Unleashing the Storm (10 page)

They
entered a cloud deck, and immediately the ping of rain on metal echoed in the
cabin. The craft shuddered and jolted in the light chop, and then the mid-level
clouds thinned out, and they were in the clear.

“This
weather’s shit,” Monty observed.

“What
weather? It’s smooth, blue, and what else can you ask for?” Dev shot Monty a
concerned look, because the guy had been stressed out lately. Trouble at home;
he’d married too young to a woman who hadn’t adjusted to military life. He saw
storms everywhere now.

“Yeah,
whatever,” Monty muttered, and they flew in silence until the purr of the
engines lulled the residual tension out of the air.

Their
descent took them through more clear air, but Monty grumbled about clouds and
Dev decided the copilot needed a serious decompression session when they got
back to base.

It
was ridiculously good weather, but for a brief second, on final approach, Dev’s
vision clouded and then returned. He blinked, but shook it off, because ahead
the runway beckoned, smooth as shit and glinting beneath the Afghan sun. He
pulled back the throttles. Oh, yeah, this landing was going to be a beauty…

Monty
shoved the throttles up again. “What the fuck are you doing? Pull the fuck
back! Don’t you see the fucking explosions?” He grabbed the yoke and pulled
back, his eyes wild.

“Get
your hands off my controls!” Dev yelled. “What the hell is wrong with you? I’ve
got a perfect landing!”

The
cockpit came alive with lights and blaring alarms, low-altitude warnings,
and…what the fuck? The whole craft had gone mad, the copilot had lost his mind,
was fighting for the controls. They were going to crash.

Dev
unbuckled himself and lunged, slammed his fist into Monty’s face. The other man
grunted and fell forward against the instrument panel. Panting, Dev regained
control of the aircraft, eased her in toward the runway.

The
next thing he remembered was the heat, blistering his skin. Burning fuel seared
his nasal passages and lungs, and even in the midst of the chaos, he knew he’d
never forget the crackle and creak of superheated metal.

SLOWLY,
DEV BECAME AWARE of his screams, almost inhuman. The nightmare hit out of the
blue, and thank God he’d chosen to spend the night alone. He’d even sent home
the guard dog Ender sicced on him before he left for his mission last night, an
excedo with superstrength nicknamed Trance because of his hypnotic stare and
powers of persuasion that went beyond the norm.

He’d
known the stress would get to him, whether it was tonight or tomorrow or next
week, knew it was going to wake him up, make him relive each and every painful
memory.

At
times like this, he liked to blame everyone but himself—the old guard at ACRO,
the military…hell, Mother Nature herself for the weather that hadn’t even
caused the crash at the LZ.

Pilot
error. It would’ve shown up right in the black box. Should have. He knew Ender
was good, but even he couldn’t have made pilot error disappear. And still,
Ender was the one who was court-martialed, put in lockup for two years with the
worst of the worst after the crash investigation.

Ender,
who still blamed himself for everything—accused of the most horrible of crimes.
He was supposed to have spent the rest of his life in jail. Would have, if Dev
hadn’t joined ACRO and gotten him out. And still, Ender resisted heartily.
Didn’t
want any fucking favors from you,
he’d spat from behind the bars of the
solitary confinement cell where he spent twenty-three hours per day. Even now
he refused to admit that he’d been the one to save Dev’s life. Told Dev to his
face that he
had no problem killing friends, so why would he save someone he
barely knew.

Dev
never bothered telling the military that Ender could’ve escaped anytime he
wanted to. The fact that he never bothered to was something that concerned Dev
the most.

It’s
the leak at ACRO that’s doing this to you.

There
was most definitely a mole at ACRO—whoever it was had wormed his or her way
into the deepest recesses of the organization, had made themselves privy to all
pertinent information and had nearly gotten Remy, Haley and Wyatt—all ACRO
operatives—killed several months earlier.

And
the weather machine was still out there—although it hadn’t been confirmed, Dev
could feel it in his bones. Itor had something big planned.

It
was the one and only reason he’d sent Creed and Annika to his old family house
in Syracuse. The ghost that had mysteriously haunted him for years as a
teenager, the same one that had come back on the terrible night Dev crashed his
C-130 into the side of a mountain, and again nearly four years ago, was still
there, banished to a portal inside the deserted mansion.

“It
was a fucking badass in real life and it’s looking for revenge,” Oz, his former
lover and the most powerful medium ACRO had ever seen, had told him when they
were still just teenagers. “It’s trying to find that way through you.”

At
the time, Dev hadn’t known or cared why the entity sought him out
specifically—he’d grown up with psychic parents and otherworldly crap all
around him and all he’d wanted was normal. Which he’d been until his plane
crashed ten years earlier and his second sight came through loud and clear.
After that, he’d wanted to know more about the spirit.

The
spirit wanted Dev—craved him—promised to reveal seductive truths about Dev’s
past, about enemies current and future—even about Itor Corp. Things that Oz
always convinced him he was better off not knowing. And Dev hadn’t ever wanted
to hear what it had to say when he was a teenager, had blocked it out with Oz’s
help and banished it from his being.

When
he’d summoned it four years ago, it had been for a specific purpose, to try to
locate an agent lost in Itor territory, and again Oz had to rescue him. Oz had
exorcized it from Dev, was strong enough to lock what he’d deemed as a
truth-spirit seeking redemption into a special portal in Dev’s childhood home.

And
then Oz had left him—a huge blowout over Dev sacrificing himself for the
greater good of ACRO. Dev never thought he’d even attempt to use the spirit
again, but the leak at ACRO had him backed into a corner.

Yes,
the spirit definitely knew things crucial to the success of ACRO. This time,
Dev wanted to hear—needed to, although he wasn’t sure if he was ready to pay
the price.

