Fury of Obsession (Dragonfury Series Book 5) (21 page)

“You looking for anything in particular?”

“How about everything you can find.”

Sloan nodded. “Give me a minute.”

“Sure. No problem.”

Indulging in a shoulder roll, Venom attacked his tension. Tired muscles sighed, enjoying the stretch as he fiddled with blue chalk sitting on the narrow lip of the billiard table. Turning the cube over in his hand, he glanced toward the wall of windows. Alive with magic, the glass rippled like black water, washing against steel frames, reminding him Evelyn was out there. Somewhere. Alone in daylight. Clenching his teeth, he reached for patience. Dragon sense pinpoint sharp, he listened to the quick click of computer keys and—

“Twenty-eight years old. Of African-American descent. Entered college early, graduated summa cum laude at twenty-one.” His focus locked on the screen, Sloan scrolled through a page of information. “A forensic accountant. A skilled one too, by the look of this an
d . . .
ah, man. She lost her job three months ago.”

“I know.” Dragging his gaze from the shifting glass, Venom turned toward his friend. A quick side step, and he set up shop next to his buddy. His eyes landed on a screen full of information. “She told me.”

“Did you know her firm was part of the Amsted scandal? The company filed for bankruptcy. Top-level executives are under investigatio
n . . .
legal action pending.”

Well now, that explained a lot, didn’t it? Like why Evelyn hadn’t found another job. With her qualifications, finding new employment should’ve been a snap. Instead, she remained unemployed three months out. “What else?”

Index finger poised over the trackpad, Sloan frowned. “Huh, that’s weird.”

“Show me.”

His friend pointed to the screen of financial information. “She liquidated everything. And I mean
everything
, Ven. Sold her condo downtown. Her Audi A6 too. All kinds of stuff on eBay as wel
l . . .
clothes, handbags, sunglasses. You name it, she unloaded it. I’m surprised there’s anything left in her closet.”

“Bank accounts?”

“Empty. She withdrew all her savings—$38,000 dollars’ worth—five months ago.”

“Goddamn it.” Unease hit Venom like a runaway train. “I figured she was in trouble bu
t . . .
”

As he trailed off, Sloan glanced at him. “Looks like it could be the serious kind.”

“Yeah, the owe-someone-scary-a-lot-of-money kind.” Venom cursed under his breath. The three grand he’d given her tonight pretty much assured it. “Got a current address on her?”

“Let’s see where she forwarded her mail.” Within seconds, Sloan hacked the US Postal Service firewall. He typed Evelyn’s full name into the system’s search engine. “Oh, shit.”

“What?”

“Not good,” Sloan murmured. “She lives in Granite Fall
s . . .
2301 Church Street.”

Venom’s heart stalled mid-beat, then dropped into his stomach. “No—no way. Check again. Run it again, Sloan.”

Muttering a curse, Sloan retraced his cyber steps. The same address popped onto the screen. Venom stared at it, then shook his head. His throat went tight. Pressure expanded between his temples, rising like a tsunami inside his head. Alarm for her rode the wave, making his mind race and his heart sink as Sloan ran the info again. But double- and triple-checking wouldn’t change a thing, much less cure his unease.

If Sloan was right, something nasty was unfolding in Granite Falls. A potentially life-threatening event
.
One he’d let Evelyn return to tonight. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t known. What mattered now was his ability to keep her safe. The kicker, though? The absolute hell of it all? He couldn’t do that now. Or go after her.

Not while the sun rose and deadly UV rays ruled.

“Call her.” Gaze glued to the phone number listed below her address, he grabbed Sloan’s shoulder. “Call her, Sloan. Text he
r . . .
whatever. Just reach her—right now.”

“Hang on,” his friend said, pulling up an Internet call service.

The computer speaker crackled. A dial tone sounded a second before Evelyn’s phone rang. Six rings in and—

Her voice mail kicked in.

Sloan tried again.

Same result. No answer. Just an automated message on the other end of the line.

Concern pounded through him. Fear picked up the thread, slamming his heart against the inside of his breastbone. Venom shook his head. Okay. Stay calm. No need to freak out. At least, not yet. She could be sleeping. Her ringer could be turned off. Maybe she was simply ignoring her phone. Any number of possibilities fit the scenario. But as his throat went tight, and Venom backed away from the billiard table, he forced himself to face the truth.

