Honey Moon (24 page)

“Sorry. I keep forgetting your ribs.” She caressed his abdomen, tangling her fingers in the beautiful trail of dark hairs. “I should have made Thomas tape them back up—before he turned evil, I mean.”

“Shh. I’m fine.”

“Liar.”
I wonder what brilliance is obsessing his thoughts right now.

“Am not, and I can prove it.” His eyes snapped open. The breath caught in her throat as he bent his chin to stare at her. “I can’t stop thinking about what you said before you jumped in the shower.”

She tilted her head, blinking up at him. “Remind me.”

“That you wanted—insisted on—trying every position in the Kama Sutra as soon as possible.”

“I said that?” She dropped her head back. The heat—blazing light—in his deep green eyes sent warmth rushing south, cueing the moisture to flare between her legs yet again.

He smiled. “No. But that’s what I heard, and brace yourself, sweetheart. I can easily come up with a thousand more positions than the sixty-four in the original translation.”

“Is that right?” she drawled.

“Pick one. Any angle you fancy. I just need two minutes.”

“You’re gonna kill yourself.”

“I accept that and surrender my free will.” He stroked along her arm. “Fate’s Bitch, that’s my name. If I die right now, in any position including this one, I’ll go out a—”

The door flung open and the question of whether to fuss further or take top before he could, went haywire in her mind. Kurt stormed in with the owner of the condo, Cain, on his heels. To her surprise, they were dressed in the silver jumpsuits only WS agents were allowed to wear.

Sam startled, sitting up. “Hey. Ever hear of knocking?” He blocked her with his shoulders as she joined him to sit, and began frantically shoving her arms into the robe that lay beneath her. “What’s with the get-up?”

“Sorry.” Kurt came to a halt in front of the bed and raised his arm.

Jenna stiffened. The edges of the robe fell from her trembling fingers. He held a weapon. Some sort of handgun.

“What the—?” Sam went quiet.

She twisted to see his head snap back. The scream filled her throat as Sam collapsed, giving her a glimpse of specks of blood edging the small hole—centered in his right temple—before the back of his head hit the pillow.

Her jaw dropped. Her entire being in denial, she didn’t register the implications of much except she hadn’t heard a pop or bang. Silencers had been banned for over a decade. She spun her gaze from her lover’s vacant expression in time to watch Kurt take aim again.

Searing hurt ripped into her chest. A sharp jab that lasted a long second before her limbs—all of her—went numb. She could no longer feel the bed beneath her or her own head slapping back against Sam’s chest. His rigid, unmoving chest.

Oh God, he’s dead. Really dead.

No, no, no. Kurt—how could you?

Sam. My husband. Mine… And why aren’t I following you?

She felt nothing. At least not physically. Emotionally, the first stage of grief hit so hard a voiceless scream of this-isn’t-happening burned hotter and hotter, searing through her mind, while her body remained immobile. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t move a finger, vocal cords unable to articulate the despair roaring inside her without an outlet. If tears spurted from her eyes, they fell on cheeks too numb to tell. Her gaze was frozen, fixed on the ceiling, her head unable to turn and eyelids unable to blink.

All she could do was see….maybe not. The howling inside her mind, the rushing keening of horror that she leaned on her dead lover continued, but there was also noises outside of her head. Harsh male voices.

My ears work? This can’t be real. It just can’t.

“Christ. They’re both dead? For real?” It was Cain’s voice. Seemed he agreed with her.

No, not again. Sam can’t be gone.
She lay flat, paralyzed and staring at the spackled ceiling.

“That wasn’t the agreement.” It sounded like Cain was close, in front of the bed. “Him yes, but not her. Not yet.”

“If you don’t believe your eyes, go buy a damn PFP,” Kurt said. “Probably an app on that expensive com-desk of yours.”

“Will do, boss. Amazing how many gadgets you can get instantly if the price…” Cain’s voice faded.

PFP was the acronym for a tool, the pulse-flatline-probe. A thin rod, the size of an old-fashioned pen and a medical device for determining death by inserting the needle tip into an artery. She’d shiver if she could. Kurt’s voice sounded so cold—as if he’d never hugged and slapped Sam on the back at the wedding. No emotion from the guy who’d sat by Sam’s side in the cockpit of that shuttle. He, honest to God, had killed Sam and done some sort of bizarre, paralytic thing to her?

