Ocean Kills (Ocean Breeze) (12 page)

“There will not be pleasure for you.” He flinched. “I will see you in,” he checked his watch, “five hours.”

My countdown had begun.

Chapter Eleven: Callan

I
arrived back in my shoebox after a short morning surf, a call out to domestic disturbance, and a quick debrief with the local team. Captain Gray looked distracted throughout his whole, we-are-winning-the-campaign-against-crime speech. His eyes latched onto mine more than once. I hadn't flinched. If he had a problem with me, he could say it to my face.

It was lunchtime, but I chose to stay in my box and stare at my computer. Nothing interesting came back on Ocean's parents. No link to any of the thirty-nine men. I was pissed off—it was a dead end. As far as I could tell, there was no motive.

I flicked a pen over my knuckles. I thought better when my hands were active. My eyes widened as a possible motive slammed into my brain.

Shit.

Could Ocean teleport before the incident? Did her secret get out? Maybe her parents were killed to kidnap her? But that didn't make sense. They violated her and left her to her fate. They wouldn't do that if they knew what she was capable of.

My mind ran amok with stomach-curdling thoughts. What if living through her family’s murder changed something inside her genetic makeup? Was it possible something shifted in her forever?
Do you know how dorky you sound, Callan? No more sci-fi for you.

I needed to man up, scratch my balls, and stop thinking about this bloody woman. Who cared? It was a cold case. There were plenty of active cases I could help on.

Of course I didn’t listen, and hope flared as I chased a new idea. Perhaps I wasn’t as dorky after all.
Could
someone be so traumatized that they became able to do something as crazy as teleporting? How could I find out?

Gulping back disgust at myself, I opened her private email again. Maurice had written. It was unread so Ocean hadn’t logged on yet. I dared not click on it, but I did read the older ones when they'd had their fight; I was searching for mention of those marks in more correspondence. What were they? I saw no marks on her, and she was practically naked in her hooker outfit.

There were so many emails. All of them cryptic—annoyingly coded. She knew how to cover her footsteps.

I froze. If I wanted to know who Ocean was, why didn't I profile her?

My mobile rang. “Callan speaking.”

“Honey, it’s Mum.”

I smiled, opening the latest version of the profiling software that would allow me access into the inner thoughts of Ocean Breeze. “What’s up, Strawberry?” I asked, using her age-old nickname because of her strawberry blonde hair.

“You haven’t popped by in a few weeks. I expect you to come to dinner.” Her tone was fake-annoyed and she giggled. “You have to congratulate her eventually you know.”

I ran a hand through my hair. “Excuse me if I can’t tolerate the thought of some man boning my little sister and getting her pregnant.”

“Callan!” she snorted. “That man will be your brother-in-law. Come to dinner. Next Sunday. We’ll have a barbeque in the beautiful Korean garden you designed us.”

Memories of toiling in the heat, lugging large slabs of slate and waterfall features, made me grin.

“Only if I’m in control of the barbeque. Trevor believes it isn’t cooked unless it’s charred black.” I smirked, remembering how my dad grumbled when I started calling him Trevor at nine years of age. I never stopped, mainly because the nickname he called me was beyond embarrassing. It was payback.

Focusing on my screen, I used my mouse to access a profiling program.

She giggled again. “Lay off your father. He does his best. Okay, I know you’re at work. You sound distracted. I’ll talk to you later.”

Crap. I was distracted, figuring out the system and inputting code for the profiling questionnaire. “Sorry, Strawberry. Yep. Sunday. I’ll be there. See ya.”

The instant I hung up, my mind was full of Ocean again. What was wrong with me? I had no boundaries when it came to that woman.

Sighing, unable to believe I was doing this, I completed the profile report and pressed
ENTER
. 

Slowly files appeared. I wanted to hit myself. What if I found something that ruined my idea of her?

I snorted. I already knew she killed—by her own admission and proof of a corpse found in Kings Cross—and she could do something no other human could: teleport. The knowledge of both should’ve halted me, but they only fuelled me onward. I doubted anything could stop me at this point. Even a good shag with a pretty sheila wouldn’t stop my compulsion.

I allowed my computer to work and went to find Wade. I needed to help him fill out the domestic disturbance report we attended earlier.

An hour later I was back, eagerly scooting my chair toward my desk, clicking on the completed profile for Ocean.

Holy hell in a wombat, this woman was nuts.

Profile for: Ocean Breeze / Age: Twenty-four / Nationality: Unknown / Current Address: Unknown.

Based on history and input of Subject, she shows extreme tendencies toward over protectiveness and violence. The brutality in her childhood contributes to these factors and it is advisable to keep Subject away from situations of extreme stress. The knowledge of three languages—
or at least that’s what she said in the sushi restaurant—
shows aptitude of great intelligence, and Subject is highly likely to use that intelligence in all manner of loyalty.

I didn't put in my profile that Ocean could teleport—I wasn't stupid enough to broadcast it on a police database—but I did include a strange unknown factor in her upbringing.

The report continued:

Subject is most likely unable to hold a full-time job, and unable to take orders from others she does not respect. However, subject would die for anyone who she feels deserves her loyalty and help. Based on information provided, Subject is likely to be of small build, changes appearances often, and has no set style of dress, adopting other personas as necessary.

