Mind Game
Page 22
He was right, and she hated that he was right. I’ll go, but we can’t go too far. We can backtrack these people or better yet, follow them back to Jesse. If you do have to kill them, don’t kill all of them. She tried to sound grown-up and calm about it. In her line of work, no one died. She went in under cover of darkness and played the same games she played as a child. No one was around to see what she did and no one ever got hurt. In the last few hours she’d seen more death and violence than she ever wished to see in a lifetime.
Nicolas wanted her clear, but not so far away from him that they might get separated. Go to the church in Jackson Square. You can get to the roof. I’ll meet you there. If something goes wrong, get to the NCIS. Don’t try to find Jesse by yourself.
Dahlia didn’t reply. She sensed the movement of the men in the darkness and began to crawl backward, away from Nicolas. The farther she got from him, the more the energy began to mass around her. She felt the familiar signs. The hair on her body standing up. The churning in the pit of her stomach. The pounding in her temples. The last thing he needed was for her to pass out, or worse, have a seizure.
Silently reciting a calming mantra, Dahlia made her way to the other side of the building and slipped over the side. She knew they would never spot her, not unless it was entirely accidental. There were advantages to being small. She lay flat against the side of the wall as she climbed down, using finger and toeholds she found in the cracks. She was always patient, making the descent in silence and without haste. Movement caught the eyes, so most stealth was done with care and in slow motion.
She felt for the ground with her toe, connected and jumped, landing softly in the dirt beside the house. She remained there, crouched down, orienting herself to her position and the light patterns cast from the streetlights and windows of the surrounding buildings. She could no longer see any of the men near the “safe” house. Jesse had been wrong. Someone knew about it. He worked for the NCIS, and yet someone who shouldn’t have had found the safe house. Who could have tipped them off? Someone from Jesse’s office, or had they tortured the information out of him? The idea made her sick. She couldn’t imagine Jesse telling anyone anything. He was always confident to the point of arrogance. And he was dedicated to his job and country. The idea of someone breaking Jesse’s code of honor was abhorrent to her.
She slipped into the shadow of the building and edged around the corner, feeling for the energy that would tip her off to the fact that she wasn’t alone. Energy was a double-edged sword. As it collected around her, she lost the ability to “feel” precisely where it was coming from. Energy poured from the house, masses of nerves and fear and the determination to live. The NCIS team inside the house had expected to find her alone and had gone in “soft,” not looking for trouble. They knew now that they were surrounded and in for a firefight from an unknown enemy.
Nicolas was determined to even the odds. He lay on the roof, his sites steady on his first target. If they were going to wipe out the NCIS team, he was going to make certain they paid for it. For the first time, he was slightly distracted, part of him wanting to touch Dahlia and know she was safe. He was certain he would know if she ran into trouble. He steadied his finger and kept his eye firmly against the scope, hoping she was far enough away when he pulled the trigger.
DAHLIA went to her knees as the wave of violence swamped her. She clutched her stomach, fighting off dizziness. White spots danced in front of her eyes. She could feel her airway begin to close. She pushed herself up and staggered through the narrow pathway of bushes and garbage cans, holding on to branches as she gasped for breath. She tried to control the sound of her breathing. Sound traveled in the night, and even with the music that seemed to pour from various establishments a street or two over, she knew the kind of men hunting for her would be tuned to the slightest noise.
She had to cross an open street. There was no one in sight, and the violent energy was so strong it was impossible to tell if anyone was close to her. She had to chance crossing. It was imperative to get as far from the battle-ground as possible. She glanced around, one last cautious look, and started across the street, moving as quickly as she was able to on rubbery legs. Her vision blurred. The streets were uneven, cracked and pitted in places. She stumbled and hoped if anyone saw her they would assume she’d been drinking. She was three quarters to the other side when a man stepped out of the shadows and off the sidewalk. He was carrying a gun, and it was pointed right at her.
