I Dream of Danger (15 page)

Huge holographic monitors ringed the walls. They
had tiny drones of their own hovering 24/7 over a ten-square-mile radius
surrounding Haven, and thus had a 360-degree IR view of everything. Highly
sensitive motion sensors and sound sensors. If a fly farted anywhere near them,
they knew about it. Their computers were illegally hooked into the Keyhole 15
satellites and they could get real-time intel on more or less anything happening
in the world, particularly in the Fucked-Up Latitudes.

All Nick needed was a location and he could zoom in
on her.

A location he didn’t have.

So the holograms, the satellite feeds, the vast
crunching power of their servers—their server farm was bigger than the
Pentagon’s, bigger even than Amazon’s—couldn’t help. Behind the titanium door on
the left-hand wall was an armory that would do a Delta team proud. Nick had been
Delta, and there were a few extra goodies in there that even Delta hadn’t
had.

If there was an enemy, they could take them out, no
question. They had the tools and the determination to protect what they had.

Hell, Mac had a wife and a baby on the way to
protect. Mac all by himself was a war machine.

So they had the stuff to get there, wipe out the
opposition, and come back in stealth.

He, Mac, and Jon were really good at slipping into
places and extracting things and people. They hadn’t been Ghost Ops for nothing.
They were Ghosts because everything about their past had been erased. Wiped
clean. They didn’t exist anywhere on earth. And they were Ghosts because they
had been trained to move with stealth. When they didn’t want to be found, they
weren’t.

Even here, creating a community of geniuses and
misfits, they hadn’t been found.

Taking stock of the war room calmed Nick, just a
little. When he found out where Elle was, there’d be firepower and the will to
use it. He didn’t care if she had a fucking army after her.

But where was she?

It was a male operator’s paradise, full of
high-tech gear and comms. With a woman’s touch in the far corner. Catherine had
been a researcher before going on a mission to find a man she’d never met, Mac.
She’d been sent on that mission by their former commander, Captain Lucius Ward,
the man they thought had betrayed them.

Ward hadn’t betrayed them. He’d been betrayed
himself and had lost his health and his sanity after a year in the hands of
monsters. They’d gone to the rescue of the captain and been astonished to find
three of their comrades who had been experimented on until they were nearly
dead.

Romero, Lundquist, and Pelton had lost almost a
third of their body weight, had been crisscrossed with surgical scars, and had
lost the ability to talk when they’d been brought back to Haven.

So Catherine was caring for them, bringing them
back to life, while trying to figure out what had been done to them. That
something was very, very bad.

She was a neat woman so her corner wasn’t the mess
that their space was, but she’d obviously been interrupted. Maybe by her husband
Mac carrying her off to their cave. They disappeared together a lot.

A big briefcase had toppled on Catherine’s desk,
paperwork spilling down out of it like a glacier’s moraine. She was researching
what had been done to their teammates and the captain. A series of glossy
company brochures and prospectuses cascaded down. He stared at the pile of
documents.

Catherine’s soft voice cut in.

“What? What is it, Nick?”

She repeated whatever it was she’d said before.
Nick saw her mouth move but couldn’t figure out the words. He was staring at
Catherine’s corner of their war room. He couldn’t tear his eyes away. It was as
if a spotlight had lit up her briefcase.

She said something else and Nick tried really,
really hard to concentrate. But it was useless. He’d focus on her, then his mind
and his eyes would wander.

A slap to the back of his head nearly sent him
spinning to the floor. “Focus, you dickhead,” Mac growled. “Catherine’s trying
to help your sorry ass.”

Nick breathed in, breathed out. Without moving his
head, his eyes slid back to Catherine’s corner. Catherine’s arm snaked out and
it took him a second to realize that she blocked her husband’s arm.

“Wait, Mac,” she said, tilting her head to look at
Nick. “Is something happening?”

Was something
happening?
Fuck if he knew.

“Why are you staring at my briefcase, Nick?”

“Huh?” He felt so stupid. Usually he was quick. His
usual response to things was at lightning speed. He was on alert, always.
Nothing ever took him by surprise. He was reacting to danger before most other
men even realized it was there.

