Promises in the Dark Read online

  She bit her tongue at some point, the metallic taste of blood sharp in her mouth. And she was back in the woods, nine years old, scared to death.

  The feelings were just as intense now, surged through her with an extra burst of adrenaline even as the tears began to course down her cheeks. She hadn’t realized she’d slowed, but Zane had, and she let herself get half dragged along next to him. By the end, he was practically carrying her, until they came to a halting stop, where she tried to catch her breath. There was a stitch in her side, and dammit, she was so out of shape, had never been this weak before, this unable to keep up.

  She was jealous of his conditioning, that both his physical and mental strength seemed endless, while hers appeared to be sliding away.

  She’d been fine until he arrived … or at least she’d gotten really good at pretending.

  Now there was no more fooling herself. She was in trouble.

  She was trouble.

  Zane didn’t let her inner pity party go on for long before he pushed her to the ground without warning and lay on top of her. Facedown, he lightly covered her mouth to remind her to quiet her breathing.

  She squeezed her eyes shut as she waited, aware she was trembling. And then she heard muffled shouts, footsteps. How many men, she couldn’t be sure, and she stayed under Zane, his heart beating against her back as the men ran by. And she prayed.

  They remained in place for at least fifteen minutes. She’d counted every single second until things got quieter. Until Zane shifted and urged her to turn over and face him.

  DMH has his picture—because of you.

  She hoped for the best, that they were simply off course, but safe now.

  She couldn’t see his face at all to reassure her, and she still knew that they were anything but.

  It didn’t take long for Gray to get the intel. When Cael picked up the phone, Gray said, “Grab one of the computers and check your e-mail. It’ll be secure, encrypted. It’s a picture that one of the DMH guys had on his phone—a recent transmission that came from a provider in West Africa.”

  Caleb’s gut roiled and he forced himself over to one of the two computers, jerked it away from Vivi’s view and opened a new browser. Tried to ignore that she looked at him oddly, tried to forget the fact that the normally chatty Gray hadn’t said a word, just remained on the line.

  “I’m in,” he said finally, clicking on the e-mail Gray had sent and saw the picture load in front of him. Fought the urge to throw or smash the computer—or call Dylan and completely curse him out for all of this. Again.

  It was one thing to know the picture existed, but another to have it in front of him, made it too damned real.

  Zane’s face stared back at him from the screen. The picture was taken yesterday and it was obvious Zane had no idea he was being photographed.

  Kid, you let your damned guard down. Because of a woman.

  The same woman that had been throwing his brother off his game for six months. The same woman who’d also been captured in the picture, her face slightly more hidden.

  “Cael?” Gray prompted.

  “Yeah, I see it. Was DMH able to find out any intel on him?” Zane’s file should be locked up pretty damned tight, especially from prying eyes of terrorists. But still …

  “I’m sending Mace to Zane’s apartment now to see if they went there,” Gray assured him. “But you and I both know that if they were able to gather any intel at all about who Zane is, DMH is into the military’s infastructure.”

  When Caleb didn’t say anything, Gray continued, “Is Vivienne making any progress?”

  He glanced over at her fast-flying fingers, the notes strewn everywhere, and he knew that although Vivi was trying, she wasn’t nearly far along enough.

  Which meant he was her protection. Her watcher. And unable to do anything to help his brother at all until she fixed the safeguard on the software. “She’s trying.”

  “Keep us posted,” Gray said before hanging up.

  Vivi turned her full attention to him as soon as he cut the line with Gray. “What’s the matter, Caleb? Is there another threat? Do we need to leave?”

  He hadn’t realized how on edge she was, because her concentration had been so fierce. “Everything’s fine.

  He managed to choke out the lie, not caring if she didn’t believe him, as evidenced by the look on her face. He logged out of his e-mail and turned the computer back to her before he left the kitchen.

  “Caleb?” Vivi’s voice was tentative; he didn’t turn around, just said, “What?”

  “I think I might’ve figured something out with the safeguard. There’s another code buried inside that I hadn’t noticed and I think I know how to fix it. I just wanted you to know.” He heard her padding back to the kitchen and then she returned. “Caleb, is there anything I can do?”

  He turned finally. “My brother might be … no, he is in trouble. Just the way he likes it.”

  “I’ve never liked being in trouble,” she said honestly. “I’m sorry about your brother.”

  “He’ll be all right. Has to be, or else I’ll kill him.”

  Her mouth curved in a soft smile, and damn, his heart thudded an extra beat.

  He’d always been about right versus wrong. It wasn’t that he hadn’t fallen into the wrong category at times, it was simply that he believed gray areas were things that hadn’t been thought through enough.

  In life, in his line of work, you needed to pick a damned side and stay on it.

  He’d picked his side for sure.

  When he looked at her, he noted her attention had been diverted to what was on the couch next to him.

  He hadn’t realized he’d been drawing again, tended to do it only in times of high stress, because that’s when the creativity snuck out, when his defenses were too low to shove it back down in the pursuit of other, more serious goals.