Dahlia felt the waves of malevolence pouring off of him but she kept walking, her gait stumbling and uneven, muttering to herself as if she didn’t notice him. She doubted if anyone knew what she looked like. The French Quarter was packed most of the time, even in the early morning hours before dawn, and tourists drank all the time. She glanced up when she was only a few feet from him, feigned surprise, hoping she looked like a regular on her way home.
“Are you coming home from a costume party? Nice getup.” She slurred her words and swayed drunkenly, inching closer to him, trying to get within striking distance.
Confusion hit her, a wall of it, as he tried to assess if she was a danger to him. She wore a black sweatshirt and boots, but her hair was flowing to her waist and she obviously was without a weapon. She was too small to be a physical threat. The man visibly relaxed. “What the hell are you looking at?”
She muttered something wordless, hoping to continue her impression of a drunk.
He reached out and caught her arm, pushing her toward the wall. “What are you doing out this late?” Holding her there, his hand gripped her breast hard through the material of her sweatshirt.
Dahlia calculated the odds of fighting him off while maintaining her drunken charade. He was hurting her with his squeezing. He suddenly laughed. She realized he believed all the fighting was taking place around the corner. He was bored and a little angry that he didn’t get to participate, instead regulated to standing guard. He was tired of watching the action and had made up his mind to have a little of his own.
She waited until he lifted his head and exposed his throat. The moment he did, she hit him with the edge of her hand, putting her body weight behind it, at the same time trying to slide sideways, using the wall to help her get away from him. He was enormously strong, grunting and choking at the blow, but doggedly moved sideways with her, keeping her body pinned between his and the wall. He hit her hard in her stomach with his clenched fist, stepping back, still gagging, as she doubled over. He raised his gun, the butt end toward her face.
Dahlia knew immediately he was dead. Her mind and body went nearly numb. Inside of her head, right before the white-hot pain exploded through her body, she heard her own scream. The force of the bullet drove the man backward away from her, so that he crumbled like a rag doll and settled onto the sidewalk in a lifeless heap. His gun clattered to the walkway beside him. It seemed to happen in slow motion, her vision narrowing to the grim image of death.
Immediately she was swamped in the aftermath of the violence, her body taking the brunt of the destructive energy as it raced to claim her. She fought back, trying to stay conscious, trying to find a way out from the raw, swirling force threatening to take her over. The air crackled with electricity. She saw white arcs of it zigzagging above her head. It was only then that she realized she was on the ground, inches from the downed man.
Dahlia began to crawl, a grueling effort when her body felt like lead and pain roared through her at her movement. She inched her way along the walkway. The smell of urine and blood was overwhelming and added to the misery of her churning stomach. She was sick several times as she clawed her way down the block.
Nicolas came out of nowhere, his hands running over her body, probing for injuries. She knew it was him by the way he touched her, by the way the energy retreated to give her breathing room. She couldn’t see through the dancing white spots and strange webbing that shrouded her vision, but she touched him to reassure him she was fine.
“Relax, honey,” he ordered. “I’m taking you out of here.”
She wasn’t going to object. She just wanted to sleep for a long, long time.
Nicolas swung her over his shoulder, needing both hands free. Her stomach was tender, and she was definitely moving in and out of consciousness. He anchored her with one hand and took off away from the area. He’d warned the men inside and he’d taken out a couple of the enemy for them, before spotting Dahlia in trouble. She was his first priority, his only priority now. He had a few bolt-holes of his own. And damn it, his heart was still pounding with fear for her. He had one shot, one chance to save her, and she’d been so close to her assailant.
He moved into the shadows, sliding through the night. When he encountered a late-night crowd, or the street cleaners, he went up and over the building. Before he left on this mission, Gator had shoved maps into his pocket to houses in the bayou Gator’s family owned, but rarely used. He used his powers unashamedly to keep people looking the other way as he took Dahlia out of the town.
He blamed himself for her pale, almost translucent face and the terrible toll the violence had taken on her body. He’d viewed the tapes from her childhood and teenage years. He knew what violence did to her, yet she seemed so self-assured, so confident, even “normal” as they moved through the Quarter to get to the condo, he’d managed to make himself believe she could take the continual assault of energy flowing around her.
