Marie Harte - [PowerUp! 08] (6 page)

Ian didn’t like Owen’s wide smile.

“Ah, good. Caleb’s here. Let him in.”

“Aye, aye, sir. Out.” Reuben disconnected.

Owen rubbed his hands together. “My friend from DC is here. Things are about to get more interesting, gentlemen.”

Ian wished he felt more threatened by the fact that Dalton hailed from Washington, a place Ian never wanted to be again, than that the jerk might mean more to Owen than a casual friend.
And what do I care? Owen’s just a rich tool, one I plan to use and lose… Yeah, keep telling yourself that, Ian. And maybe you’ll believe it.

Chapter Four

Carl Kerr grunted and spent, finishing inside the ass of his latest lover. Fortunately, this one had taken enough pills to appreciate the fine reaming he’d been given. His boys liked their candy, and they’d do anything for more of it. After Carl withdrew, he watched his new slut roll over, showcasing a smooth chest and a handsome face. So young, so pretty. And just a smattering of freckles over the bridge of his nose.

The young man resembled one who’d gotten away before Carl could sample him. Gavin Caldwell. One of Owen’s men.
Owen
. Carl sneered at the thought of that fuckhead, wishing he could stem the flood of envy he had whenever he thought of Stallbridge. Rich, respected, and controlling more of the marketplace than he deserved. All because he’d killed Carl’s family to get there.

“Thank you, Master.” The young man grinned and closed his eyes, asleep in seconds.

Carl glared down at him and stomped away. He cleaned up in the bathroom and zipped his trousers back up. He rarely undressed to fuck anymore, too concerned with being caught with his pants down—literally.

The last time the Feds had descended, he’d been a heartbeat away from orgasming into a lover’s mouth. Only some fast thinking and preparedness had allowed him to escape without incident.

Now he remained a fugitive. A rich one, but nonetheless, he hated having to hide his face. And such a handsome one too. He stared at himself in the mirror, loving his light blond hair, the cut sculpted to showcase his Nordic bone structure and bright blue eyes. Though not as large as the historic Vikings would have been, Carl took pride in his thin frame, compact and tight. He had strength of mind. When he needed muscle, he paid for it.

His old right hand, Samson Ruelle, had been too willing to assume Carl’s place. Not content to be an assistant, he’d tried hard to take over in his boss’s stead.
As if
. Carl snorted. Owen’s men had eliminated Samson, and now the bastard lay dead. A well-deserved killing, from what Carl had learned. Samson had been forced to stab himself repeatedly in the groin before expiring. Lovely.

It had taken Carl time to believe, but he now understood how Owen had committed so many heinous crimes against his family. He clenched the sink tight, staring at himself in the bathroom mirror as he did so, promising retribution against the man responsible for all his bad luck.

Owen was psychic. As improbable—as impossible—as that had once seemed, Carl now knew it to be true. He had money, maybe not as much as Owen, but enough to gain entrance into certain sectors of the government. Owen’s silent partnership in that little place in Bend, the PowerUp! Gym, interested Carl. The place overflowed with ex-government agents.

Owen no doubt collaborated with them on missions as well. From what Carl’s source had told him, Owen occasionally still did work for Uncle Sam. That a man as rich as Croesus would lower himself to government work said something about the workings of his mind. No doubt the prick thought he labored for the greater good. Such a crock of shit.

Carl just wanted to restore his family’s flailing empire. Gun running wasn’t enough. Prostitution, slavery, and drugs helped build his legacy in this downward economy.

“Just doing my part to help with the economic crisis,” he said to the handsome man in the mirror before leaving the room, once again in command of himself. He glanced at the soiled young man sleeping on the bed, noticed the whip marks on his back, and nodded to himself. Continuing through Shannon Martin’s home and pleased that the old bag still considered him her honorary grandson, he found Fielder and Koffman in the kitchen, armed to the teeth.

When he entered, they stood in a hurry. He liked that. “Any word?”

Koffman, the larger of the two, with dark hair, mean eyes, and a scar that bisected his left cheek, nodded. “Yes, sir. Stallbridge is in his home in Bend, Oregon. He’s currently residing with his security, his assistant, a maid, and a cook. And he brought in a new man, Ian Ryder.”

Fielder added, “Word has it someone else arrived earlier today in town that we should keep an eye on. He doesn’t register in our databases. Caleb Dalton, sir. My take is he’s federal. No question.”

