Sweet Revenge (19 page)

Though she’d been listening to Mrs. Reddington’s one-woman crusade about the importance of a good education, she interjected a comment when the woman paused for a breath: “I’ve brought several tests with me. I think it’ll give me a more detailed account of where Amelia is in her studies. Would you like to see them?”

“Absolutely.”

Having a good relationship with Mrs. Reddington was important to her employment, but developing a good rapport with her new student was vital. If Amelia resented her new teacher, it would do neither of them any good. With that thought, she said, “Why don’t I go get them and you and I can review them and chat. And then, tomorrow morning, Amelia and I can get to know each other better.”

Out the corner of her eye, she saw a glint of appreciation sparkle in Amelia’s. The little girl turned to her mother. “Can I leave now? Please?”

Sarah Reddington laughed as she looked down at her excited daughter. “Oh, all right. Just don’t get in Giselle and Raphael’s way.”

The cup Karen was holding trembled in her hand. She quickly placed it on the table and stood. “I’ll just go get the tests. Be right back.”

She and Amelia walked out of the room together. Stopping in the hallway, she winked at the dark-haired, sweet-faced child. “See you tomorrow morning.”

Surprising her, Amelia winked back. “Thanks for breaking me out of there. See you tomorrow.”

Karen swallowed a laugh and kept a smile on her face all the way down two hallways, until she reached her room. Once inside, she closed the door, leaned against it, and released a long, shaky breath. Raphael was here? On the island? But why?

Would he recognize her? They’d never met, but she was sure he’d seen photographs of her.

Going to the full-length mirror across the room, she carefully examined her image. Shoulder-length, dark brown hair framed a round, slightly chubby face that went with her chunky body. Thick, black-rimmed glasses slightly obscured her light brown eyes. A mouth, thinned by a skillful application of lipstick, covered slightly protruding teeth. With all of this, along with the careful makeup she applied each morning to make her look older and the mouthpiece she’d had made to subtly change the shape of her face, even she barely recognized herself. No way could someone who’d seen her only in a photograph know her. And Reddington, who’d attended the beginning of her interview, hadn’t recognized her. Although, since he’d barely glanced at her, maybe she shouldn’t be patting herself on the back for that yet.

She took a step away and gave herself an all-over searching look. No, there was no way anyone would recognize her. She was safe.

Satisfied, she pulled out several tests she’d prepared in advance and headed for the door. If she barely recognized herself, how could anyone else know that Jamie Kendrick had finally arrived to fulfill her mission?

fifteen

Madrid

Dylan stood beneath the hot scald of the shower. Even though he knew it wouldn’t help alleviate the filth, it was the only method he had to feel even the slightest amount of cleanliness.

After weeks of living in refuse with sewer rats as his only companions, he was beginning to wonder if, even when the job was over, he’d ever feel clean again. Hell of it was, this wasn’t the worse job he’d ever been on. He’d been working undercover ops for years. Been exposed to the dregs of society. Reddington’s people were scum, but no more so than many others he’d dealt with.

No, the reason he felt the sliminess so deeply this time was personal. These were the men who’d held Jamie. Who’d treated her as if she were some kind of livestock they could buy or sell at a whim.

When the water turned cold, he turned it off and opened the shower curtain. Stepping out, he grabbed a towel and rubbed himself down. Seemed stupid to clean up, considering tonight was going to be shitty. Dylan figured he’d come back to the apartment and shower again after it was over.

For the first time, Armando had asked him to go hunting. When the bastard had posed the question, Dylan had known exactly what he meant. They were going to hunt down and abduct people.

He pulled on jeans and a black T-shirt. As he combed his damp hair, he avoided looking at his eyes, since he knew what he’d see: an emptiness that went straight through his soul.

Turning away from the mirror, he glanced around the dismal, utilitarian apartment. Reddington’s men would probably be back again tonight for another search. Even though he’d been working with them for weeks, they were taking no chances. Though they were careful in their searches, he knew exactly how many times they’d broken in and rifled through everything he owned.

He had nothing to hide and was actually more than happy to have them search as much as they liked. He’d even stacked the odds in his favor with a few porno magazines and a couple of low-budget skin flicks. Anyone looking through his stuff would assume he was as sick and twisted as the rest of the organization.