Now he felt slow, sluggish. Thoughts occurred to
him slowly, as if they had to take a huge trip to get to his head. It was as if
his head were taken up by a computer virus slowing everything down.

Soft warmth on his cheeks. Catherine’s hands on his
face. “Look at me, Nick.”

He looked at her, though his eyes swiveled. She
shook him lightly.
“Look at me.”

Reluctantly, he tore his eyes from the corner and
looked into her eyes, fiercely focused on him. “There’s something over there
that is sparking something in you. What is it?”

He shrugged. “Dunno,” he mumbled. And he didn’t. He
had no idea what was in Catherine’s briefcase and he didn’t care. And yet, his
eyes slid back to the corner.

Another slap to the back of his head he barely
felt. “Nick,” Mac growled.

Catherine rolled her eyes. “Stop that, Mac. You’re
not helping. Step back.”

And Mac stepped back.

Amazing. Even with everything roiling inside him,
Nick marveled at Mac’s obedience. Nobody gave Mac an order, ever, except their
former captain, Lucius Ward. Ward was still too sick to give orders so Mac was
still God. He was 6’4” of pure muscle and meanness who turned into a house pet
when his wife spoke.

Catherine didn’t stop to savor her victory. Mac had
more or less rolled over for her the instant they met, so she didn’t fully
appreciate having a killing machine like Mac obey her. She walked to the corner,
stuffed everything back into the briefcase, and brought it over to Nick.

His eyes followed her every step of the way.

She replicated the spill of documents on the table
in front of Nick.

He greedily eyed everything, unable to take his
gaze off perfectly ordinary pieces of paper and some glossy brochures.

“Nick.” Catherine put her hand on his once more. It
was a deliberate move and not even Mac objected. Catherine had some kind of
secret power, some woo-woo thing that scared him and everyone else because it
wasn’t woo-woo. It was fact. If she touched you, she knew what you were feeling.
And lately, terrifyingly, if she touched you, she knew what you were
thinking.

Must be scary shit to be married to someone who
could walk around inside your head but Mac looked pretty happy about it.

“Nick.” Catherine’s hand tightened and Nick tore
his eyes away from the briefcase. “Talk to me. Tell me what happened. What has
you so upset?”

“Upset.” A sound came from his throat that was more
an animal sound than a human one. “Upset is spilling soup, missing a train.
Elle’s in
danger
. I’m not upset about that, I’m
scared out of my fucking mind!”

He was sweating like a pig, heart pounding
erratically. He felt like a machine that was broken and shaking to pieces.

“Okay. Okay. Calm down. You’re not helping her by
panicking.” Catherine put her other hand around his. Nick wanted to snarl at
her, but with his hand encased in hers he actually felt his heart rate starting
to slow. Something was working. “Tell me exactly what happened.”

His heart gave a huge pump. His voice rose. “She’s
in trouble. She somehow contacted me after all these years and she’s in trouble!
In danger!” His gaze slid back to her briefcase. It glowed, as if in a
spotlight.

“No, Nick.” Catherine’s voice was soft but firm.
“You’re not telling me what happened, you’re telling me your reaction. You were
sleeping? Nick!” Her voice sounded like a slap. “Look at me!”

He slid his eyes to her, reluctantly.

“You were sleeping?”

“Yes.” He had to force the word out through a tight
throat.

“Something woke you up?”

“
Elle!
She woke me up!
Oh God, she . . .”

Catherine gave his hand a shake. “Focus hard, Nick.
You’re not helping Elle at all. She’s in trouble and she might die because you
can’t focus on anything but your feelings. I can feel you—you are one big wave
of panic and fear. That is not going to help Elle. You can only help her if you
remain calm and focused. Forget your feelings. Focus on the situation. Focus on
helping Elle.”

Fuck. She was right.

Focus.

Nick took in a huge gulp of air.

He hardly recognized himself. He’d been a Ranger,
he’d been Delta, he’d been Ghost Ops. No one had ever had to tell him to focus.
He was nothing but focus. Brutal and unyielding. On a mission, he was pure cold
steel.

Now he was trembling, sweaty, mind flying into a
million tiny pieces.

“Come on, Nick.” Catherine looked serious,
frowning. “Help me here. Help me help you.”