A word of caution. Subject understands rights and wrongs, but that does not stop Subject’s unruly behavior and occasional breaking of the law. It is concluded that, although Subject does feel emotion, love is too closely related to the death of relatives at young age and she will continue to run from any form of family commitment.

In conclusion: Subject is likely to live alone, and based on current input, life expectancy is approximately late thirties.

Now, I wish I'd never conjured the bloody report. Incapable of love and will die young? Shit!

One thing was for sure: I wouldn't let any of that come true.

Chapter Twelve: Ocean

T
he key-card was slippery in my hand. My heart raced in my ribcage and the harsh lights tripled my anxiety. The first two rooms were empty. I couldn't stop the stab of panic at the sight of rumpled beds; an abandoned, desolate aura hovered in the small prisons. Was I too late for them?

Very aware of the time ticking, I swiped the key-card for the third time. My eyes connected immediately to a little girl perched on her bed in readiness. Her crisp nightdress was virginal white; her face drawn, and terrified.

She flinched, wrapping arms around herself when I settled gently next to her. “Hi,” I whispered. “You okay?”

She cowered, trembling. A small sob and a moan escaped her. Rage churned in my stomach. I wanted to kill every man who ever dabbled in sex slavery, either as the ringleader or the purchaser. They were all monsters. Sick bastards who deserved to be castrated. Just like the john I killed in the Cross. 

“Hey. . . it's okay. I'm not going to hurt you.” I put my arm around her slight shoulders.

She jerked away from my touch, falling off the bed. She curled up into a ball, gripping her ankles.

Fuck. What did they do to her?
I didn't want to think about it. Horrid bastards.

I slithered off the bed, keeping my distance. “I'm here to save you. You don't need to be afraid anymore.”

Her shuddering stopped and she lifted her head, a spark of disbelief in her eyes, followed by liquid.

Oh, don't cry. Please don't cry.
“What's your name?” I kept my voice to a whisper, resting on my knees.

The girl blinked. Slowly, with jerky movements, she sat up, scooting further away from me. She was a pretty little thing. All reddish blonde hair and freckles. “Holly.”

I barely caught her answer, her voice was so low.

“Holly. That's your name?”

A wary nod.

“Do you remember where you live, Holly? Do you have parents?” My stomach rioted with knots. I wanted to crush her to me, and promise nothing bad would ever happen to her again.

Another nod, muscles tense.

“Can you tell me? I want to take you home.” I smiled, even though I wanted to scream, shout, and rage against the men who’d turned this sweet girl into a shivering wreck.

Holly bit her lip, mumbling, “I'm from Ireland. We were on holiday in Greece when I was kidnapped.”

A holiday turned into a nightmare. Poor Holly. Her poor parents. I reached out, patting her knee without thinking. Holly's eyes widened and she sucked in a breath, but she didn't move.

“How old are you?” I wanted to ask if they touched her, but it was obvious what the answer would be. However, there were no track marks indicating she’d been given drugs; her eyes were clear and bright, instead of glassy and unfocused.

Drugging was the easiest way to make sure girls were obedient. Crack them out and they had no choice but to remain slaves. Their addictions were their demons, their sex masters their key to gaining more. A sick circle.

Holly sucked a breath. “I'm fourteen.” Whoa, she looked younger than she was. Bet men loved that.

Reigning in my urge to punch the walls, I murmured, “Holly. I need you to do something for me.”

Suspicion lit her face, but she kept her chin high. “What?”

“I need you to think of your parents real hard for me, okay? I need you to think of your address and your house. Do you think you can do that?”

She frowned, her freckles meshed together in a sprinkling of brown dust. “I guess. Why?”

I’d learned from experience: explaining how teleporting operated never worked. It was best just to get it over with. Making sure the envelope of cash was tight in my hand, I scooted closer to her. She cringed. “You picturing your house, Holly?”

She nodded, squirming a little when I grabbed her hand.

There was nothing else I could do apart from trust she was thinking hard. I gave her a flash of a smile, then gasped as a migraine shattered behind my eyelids. The pain was double. The task of transporting two was hard, but not impossible. Holly wouldn't feel any pain. Or at least, I hoped.

The room dissolved in a rain of sparks and we were sucked up a vortex of speed. I just hoped Holly was thinking about home, because who knew where we’d end up. It took five minutes. Five precious minutes, which cut into my five hours, before I was summoned before that bastard Bazeer.

A quaint converted barn solidified as smells of cattle and hay wrapped around us. I steadied Holly as she slouched against me in amazement. Blue eyes glossed with tears and her small frame shook violently. “What—?” Silent sobs shuddered through her.

“It's okay. You can cry in a minute. Is this your home?”

She nodded, unable to speak.

I half-carried, half-dragged her up the overgrown driveway and rang the rustic doorbell. A waft of food smells buffeted us. It made my heart clench with longing. How I wished my family were awaiting my return. I’d give anything to have them alive, to be safe and available for dinner, ready to harass my choice of dates. What would my mother have thought of Callan the cop? Nice guy? Stay away?

The door opened, a red haired woman with ragged clothes and a drained look speaking heavily of loss stood. One glance at us and she screamed.

A man appeared from the kitchen and broke into noisy sobs. Tears pricked my own eyes. I could never handle it when men cried. Holly broke down too; all three bawled their eyes out.