Forge had been right.

And he’d been wrong. He never should have let her go.

Chapter Thirteen

On-point and ahead of the pack, Gage slipped around a blind corner. Dragon senses sharp, he settled into a crouch and listened hard. Nothing. No faint noises at either end of the subterranean corridor. No enemy soldiers hiding in shadowed alcoves. No sound at all. Just the chaotic beat of his own heart. Taking a deep breath, he forced the blood rush to slow. Calm. Even. Ever-steady. The ultimate trifecta, pillars of a solid plan as he moved into the teeth of the unknown.

Danger around every corner. Outnumbered inside an enemy lair. Trapped underground. Still no exit in sight.

Gage clenched his teeth.
Screwed
seemed like a better word to use right now. Unlucky might be worth his vote too, but well—fuck it. He couldn’t change the circumstances and erase the last six days. His colossal screwup aside—the fact he hadn’t seen the ambush coming—wasn’t worth the brain power.

Neither was second-guessing himself.

Not if he wanted to stay alive long enough to get out of enemy territory.

Scanning the short corridor, he hunted for pitfalls, then shuffled along its length. Cold stone chilling his bare feet, he slipped around the next corner. Illumination bloomed at the end of the hallway. The swath sliced through the darkness, drawing straight lines across slimy stone walls. The light blinded him for a moment. His eyes adjusted, downgrading the glow, giving him the lay of the land and—

About fucking time.

Just what he’d been searching for—a way out of the labyrinth. The end of the line. His escape route in the shape of a small open-ended foyer. Narrow on his end, the entryway flared out at the other, opening into a much larger space. Staying low, Gage crept toward the open expanse. His back to the wall, he paused on the lip of the vestibule.

A loading dock stretched out in front of him.

His mouth curved. Jackpot. God bless good luck. An island of concrete, at least sixteen feet of cover. But even better? The barricade created by a pile of supplies. Stacked like Lego blocks, wooden crates sat in a straight line, rising as visual impediments from the edge of the platform. The huge pile of canvas bags marked “Laundry” helped too, looking more like sandbags in a bunker than reams of clean sheets on the other side of the dock. And beyond the supply-the-manor stack? An enormous garage, complete with a lineup of vehicles. He scanned the space again. Hmm, lovely: Maseratis, Lamborghinis, Audis, and BMWs parked in neat rows, high-gloss paint sparkling beneath the watchful eye of industrial-grade lights.

Gage growled in satisfaction.

Come one. Come all. He had his pick of the litter.

Moving as fast as his injuries allowed, Gage slipped across the loading dock. He studied the fancy sports cars, then shook his head. None of the two-seaters fit Osgard’s description. He assessed the collection again. Shit. Not good. He couldn’t see a—

His gaze skipped over a Bentley, then came right back.

Bingo. Just what the escapee ordered. Vehicular perfection dressed up in shiny black paint. Yeah. No doubt about it. The Bentley sitting in the ninth row was the one Rodin used during the day. Blacked-out rear windows. Reinforced steel body designed for protection. A big V-8 engineered for speed under the hood. Eyes narrowed, Gage studied the setup. Three industrial-size garage doors occupied the opposite side of the building. No impediments between the Bentley and the middle door.

Perfect. Absolutely brilliant. One exit point dead ahead. One escape now in full swing. Time to see if he had any company inside the garage.

Hitting his haunches beside the first crate, he raised his hand and made a fist. Halfway across the foyer, Haider took the cue. His friend relayed the message, clenching his own hand, warning Osgard and Nian to stop. The shuffle of footfalls quieted behind him. Another hand signal told the males to stay put.

Without making a sound, Gage shifted right and peered around the corner of the crate. His skin brushed against rough plywood. Pain punched through. The burn marks on his chest squawked, causing a chain reaction. He flinched, fighting the backlash as anguish pushed him one step closer to weakness. He shoved back, refusing to stop, ignoring the slide into exhaustion in favor of looking on the bright side.

So far, so good.

