Her scent is easy to follow-into a bedroom, but what terrifies me is the aroma of a human male. Not Stu-some other man. And gunpowder.
Fuck.
Kylie ran into trouble. Damn her. Why in the hell had she risked coming back here? She should know better.
I slam back out the door, sniffing the breeze, trying to find out where he’s taken her. It wasn’t out the front door-I would’ve smelled it there. Besides, the feds would’ve seen. I catch a trace of both their scents in the alleyway and then it disappears. There must have been a car waiting.
Christ on a stick, this couldn’t be worse. I pick up my phone, then dial Garrett, communicating with him what I’ve found.
Jesus fuck. If anything happens to her, I am going to tear the throat out of every man I even suspect of knowing about it.
For the hundredth time, I curse myself for mistrusting her. For sending her into danger on her own.
Kylie. My kitten. Out there on her own in mortal danger.
I lift my mouth to the moon, barely holding back a howl of rage and anguish.
~.~
Kylie
I’m in the trunk of a car, my hands duct taped behind my back, another strip covering my mouth. I’m choking to death on my own spit. My breath sucks in and out with frantic, tearing attempts, but my nostrils seal closed, keeping me from succeeding.
Stars dance before my eyes. The trunk spins.
Don’t make me grope you again.
I must’ve passed out, because I hear Jackson speaking to me. I conjure the feel of his hands pressing firmly against my sternum.
My breath eases off its frantic, suffocating pace.
I imagine Jackson lying behind me in the trunk, his huge arms banded around me, palms pinning the center of my chest.
I’m triggering your calm reflex.
I let the relief flow over me the way it had in the elevator. The sense of security being near Jackson brought me. The sense of belonging, of home.
Of course, I know that is best forgotten, but if deluding myself in this moment with the memory of Jackson King helps, I’m doing it.
The car pulls onto gravel and then slows to a stop. I tense, preparing to fight. My foot shoots out the minute the trunk opens, but the asshole dodges out of the way and punches me in the face. Pain explodes in my cheek, shatters the little concentration I’d gathered.
I wilt, sickness rising in my belly, desperation bleeding in.
The guy hauls me out. We’re at some kind of warehouse. He drags me inside where several other men are gathered, including Stu who sits bent over a computer set up on a card table. “Look who showed up at her house,” my captor drawls.
I glare at Stu, who has the nerve to look sickened by my appearance.
“The first fucking thing that’s gone right all day,” a guy answers in a crisp British accent. “Sit her down here.” He kicks out the chair beside Stu. “Someone reversed the money trail on the hijacked cards. I’ve got Stu working on it, but how much you want to bet this little hack had something to do with it?”
I want to say damn straight, but I’m not suicidal.
I’m thrown down in chair, and I look over Stu’s shoulder at his screen. He splits a glance between me and the screen. Desperation is present in his face. And fear.
Looks like Stu bit off way more than he can chew. I should be gloating, but I’m not happy for his misery. Having the one villain who’s half an ally to me be in trouble with the rest of them doesn’t help me much.
“How about we cut off her fingers? Permanently stop her from hacking?” This comes from the peanut gallery, one of four men leaning against crates, smoking cigars and talking.
“Shut up. You cut off her fingers, she can’t fix this.” British Accent walks over to me.
“Too bad we already killed the old lady. She would’ve been good leverage, now,” another from the peanut gallery declares.
I attempt to look casual despite the terrible throbbing in my cheek where the guy punched me. Like it’s my first day on the job, not like I’ve just been kidnapped and threatened. I cross one leg over the other and lean close to Stu. “So, what’s going on?”
British Accent grabs a handful of hair and yanks my head back so hard my teeth rattle. “Did you reverse the money trail?”
I give him my most mulish look. “Why would I help SeCure? Jackson King thinks I’m responsible for all this.”
He slaps me, reigniting the wicked pain of my bruise. “Get him back into the system,” he commands.
I wiggle the fingers taped behind my back. “I’ll need my fingers free,” I sing out.
“No fingers. Talk him through it.”
Damn.
I ignore British Accent and direct my attention to Stu. “Okay, where are you?”
He’s attempting a straightforward hack into SeCure, which we both know isn’t going to work. It occurs to me he might not be trying that hard. Maybe he’s seen the writing on the wall. They’re probably going to get rid of him as soon as he finishes the deal.
British Accent yanks my hair again. “Help him.”
I allow my anger to show. “Okay asshole. Do you know anything about hacking? No one ever knows the way in. It’s about experimentation. You just keep trying things until you make some headway. If I’m going to help Stu, I need my own computer and my fingers. Me looking over his shoulder just slows us both down.”
British Accent-I’ll call him BA, looks at Stu, who shrugs. “She’s right.”
It’s too much to hope they’ll give me my computer, but he does slide the tape off my wrists and shove another laptop in my face. Despite the fact that I’m still wearing the mini skirt from days before, I prop one ankle on my knee to make a desk and flip open the laptop.