Dream Shard

Body heat brought them together. Cold reality could tear them apart.

Dream, Book 2

After surviving a brutal emergency-room shooting, nightmares have worn Kalin Smith down. Desperate, she retreats to her grandfather’s cabin and prays her Miwok heritage will bring her peace. In a mountain pool’s healing waters, she finds an unconscious, hypothermic man floating from upriver. When he comes to, it turns out he’s armed, dangerous…and she can feel him sifting through her thoughts.

Devon Ross can’t remember who he is, but he knows for sure he’s psychic and he’s being hunted. When men show up to take him and kill Kalin, instinct—and survival training—kick in. He takes her on the run, led only by a distant, flickering memory of a destination.

Danger turns up the heat between them, but as Devon’s memories gradually return, he remembers why he can never love again. He is an operative for an elite Army Ranger unit and his life is too dangerous. Particularly now that unscrupulous people know who he is.

Warning: Contains an empathic Army Ranger with killer instincts and well-trained hands, and a Native American nurse who knows just what to do with all his body parts.

Dream Shard

Mary Wine

Prologue

Silence wasn’t golden.

It was a torment created in the pits of hell.

Devon Ross tightened his arms around Heather. But her body was limp. She hung in his embrace like a broken doll. He pressed his ear against her chest and there was nothing but silence from her heart. His embrace threatened to crush her fragile body in some vain attempt to force his own life force into her. Rain hit the asphalt and pain ripped through his soul as his ears picked up that soft sound but her heart stayed silent. The dark reality of her death slammed into him like a collapsing building.

Easing his embrace, Devon cradled her in his arms as his eyes found the trickle of blood marking the side of her face. One single bullet through her temple. Self-inflicted. That was all. Her eyes were still open, betraying the fact that she’d never realized her life was ending. Devon stared at her face, memorizing the details of what loving him had brought her. Moonlight cast an ivory glow on her lifeless eyes as he let her body gently down until it lay on the black top. He smoothed his hand over her cheek one last time before pushing up to his feet. The wind whispered through the trees as the rain fell. A tiny glint caught his eye and he knelt next to the body of his wife once again. A delicate silver chain was fastened around her wrist. A little heart hung from it and, as he lifted the jewelry away from her limp wrist, his eyes found the small hinge on one side of it. Flipping it open, he shielded the little picture with a cupped hand. The face of their daughter looked back at him with a smile that he had never seen with his own eyes. Deeper pain slashed through him as he snapped the locket shut and stuffed it into his vest pocket. He scanned the dark road as the rain increased. Heather had hidden their daughter, escaped with the aid of his trust for the sole purpose of preventing him from ever holding his own child. The pain settled into a hot, burning flow of lava as he looked back down at Heather’s sightless eyes.

He had scared her to death.

The reality of his life had sent her into a blind panic. Missing that rising terror had been his failure. Blinded by his own emotions, he’d loosened his security around her, believing that it would help her adjust. Instead, she had fled into the night with its predators. Only at the end had she realized there were worse things than living behind the security she’d felt smothered by. She’d killed herself to protect the secret of where she’d left their child. He closed his eyes for a moment, reaching out with his mind and connecting with the life force of his small daughter.

He could find her but he wouldn’t. It was the only gift he might give Heather. The gift of leaving his daughter to grow up, blissfully ignorant of the psychic bloodline she came from. Maybe Rochelle would find a peace that neither of her parents had.

The night was filled with the sound of a helicopter’s rotor. Devon pulled his gun from his belt and discarded a single shot into the gas tank of the small truck Heather had been traveling in. Her death was nothing but a message to him that freedom wasn’t a luxury he could ever afford. On the black market, he was worth a fortune. His baby would be worth even more, because it might be raised to be loyal to anyone or any cause.

What a fucking way to live.

It enraged him as he moved back and watched the gasoline flow over Heather’s body. Failure bit into him and burned right into his soul as he struck a match and tossed it into the fuel. The night lit up as the helicopter closed in with the reality that Heather couldn’t live with. Devon backed up as the small pickup truck burned in an orange ball of fire and the flames took away all evidence that Heather and he had produced a child. His military escort would never know that Heather had run because she just couldn’t face her child becoming an Operative like her father.

Like him.

Devon watched his makeshift funeral pyre and forced his eyes to stay on the body of his wife as it burned. It was the only thing he could give her…the certain knowledge that the military wouldn’t be able to find any evidence of their child’s birth. Her daughter would stay hidden. Heather had given her life for that, and Devon intended to make sure she got her last wish.

