No One Left to Tell (38 page)

As the door creaked closed, she and Father Antonio were thrown into darkness. Her eyes fought for any image to define the space.
Nothing.
The emptiness overwhelmed her. Raven closed her eyes, then opened them again.
Still nothing.
Her equilibrium thrown off-balance, she imagined herself floating weightless and free.

Sound was another matter. The shallow breathing of Father Antonio alerted her. But under his breath, she heard something else. The muffled sound of the priest's voice came from dead ahead. With the dank air sucking into her lungs, Raven crawled along the gritty floor. Drawing closer, she realized the man was praying.

"Father? Talk to me," she whispered.

"I'm . . . here." The priest's voice cracked with fear. "But I can't d-do this." He'd already given up.

Raven pulled and scrambled her way to a sitting position, shoulder to shoulder with her fellow captive. Despite the nip in the room, sweat trickled down her spine.

"Listen to me, Father. You keep praying to God. Lord knows we could use his help," she urged. "But until he comes through, you gotta get this tape off me. You and I have some planning to do."

He stopped his prayer, but the man didn't move. She had to find another way to sway him. "I'm not gonna leave you, Father. You understand me?"

Silence.

Eventually, he reached for her, struggling to set her free. Unable to see his face, she had no way to read him. It would be difficult enough to get herself out of this mess. In a fight, the reluctant priest would be an albatross around her neck. But she didn't have a choice. The life of another human being was in her hands. She had to try.

Yet despite being in the company of a holy man, she vowed one thing. If this was her time to die, she'd take Logan McBride with her!

Christian crept along the brick wall of the deserted warehouse, eyes alert. He hadn't found his SUV yet, but Bill Edwards and the GPS readings had led him to this place. And with his latest discovery, he followed a thin trail—
as thin as a wisp of smoke.

The cleansing storm had left the air crisp in its wake, but in the dying breeze, a scent lingered. And like a predator, he followed. Although deep shadows deceived his eyes, he relied more on his other senses to guide him.

Christian had mastered the technique, the sensation arousing him. He never felt so alive as when he hunted. And his skill held another side benefit. Putting all his efforts into the chase, he forgot his fear of the dark, the weakness that defined him.

But in his war room skirmishes at the Dunhill Estate, no one died. Tonight would be different.

Up ahead, a faint red glow drew his attention, fading in and out at irregular intervals. He crouched low and breathed in the scent, listening for what he knew would follow—the crunch of gravel on asphalt, the scuff of a shoe. Cigarette smoke provided the trail, tinged by the stench imbedded in the clothes of the target. The guard had been careless.

He peered through the darkness, then allowed an inner peace to take root. Eyes closed, he slowed his heart rate to heighten his awareness, feeling the oppressive weight of the stranger displacing air with his pacing. He tasted the man's proximity with the whole of his senses.

Slowly, Christian advanced, his muscles tensed in anticipation. Soon, he'd be close enough to—

A shadow moved to his left.

He dropped to the ground on instinct, flat on his belly. The wet, cold ground seized his skin.

What the hell
—
?
Alert to any noise, he waited. A dark silhouette prowled, unaware of his presence. He listened for the man to make his move, unsure what that might be. But he soon got his answer.

In one fluid motion, the guard was taken out, his body dropped to the ground with only his dying breath to mark his passing. The execution flawless; only the glint of a knife revealed the weapon used in the stealthy kill, caught in the pale light from the moon. The assassin melded into the shadows, as if he were never there.

Who else hunted with him? Did he have an ally or a new enemy?

So intent on his prey, he nearly missed the movement himself. A humbling experience. Now, if he wanted to make contact, how would he do it without getting himself killed? Only one way came to mind. He evaluated his options, the opportunity for cover being minimal. Yet it might work.

Christian tensed his jaw, fortifying his determination. The odds of getting inside and saving Raven worsened with the added wrinkle. He'd have to confront this new adversary. And given the man's skill, his abilities in the dark would be put to the test.

Even inside gloves, her hands felt sticky. The blood soaked through. The kill had its merits, but cleanliness was not one of them. Jasmine cleared the outside perimeter, the last of the guards dispatched without challenge. Now, she would burrow into the darkened warehouse through the passageway she'd found on an earlier scouting trip. Nicholas had released her to hunt McBride.

Relishing the thought, she smiled. Nicky always did know how to please a woman.

But as she inched her way along the wall, toward the rear of the building, she heard a faint sound. Almost undetectable.

A single beep, loud enough to spoil her plan. The sound carried on the cool night air. Unsure of its origin, she peered through the dark, searching the shadows for any sign of movement. As she neared a corner, Jasmine squared her back to the wall, cautiously moving forward. With a turn of her head, she edged close enough for a sideways glance. The space had once been some kind of storage unit. Its door hung lopsided, off one of its hinges. Adjacent to the main building, it did not give access to McBride's stronghold, so she considered it useless. Oddly enough, the noise came from within. Perhaps she'd dismissed the importance of the room too hastily after all.