  It was on the back of a yellow legal pad he’d found on the table—a sketch in pencil … Vivi, in profile, hair falling around her face, her lips pursed against a pen she’d held to her mouth.

  He’d been thinking hard about her while he’d drawn it, concentrating on the way the light hit her face, wondering what it would look like if he’d had any charcols with him, what he could’ve done.

  Wondering what she was thinking while he’d been drawing her, spying on her.

  Hell, you kidnapped her. Spying is actually a step up.

  She was still staring at it, her mouth curved slightly. “That’s really pretty.”

  “You are really pretty,” he responded gruffly, wishing he could just turn the pad over. Instead, he ripped the cardboard from the rest of the pad and stood to hand it to her. “You can keep it if you want. Or not.”

  He’d gotten close, maybe too close … could practically feel the magnetic draw between them.

  She took the cardboard from his hand and didn’t back away, but glanced at the drawing for another second, and then looked back at him and whispered, “Guys like you don’t go for women like me.”

  Was she kidding?

  No, the look on her face was dead serious. “How do you know I’m a guy like that?”

  She shrugged. “I just … I mean you’re … probably beating women off with a stick.”

  Okay, maybe. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t his type. Or that he hadn’t been about to kiss her when she made her little proclamation. “You know, I don’t think I like being told what my damned type is.”

  She shrugged, her shoulders bared by the tank top she’d stripped down to. It was black and slightly clingy, showed off the fact that she wasn’t wearing a bra, and yeah, he made sure she knew he was looking.

  Jesus, he’d never had to work so hard to prove his attraction to someone in his life.

  “I don’t want or need your pity.” She pushed past him. “That’s what this would be, right? What you’d call a pity fuck? You probably drew this so you’d have a sketch of me to give to Homeland Security or something.”

  “I
didn’t … I don’t …” Christ, getting his feelings mixed up in this had been the furthest thing from his mind. He sighed, stared up at the ceiling, then pulled her into his arms and held her there. “I don’t fuck anyone out of pity, Vivi. When I take a woman, it’s because of one reason and one reason only—because I want her.”

  And he did want Vivi, wanted to lose himself in her, wanted to forget all the shit going on around him.

  CHAPTER

  10

  Rowan was still seething long after she’d started the IV drip of antibiotics for Julia and made sure the woman was as comfortable as she could be. She’d brought the rest of the family some food and drinks and then she’d gone looking for Doc J, who’d conveniently disappeared.

  Again.

  Missions of mercy, her ass. Doc J was a mercenary—she was as sure of that as she was of her own name.

  None of this added up and the sense of foreboding was so fierce she could practically taste it.

  The camp was eerily quiet—the family only added to the mystery. The woman was dying, dammit, but had come here, where there was limited assistance for her condition, rather than seek medical help in one of the larger cities.

  Rowan’s frustration mounted as she walked around the small area that made up the clinic, feeling oddly safe despite the fact that she no doubt wasn’t. The .38 she carried helped in that regard, but the near pitch black, save for burning candles, gave the entire place a surreal feeling, as if she’d walked into a time warp.

  She’d attempted to remain in her tent after checking on Julia one last time for the night, tried to read one of the books she’d gotten at the airport and had finally thrown it down, her mind far too busy to concentrate.

  She’d missed dinner, but Doc J had left her some food, covered with For Rowan written on a paper towel next to it in the small kitchen tent. She walked along, balancing the plate as she chewed the rice and beans and bread. The food was better than most of what she’d had for the past years and it would fill her.

  She was nearly done when she entered the main tent. The African woman sitting in the corner looked up and nodded when she walked in. She was sitting across from the patients, sewing together some bright fabrics, a small child sleeping next to her on a few pillows on the floor.

  Rowan had pulled her hair off her neck, was as used to the heat as anyone could be, but still wished she’d grabbed a shower before wandering around.

  She’d do so before bed—would at least fall back to sleep refreshed. Now she glanced around this main room. It housed six beds, three on each side, and right now two of them were filled with sleeping patients. There was a separate area, both treatment and triage room, that was sparse with amenities, but clean.

  She’d learned that, most of the time, basic was better. She was a better medic because of the stripped-down conditions. Forced to use her common sense and rely on her instincts, she’d discovered that she could do as much good in a battlefield with a bag as in a fully stocked ambulance.

  Now she left and put the plate back in the kitchen, washing it with the remaining hot water. It was only then, as she looked out the window over the sink, that she noticed the other building, unlit and partially hidden by trees, as if abandoned.

  A combination of curiosity and boredom got the best of her and she found herself headed in its direction, her instincts screaming.

  It was probably nothing more than extra room for emergencies or whatnot. At least that’s what she wanted to believe. But something was pushing her to check it out, and she knew she wouldn’t rest until she did.

  Rowan knocked. Nothing. Didn’t expect the door to be open, but it gave when she yanked. She stepped inside … and her knees almost buckled. Pausing, she glanced over her shoulder and then closed the door behind her.

  Row upon row of weapons lined an entire wall. Add to that, shelves filled with ammo. RPGs. A launcher. Supplies that didn’t have anything to do with the running of a medical clinic.