Even if it tore his soul in two because it meant he’d never see his daughter

Ever.

The night filled with the escort he’d left behind. The men closed around him, partially out of duty but also as a precaution against any further solo missions. Their emotions bled into the night like the smoke from the burning truck. It fused into his soul, cauterizing the wound into a scar that would hurt every day for the rest of his life. Sometimes, being psychic was piss-ant hell.

But there were times it was beautiful in its insanity. Devon turned as the commanding officer of his Ranger unit stepped up next to him. Major Gennaro didn’t make a sound as his double-shined boots pressed into the gravel-coated road. He was a model of uniform etiquette from his head to his boots, but the outside picture was camouflage. It hid the razor-sharp blade tucked into the man’s boot and the backup firearm strapped to his chest. Years of intense martial-arts training had made his body far more deadly than any of the weapons on his body. That same fascination with Asian fighting forms was responsible for the fact that Garrick would rather kill with his bare hands and often did.

“I seem to have missed the part where you told me you were heading out.” Garrick was busy watching the fire burn, his eyes lingering over the body lying out on the road. Ross felt the surge of emotion from the man, just a hint of frustration that rolled through his mind like a thunderstorm. The psychic connect was unwelcome, and he clamped his control down to block out the rest of the world. He wasn’t in the mood to share anything, not even with Garrick, and any link functioned both ways to an extent. With the link open, his feelings were pouring into Garrick’s mind. Devon killed it. Control was key. It was something not a single one of his military escorts might teach him. They could train his body, his sight, his reaction time. Show him how to apply discipline techniques, but controlling the beast inside his own mind was his battle alone.

There were few real psychics on the globe, and it was his curse to be one of them.

“You didn’t miss it. I left.” He shifted his attention to his unit’s commander. “Heather was my wife. I needed to deal with her alone.”

Garrick didn’t want to let the lapse in protocol go but he pressed his lips together and nodded. He retreated, leaving Devon with the fire. He was close enough for the heat to burn his face, but he didn’t care.

He couldn’t ever care again.

Chapter One

Two years later

There were some places where time froze.

The interior of a missile silo was one of them. The nuclear weapons were long gone, but the concrete walls still stood strong. There was a chill that never seemed to leave the space where a missile had once waited for World War Three to begin. The cold was fitting because even decades after the Cold War was finished, another brand of global struggle was being waged inside the silo.

A phone buzzed for attention. A man reached for it with a perfectly manicured hand.

“Have you made a decision?” he asked.

“Your price is too high.”

“Should I take a moment to remind you what happened when you tried to hire a lower bidder?”

There was a curt word on the end of the line. “Turvel was her direct commanding officer. If anyone could set it up, I would have thought he could manage the job.”

“And now he is dead, along with Stephen Fredricks, and security has been tightened around all the merchandise you desire.” Aurick Dresner spoke with a hint of arrogance that he felt was well earned. “If you want a proven psychic, you will have to pay the price. I do not have bargain sales. The merchandise I deal with is the rarest of the rare.”

“I want the merchandise.”

“The female tracker with the emerald eyes is no longer obtainable under your stipulations,” Dresner informed his prospective client. “The failed attempt to secure her has resulted in a change in her circumstance that will make it impossible to make it appear as though she went rogue. Now that she has a son, there will be no way to cut her cleanly from her unit.”

“She was the best.”

“At tracking, I agree.” Dresner touched one of the large flat screens in front of him. Several surveillance photos appeared. “However, many of her comrades are very talented as well. Devon Ross has an impressive record in tracking and he is a class-one empath too. No family. No regular bed partners.”

“I want him free and clear. Presumed dead would be best.”

Dresner turned a stylus over several times between his fingers. “That is possible, but the man will arrive with a hostile attitude.”

“That is acceptable.”

Dresner used the stylus to tap on one of the photos and enlarge it. He leaned forward to study the image. “Transfer the first payment. Stage one will commence once payment has been received.”

He killed the line without waiting for a reply. Conversation didn’t interest him unless it was productive. He was a businessman, not a psychologist. He reached for an intercom button.

“Kappel, my office.”

Beyond the dark glass of his office, there were several other enclosed cubicles. His team members rarely saw one another, by design. Their clients paid for exclusivity, which was best achieved by leaving no trails back to the core organization they worked for. Kappel would choose his team from men training in different locations and none of them would know each other. There was a short rap on the door. Dresner pressed a small button to disconnect the locking system.

“I have a hunt for you.”