Well, Jenna doubted that’d last long. Another bullet would finish her off as soon as the men figured out she was a cognitive vegetable. A man, a so-called hero for his role on the shuttle and not connected with the LC, murdering Sam and her didn’t make sense. Kurt had lost his wife, his bride. Had he snapped? In a jealous rage because they’d found happiness? Then he’d forced the guy who’d offered sanctuary to assist him?

The answer to the last question became clear when Cain’s face abruptly loomed over her. No fear, concern, or grief in his expression. More like disappointment. “What a shame.” His gaze was downcast—on her breasts. He licked his lips then smiled. “Can’t feel a thing pumping at her neck with my thumb. She’s got such a dainty neck. Hey—you know how to use this PFP? Just jab it in I expect.” To her relief Cain’s horrid fake smile moved away. “If there’s gonna be squirting I’m tapping the femoral instead of the neck.”

Please-please-please. Get him off me.

“Give me that thing,” snapped Kurt. “Keep your filthy hands to yourself.”

Cain yelped as if Kurt had smacked him. “What’s your damn problem?” Cain barked.

“Touch her again and I’ll show you. Got at least eight more rounds.” Kurt’s face reared above her. A flash of white in her peripheral vision led her to think he’d grabbed the robe and yanked it closed, covering her breasts. Then he was gone.

“What?” Cain whined. “You promised I could do her and ice her myself, and why’s it matter now? She’s dead.”

Kurt snorted. “This weapon uses thirty-sec ammo to flatline a normal brain. That means it should turn an idjit brain into soup in ten seconds. Want me to test it?”

“Calm down.” Cain groaned. “You’re scaring me.”

“Just have some respect.” Kurt had lost the robotic tone. His voice was now low and hard. “Pawing either is necrophilia.”

I’m a corpse and so is Sam?
The anguish churning inside her, the desperate certainty this was nothing but a sick dream, made it difficult for her to follow the conversation.

“Well, yeah. But not like I haven’t seen every inch of both of them.” Cain’s cheerful tones made her want to vomit. “The vid fee will do lovely. My ticket to a better life.” He laughed. “I got a look while you played hitman for the LC. Better than any porno on the market.”

“Shut up. Don’t talk unless I ask something. Where’s those body bags?”

“By the door. I’m going to own an island. Once the public—all those fans—understand that’s Dexter, I’ll make millions auctioning off each frame. First, a head shot. Then a close-up of that cock when it’s not so limp. Then her riding, cowgirl style.”

“Not if I destroy your com-system.” The sound of Kurt’s angry voice went distant and returned. “Pull the sheet over him and bag him. Hurry.”

“In a minute. Haven’t had a chance to check the other feed. I love how you dropped then lumped the bodies. Real cold. Speaking of temperature—hope you look as hot in that uniform on vid…” Cain’s blithering faded.

I slept in the bed of a bisexual, porno-loving mercenary. Billions on this planet—why’d we have to parachute to land beside such a monster?

But no matter how awful the diabolical stranger who offered them shelter was, Kurt’s betrayal was unfathomable. He’d seemed like an old soul she’d known all her life, similar to how she’d connected with Lav. Someone she’d felt she could trust and care about from the moment she saw him helping in the shuttle, then sprawled on the aisle floor, back to a pod and weeping with his dead wife in his arms.

Both men had gone silent. If she could feel or see, she suspected Kurt’s dark gaze was burning into her still form—or maybe he stared at Sam. Was the man happy? Licking his lips as he too imagined the payoff from murdering Sam, then sharing his most private, final moments with the vultures?

“Excellent,” Cain called out, loud and excited as if he spoke from the other side of the room by the com-desk. “This fuckin’ smokes. The look on their faces—on yours. Good thing the LC promised us new faces. We’re gonna need them once the bidding war goes viral for first copy of this, as well as the sex. Great snuff stuff. Just fantastic. The WS man, pair of government pilots, the man-candy LC employee, all wasted. Real time deaths caught with elite, HD lenses will— No…stop!”

