Riding the Storm (22 page)

"Annika,
come down from there," he called.

"I
don't have to listen to you. Maybe this thing wants to talk to me. I'll listen.
We can bargain."

"You
know as well as I do that spirits don't work like that," he said, but she
was too far gone.

He
wasn't sure if she was more upset by his suggestion of sleeping with him, or
the fact that she
wanted
to sleep with him. And if her love for Dev was
the reason—well, for some reason that wasn't exactly ringing true to him. Or
maybe he wanted her so badly that he'd chosen not to care about how his boss
was going to react.

He
took two deliberate steps toward the stairs, glancing back and forth between
the pictures on the wall in case they decided to fly at him. Of course, the
elaborate—and enormous—crystal chandelier that hung directly above him was
something he kept an eye on as well.

The
matching one—a tiny bit smaller but still just as deadly—hung at the top of the
stairs, which Annika was rapidly approaching. He looked up and saw the plaster
around the base of the chandelier was cracking.

With
lightning speed, he was up the stairs, locking an arm around her waist and
rolling with her down the steps, even as the heavy ornament came crashing down
at the top of the stairs, shattering as it went and continuing to roll directly
at them.

Creed
got to his feet and dragged Annika with him into the safety of the hallway
between the foyer and the kitchen. She shook slightly, but she was unharmed,
except for the bruises they were both going to be feeling from their fall.

"Dammit.
Dev's going to kill me," she said, trying to get her legs under her. But
he wasn't ready for her to go back to normal just yet.

He
took her by the shoulders, which she squared under his touch, and he looked
directly into her beautiful blue eyes. "You need to listen more," he
said fiercely. "There are people who have your best interests in mind. Who
want to help you, if you'll just let them in."

He
knew the basics about Annika—the bare bones about how she'd been raised and why
she'd been brought to ACRO. That explained a lot about why she didn't trust,
but until she did, although she might become a great operative, she wasn't ever
going to be whole. And Creed didn't think that was any way for her to live.

"And
you're one of those people?" she asked, her voice softer than he'd ever
heard it.

"Yes,
I am."

She
stared at him for a long minute before she spoke again. "Go to hell,
Creed," she said, twisting away from him and taking off up the back stairs
before he had a chance to stop her.

Remy
Begnaud Sr. didn't need to do his drinking at the ramshackle dive bar he'd
frequented for years, not now that the Haley girl had paid him a handsome sum
in exchange for T.

He'd
tried hanging out in classier places than the Bayou Lantern, had bought the
Widow Johnson fancy-shmancy cocktails at all of them, but he'd been so far out
of his element he might as well have been on the moon.

Besides,
he thought, as he downed a shot of whiskey and followed it with a beer back,
when he passed out here, no one called the cops. And today Widow Johnson had
made it clear that she didn't want to be called either.

"Eh,
Remy, how dat boy o' yous?"

A
heavy hand came down on Remy's back, and Leon Breaux, a flabby old geezer who
talked like his jaw had been wired shut, swung onto a stool at the bar beside
him.

"Ain't
seen him," Remy said, even though it wasn't true—he'd gone to see T
earlier, but T'd had the meteorologist in the pirogue and the situation didn't
look welcoming.

"I
hear tell he back. Done brung dat storm wit 'im."

Remy
signaled Ross, the bartender and owner, for another round of whiskey and beer.
"Ain't my problem, Leon. I told you, I ain't seen him."

But
he had, over and over. In the nightmares that had plagued him every night since
he'd cashed the meteorologist's check. His boy came to his dreams, accusing,
asking why his daddy had sold him out. No matter how hard he tried to tell T it
was for his own good, nothing changed. The dreams always ended the same way,
with T sending a bolt of lightning into Remy Senior's body, vaporizing him with
a sizzle.

Ross
came back with the drinks, and Remy swallowed them both, his hand so shaky he
spilled down the front of his wife-beater. He loved his kid, dammit, and he
wanted what was best for him. Maybe he wouldn't win the Father of the Year
award, but he'd given T food and shelter, things he himself hadn't grown up
with.

And
he'd never, ever treated T like he was nothing but an inconvenience. Truth be
told, the boy had probably saved Remy Senior's life, kept him from doing
something stupid after he lost Fay Lynne.

And
you repaid him by selling his secret.

Remy
shook his head, tried to force the words out of his brain, but all they did was
rattle around inside his skull. Damn it all to hell. Why should he feel guilty?
T owed him for taking him in when no one else would. Remy deserved every cent
of the money he got from the woman, what with all the times he'd had to save
the kid from being lynched.

He
laughed out loud, because wasn't it funny how no matter how many times you told
yourself something, you still didn't believe it. He didn't think he could get
drunk enough to talk himself into believing he deserved the money. Not when T
knew nothing about it.

Tomorrow,
first thing in the morning, he was going to go make things right with his son.
Tell him the truth. Tell him he loved him. Hand the money right back to Miss
Haley.

Well,
he'd play that last part by ear.

"Eh,
Remy? You okay?"

He
blinked, realized he'd gone someplace he shouldn't have, and now the other man
stared at him like he might be a bit worried.

"Leave
me alone, Leon."

Leon
clapped him on the back again and stood. "You need a ride, you lemme
know." He ambled off toward a pool table near the back, where his buddies
Billy and Lloyd were arguing over a missed shot.

Remy
eyed the entrance, wondering if he'd go through it tonight on his own two feet,
because that hadn't happened lately. The door swung open, and he lay bets with
himself that Crawfish Matthews would be the one coming in, but he lost that
wager by a mile.

It
wasn't a crusty old crawdaddy farmer who walked inside, no sir-ee. It was some
kind of angel, and all heads turned to watch a little ray of heaven put a shine
on the dull character of the seedy tavern.