Kappel grinned, showing off the four gold-crowned teeth in the front of his mouth. His right cheek was marked with dark scars from shrapnel and there was a tattoo of a skull on the back of his neck. He was a massive man, one who had done military duty so he might kill legally. He hadn’t been in the service for the honor. He’d been there to enjoy hunting other men. The perfect sort of employee for Dresner because retirement didn’t suit him well. Kappel had an appetite for blood and money.

Dresner handed him a small computer tablet.

“Select your team and plan your hunt. The prey is exclusive and must be delivered alive.”

Kappel’s grin faded.

“As far as his companions go, so long as you achieve the client’s requested circumstances, I don’t care how big a mess you make.”

“Yes, sir.”

Kappel turned to leave.

“Be sure you take notice of the targets I have noted as being of future use. They are not to be harmed in the process of your operation.”

“Understood.”

It had better be.

Dresner didn’t bother to repeat himself. The door closed with a quiet click and he leaned forward to look at the photos he had of Devon Ross. Psychic tracker and empath. Thirty-four years old, expert shot, martial artist and worth a fortune on the black market.

He was Dresner’s next piece of merchandise.

The water would be freezing.

Kalin ordered herself to stop making excuses. The morning sky was turning pink with hints of gold. Birds were calling to one another as they began to search for food. The Sierra Nevada Mountains hadn’t seen snow for a solid month now. Her breath wasn’t even white when she exhaled, so it wasn’t that cold.

It was going to be freezing.

She scoffed at herself as she continued to climb the thin trail that led from her grandparents’ cabin to the waterfall she’d once enjoyed so much. In the summer, in the afternoon and when she was still young enough to think cold mountain water was fun.

She stopped, memories flooding her. Only these were dark ones and she dug into the rocky path. The sound of rushing water teased her ears with the promise of restoration.

Perhaps not restoration, but at least it was something to do. Some method to try that didn’t include prescription pills. She didn’t mind knowing it was a desperate attempt at regaining peace, so long as she tried something to banish the nightmares that plagued her even when she wasn’t sleeping.

Her heart was beating fast when she made it to the top of the hill. The cabin was forty feet down the bank and the river rushed down past it. Here she could see the massive boulders that formed the waterfall. They were smooth from the pressure of the current and a deep pool had formed from the constant pounding of the water. Waves rippled out toward the shore from where the water hit bottom.

Water could purify.

At least those were the ancient ways. She remembered her grandparents talking about the spirits of nature by firelight when she was a girl. They had been amusing stories then, but desperation had a way of making a person look at myth more closely.

She was desperate.

In so many different ways, just thinking about it made her eyes fill with tears. She rubbed her eyes with impatient fingers. Crying wouldn’t help. If it did, she’d have been far further along the road to recovery.

Tears had been her companion for almost a year.

She laid a towel over a rock and gripped the lower edge of her sweatshirt. Her Miwok ancestors claimed the water spirits cleansed the soul when you stood under white water first thing in the morning.

Well, at least she could decrease her caffeine intake because there was no way she’d still be half asleep once she stepped into the water.

It was a plus, a positive result.

She sat on the rock to unlace her boots and used it for balance as she stripped off her socks. She shrugged out of her pants, rubbing her arms as goose bumps covered her bare skin. She looked around one last time before unhooking her bra and pushing her panties down her legs. There was no one around for miles, but she still felt exposed. Why did the stories from her childhood all include casting off the clothing of civilization? She didn’t ponder the question long. If it gained her a casting off of her unsettled thoughts, she’d skinny-dip in front of a news crew.

She was desperate, plain and simple.

The gravel lining the shore wasn’t sharp, but she still placed her feet gently down on her way to the shore. The first contact with the water sent a shiver across her skin. She kept going because there was a strange, mesmerizing pull coming from the sound of the rushing water.

It appeared clean and nurturing. She sucked in a deep breath as her nipples beaded and the clear mountain water covered her thighs. She used her hands to help make it deeper into the water, until she had to start swimming. The sound of the falling water was deafening now. Spray covered her face as she neared the center of the drop zone. Her feet touched stone and she climbed up onto a submerged rock.

The water fell down on her, disturbing her balance with its force. But she shifted her feet to find a better position and stood up straight. There were a million bubbles trapped in the water. They slithered down her bare skin as she drew in a deep breath and closed her eyes. The roar was so loud, it felt like even her thoughts were being overwhelmed. It brought her relief from the doubt, guilt and anger that had been constant companions for the last year. Even the chill became welcome.

She wasn’t sure how long she left her eyes closed. The golden glow of sunlight made her open them. The sun was stretching its rays over the peaks in the distance, the light looking promising.

