HardWind (26 page)

immediate attention. He lowered the reflector and turned his head toward Dáire. He

whistled. “Man, you look like somebody just ran over Toto.”

Dáire was sitting on the end of the chaise lounge, facing Jackson. Shirtless, the long,

deep scratches on his chest showed lividly.

“Correction,” Jackson said, taking in the scratches. “You look like somebody ran

over you and dragged you beneath the bumper of their car. Did she do that?”

Dáire twisted around so Jackson could get a look at his back.

“Holy Mother of God!” Jackson gasped. The scratches and gouges on Dáire’s flesh

were twice as bad on his back and some were still oozing blood.

“I’ve got to get away from her, Jackson,” Dáire said.

“Those wounds need seeing to,” Jackson said. He laid aside the reflector and

struggled to his feet, wincing as his burned feet slid into his flip-flops. “Come on and let

me take care of them for you.” He eased into his wheelchair and rolled it on ahead.

Listlessly, Dáire got up. His entire body felt as though it had been dropped to the

pavement from twenty feet up. His cock was so sore he could barely walk, and even the

loose silk pajama bottoms he wore abraded the raw flesh.

Dáire caught up with Jackson and took the handles of his friend’s wheelchair to

push him over to the stairs leading below decks. Stopping and putting on the brakes, he

was going to carry Jackson down the stairs but his partner shook his head. “You ain’t in

no condition to be carrying nothin’,” Jackson said, and grabbed hold of the banister to

move slowly down the steps.

“How’s your feet?” Dáire asked. He knew all too well how painful sores on the feet

could be.

“They hurt like a mother,” Jackson said, “but they’re getting better.”

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Charlotte Boyett-Compo

Hobbling to the room they shared when onboard the yacht, Jackson opened the

door and plopped down on his bed. “Be a good little helper and get the stuff outta the

medicine cabinet, stud,” he said gruffly.

Dáire got astringent—wincing as he looked at the bottle—cotton balls and a tube of

aloe vera gel to soothe the wounds. He wet a washcloth with warm, soapy water and

brought everything over to Jackson.

“Well, shuck them britches and lay your ass down. I am
not
going to strain trying to

wash those scratches.”

Dáire sighed and stepped out of his loose-fitting pajama bottoms then stretched out

across Jackson’s rumpled bed. “You have the sweetest bedside manner,” he told his

friend.

The pain was excruciating as Jackson cleaned and disinfected the scratches and

gouges on his back and buttocks. His arms crossed under his head, his forehead resting

on his hands, it was all Dáire could do not to groan as his friend took care of his

wounds.

“She’s a mean bitch, isn’t she?” Jackson complained.

“You don’t know the half of it,” Dáire answered.

“What else don’t I know?”

They’d been friends longer than they’d been partners and neither kept secrets from

the other. It was a mark of their loyalties to one another that what was said would never

be repeated.

“She threatened to kill Star if I didn’t cooperate with her,” Dáire replied.

Jackson was gently rubbing aloe vera gel on one of the deep scratches on Dáire’s

back. His hands stilled. “She’d do it too,” he said quietly.

“I know she would.”

“Turn over and when you do, cover up your pud. I really don’t care to—” As Dáire

turned over and Jackson got a look at the condition of the younger man’s penis, he

couldn’t help but stare. “What the hell did she do to your whacker?”

Dáire was lying with his hands to either side of his head. He had no intention of

shielding his cock from Jackson by touching his enflamed flesh. “That’s what the drug

makes you do,” he explained. “You’ve no control over it.”

“The psychotic bitch,” Jackson proclaimed. He looked up and locked gazes with

Dáire. “I ain’t slathering gunk on your tallywhacker, son. I hope you understand.”

Dáire smiled for the first time in three hours. “And here I was looking forward to

you massaging the pain away.”

Jackson snorted. “In your dreams, stud,” he stated.

There was a knock on the door and both men went as rigid as statues.

“Cronin?” someone asked.

“It’s Hunter,” Jackson whispered. “Want me to let him in?”