Dahlia stirred, her fist clenching in the back of his shirt. “Put me down before I get sick down your back.” Her insides hurt, more from the punch than vomiting, but she wasn’t taking any chances with humiliating herself further.
Nicolas halted immediately and lowered her to the ground. They were near the river and the ground was uneven. He used it as an excuse to hold her when she was swaying slightly. “I’m sorry, Dahlia, I didn’t have a choice.”
“I know you didn’t. I could have handled him if I hadn’t been so sick. I just can’t be around anyone, Nicolas.” It had to be said. She didn’t have to like it. For a while she’d held out hope she could find a way to live with people, maybe somewhere near Lily where she could visit occasionally and have a friend to share things with. She hadn’t dared think of keeping Nicolas in her life. She couldn’t be around him and not have fantasies.
Dahlia clung to him, his shirt bunched in her fingers. “I need to sit down. No one is chasing us, are they?” She didn’t feel anyone hunting them, but she was on overload and just couldn’t tell if they were in immediate danger.
Nicolas helped her walk to a bench. She sank down gratefully, putting her head between her knees to combat the dizziness and dragging in great gulps of air. “We have to go back.” She looked up at him. “We do, Nicolas. This may be the only chance we have to track them back to where they’re holding Jesse.” She raised her gaze to his. “We have to get him out. Those men are killers. I don’t want to think what he’s been going through all this time.”
Nicolas shook his head. “You aren’t in any shape to go rescue anyone, Dahlia. For all we know, he could be dead.”
“I have to know one way or the other. Please, Nicolas. I have to do this, and I don’t think I can do it alone.”
“Can you walk on your own?”
She listened for frustration. For impatience. She waited for the negative energy of his true feelings to swamp her, but he seemed as rock steady and as calm as ever. “Yes. I’m a little shaky, but I’ve been worse.” She forced a wan smile. “It always helps to pass out.”
“Let’s get moving then. We don’t have a lot of time to pick up their trail. It isn’t like I can carry a rifle through the streets of the French Quarter either. We’re both going to have to be fully alert.”
She watched as he broke down the gun with quick and efficient movements. She knew he was giving her a few more minutes to rest. When he was finished and the gun was safely stored in his pack, he handed her the canteen.
Nicolas wanted her clear, but not so far away from him that they might get separated. Go to the church in Jackson Square. You can get to the roof. I’ll meet you there. If something goes wrong, get to the NCIS. Don’t try to find Jesse by yourself.
Dahlia didn’t reply. She sensed the movement of the men in the darkness and began to crawl backward, away from Nicolas. The farther she got from him, the more the energy began to mass around her. She felt the familiar signs. The hair on her body standing up. The churning in the pit of her stomach. The pounding in her temples. The last thing he needed was for her to pass out, or worse, have a seizure.
Silently reciting a calming mantra, Dahlia made her way to the other side of the building and slipped over the side. She knew they would never spot her, not unless it was entirely accidental. There were advantages to being small. She lay flat against the side of the wall as she climbed down, using finger and toeholds she found in the cracks. She was always patient, making the descent in silence and without haste. Movement caught the eyes, so most stealth was done with care and in slow motion.
She felt for the ground with her toe, connected and jumped, landing softly in the dirt beside the house. She remained there, crouched down, orienting herself to her position and the light patterns cast from the streetlights and windows of the surrounding buildings. She could no longer see any of the men near the “safe” house. Jesse had been wrong. Someone knew about it. He worked for the NCIS, and yet someone who shouldn’t have had found the safe house. Who could have tipped them off? Someone from Jesse’s office, or had they tortured the information out of him? The idea made her sick. She couldn’t imagine Jesse telling anyone anything. He was always confident to the point of arrogance. And he was dedicated to his job and country. The idea of someone breaking Jesse’s code of honor was abhorrent to her.