Nothing to worry about yet. No movement inside the large bay beyond the loading dock. Mathematical mind churning, he searched the space and made some quick calculations. A grid flared inside his head, drawing lines, charting a course, giving him approximate dimensions of the garage. One hundred and twenty feet wide, sixty feet dee
p . . .
ceiling height, thirty feet, give or take. Giving up his vantage point, he crab-crawled to the other end of the crates. Poised at the corner, he looked both ways and, ignoring the pain, hobbled behind the pile of canvas bags.

Nothing moved. No one shouted. No alarm bells went off either.

He released a pent-up breath and got ready to—

Heavy footfalls sounded, pinging off steel to reach the high ceiling. A door slammed somewhere to his right. Male voices followed. Gage tensed. Ah, hell. Too little, too late. Archguard watchdogs, returning from the morning meal.

Gage slid lower, using the laundry bags for cover.

“I’ll make the rounds,” one of the guards said. “Put on a fresh pot, would you?”

“Got some whiskey,” guard two said, from the other side of the garage. Keys rattled. Metal rasped against metal. Hinges squeaked as a door opened. “Want a splash in your coffee?”

“Sure,” the first male murmured, stopping beside the loading dock. Gage bit down on a curse. No more than five feet away. The bastard had just set up camp on his doorstep. A lighter flicked. Once. Twice. A third time before the male inhaled hard. Cigarette smoke drifted up from the other side of the canvas barricade, making his nose twitch. “Make mine a double.”

A third male chimed in. “Game’s on.”

“Sounds good,” another said, stopping next to the male sucking on a cancer stick. “Can I bum one of those?”

The lighter flicked again. More smoke wafted up from the other side of the laundry bags as the enemy exhaled at the same time.

“Where’s the fucking remote?” a fifth guy asked, voice full of pissed off.

“Right here.” A thump echoed as another entered the conversation. “Jesus. What are you—blind?”

Gage swallowed a curse. That made six.
Six
enemy soldiers, two camped on his doorstep, less than three feet away, another four somewhere across the garage. Pivoting on the balls of his feet, he glanced over his shoulder.

Haider drilled him with intense silver eyes.

“Get ready,”
Gage murmured, holding his friend’s gaze, listening to enemy chatter.
“We’re fighting our way out.”

“Say when.”

“Give it a minute. I want the others inside the office before I make a move,”
he said, glancing over the top of the pile. Leaning against the loading dock, the guards stood shoulder to shoulder, each busy filling his lungs with carcinogens.
“Killing two guards quietly I can do. Six at once, on the other hand?”

“Yeah.”
Flexing his fists, Haider inched forward, trying to get a better look.
“Too much noise.”

Gage nodded.
“At least one will get to the alarm before I get to him.”

“Shit.”

No kidding.
The perfect word to use.
Shitty
about summed it up, considering the situation. Six healthy males against three injured ones and a youngling.

Not great odds.

Gage didn’t care. He moved instead.

Pace quick, feet quiet, he shifted toward the lip of the loading dock. His gaze ran the gauntlet, roaming the walls, searching for more pitfalls. Anything that might trip him up before he leapt into the open. Motion detectors? Trip wires? An alarm system complete with laser sensors? He needed to know before he took out the guard
s . . .
without making a sound. The skill always came in handy. His brothers-in-arms loved him for it. The enemy? Not so much. Then again, the bastards never heard him coming, s
o . . .

He never heard any complain.

The thought made him smile. His bloodthirsty nature urged him to unleash. Let loose. Deliver hell to those standing between him and freedom. Bowing his head, Gage closed his eyes and visualized the kill. Each move. Every detail. The sight, sound, and smell as he became a predator and protected the males at his back.

His nostrils flared. He cranked both fists in tight.

“On the count of three,”
he murmured, giving Haider a heads-up.
“I’ll take out both guards, then we make a run for—”

“No need,”
Nian rasped, inching onto the loading dock.
“The bastards won’t see us.”

Gage blinked in surprise.
“They’ll sense us the second I move.”