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HardWind

Despite the pain he knew it would cause, Daire grabbed the top of Jackson’s

coverlet and flung it over himself, cursing as the material touched his cock. “Yeah.”

“Come on in, Hunter,” Jackson called out.

The door opened and one of their fellow operatives was framed in the door. He

took one look at Daire lying on the bed—obviously naked beneath the coverlet—and

grinned. “Sorry to interrupt you boys while you’re otherwise engaged but—”

“Get bent, Hunter,” Jackson said. “Whatcha need?”

“Mr. Sheriden is on the horn,” Hunter said. “Miss Gentry didn’t answer the phone

in her office so he put a call through to the captain. The captain sent me to rattle Miss

Gentry’s cage, but she doesn’t answer my knocks and I can’t find the vampire

nowheres. I tried the door to her office but it’s locked.”

“Did you tell her Sheriden was calling?”

“Yeah, but this isn’t the first time she’s ignored one of his calls. You’re senior op,

Cronin. You want to talk to the big man?”

“Did he
ask
to talk to me?” Dáire snapped. He had never liked Hunter and didn’t

trust the man any farther than he could see him.

“No, but Mr. Sheriden is not a happy man right now. He says he’s gonna stay on

the line until he talks to her. Somebody better talk to him.”

Dáire and Jackson exchanged a look. Jackson nodded. “Might be a damned good

time to bring certain things to our big boss’ attention, Dairy Crow,” he said.

“Dairy Crow,” Hunter said, hooting. “Man, that’s too funny.”

“Get the fuck out of my room, Hunter,” Dáire snarled.

“You gonna come talk to Mr. Sheriden?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dáire said, not moving.

Hunter shrugged then left, leaving the door open behind his departure.

“Prick,” Dáire labeled the operative then threw the covers aside. He took the silk

pajama bottoms Jackson handed him and slipped them on, wincing as he did.

“Where the hell do you think Gentry is?” Jackson asked.

“In her office fucking the bloodsucker,” Dáire replied.

Jackson blinked. “You think?”

“I know,” Dáire said. Barefoot, he walked out of the room and took his time

climbing the stairs, the lacerations on his back and chest stinging.

Cuthbert Sheriden
was
The Cumberland Group. The man was a powerful figure

who had been around since the Cold War and whose contacts reached far and wide in

every government in the world. With tentacles in banking, commerce, transportation

and the media, there was nothing Sheriden could not control with a strategically placed

phone call to the right ear. There was no situation he could not settle if he so desired.

And he was a man every operative feared.

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Charlotte Boyett-Compo

Dáire took a deep breath before he lifted the telephone receiver to his ear. “Mr.

Sheriden? This is Dáire Cronin.”

“Where the fuck is Gentry?” Sheriden demanded.

“Sir, she is in her office and otherwise engaged.”

“Engaged in what manner, Cronin?”

“I believe her bodyguard is in the office with her, sir,” Dáire reported. “I can only

surmise what is occurring there.”

“And that surmising would be?”

“That she is having him do what she forced me to do about two hours ago, sir.”

There was a deadly silence then Sheriden’s voice was low and throbbing with fury.

“Put down the phone, go to her office and—I am assuming the door is locked?”

“Yes, sir, it is.”

“Then break it down, grab her by the hair of her head and slap her down at her

desk to talk to me! Is that clear?”

Dáire smiled hatefully. “Very clear. One moment, sir.”

Knowing he wasn’t in any condition to break down even a hollow-core door, Dáire

motioned Hunter and Morrison, one of the other operatives, to accompany him to

Sheriden’s office.

“What are we doing?” Hunter asked nervously.

“What Mr. Sheriden ordered done,” Dáire replied. They had arrived at the office

door. “Break it down.”

Hunter took a step back. “You’ve got to be kidding!” he said, eyes wide.

Morrison didn’t question the order. He simply shoved Hunter out of the way, took

a few steps away and hit the door with his heavily muscled shoulder.

The door remained shut.

Growling, Morrison hit the door again.

“Miss Gentry?” Hunter called out. “Ma’am, we’ve got orders to get this door open!”