She heard a rough gurgling and Kurt snapped, “I took out the two most admired people on this planet. You don’t get Dexter into that body bag—now—I’ll up the count to include a spineless mercenary.”

Cain gasped. “You prick. Let go of me then.”

Dead? They’re all murdered? Ohgod-ohgod.
If only her heart could beat, it’d explode. She had to face the truth. This was real. No dream, no lack of physical sensation, could ever be this vivid.

But why hadn’t she died as well? No pulse meant no air. It’d been more than five minutes since she felt the last thing she had, that harsh jab of something penetrating above her left breast. Her lungs didn’t work. Even if the bullet hadn’t done the job it should have, it didn’t make sense lack of oxygen hadn’t.

“Omph.” Cain groaned. “That fucking hurts.”

“Him. Bag
him
. Go near her again, I’ll jab my thumb in your eyes and you’ll whack off without visuals.”

Her thoughts, the fear and confusion, ratcheted up to helpless terror as Kurt returned. His grim face moved back, taking her frozen gaze with him. That meant he’d slid his arm under her and lifted her as if her body wasn’t stiff but limp?

She didn’t have a clue when or if rigor mortis set in on a comatose person who didn’t need a pulse to maintain consciousness. There was one small consolidation. At least she couldn’t feel the touch of this man lowering her on top of what she assumed was a body bag. If her heart could beat, it’d pound hard enough to crack every one of her ribs. She wanted so badly to ask him why.

Kurt’s face—eyes filled with remorse—closed in as tenderly as any lover. Close enough to brush his lips on her forehead? Then his mouth slid to her ear and he whispered, “So sorry. Wish you could hear me. But this will be over soon.” He shifted back. His head dipped to look down at her, and the mechanical look returned. She heard the sound of the zipper approaching her chin—black filled her vision—and she lost her sight as well.

“Whatja say?” Cain’s voice sounded muffled.

“Nothing. Stop dicking around. Carry Dexter out after I zip him. I’ll get her.”

A frightening realization hit her. Had Kurt spoken to her, despite thinking she couldn’t hear, mean he knew she wasn’t dead? He planned on dumping her in some grave? That’s what he meant by over soon?
Oh God. Buried alive.
Was Sam just as paralyzed as she was?

In her mind’s eye, her fists clenched and she swung. Without moving in the slightest, she imagined bashing Kurt’s face in. That sound of enamel clacking on the floor was the noise his teeth made after falling out of his mouth. That drip of fluid splattering over her knuckles was her blood. Was any of this real?

I can’t feel anything.
She mentally wailed, screaming in silent frustration because she couldn’t move her hand to slap herself into waking up.

“Why are you such an asshole?” Kurt’s voice was muted, as if he talked through a mask, and she strained to hear. It wasn’t easy eavesdropping while trapped inside the attire of a corpse, cheaply made and quite porous to increase biodegradability. Government issued and used for standard green burials or cremation shrouds as well as transport.

“No reason to bang him about like that,” Kurt continued. “Unless you’re too much of a sissy to carry him properly. He too heavy for you, little man?”

Kurt didn’t want Sam’s body manhandled, but showed no remorse for shooting them. Was this yet another sign the guy was vindictive yet seriously deranged?

The next ten minutes of quiet didn’t do a thing to move her past denial and anger into the bargaining stage of grief. She had no expectations of some hero or a deity coming to the rescue and raising the dead, doing what was right. If she managed to somehow come out of this coma state, she’d do so with vengeance on her mind.
Ah, Sam, I can’t believe I’ll never hear your voice again. Not feel your touch. See your gorgeous eyes. Listen to and read your thoughts.

It was a nasally whine—Cain’s voice—that interrupted the suffocating feelings of loss and fury swamping her.

“Stop glaring at me. I’m a lover, not a coroner. But that’s six bagged and waiting by the lobby door, including the famous bride and groom, and the LC isn’t even here yet. What’s your damn hurry?”

“You’re really are a moron, aren’t you?” Kurt sounded like he wished Cain was included in that count. “When the clean-up crew arrives—think they won’t jump at a chance to add us to that pile? No payment. No chance of future blackmail. No further bad publicity with your perverted tapes destroyed.”