Carl frowned. “Dalton. I know that name.”

Fielder spoke again. Despite his average appearance, he had an uncanny intelligence and the wherewithal to use it. “I cross-checked the reference and came up with nothing. However, I believe his appearance relates to your past, sir.” Fielder pushed a file at Carl.

Carl looked down at the table and saw a picture of his brother, caught in black-and-white, an expression of unbelievable pain on his face as he clutched at his heart. “My past?” he asked quietly. He’d only given Fielder access to his personal documents because he knew they related to Owen. And Fielder and Koffman had been working for him for the past five years. No hiccups. Both men knew their place on the team and had no problem skirting the law whenever possible.

“I’ve gone through pictures and files and inputted data. This man’s description, his picture, matches one of the witnesses at the time of your brother’s death. Granted, he was younger then, but I’m pretty sure it’s a positive ID.”

Excited by the possibility of getting closer to nailing his nemesis, Carl looked at the picture underneath his brother’s—a photo of Caleb Dalton, Owen’s likely accomplice. Though he didn’t recall the man, someone had seen him and questioned him at the hotel where Carl’s brother had been killed. Fielder pushed another photograph toward Carl. A snapshot of the man’s face in the background of a surveillance camera photo nailed his suspicions. When compared to the current picture of Dalton, they fit.

“So. Owen’s called in the big guns, eh?”

“Seems so, sir,” Koffman added in a quiet voice. “Do we make plans to storm his place in Oregon? It wouldn’t be that difficult to take him down. He’s got two security guards, that bodyguard he calls an assistant, and two domestics—females—working for him. That’s it for manpower. Granted, his security system is state-of-the-art, but I’m sure we could work around that. A contained blast would be easy to manage.”

And way too impersonal. “No, we wait for a bit. I want eyes on him at all times, though.”

“Yes, sir. We thought you might, so I had Neever and Sands standing by. They’re in Bend and waiting on word from you.”

“Excellent.” Carl beamed. “Give them the go-ahead. But discretion is key. I’m sure Owen’s aware I’m waiting. Watching. But let’s let him sweat.” The more torturous the wait, the better. Carl wanted Owen to suffer. The thought gave him a thrill, and he decided to revisit his plaything in the bedroom once more. “I’m going to be indisposed for the afternoon, but tell Harry to get that business in Vancouver off the ground. We’re moving too slow.”

“Yes, sir.” Fielder nodded his head in a little bow. Koffman did the same.

Carl left them to find his slut sprawled on the bed, his ass still full of Carl’s leavings. Perfect. He locked the door, then turned back to the bed and unzipped his trousers.

“Hey, handsome,” his boy said in a thick voice. “How about another hit?” The slut turned over and waved his delectable ass in the air.

Carl snorted and reached into his pocket. He tossed a blue pill on the bed, then watched his boy swallow it dry. His boy then presented himself on his hands and knees, willingly strapping a collar and chain around his neck. Carl smiled and approached his new slave. If Carl fucked him hard enough, he might just reach his own high. Thoughts of making Owen pay dearly only added to his pleasure. And later, when his boy moaned in delighted pain, begging for more, Carl found his own perfection in the rush of violent desire.

* * * *

Owen clasped hands with Caleb Dalton, a man he hadn’t seen in way too long. Just as he remembered, Caleb had a hard face and hard hands to match. Not attractive by any stretch, Caleb had that powerful aura that often alarmed those not used to being around such strength. And no two ways about it, Caleb was mesmerizing in his own way. Short hair that had turned silver when the guy reached his twenty-fourth birthday surrounded blunt features—a square jaw, crooked nose, and lean face. The man’s dark brown eyes glowed with humor as he shook Owen’s hand.

“Getting bigger, eh, Owen?” he said with a glance at Owen’s arms.

Caleb himself was no slouch. Once a trainer for the PWP, he had also been given the drugs that finessed and empowered his psychic abilities. Off the drugs since the program had closed, he apparently exercised like a demon.

“Either you’re eating steroids for breakfast, or you’ve been working out like a dog,” Owen drawled.

“Woof woof.”

Owen laughed.

Ian cleared his throat. “Ahem.”

Owen turned back to the group. He’d gathered everyone together in one of the two conference rooms he used when conducting business at home, wanting them all to meet Caleb, who would be staying on for the next few weeks, or at least until Owen sealed Kerr in his coffin. “I’m sorry. This is Caleb Dalton, an old friend of mine and current troubleshooter for the government.”