She sighed and jumped off her pedestal. It felt like the water caught her, welcoming her in a way she’d hoped for but hadn’t really believed possible.

The first genuine smile in too long curved her lips as she swam toward the shore. As she neared it, the water’s roar diminished. There was a gurgle and then a huge splash that sent a wave over her head. She sputtered and turned around. In the center of the pool a body floated. She blinked, shock holding her still.

But not for long. A decade of being an emergency-room nurse switched on instincts that had been drilled into her from countless hours of needing to respond. The ten months she’d been on medical leave hadn’t seemed to have let any rust grow on her skills. She reached for a hand and yanked the man toward her. Her fingers found his wrist and pressed into the chilled flesh in search of a pulse. She pulled again, stretching toward the bottom of the pool to reach ground.

She dragged him away from where the waterfall had deposited him and reached out to grip his wet clothing and turn him over. He coughed, spitting out a mouthful of water, but his eyes remained closed. His chest rose though and there was the thin presence of a heartbeat beneath her fingertips.

She strained to move him farther toward the shore. Even with the water supporting most of his weight, she struggled to pull him the remaining feet to the shore. She scraped her shins as she yanked him up onto the gravel, crawling on her knees as she tried to get him out of the water.

He was ghostly white and his skin far too cold. He might be breathing, but hypothermia could easily end his life. She strained and dragged him farther up the bank. At last, even his boots were out of the water. She attacked the thick black vest he wore, opened it and hesitated when she found a chest harness. The butt of a hand gun glistened with water. His shirt was green-and-tan camouflage fabric. She pulled it open to expose his chest.

The man was sculpted to perfection. Every muscle detailed. She hesitated only a moment before lying down on top of him and pressing her chest against his own.

He felt even better than he looked.

Unprofessional…

Yes, her thought was unprofessional, but under the circumstances, she was doing the best she could. If the cold blood in his extremities made it back to his heart, he could go into cardiac arrest. Her body heat was the only thing she had to use. It was an extreme, stab-in-the-dark treatment choice, but she had no other alternatives.

Her gaze focused on the butt of the gun. She shivered, and it had nothing to do with the chill from the water. Whoever he was, he wasn’t a nice guy. The ridges and hard muscle she was pressed against were just other weapons in his arsenal.

Maybe she shouldn’t help him.

She cringed at the thought. Hating the cynical idea. Ten months ago, she’d never question the impulse to help an injured person.

But the butt of the pistol was hard, irrefutable evidence that there were people who valued life far less than she did.

He jerked, his body convulsing. She lifted her body off his, looking at his face to assess his condition. His lips were curled back and his teeth gritted as he reached out and grabbed her throat. She recoiled, but he had a firm hold on her, the delicate bones feeling like they might snap.

He blinked, staring at her nude breasts. His grip relaxed and she scooted back as fast as she could. She scraped her knees again and landed on her bare bottom, but she scrambled onto her feet as he rolled over and shook his head. He struggled to plant one foot on the ground and rise to rest on his other bent knee. The muscles along his neck were corded as he strained to lift his head.

She grabbed her pants and jerked them up. He snarled softly as she grabbed the sweatshirt and fought her way into it. Her wet skin didn’t make it easy, but at least she wasn’t buck naked anymore.

“I have a phone at the cabin.”

“No calls,” he barked. He staggered to his feet, reaching for the gun.

Terror tried to freeze her, but her nightmares rose up to shatter the hold. She reached out and smacked his hand.

“You don’t need that. You need to get down to my cabin and out of those wet clothes.”

He had to be a foot taller than her and outweigh her by fifty pounds of hard brawn, but her tone was pure emergency-room-nurse dictator. She lifted her arm and pointed down the trail.

She tipped her head back so she could make eye contact with him. His scowl was enough to curl her toes. She swallowed the lump in her throat.

“Do it now, mister, because I don’t have a wheelchair to move you with once you collapse.”

He blinked at her and then looked down the hill. Every moment he hesitated might just cost him his life. Men like him didn’t die of disease. They were struck down by injury or exposure.

“No calls,” he ordered, but his voice was failing him. His first steps were shaky, but at least his stride was long.

“Use your strength for walking,” Kalin countered and ducked beneath his arm to help him.

He growled but leaned on her as his body shuddered. His breathing was labored as they covered the distance to the cabin door. He stumbled up the two steps and fell against the door. She struggled to open it, pushing him to the side to clear the way.

He stiffened to support himself and she took the opportunity to move across her small living room to the bedroom door. She turned the knob and pushed it open, but turned when she heard a crunching sound.