She slipped into the shadow of the building and edged around the corner, feeling for the energy that would tip her off to the fact that she wasn’t alone. Energy was a double-edged sword. As it collected around her, she lost the ability to “feel” precisely where it was coming from. Energy poured from the house, masses of nerves and fear and the determination to live. The NCIS team inside the house had expected to find her alone and had gone in “soft,” not looking for trouble. They knew now that they were surrounded and in for a firefight from an unknown enemy.
Nicolas was determined to even the odds. He lay on the roof, his sites steady on his first target. If they were going to wipe out the NCIS team, he was going to make certain they paid for it. For the first time, he was slightly distracted, part of him wanting to touch Dahlia and know she was safe. He was certain he would know if she ran into trouble. He steadied his finger and kept his eye firmly against the scope, hoping she was far enough away when he pulled the trigger.
DAHLIA went to her knees as the wave of violence swamped her. She clutched her stomach, fighting off dizziness. White spots danced in front of her eyes. She could feel her airway begin to close. She pushed herself up and staggered through the narrow pathway of bushes and garbage cans, holding on to branches as she gasped for breath. She tried to control the sound of her breathing. Sound traveled in the night, and even with the music that seemed to pour from various establishments a street or two over, she knew the kind of men hunting for her would be tuned to the slightest noise.
She had to cross an open street. There was no one in sight, and the violent energy was so strong it was impossible to tell if anyone was close to her. She had to chance crossing. It was imperative to get as far from the battle-ground as possible. She glanced around, one last cautious look, and started across the street, moving as quickly as she was able to on rubbery legs. Her vision blurred. The streets were uneven, cracked and pitted in places. She stumbled and hoped if anyone saw her they would assume she’d been drinking. She was three quarters to the other side when a man stepped out of the shadows and off the sidewalk. He was carrying a gun, and it was pointed right at her.
Dahlia felt the waves of malevolence pouring off of him but she kept walking, her gait stumbling and uneven, muttering to herself as if she didn’t notice him. She doubted if anyone knew what she looked like. The French Quarter was packed most of the time, even in the early morning hours before dawn, and tourists drank all the time. She glanced up when she was only a few feet from him, feigned surprise, hoping she looked like a regular on her way home.
“Are you coming home from a costume party? Nice getup.” She slurred her words and swayed drunkenly, inching closer to him, trying to get within striking distance.
Confusion hit her, a wall of it, as he tried to assess if she was a danger to him. She wore a black sweatshirt and boots, but her hair was flowing to her waist and she obviously was without a weapon. She was too small to be a physical threat. The man visibly relaxed. “What the hell are you looking at?”
She muttered something wordless, hoping to continue her impression of a drunk.
He reached out and caught her arm, pushing her toward the wall. “What are you doing out this late?” Holding her there, his hand gripped her breast hard through the material of her sweatshirt.
Dahlia calculated the odds of fighting him off while maintaining her drunken charade. He was hurting her with his squeezing. He suddenly laughed. She realized he believed all the fighting was taking place around the corner. He was bored and a little angry that he didn’t get to participate, instead regulated to standing guard. He was tired of watching the action and had made up his mind to have a little of his own.
She waited until he lifted his head and exposed his throat. The moment he did, she hit him with the edge of her hand, putting her body weight behind it, at the same time trying to slide sideways, using the wall to help her get away from him. He was enormously strong, grunting and choking at the blow, but doggedly moved sideways with her, keeping her body pinned between his and the wall. He hit her hard in her stomach with his clenched fist, stepping back, still gagging, as she doubled over. He raised his gun, the butt end toward her face.
Dahlia knew immediately he was dead. Her mind and body went nearly numb. Inside of her head, right before the white-hot pain exploded through her body, she heard her own scream. The force of the bullet drove the man backward away from her, so that he crumbled like a rag doll and settled onto the sidewalk in a lifeless heap. His gun clattered to the walkway beside him. It seemed to happen in slow motion, her vision narrowing to the grim image of death.
Immediately she was swamped in the aftermath of the violence, her body taking the brunt of the destructive energy as it raced to claim her. She fought back, trying to stay conscious, trying to find a way out from the raw, swirling force threatening to take her over. The air crackled with electricity. She saw white arcs of it zigzagging above her head. It was only then that she realized she was on the ground, inches from the downed man.