Tonight’s hunt was new territory for him. Dylan hoped it represented a graduation of sorts. The more Armando trusted him, the more likely he’d be to spill his guts. What Dylan wanted was an invitation to Reddington’s hideaway. Even though it was probably too soon for that intimate a gesture, he planned to make sure that when Armando spoke of him to Reddington, it would be in the most glowing of terms.

Dylan had yet to meet or even get a glimpse of the big man himself. Armando had explained that his boss was taking a lengthy sabbatical but was aware of all business transactions. Unable to ask questions without showing his interest in the man, he’d shrugged and grunted through Armando’s explanation of Reddington’s absence—as if it made no difference to him if he ever met the boss, instead of the truth, which was that meeting the bastard meant more to Dylan than he could ever express.

His only ease in this entire mess was the fact that Jamie was completely out of it. Even though he’d hurt her deeply and damaged any future relationship, friendship or otherwise, knowing she was safe made all the difference. With her safe and thousands of miles from danger, he could do this job, concentrate fully on bringing the pervert down.

When McKenna had told him that Jamie had returned to the States and had found a teaching job, his initial reaction had been a deep stab of guilt. He had hurt her even more than he’d thought. And while he’d known it was inevitable, that hadn’t eased the ache.

He’d heard her leave the cabin that morning. Had actually been on the other side of the door with his hand on the knob, alternately cursing and lecturing himself on his weakness. Even though he’d had no other choice, letting her go had deadened something inside him. Since then, he’d been acting on autopilot. Being with Jamie had brought life and light into his world, and the instant she’d left, it had grown dark and still again.

Bringing Reddington to justice wouldn’t garner her forgiveness. That wasn’t what he was expecting. Jamie deserved to have her pound of flesh for what the man had done to her … and his son, too. She hadn’t told him specifically what had happened while she was in captivity, but he knew she’d suffered from the experience. She had said her need to bring Reddington to justice wasn’t out of revenge. Dylan couldn’t say the same. Yeah, the man needed to be stopped for what he’d been doing for years … that went without saying. But the minute he’d rescued Jamie, bringing Reddington down had become his own personal mission. Jamie might not want revenge, but Dylan wanted it for her. And he intended to see that she got it, one way or the other.

Pulling away from his dark thoughts, he grabbed his car keys and leather jacket. Moping about wouldn’t get the job done. With his mind back in auto mode again, he stalked out the door, ready to deal with the devil’s minions in hopes that someday very soon, he’d be dealing with the devil himself.

Dylan took another small swallow of his watered-down beer. The smoke-filled room burned his eyes and seared his lungs as if he held a cigarette in his mouth. How were they supposed to find whatever the hell they were looking for when he could barely make out anyone’s features?

Armando was acting strange, too. The tall, thick man sat beside him at the bar, nursing his beer and barely looking up. This had been the agreed-upon meeting place. Maybe they were going somewhere else.

“I thought we were supposed to be hunting. I can’t see a damn thing in here.”

“Yeah … in a minute.”

Armando’s gruff voice always sounded like he had gravel stuck in his throat. Dylan knew the man could speak fluent English, but when they were alone, he always spoke in his native tongue—an odd dialect that, with his raspy voice, made many of his words come out garbled and unintelligible. Armando’s poor speaking ability was just one of his many unattractive traits. Informants had told them that Reddington insisted that those close to him speak only English in his presence. Dylan figured Armando’s penchant for speaking only Spanish was his small rebellion against his employer’s edict.

Always aware of his surroundings, Dylan felt a strange chill zip up his spine. He took another glance around the room, careful not to settle on anyone in particular. In a shithole like this, if you made eye contact, you were in trouble. His quick scan gave him an update: eight men and three women in the room with him and Armando. Most of them were doing their own thing—a couple playing pool, one man throwing darts. One man in the corner was getting a not so discreet blow job from a woman, while another man leaned against the wall and watched, probably waiting his turn.

Dylan turned away. Yeah, he’d definitely been in classier joints.

Still, that feeling of being watched, being considered, lingered. There were eyes on him. He shot another glance at Armando, who dropped his gaze quickly, almost guiltily.
What the hell?

They came at him from both sides. Two men, about Dylan’s height but muscle-bound and thick-necked—men who could be used as cautionary tales against steroids. Neither of them rushed him; they just came toward him slow and menacing. Their blank, soulless eyes left no doubt of their intent.