“Suck ass,” Morrison spat and hit the door again. This time, the thick panel popped

open, slamming back against the wall and bouncing back again, but Morrison put out a

beefy hand and shoved it open once more.

The sight that greeted the men as they entered the office brought them up short.

Hunter turned and stumbled from the room, his retching loud in the hallway beyond

the office.

“Well, that’s something, now isn’t it?” Morrison inquired.

Dáire stared at the tableau lying on the floor and felt his own gorge rising. What he

was seeing pushed his aches and pains into the far background of his mind.

“You ever spend any time at Sinavar?” Morrison asked.

Dáire turned to look at the other man. “What?”

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HardWind

“I did,” Morrison said. “Two weeks of sheer hell because I got on Gentry’s bad

side.” He shrugged. “Guess that ain’t going to happen again, huh?”

A deep scarlet wave was slowly creeping toward the two men and both took a step

back.

Gentry was lying on her back—as naked as the day she’d been born. Her gray eyes

were open and staring, her throat slashed from ear to ear, her blood flowing out from

her and making its way to the door to her office.

Vlad was sitting at her desk, calmly watching the men. There was a faint smile on

his face. His arms were slit from wrist to elbow, bright arterial blood pumping from the

wounds and spreading across the pristine surface of Gentry’s elegant desk.

Dáire and Morrison knew there was no way to save Vlad. The man was unnaturally

white, almost bled, and both knew he didn’t want them to help him.

“She wasn’t worth it,” Dáire told the bodyguard.

“She was to me,” Vlad said, and pitched forward, his face landing with a heavy

thud in the slick pool of his own blood.

“This is a fine kettle of worms,” Morrison said on a long sigh. “Guess you’d better

go tell Sheriden.” When Dáire didn’t move, he reached out and took his arm. “Let’s

leave everything as it is. I’m sure Sheriden will send a clean-up team.”

Dáire nodded. He and Morrison left the room, ignoring Hunter who was leaning

against the hallway wall and puking. Going up to the bridge, Dáire picked up the

telephone receiver.

“Mr. Sheriden, I’m sorry, sir, but Miss Gentry will not be able to come to the

phone.”

“Why the hell not?” came the explosion.

“Sir, Miss Gentry has been murdered by her bodyguard.”

There was a moment of silence then booming laughter at the other end of the line.

Dáire stood there listening to it, wondering if he should hang up, was about to when

Sheriden brought Dáire Cronin’s world to a screeching halt.

“Assume command of the operation, Cronin. I’ll be along with the clean-up team to

invest you with the position as soon as I can arrange it.”

“Assume command?” Dáire repeated. “Sir, I—”

“You heard me. You are now my right-hand man, Cronin.” Another silence. “Don’t

let me down.”

Morrison slapped Dáire on the back as the younger man put the receiver down.

“You’ll make us a good boss, Cronin,” he pronounced, and at his words everyone on

the bridge began to clap.

* * * * *

137

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

It hadn’t sunk in yet. There was too much that had happened between the time he

and Morrison had discovered Gentry and the moment Sheriden landed on the

HardWind
. The clean-up team had swooped into Gentry’s office and was sanitizing the

situation as Dáire sat with Sheriden in the lush suite that had belonged to Tyndall

Gentry.

“I was informed of the situation in Pensacola earlier today and that was why I was

trying to reach Gentry,” Sheriden told Dáire. “Had I known Gentry was up to that kind

of shit, I’d have slit her throat myself.”

Learning that Gentry had tried to have Star killed, that one of her men had

threatened to kill Jilly sent shock waves of disbelief and terror rippling through Dáire’s

soul. He was trembling as he sat there and listened to Sheriden telling him about the

incident on the interstate, the destruction of Star’s BMW, the man in the hospital who

had boldly walked past a police guard to enter Star’s room and threaten her child.

“All I can do is offer you my apology, Cronin,” Sheriden said. “I had no idea she

was abusing her power or that she was responsible for you and other men suffering so

greatly.” He cleared his throat. “Sinavar was her private estate but it now reverts to us

since she had no living relatives and—unwisely—left no will. It would be a wonderful

place for our agents to vacation. Perhaps you could take your Miss Kiernan there for a