The Reunited

TWELVE





THE bathroom was the one place he hadn’t bugged, and she’d searched damn well. Apparently he was too fastidious to want to watch her as she took a piss, and she was grateful for that much.

Of course, it was the one place she could send a private text.

She took a disposable phone, one she’d activated weeks ago but hadn’t yet used. She’d have to toss it after tonight. Sending a text, she included the password along with her message.

Can you get there?

A few seconds passed before the reply came. Damn, timing is tight. I’ll try. But may not happen.

Good enough.

She deleted the message. Dismantled the phone and flushed the SIM card. Tucking the bits and pieces in the pocket of her robe, she left the bathroom.

Please. Let him find something.

* * *

THE meeting was tonight.

About time. Mike was tired of being Mike. Tired of playing the nice guy. He wanted this part of the job done so he could go back to doing what he did best. Scoring with the girls. Back on the hunt. But first he had to prove to this new client that he could get the girls needed for the first job. Nobody was better at this than he was.

He’d just finished his beer when the knock came.

Tossing the bottle in the trash, he checked his gun. Keeping a loose grip on the Beretta 92FS, he headed to the door. He didn’t plan on needing the gun. But Mike was a big believer in being prepared. It was sort of his motto . . . be prepared for everything to go wrong.

With that motto in mind, he kept the Beretta in one hand and the other hand on the doorknob, standing off to the side. He didn’t unlock it right away.

Through the door, he called out, “Yes?”

“Interested in a job?”

Smiling a little, he said, “Jobs are always nice. Especially in the current economy.”

“Having the right kind of work is nice, too. It doesn’t matter what the economy is, if you’re not the right man for the work, it just leads to trouble.”

“Trouble is never good.” Pleased that he had the right person, he slid the Beretta into the sheath under his jacket and opened the door.

The man on the other side of the door looked rough. He looked like trouble. He was big and dark, and looked nothing like the rich f*ck Mike had expected. Wary, Mike stepped aside and let the man enter, eyeing him narrowly. He shut the door behind him and turned, keeping the man in his sight at all times.

Instinct started to whisper as the man turned toward him.

He never even had a chance to draw the gun.

A blinding pain practically ripped his mind in two and he collapsed to the ground, unable to draw breath even to scream.

* * *

THIS time, Joss didn’t feel bad about unleashing the power of that gift into this son of a bitch’s mind. As he took what he needed from him, he stood over Mike Sellers with his hands jammed into his pockets. It was that, or haul the f*cker up and pummel him bloody.

Seeing as how the man was almost catatonic at the moment, it wouldn’t really be rewarding to beat him up just yet.

There were so many . . .

The faces just kept rolling through his mind. One right after the other—

Cutting off those images, Joss said, “Why are you here?”

Mike Sellers, or whoever he really was, didn’t speak, but the mind had the info Joss needed. As it yielded those answers, he braced himself to get even sicker.

He wasn’t disappointed.

A job. Yeah, it had been about a job.

There was a saying that Joss liked, by a cartoonist, Frank Tyger. Tyger had once said, “Doing what you like is freedom. Liking what you do is happiness.”

Ol’ Mike must have felt like a really free, happy man. One who believed in his work and took a hell of a lot of pride in it.

Once Joss had finished, he took a step away and looked around the neat little cabin. He needed a f*cking drink. He needed a f*cking shower. He really needed a f*cking vacation—and now sounded like a good time to take one, but just like the monster lying catatonic on the floor behind him, Joss also believed in what he did. He also took a lot of pride in it.

So no vacation. Yet. But he’d have a f*cking drink and if the boss didn’t like it . . . well. Who said he had to know? Spying a bar, he stormed over to it. Stocked. Excellent. He grabbed the whiskey and eyed the label. What in the hell ever happened to good ol’ Jack? He liked Jack Daniels. But just then, he didn’t care. Splashing some into a glass, he tossed it back, relishing the hot burn of it down his throat before he turned back to the man lying on the floor.

He was whimpering a little now. Deep in his throat, the way a wounded animal might if it was afraid and hurt.

Savagely, Joss wondered if he could make the perverted freak hurt just a little more.

Except he was expecting company.

That knowledge thrummed inside his head, a head that felt too damn full. He’d felt like he’d found a decent middle ground, but meeting Dru had pushed him off center and he was back to floundering. After another drink, he slammed the glass down and went over to the man. Grabbing him by the front of the shirt, he stared into glassy eyes. There was awareness in there now. Barely.

It took everything he had not to snarl. Not to pound him bloody. Instead, he pushed deeper . . . looked for more. Found it.

“Okay, Bryan.”

Lids flickered at the sound of the man’s real name. “Yeah,” Joss said, smiling. “I know who you are. Bryan Hennegan. Scum-sucking pervert. Rapist. Monster. Kidnapper. Thief. Killer. There are other crimes, but those are the ones I really want to bury you for.”