Dylan didn’t bother to look at Armando for help. The man had set this up for some reason. Had his cover been blown or was this a test? At this point, nothing mattered other than surviving the next few minutes.

As if taking a leisurely swallow of his beer, Dylan lifted his glass and, in a flash, slammed the heavy mug into the face of the man on his right. Knowing that’d take him out of the fight for only a few seconds, Dylan immediately whirled around to the other man. With his right arm, he blocked the meaty fist headed toward his head and followed with a left hook to the guy’s jaw, a hard kick to his chest, and then a punch to his groin. The guy staggered, giving Dylan time to handle the man he’d tapped with his beer mug. Twisting halfway, he side-kicked the guy’s already bloodied nose and then slammed a controlled fist into the man’s throat. A harder hit would have killed him … a kill wasn’t his intent. That’d bring attention no one wanted, especially an undercover LCR operative.

With one man down, he turned to deal with the other one, but not before a thud to the side of his head almost brought him to his knees. Ignoring the pain, Dylan made use of his bent knees, grabbed the stool in front of him, and whirled. He saw the guy’s eyes widen in terror a split second before the stool slammed across his face. Blood spurted and the man fell to his knees, grabbing his face and neck where the wooden legs had slashed deep crevices. The creep hadn’t been pretty before and was even less so now.

With his breath settling down, Dylan became aware of the dead silence in the smoke-filled room. All eyes were on him, and even through the fog, he could see the grudging respect in the patrons’ expressions. If nothing else, at least these vermin wouldn’t try to challenge him, too.

Turning back to Armando, Dylan wasn’t surprised to see the wide grin on the man’s face. Apparently this had been a test, and judging by the man’s pleased expression, Dylan had passed.

Raising a brow, he asked, “So, are we going hunting now or you got something else to throw at me?”

Guttural laughter exploded from Armando. Slapping Dylan on the back, he called out, “A round of drinks in honor of my very good and talented friend.”

More shouts of laughter and a few “hear hears”, and then, as if nothing unusual had occurred, each person went back to what they’d been doing before. Dylan noted that the man who’d been waiting for his blow job was now being serviced. The two men he’d knocked out were silently pulled out the door. And life, in all its disgusting wonder, went on.

Armando gave Dylan another hardy slap on his back and pulled out a stool for him. “I knew you were going to be able to handle yourself, but, man, you did better than I ever expected.”

Taking a swallow of his beer, Dylan shrugged. “You want to tell me what that was about?”

“You graduated, my friend. That’s what it was all about.”

“Meaning?”

“I told the boss man about you.” Armando thudded a fist against his own chest. “He values my opinion above all others. This was your final exam before I introduce you to him.” He grinned again, revealing small, slightly yellowed teeth that reminded Dylan of a piranha’s. “Soon you will meet him.”

Though showing no emotion was Dylan’s normal expression, it was more of a struggle than usual not to react with elation at the news. Yes, dammit, yes! He was going to get close to the son of a bitch.

With a jerk of his head, Dylan nodded. “Good.”

“Ready to go hunting?”

“No.”

The gleam left Armando’s eyes. “Why not?”

Dylan knew he was taking a risk here, but he believed it was the right move to make. Being a pushover and a follower didn’t impress anyone, even scumbag human traffickers. “I kicked the shit out of those two pieces of vermin. A couple of weeks ago, I brought you two prime pieces of ass that sold at a damn fine price. I sat through auctions that made my dick so hard I could crush a rock with it and didn’t take a fucking thing for myself. That’s enough. If your boss wants me to work for him, then it’s time to move forward. If not, I’ve got plenty of other options.”

A flash of anger came into Armando’s eyes but was quickly doused. He had wanted an underling—a buddy to pal around with and play his sick games with him. Instead, he had gotten an equal. He nodded. “I’ll call the boss. See when he might be available.”

Unable to sit beside the creep any longer or suffer the stench of bad cigarettes and body odor, Dylan stood. “Call me.” With those words, he took his time walking through the bar. He could feel eyes on him, but he had no concern that he’d be confronted again. He’d earned his place at the bar; more importantly, he’d earned his place with Reddington.

Armando would be getting in touch with him in a few days, and then, hopefully, he’d be meeting the head slimeball himself. For now, Dylan wanted to go back to his crappy apartment, take another shower, and think about sunshine.