“That’s one way to pretty it up,” Caleb muttered with a grin. “I’m a small-arms expert, demo man, and hand-to-hand trainer working for DoD.” The Department of Defense. “We can talk vitals later.”

“Sounds good,” Reuben answered.

“Reuben Knox and his brother, Joe.” Owen pointed them out. “Tim Mallory, my right-hand man, assistant—you name it, he does it.”

“Tim.” Caleb nodded.

“Sir.”

Owen rolled his eyes. Tim and his love affair with formal authority. “This is Bev Dorset, our cook and resident wonder woman. She makes the best sticky buns you’ve ever had.”

Fifty-six years young, the woman had only recently gone gray. He respected and loved Bev. She’d been a great comfort to him and Heather throughout the years, especially during their rough period of loss. He treasured her.

Bev blushed. “Oh, now. Don’t forget my chocolate chip cookies.”

Caleb laughed.

Ian, Owen noted, didn’t look pleased. Because others had attention, or because Caleb stood so close? Owen hoped for the latter. In some ways, Ian was easy to read, yet in others, he remained an enigma. Owen skipped Ian, saving the best for last, and pointed to the petite blonde next to Bev. “Meet Dolly Hampton, our housekeeper with a capital
H
. Without her, this place would—”

“Go to hell in a handbasket.” Dolly winked. “My mother used to say that all the time, but working here, now I know what she meant. Nice to meet you, Caleb.” A pretty woman in her early forties, Dolly had been working as a live-in housekeeper for the past six years. He’d never had a complaint about her, though if what he suspected continued to build between her and Reuben, he might have to intervene. Reuben watched her like a hawk—when she wasn’t looking. They both acted like the other didn’t exist. Polite nods and small conversation if forced, but Owen felt the sexual tension. He didn’t oppose them dating, but things could get awkward if they didn’t get on well. And he didn’t want to lose the Knoxes or Dolly. It was hard enough to find people he could trust to live underfoot.

A glance at Reuben showed him frowning at her friendliness with Caleb.

Oh hell. Might as well accept the fact they’re going to mix it up sooner than later
. Owen stifled a sigh. “And this,” he said as he waved a hand at Ian, “is Ian Ryder. Ian has been helping me track down Kerr.” He paused, not wanting to go into too much detail with the ladies present.

Dolly seemed to read his mind. “I’m back to work, then.”

Apparently, Bev too, because she smiled and said, “With more mouths to feed, I need to replan my meals.”

The ladies left, and the group waited for Ian to speak. As usual, Ian managed to shock Owen and everyone around them.

“Caleb Dalton?” he sneered. “Aren’t you that prick that benched Gavin because of a little mishap?”

Caleb’s smile vanished as if it had never been. “Ryder…Ryder. Oh right. The fuckup who nearly broke the PWP before we officially disbanded. Caught stealing from the cookie jar one time too many, eh? So who did you blow to get out of jail the first time?”

Owen watched the byplay, stunned yet titillated to see his old friend and his new lover duking it out. A glance at the others showed them equally engrossed.

“Please.” Ian snorted, seeming not at all intimidated by Caleb’s clearly larger frame and angry frown. “The government begs me to use my skills to take down the enemy; then they want to jail me for it? I blew your brother, your father,
and
your boyfriend to get out. That’s who.”

Caleb stared at him, the veins in his forehead prominent. “You little shit. First of all, no one asked you to steal four million from the Ops Fund. You did that all on your own.”

“Hearsay.” Ian waved him on.

“And second, ‘benching’ Gavin Caldwell was the right thing to do. The kid froze on an op and nearly killed two agents while doing so. He wasn’t ready for the big time, not then. From what I hear now, he’s doing great working for your boss. A formidable CPA, right?” Caleb asked Owen, overly polite.

Fascinating. So Caleb had trained Gavin Caldwell at some point. Jack’s accountant, Gavin, was a whiz with numbers. He’d worked for Owen with another of Jack’s people to retrieve
Chronicles
, the book Kerr had stolen. But Owen still couldn’t imagine the quiet, pleasant man in the field. He just didn’t seem to have the temperament for the rougher stuff. Numbers and percentages? Sure. Murder and mystery? Not so much.