would keep him free to act. If they’d tried to tie him up, he’d have had to attack immediately.