She looked inside.

The place conjured up an old memory.
Broker of Death.
Nicky had called her that once. Being a death dealer, Jasmine believed it far better to give than to receive. But with the interior of the bunker completely black, it possessed all the qualities of a crypt. It felt more like an omen of her mortality, leaving her edgy. Yet with the door wide open and busted, a bluish haze cast into the space, reassuring her. She would be in and out quickly.

In the far corner, an object lay on the cement floor. It reflected a pale light onto a brick wall, partially hidden under refuse. It looked as if someone had dropped a cell phone. As she stepped within earshot, the beeping sound took on a rhythm, a steady chirp. It wasn't intimidating in the least, but its power-driven nature sent a clear message.

Someone had been there.

Crouching low, she checked her surroundings one final time. Trusting her instincts, she sensed no one and slipped closer to the object, eyes focused on the glow. She removed debris, making the light more conspicuous.
A phone?
By the time she laid her hands on it, she realized her fatal mistake. Impaired by the light, her night vision was temporarily useless.

Then she heard it.

The door of the bunker wedged shut, throwing her into total darkness, except for the dim glow of the phone's display. She shut it down, not wanting to draw attention to her location. Fortified for the kill, she moved left, relying on her senses to guide her.

The air felt thick with a presence, the sensation elusive and indefinable.
Most remarkable!

Even the faintest sound reverberated inside the compact structure. She held her breath, not giving any advantage to her new adversary. Although cornered, she prepared to fight. Her hand reached for the gun in her thigh holster. A voice emerged from the void, deflecting off the walls.

"No need for the gun. I'm just here to talk." The man whispered, moving as he spoke, making it impossible to pinpoint his location.

Her eyes followed the sound as it rebounded off the walls. But even more disturbing—the voice sounded familiar. Normally, she prided herself on composure under fire. Yet this completely baffled her.

And how did he see her movements? Surely the darkness encumbered him in the same manner. The man moved too quietly to be laden with night-vision gear.
Very intriguing!

She must know more.

"Why do you hide in the shadows? I am only a defenseless woman, more afraid of you than you should be of me." Using her femininity to bait the trap, she would draw him out, a practiced maneuver. She knew from experience that his ego would do the rest. But to her surprise, the man stifled a laugh, a low, sensual sound with a familiar ring of intimacy.

"Lady, you scare the hell out of me, but I'd still like to talk."

"The cell phone. Is it yours?" she asked.

"Yes. Just my way to reach out and touch someone."

As he replied, she powered up the cell and hit the function menu to find his name in the registry, allowing her body to be edged in light. But the only name on the display caused her to rethink killing him.

Dunbill Corporation
.With keen interest, she searched for the man, eager for a glimpse.

"You move well." She tempted him with flattery. "Come closer so we may talk."

"As appealing as that sounds, this is not a game for me." The man changed his tone, forgoing the subterfuge of his whisper. He stepped forward, risking a show of good faith. She admired strength, a quality so few possessed.

"I have someone inside who needs my help," he admitted. "So I have one thing to say."

"This promises to be interesting." She resorted to her usual sarcasm.

But as the man drew near, curiosity won out. She took a risk of her own, powering up the cell phone to shine its light. As his face emerged from the shadows, she nearly forgot to breathe. The uncanny resemblance stunned her—the strong jawline, the full lips, and those most expressive eyes. She swallowed, hard. It took great discipline to hide her reaction. Still, there remained no doubt in her mind.

Nicholas Charboneau bad a son.

Softening her voice, Jasmine encouraged him. "Please, enlighten me."

"You either help me or get out of my way. I don't have time for a debate."

His confidence fascinated her. And his underlying message held much more than an idle threat. She saw it in his eyes. A smile curved her lips. Suddenly, things had gotten much more interesting.

A woman. She wouldn't give her name. And he returned the favor, keeping his anonymity. This wasn't a social occasion.

With a watchful eye, Christian followed her to a rusted Dumpster. Behind it, she stashed her gear and knelt beside it, rummaging through the contents.

By the light of the moon, he observed the woman. Dressed in black with a Kevlar vest for added protection, she wore a thigh-holstered Glock and a knife in her belt. If Christian didn't know better, he'd swear she looked like part of a police tactical team. But something in her manner told him she wouldn't play by anyone's rules, especially on the side of law enforcement.

And what connection did she have to the men inside? He didn't have time to find out.

"I'd like my phone back."

"I do not believe it would be in my best interest to comply. You might call the authorities," she reasoned.