  “Holy shit,” she muttered, walking over to get a closer look.

  She ran her hand over the steel and metal. She was no stranger to weapons, and wouldn’t have been surprised to find a few here. But this … this was akin to a store. Was Doc J selling these?

  Why else would he have this many? There didn’t appear to be so much unrest that they would need to be prepared to fight an army.

  Coming here might have been a big mistake. Her stomach hurt. She’d eaten too quickly, needed a shower, and now she’d discovered that this place was … what? A front for training mercs for hire to the highest bidder? Looking at this cache of weapons, her imagination went wild.

  She shouldn’t be in here at all, should get out right now. Granted, they hadn’t locked it and no one had declared it off-limits to her.

  “What are you doing?” a low male voice demanded. A voice that wasn’t Doc J’s.

  She whirled around, right into a hard chest, her hand going to yank her gun free. Before she could do so, her arms were restrained with ridiculous ease and she fought the urge to try to kick away, because she instantly recognized that the man was trained.

  “Who are you?” she asked instead, attempted to keep her voice level and calm—and nearly succeeded.

  “I’m the one asking the questions, since you’re the one breaking and entering.” The voice was low—much calmer than hers—and slid over her like a cool breeze.

  But he released her and clicked on a lantern, bathing the room in soft light. She stared into the face of a man taller than Doc J, with skin tanned golden and dark eyes that snapped with anger.

  She’d never felt so tiny in her life. He was broad enough to be at least two of her, if not more, and she was well aware that she was standing there, mouth open, gaping at him.

  He wasn’t as impressed with her, if his stoney expression was any indication. “I’ll ask again—what the hell are you doing in here? This is a restricted area.”

  “I was looking for supplies so I could restock the treatment room,” she lied.

  “These aren’t the kind of supplies you need.” His hand wrapped around her wrist, a grip meant to hold, not hurt, and she put her own hand on top of his.

  “I can see that for myself. Shit.” She tried to catch her breath as her hand remained on his, because it was like touching fire, a shock to the system she hadn’t felt since …

  Since forever. Since 2001.

  It was the heat. Her nerves. Maybe even shock, because there was nothing nice in this man’s eyes, not the way he looked at her, but the attraction was undeniable. “Who are you?”

  He pressed his lips together, like he wasn’t going to answer, then said, “Tristan. I work for Doc J.”

  Tristan had a rifle slung across his body in a manner that might look careless to the casual observer, but she knew the man was anything but, with that weapon. His reflexes were sharp, his tone commanding.

  Years of rules and regs, blood and guts, feeling sexless and oddly sexual at the same time while being outnumbered by men and under what felt like their constant scrutiny had taken their toll.

  Tristan’s eyes raked over her. She felt naked standing there, surrounded by ammo.

  She also felt incredibly hot and bothered, like she should throw herself at his mercy and then beg him to take her right below the AKs.

  He blinked, hard, and she wondered if he was reading her mind, because she could’ve sworn that something passed between them besides snarling and harsh words.

  Finally, his grip eased on her wrist and she pulled her hand away quickly, rubbed her wrist where he’d touched her, and for a second a look of concern washed over his face. At least it was there until she asked, “What is all this?”

  “You were in the Army, figure it out, little girl.” His tone was that of boredom, like she should grow up and deal with it.

  “I need to speak to Doc J about all of this—I didn’t sign up to work as a mercenary.”

  He laughed, like she’d told him the best joke in the world. “Sweethear
t, you’re not going to be trained as a merc. Trust me, we don’t need that from you. And you need to stay away from places you don’t belong. That’s how people get hurt.”

  “Are you threatening me?”

  “I’m teaching you a universal truth.”

  Just then, a stuttered cry made him turn his head sharply and she followed suit, to hear a woman’s scream, followed by a child’s. They were calling to someone, using the local language, which she hadn’t had a chance to even learn cursorily.

  But the panic in the calls was unmistakable and without thinking she ran in the direction they came from, aware of Tristan beside her, keeping pace even though she knew he could easily outrun her.

  Obviously, he refused to let her out of his sight.

  She skidded to a stop at the open door of the main tent, because the woman and child had gone silent, were looking at the floor in fear.

  She followed their eyes to the dirt, where a puff adder held court. Slow moving, non-retreating and deadly, it was already rising, hissing and puffed out, ready to attack.

  “Don’t move,” she mouthed even as Tristan readied his rifle. She had no doubt he could make the shot, but there was a better way.

  She yanked her hand down and grabbed the machete she’d noted leaning against the side of the tent instead. Moved closer and lopped off the snake’s head in one swift blow. Cleaner and safer all around, if you were willing to take the chance.

  Calmly, she handed the machete to Tristan, who was now looking at her with a combination of anger and lust so pure it nearly startled her.

  “I thought you were from New York,” he said.

  “Next time, don’t think so much,” she threw back.

  “What’s going on in here?” Doc J stormed in, looked between her and Tristan and then to the floor. “Damned snakes.”

  “I need to speak to you,” she said to him, noted that Tristan’s face tightened, and she swore she flushed again, head to toe, before she marched out the open door.