Dahlia began to crawl, a grueling effort when her body felt like lead and pain roared through her at her movement. She inched her way along the walkway. The smell of urine and blood was overwhelming and added to the misery of her churning stomach. She was sick several times as she clawed her way down the block.
Nicolas came out of nowhere, his hands running over her body, probing for injuries. She knew it was him by the way he touched her, by the way the energy retreated to give her breathing room. She couldn’t see through the dancing white spots and strange webbing that shrouded her vision, but she touched him to reassure him she was fine.
“Relax, honey,” he ordered. “I’m taking you out of here.”
She wasn’t going to object. She just wanted to sleep for a long, long time.
Nicolas swung her over his shoulder, needing both hands free. Her stomach was tender, and she was definitely moving in and out of consciousness. He anchored her with one hand and took off away from the area. He’d warned the men inside and he’d taken out a couple of the enemy for them, before spotting Dahlia in trouble. She was his first priority, his only priority now. He had a few bolt-holes of his own. And damn it, his heart was still pounding with fear for her. He had one shot, one chance to save her, and she’d been so close to her assailant.
He moved into the shadows, sliding through the night. When he encountered a late-night crowd, or the street cleaners, he went up and over the building. Before he left on this mission, Gator had shoved maps into his pocket to houses in the bayou Gator’s family owned, but rarely used. He used his powers unashamedly to keep people looking the other way as he took Dahlia out of the town.
He blamed himself for her pale, almost translucent face and the terrible toll the violence had taken on her body. He’d viewed the tapes from her childhood and teenage years. He knew what violence did to her, yet she seemed so self-assured, so confident, even “normal” as they moved through the Quarter to get to the condo, he’d managed to make himself believe she could take the continual assault of energy flowing around her.
Dahlia stirred, her fist clenching in the back of his shirt. “Put me down before I get sick down your back.” Her insides hurt, more from the punch than vomiting, but she wasn’t taking any chances with humiliating herself further.
Nicolas halted immediately and lowered her to the ground. They were near the river and the ground was uneven. He used it as an excuse to hold her when she was swaying slightly. “I’m sorry, Dahlia, I didn’t have a choice.”
“I know you didn’t. I could have handled him if I hadn’t been so sick. I just can’t be around anyone, Nicolas.” It had to be said. She didn’t have to like it. For a while she’d held out hope she could find a way to live with people, maybe somewhere near Lily where she could visit occasionally and have a friend to share things with. She hadn’t dared think of keeping Nicolas in her life. She couldn’t be around him and not have fantasies.
Dahlia clung to him, his shirt bunched in her fingers. “I need to sit down. No one is chasing us, are they?” She didn’t feel anyone hunting them, but she was on overload and just couldn’t tell if they were in immediate danger.
Nicolas helped her walk to a bench. She sank down gratefully, putting her head between her knees to combat the dizziness and dragging in great gulps of air. “We have to go back.” She looked up at him. “We do, Nicolas. This may be the only chance we have to track them back to where they’re holding Jesse.” She raised her gaze to his. “We have to get him out. Those men are killers. I don’t want to think what he’s been going through all this time.”
Nicolas shook his head. “You aren’t in any shape to go rescue anyone, Dahlia. For all we know, he could be dead.”
“I have to know one way or the other. Please, Nicolas. I have to do this, and I don’t think I can do it alone.”
“Can you walk on your own?”
She listened for frustration. For impatience. She waited for the negative energy of his true feelings to swamp her, but he seemed as rock steady and as calm as ever. “Yes. I’m a little shaky, but I’ve been worse.” She forced a wan smile. “It always helps to pass out.”
“Let’s get moving then. We don’t have a lot of time to pick up their trail. It isn’t like I can carry a rifle through the streets of the French Quarter either. We’re both going to have to be fully alert.”
She watched as he broke down the gun with quick and efficient movements. She knew he was giving her a few more minutes to rest. When he was finished and the gun was safely stored in his pack, he handed her the canteen.