Creed
claimed that the ghost was still there—free from the portal it had been
banished to, but not free from the actual four walls of the house itself. Which
meant it was still controllable.

Dev
hadn’t been able to bring himself to make the trip there yet, even after all
these months. He’d thought about calling his former lover, laying it all out on
the line, but in the end figured he was better off going it alone.

One
A.M. and he wasn’t nearly ready to return to bed, figured a swim might relax
him.

He
stripped as he walked down the stairs, tripped when he got to the bottom of the
flight on the first floor and clung to the banister tightly, his heart
hammering in his chest.

He
never
tripped, not even when he’d first lost his sight, and certainly never in his
own house. Not when nothing was moved an inch without his okay. And even if it
did it wouldn’t matter—his second sight was always there.

He
checked the area around the bottom step. Nothing. He’d gotten tangled in his
own feet.

Let
it go.

Naked,
he slid open the glass doors and let the night air swirl around him. It smelled
like rain, tasted sweet like the summer, heavy like his favorite brand of port.
There was a definite storm brewing to the west.

Remy
and Haley must be having a field day. That thought at least got a small smile
out of him. His two operatives worked quite well as a team—Remy controlling the
weather and Haley the only one who could control him.

His
own cock stirred, not that it ever took much anyway, but the thought of rough,
hot sex was almost too much. There were people he could call in for that
specific purpose, people who wouldn’t talk to him or ask questions. ACRO
trained Seducers well in that area, and whether they were in the field or
helping out one of their fellow employees, they lived up to their names.

But
tonight he needed to be alone.

He
dove into the water, kept icy enough to chill the worry right out of him. His
head pounded as he stayed under as long as he could—he kicked hard and came up
at the other side of the pool, his feet easily touching the bottom of the
shallow end.

He
pushed up out of the water and walked toward the house. When he felt a hand
touch his back he turned, even though he knew no one human was there.

He
struggled to breathe as he grew light-headed. Because it was happening again.

You
can’t control everything, Dev,
it
whispered.

He
backed up in the direction of the house, his second sight trying to cover him
in all directions. But his calves bumped one of the lounge chairs before he
could stop himself and he sat down hard.

A
warm hand touched him again, middle of his shoulder blades, traced a path down
his spine, and he sat motionless. The touch was soothing at first, comforting,
meant to lull him into a false sense of security. The stroking got harder, more
forceful, a two-handed caress from strong fingers that tried to knead the
tension from his muscles.

He
fought the urge to scream, bit his lip instead, so hard he drew blood.

You
invited me, Devlin. And I’m here to stay.

No,
this couldn’t be happening. Creed told him that the spirit remained in the
house—free of the portal but not free.

But
there was no denying that the spirit had escaped Dev’s childhood home and found
its way to Dev.

God,
he was in trouble. His mind immediately shifted to the one man he knew could
help him, and he felt the spirit wipe away the single tear that rolled down his
cheek.

WEDNESDAY
2:30 A.M. MST

The
sound of growling woke Kira. Bloodcurdling snarls, followed by sudden, urgent
barking. She sat up, looked at the bedside clock. Two-thirty A.M. She’d have
awakened soon anyway, her body needing to find Tom.

Thumping
noises in the hall made her jump. Angry male voices.

She
leaped out of bed, threw on the same shorts and tank she’d worn earlier and
opened the door. Derek and Tom stood in the hallway. They faced each other,
teeth bared, doing some impressive growling of their own. Behind her, the dogs
were nosing her legs, eager to join the action, but she stopped them with a
quick mental command.

“Son
of a bitch,” Derek snarled, red spittle from his split lip splattering on her
floor. He took a menacing step toward Tom. “Nice trick with the fucking
lemonade.”

“You’re
just pissed you fell for it.” Tom kept his angry gaze on Derek as he took his
own step forward. “Kira, get back. Lock yourself in your room.”

“Kira,”
Derek said in a low, simmering tone, “come here. Remember what I told you about
him? I’ll protect you.”

The
scent of danger, of hatred, of blood, made her stomach churn. Dear God, these
men weren’t engaging in a minor testosterone-induced dispute over territory.
This was life or death.

“Don’t
do it, Kira,” Tom snapped, and she looked between the two men, confused and
more than a little frightened.

Around
them, a dozen dogs watched, some whimpering, others crouching, hackles raised.
A black shadow slipped past; Luke, creeping through the crowd of spectators,
low to the ground, his lips curled in a silent snarl.

“Luke!
No!”

Too
late. The shepherd lunged, sank his teeth deeply into Derek’s calf. Shouting,
Derek twisted, brought his fist down on Luke’s head with such force that the
dog sank bonelessly to the floor.

“Bastard!”
she screamed, and then Tom was there in a blur of motion, had Derek in a
headlock.

They
both slammed into the wall across from her. Somehow, Derek broke free, spun Tom
and put his fist into Tom’s back so violently that Tom grunted and his knees
buckled. Tom hit the floor. Derek smiled, sent a roundhouse kick into Tom’s
ribs. Tom flew into the wall with a sickening crunch.

Oh,
God. Kira slipped behind them, gathered Luke into her arms, checked his
breathing. Still alive. Relief washed over her, until Derek shifted his weight
to throw another kick. Inside she screamed at him to stop, but nothing came
out. Her heart hammered. Her teeth chattered. She gripped fistfuls of Luke’s
fur as she watched Tom roll and sweep his legs out.

Derek
crashed to the ground. Tom’s fist slammed into Derek’s jaw, and blood
splattered the walls.

“That,”
he ground out, “was because you touched Kira.” He pounded Derek again, the slap
of fist on wet skin sickening. “That was for fucking Sergeant Jones’s wife
while he was getting killed.” Another punch. “And that was for working for
Itor.”