His eyes slid back to the briefcase. It gave him
something. Some sense of calm, a point to focus on.

“Let’s go back to the beginning. Look at me,
Nick.”

Damn. His eyes swiveled. “Looking.”

“You were sleeping. Were you dreaming?”

Had he been? Yeah. He’d been dreaming of Elle. Of
the last time he’d seen her. And goddamn if it hadn’t been a wet dream. He’d
woken up with a hard-on that he lost the second he got the danger message. No
way was he going to say he woke up with a hard-on. Not in front of Catherine. Or
Mac or Jon for that matter.

“Nick? Dreaming?”

“Yeah,” he muttered.

“Of her? Of Elle?”

“Yeah.” His jaws clenched.

“Was there something different about the
dream?”

He was checking her briefcase, but swung his head
to her at the words. “Different how?” He couldn’t help himself, help his
suspicious tone.

She kept her voice soft. “Do you often dream of
her, of Elle?”

No!
The word was right
there, in his mouth, filling his mouth. No, of course he didn’t dream of Elle.
That would reveal a weakness. A man was weak in sleep, couldn’t control himself.
So, no, he didn’t dream of Elle. He didn’t dream of anything, fuck you very
much. His dreams were his own goddamned business.

“Yes,” he said.

She nodded. “And this one had a different
flavor?”

Well, he’d woken up with a woodie, if that’s what
she meant. He’d woken up in a sweaty panic.

“Close your eyes, Nick.”

“What?”
Christ
. Time
was this big heavy thing swirling around a drain. Elle was in danger, in danger
right now
. He didn’t have time for this
shit!

Nick shifted on his feet. He wanted to pull away
from Catherine, run for the door, but . . . he couldn’t free
himself.

He was strong. He’d been strong all his life. He’d
been in the military for almost half his life and every single fucking day he’d
trained for combat. He was a shooter. He’d shot several million rounds in his
life. His hands were strong. Once he’d tested at 180 pounds on the grip-strength
test. He could crush Catherine’s hand in a nanosecond.

Except . . . he couldn’t. He couldn’t
pull free from her.

“You are scared and you want to spring into
action.” Catherine’s eyes exerted a pull as great as her hand. He couldn’t look
away from her. “But you have no idea where to go. I’m trying to help you, Nick.
If Elle sent you a message, she also sent you the way to find her. So you need
to listen hard to what she tried to tell you. Now
close
your eyes
.”

There was no way to disobey her. He closed his
eyes.

“Clear your mind,” Catherine said. “There’s only
Elle, and the message she sent you. That’s all there is in the world. She’s in
trouble and if she called for help, there’s a way to find her in her message. So
think carefully. You were dreaming about her. And you heard a cry for help.
Think back to that cry.”

Nick nodded, thought back.

“You were dreaming about her, about Elle. Then the
dream changed, correct?”

He nodded again.
Exactly.
That was exactly it. It was as if Catherine had been
there.

“All of a sudden, it lost that dreamlike feeling
and become real. Something you could touch and feel.”

“Yes.” That had been exactly it.

“You woke up and felt the danger.”

His eyes opened. “Yes.” All over his body, every
cell prickling with it. Even before he heard the words, the call.

“Did you
see
her?”

Did he? Nick dug deep. There was this huge overlay
of sweaty panic. He had to get rid of that, try to remember. His jaw clenched.
“Yes, I think—I think I did.“

Another squeeze of his hand. “What did she look
like?”

“Older.” The word popped out as the images in his
head suddenly coalesced. “Tired. Scared. She had— She had her hair all in her
face,” he said suddenly. “Short hair. Chin length. She always wore her hair
long—” A sudden flash of memory of Elle’s hair trailing over his stomach like a
pale waterfall nearly killed him. “But it’s short now. All in her face,
messy-like. She’s bleeding—” Mouth dry, he tried to swallow. “From a cut. It’s
deep. She’s— She’s worried about it. But not because of the cut itself. There’s
something else about the cut, but I don’t know what.” He found himself rocking
in distress. “I’m not understanding this.”

“Okay,” Catherine suggested gently, “don’t worry
about the cut right now. Put that aside. Is she sitting or standing?”