“No, they won’t. I’m an illusionist. Once I set the spell, no Dragonkind male can detect me.”
Gritting his teeth, Nian belly crawled behind the wooden crates. Osgard picked up the slack, helping the male to cross the open space. One eye on the guards, Gage waved the duo forward. The pair came in for a smooth landing next to him. Nian grunted as the kid let him go, but managed to stay upright.
“I’ll create an invisibility bubble. Stay close to me and you’re covered.”

Crouched behind the pair, Haider studied Nian a moment, then met Gage’s gaze over the top of the male’s head. The look spoke volumes. Gage picked up the thread along with its meaning. His friend was right. Zidane had done a number on Nian: blackened both his eyes, broken five of his fingers, driven spikes through chest and thigh muscles, taken a blowtorch to his spine, burning his skin to a crisp. Now the male suffered. Was in so much pain, he could hardly move, never mind think straight.

“You’re in bad shape, Nian,”
Gage said, tone soft as he assessed the male again. Fuck. It was worse than he’d thought. Nian’s bio-energy dipped low, moving into single digits. Which meant Nian needed to fee
d . . .
and soon.
“You’re not strong enough to—”

“My magic will hold long enough to get us to the car.”

Looking for a second opinion, he glanced at Haider.

His friend nodded, confirming the play.

“Move on my signal.”
Turning toward the staircase, Gage rechecked his position. Steps off the loading dock to his left, Rodin’s lackeys to his right. Less than five feet away now, one of the guards drew another cigarette from the pack in his hand. The lighter clicked. Flame rose. Smoke followed in a gray curl, drifting over the guard’s head toward the ceiling.
“Good to go. Fire it up, Nian.”

“Keep ahold of me, Osgard,” Nian whispered, dropping mind-speak to include the youngling in the conversation. “Whatever happens, don’t let go.”

Osgard nodded.

Calling on his talent, Nian inhaled slow, then exhaled smooth. Multicolored eyes the color of opals started to glow. Magic flared in the center of Nian’s palms. Power bled into the open air. One second flowed into the next. A bitter chill slithered in to surround the group. The male murmured. The spell rose, sucking at Gage’s skin, rubbing his nerve endings raw as the invisibility bubble expanded. Warm air warped around him. Displacement rippled, then smoothed out, wrapping each male in a spell so strong it obliterated all trace of life. His heart stalled, pausing inside his chest as he and the others disappeared into thin air.

Cold clawed at him. Gage stifled a shiver.
“Holy fuck.”

“Told you.”
Satisfaction winged across Nian’s battered face.

Gage snorted.
“Gloat later—move now.”

Testing the invisibility spell, Gage pushed to his feet. He took a step toward the staircase. Neither guard looked his way. He took another, and then a third. No shift at all. Hell, the bastards didn’t even twitch. No movement from inside the small office across the garage either. Clear windows revealed four males sitting around a beat-up table. Eyes glued to a TV, the clueless quadruplets watched a soccer match. Orange and green uniforms flashed across the flat screen. Gage frowned.

Germany versus the Netherlands, maybe.

Not that he cared. The game didn’t matter.

He was too busy navigating the stairs, descending on silent feet, stepping onto the garage floor, hoping like hell Nian held it together. Sparing a second, he glanced over his shoulder.

Osgard met his gaze.

Gage tipped his chin, asking without words for an update. Arm muscles straining, the kid readjusted his grip on Nian, but nodded, reassuring him. Gage blew out a measured breath. Fantastic. Everybody was on track. So was his trajectory. A few more car bumpers to bypass—ten, fifteen feet tops—and he’d be home free. Next to the Bentley. Seconds from firing up the engine. Mere moments from slipping inside and putting the pedal to the floor.

Focus split, he kept one eye on the assholes in the office, and the other on the males blowing smoke rings. Skirting a bright-orange Ferrari, Gage turned into the fifth row and slipped down the aisle. Muscle cars sat beside expensive European models. Every color of the rainbow. Waxed steel. Curved lines. Shiny chrome. A mechanic’s wet dream, which, naturally, made him yearn for home. For the comfort of Black Diamond and the two thousand square feet of heaven the Nightfury warriors called “the garage
” . . .
and he called his bedroom. One hundred percent his domain. Every tool known to mankind under one roof.