She
looked around as though she'd never been there, and he was sure she hadn't. He'd
have remembered a rack like that.

Her
gaze fixed on him, and he swallowed hard as she walked purposefully toward him,
her hiking boots thumping on the floor, her long, slim legs flexing inside
tight-fitting jeans. Her sleeveless, button-down blouse just brushed the
waistband of her pants, and when she dragged her fingers through her blond
hair, he caught a glimpse of abs ripped like a bodybuilder's.

Day-yam.

She
parked her pretty ass next to Remy but didn't have a chance to say anything,
because Ross tripped all over himself offering her a drink. On him. Somewhere,
pigs had sprouted wings.

She
shook her head, and Ross's expression fell like a coon shot from a tree. Hell,
Remy thought Ross would cry when the angel turned to him.

"Are
you Remy Begnaud?"

Yankee
accent, so she wasn't from around here. "Mebbe. Who's asking?" he
replied, hoping his words hadn't sounded as slurred to her as they had to him.

"My
name's Karen Anderson. I work with Haley Holmes."

His
gut took a dive to his feet. "She said she was working alone."

The
woman nodded." Change in plans. There's… a problem."

"What
happened?" Stomach knotting with fear, he clutched Karen's arm.
"Where's T?"

"He's
at the house. Something's wrong. He's upset and calling for you." She leaned
forward and lowered her voice. "We can't get him to turn off the
weather."

Remy
stood, wobbled, but caught himself on the bar top. "I gotta get to
him."

"Wait,"
she said, looping her arm around his waist. "I'll drive."

He
stumbled once or twice on the way to the door, but she was surprisingly strong,
held him up like she was a two-hundred-pound linebacker and not a skinny,
top-heavy woman who couldn't stand taller than about five-seven.

They
stepped out into the humid night air, and she guided him toward the alley.
"Parking lot's the other way," he said.

"It
was full. I had to park in the back."

"Oh.
Okay." Strange. There hadn't been many customers inside, but before he
could think too hard on why the lot would be full, the hair on the back of his
neck prickled.

Miss
Karen had developed an accent, one he couldn't place, but it sounded European.
Russian, maybe.

"Wait,"
he said, slowing. "Who did you say you work for?"

"I
will explain on the way."

"I
don't think so."

She
pulled to a halt and shook her head, not looking at him. "You couldn't
simply be a good drunk and follow along."

What
came next was a blur of movement and sound and pain. Karen grabbed his arm and
yanked it so hard behind his back that he heard a crack, felt a white-hot,
searing stab of agony that brought tears to his eyes. A man came from nowhere,
clapped a hand over Remy Senior's mouth before he could cry out, and another
threw him into the trunk of a car. His arms and legs were useless, bound in
some way, though no one had tied him up.

"Hurry,"
Miss Karen said, "I need a shower after stepping foot in that place."
She cursed, a hard, disgusting oath that shouldn't come out of any lady's
mouth. "Hakata will pay for sending me on this hick assignment."

From
where she stood near the bumper, she peered at Remy with a grin that shriveled
his privates until he figured they were hiding up inside his belly. "And
you will pay for making me touch you, you insect."

Her
fist crunched into his mouth with a sickening, wet thud, and he tasted blood.

"Where's
Remy?"

He
spit out a tooth and tested a loose canine with his tongue. "Who are
you?"

"I
ask the questions, asshole."

Her
second blow connected with his ribs, and fiery pain engulfed his chest. He
coughed, inhaled air in shallow gasps that sucked blood into his windpipe and
stung his lungs.

"Let's
try this again. Remy's not at the house. Where would he go?"

"Don't
know," he wheezed through his split, swollen lips. "Ain't talked to
him in years."

A man
standing next to the woman reached for the trunk hood. "He's lying,
Oksana."

"Really?
No shit?" She shot the guy an irritated glare. "I'm so glad Hakata
sent a psychic to tell us the obvious." Rolling her eyes, she bent over
Remy until her boobs filled his blurry vision. "We can set traps, but if
you just tell us where he is, this will go easier on both of you."

"Fuck.
You."

She
snarled, a nasty, feral sound. Her fist came at his face in slow motion, and
then the world went black.

Thanks
to obscenely exposed cleavage and the sheer, flowing skirt, insecurity followed
Haley like a stray dog as she searched the party for Remy. If she lost him now,
she'd be in too much trouble to measure on any of her equipment.

She
made her way to the huge tent where tables laden with Cajun and Creole cuisine
were lined up in rows. No tall former SEAL to be found, but food overflowed
from silver serving dishes, and her stomach was growling. She'd eat while she
wandered around in search of her charge.

"Tsk-tsk,
chere
." A ruddy-faced man with a thick Cajun accent stopped her as
she passed a giant tub full of liquid. "Why don't you have one of Leo's
special drinks?"

"I,
uh…

He
gave a dramatic shake of the head and filled a plastic cup with ice from the
chest at his feet. "You don't want to offend me, now, do you?"

She
laughed, charmed by the little man who wore only his tuxedo pants, and
suspenders over his barrel chest. No shoes, no shirt, not even a watch. "I
certainly do not want to offend you."

"Good
girl." He filled the cup with red liquid from the tub.

"This
here is cherry bounce. A little bit of this, a little bit of that, a tree full
of cherries and a tanker truck of white lightning."

"White
lightning? That sounds like my kind of drink."

He
winked. "
Laissez les bon temp rouler, chere
. Let the good times
roll."

She
thanked Leo, and keeping an eye out for Remy, she nibbled on sweet beignets and
spicy crawfish while she walked around the party, until she ended up on the
grassy slope where people danced. Surely Remy wasn't dancing…