Dagan leaned down, and the closer inspection revealed his mistake. The shirtwasn’tmissing McShane. It was simply that McShane had been beheaded and dismembered by the blast. His bloody torso was still intact inside the shirt and Dagan felt as if his own chest had been ripped open, exposing his heart to the hot, dusty air. Bile burned the back of his throat like sulfuric acid. As he retched dryly, the only thing he could think was…why?
A nudge on his shoulder yanked him back into the present. He turned to see Christian squinting at him, his ski mask obscuring what Dagan knew was a fierce frown.
Shit.He hated the flashbacks. They always came unexpectedly and at the worst possible times.
Waving a dismissive hand, even though he would swear the smell of charred flesh stung his nose, he stepped over Chelsea’s coat. He could feel Ace and Christian on his heels, weapons drawn, and took comfort in the fact that his teammates were packing something more than little darts filled with thiopental. If whoever was inside the place wanted to get unfriendly, lead was far more likely to change their mind than a little tranquilizer.
The banging of a pot told them the room directly in front of them was the kitchen. And it was occupied.
Dagan jerked his chin. That was all the communication needed. After running countless ops together, they could pretty much read one another’s minds.
Christian slunk around the corner, a soundless black shadow. He grabbed the woman loading the dishwasher, slapped a hand over her mouth, and spun her around. A heartbeat later, Dagan squeezed his trigger. The dart lodged in the woman’s thigh, and the drug took effect almost immediately. Her wide, dark eyes fluttered, and Christian softly lowered her to the tiles. After straightening, he jerked his masked chin toward the back of the penthouse, a wordlessDone. Let’s get a move on.
Dagan spared the unconscious woman a brief glance, but it was enough to show him she had one of those Bodies by Mattel. As in, she was more Barbie doll plastic than flesh and blood.
Morrison certainly had a type. But while the cook’s physique came courtesy of a good plastic surgeon, Chelsea’s curves were given to her by the Maker himself.
The memory of the time Dagan had accidentally walked in on Chelsea in the bathroom when she’d been wearing nothing but her bra and panties flitted through his brain. No, really, hehadn’tdone it on purpose. But accident or not, the fact remained that the sight of her smooth, round ass and amazing tits encased in black satin was permanently affixed to the backs of his eyes. Hence all that arm-and-hand cardio he’d been doing in the shower for the past few months.
A sound came from down the hall. It hit him like a wrecking ball, and rage surged inside him.
On the one hand, he was grateful Chelsea was still inside the penthouse. On the other hand, he was going to kill whichever fuckhead had just made her cry out in pain.
Chapter 4
Well, this is about as much fun as a dadgummed thorny dildo,Chelsea thought, wincing when Steven Surry grabbed her jaw in a merciless grip and dug his fingers into the hollows of her cheeks.
“Tell us who you work for, cunt!” he demanded for what seemed like the millionth time. He held up the thumb drive he had found after marching her into Morrison’s office and giving her a thorough pat-down. “Tell us what you’re trying to find!”
At first, Morrison had sputtered and demanded that Surry release her, playing the good boss even though Chelsea was certain she’d seen him eagerly lick his lips while watching Surry shove his fingers into her every nook and cranny. But the minute Surry pulled the drive from her blazer—and especially after Surry had tried to search her phone and found it encrypted out the wazoo—Morrison’s face had changed. Now, it was beet red with barely suppressed fury, and the gleam in his eye reminded her that he was far more than a lewd old billionaire. He was…Spider.
“Tell us!” Surry demanded again, giving her head a hard shake. Her brain banged around inside her skull, making her see stars. Since she was tied with a length of electrical cord to one of the chairs in front of Morrison’s desk, her hands duct-taped behind her back, there was little she could do to defend herself.
Then again, she still had her smart mouth. “Screw you, buddy,” she snarled. Those three words were all she allowed herself before she clenched her teeth and sealed her lips shut.
The violence that clouded Surry’s face and glinted in his hell-black eyes made her want to curl into a protective ball. He leaned down so that his nose was an inch from hers. His hot breath smelled of coffee and buttered croissants, and the thought of him actuallyeatingstruck her as weird. She had assumed he sustained himself by devouring the souls of Morrison’s enemies.
“You will bloody well tell us what we want to know, Miss Duvall.” When he spoke all low and menacing in that thick English accent, she got the unsettling feeling that something dark moved in the shadows just out of sight. “Or I will jab this letter opener into your carotid.” He pulled back to wield the weapon he had taken from Morrison’s desktop. The sterling-silver letter opener glinted in the golden glow cast by the overhead chandelier.
Releasing her face, Surry cocked his head. “So, what shall it be? The truth? Or the knife? The choice is yours.” There was an emptiness in his voice when he asked the questions. Like he didn’t really care what the answers would be. Like he was tired or bored or maybe…resigned?
Oh, that doesn’t bode well.
Of course, the truth was out of the question. She would never rat on the Black Knights. No telling what Morrison, a.k.a Spider, with all his power and connections, could do with that information. So that left…the knife.
But there’s still so much I want to do!
She had never learned to make her mother’s she-crab soup. She had never tried her hand at writing fiction like that of Tolkien or Rowling or Martin. She had never married the love of her life and given him two bouncing, chubby-cheeked babies.
A cold finger of terror dragged up her spine, and for a second she considered spilling her guts and saving her hide. But then, from somewhere deep inside, a well of strength erupted, filling her with determination and the will to do what must be done.
Her mind briefly touched on her mother, and a great sadness weighed down her heart. Grace Duvall would be devastated by the death of her only child. But Chelsea took comfort—cold comfort, but comfort all the same—in knowing that her life insurance policy would be enough to pay her mother’s debts. That was something. Something to hold on to.
“Well?” Surry demanded. “What will it be?”
Chelsea licked her lips. Fear was a living thing inside her, crawling through her chest like a centipede on prickly legs. She shoved it aside and sealed her own fate. “Do your worst, you sorry, low-life sonofagun!”
Surry’s beard-stubbled chin jerked back as if he couldn’t believe the choice she’d made. Then his eyes narrowed, and grim determination transformed his face.