Bryan started to struggle and Joss narrowed his eyes, flexing that insane power inside his head. It rushed to the forefront and he could all but feel it as the air molded under his tutelage, wrapped around Bryan, pinned him. Damn. That’s some scary shit there, he thought, a little dazed as the man’s struggles abruptly stopped. “You can’t get away from me. You can’t escape. And you’ll be lucky if you survive long enough for me to turn you over to my boss. Mark my words, I’ve never wanted a man dead so much as I want you dead.”

Bryan whined. It was the most he could manage.

The sound made Joss smile wider. “Feels like a bitch, don’t it? Being helpless.” Fisting his hand in the front of the man’s designer shirt, he dragged his motionless body through the cabin. Needed to hide him. Just get him out of sight for now, before he gave in to temptation and crossed a line.

There weren’t a lot of options, so he shoved Hennegan’s worthless ass into the minuscule closet in the bedroom. He’d have to improvise, and fast, if the upcoming meeting involved the bedroom, but for now, this would work. He cuffed the man’s hands behind his back, used a cable tie on his feet.

Then, because he couldn’t risk the guy screwing this up, he did a mental job that sent Hennegan careening into unconsciousness. Hopefully, he’d stay out for a good long while. Hopefully.

Once that was done, Joss headed back into the main part of the cabin and did a quick look around, searching for any sign that might set off an alarm. He and Hennegan were damned close in height, even in body type, so that was good, in case his visitor was looking for a six-feet-five white guy with dark hair. He saw a cell phone, a set of keys. Touching the phone was a bit of a shock, although he’d already figured out that Jillian had psychometry crammed into her crafty psychic bag of tricks. Just touching an object was enough to let her pick up images, impressions. And that was now inside his head, too, and he didn’t want that trip into Hennegan’s brain.

Shoring up the shields, he steadied himself as he turned off the ringer. I can do this. I can do it . . .

After he’d set the phone to silent, he scrolled through the recent numbers, texts, committing them to memory. Useful ability in his line of work, a photographic memory—and that skill was all his.

One set of messages made his mind buzz. There was a series of them. Just the number had set his teeth on edge and he knew, just knew, this was the guy—Jillian’s monster.

Meeting set for tonight. Looking forward to discussing the new venture. So mild and unassuming. But even reading it made Joss’s gut churn. Made screams echo through his mind.

Meeting . . .

As his rage spiraled out of control, he found himself lost in the torrent of Jillian’s nightmares. The walls of his control started to crumble. And icy tendrils wrapped around him.

Dez’s ghosts. Creeping out to play. That gift was easier for him to control, but once that wall crumbled . . . their whispers were like a cloak of ice, wrapping around him.

Help me . . . please . . . find me. I don’t want to stay lost . . .

What happened . . . ? I just want to go home—

“F*ck!” He threw the phone down and buried his face in his hands. In his mind, he visualized that stone wall. Jillian’s shield. Then his own series of doors, shutting everything out.

To the ghosts who had crept in, he said, I’ll help. I’ll find you. But first, I have to find a way inside.

They didn’t listen.

Chances were the ghosts weren’t even cognizant. Many of Dez’s ghosts weren’t. They were just echoes of who they had been in life, and it would take a deeper connection before he could communicate with them. Easing them back into the compartment he’d created in his mind, he slammed the door shut there, too.

Mind-f*cked. He was well and completely mind-f*cked, and he was also absolutely insane for thinking he was ready to jump into this. He should have taken another day, at least.

Gone back to the hotel, dreamed about Dru. Solidified his shields. Dreamed about Dru . . .

Except if he’d done that, he wouldn’t have seen Sellers. Hennegan. Whatever the bastard wanted to call himself. This was his best chance.

“Maybe the only chance.” He rubbed the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. Only chance to do it this way, and this way was the best way. He knew that in his gut.

Taking a deep breath, he went through one of the mental exercises he’d learned years ago. It wasn’t doing much, but it edged back the fury a little bit. Not a whole lot, but a little. Once he had the fury under control, it was easier to shore up his shields more.

As strange a life as he led, as bizarre a gift as he had, control was vital. It was vital to psychics in general, but most of them—hell, ninety-eight percent of the people Joss worked with—could establish a working rhythm and that led to a natural control.

Joss’s gift didn’t allow for a rhythm because he never had the same gift type. It was constantly being readjusted, and even if he synced to the same person, their gifts changed and grew over time and he wasn’t using those gifts as they changed, which meant he didn’t have that built-in adjustment period.

He managed through rock-hard control, and it was never more crucial than when he was pissed.

And damn, shit, and f*ck, was he pissed.

It ate at his brain like hungry, bloodthirsty little ants.

But the fury couldn’t be in control. Down that road lay madness. Down that road lay failure.

Failure wasn’t an option.

He knew how he had to play this, knew he could. It had been an inkling in his brain from the time Jillian had first placed her small hands in his. Because she’d seen this coming. Then he’d seen Hennegan/Sellers and the idea had bloomed just a bit.

Now it was slowly solidifying, and he knew what he was going to do.

He had to be careful, though, or he was f*cked, and so were those girls.

So . . . control.

A good thirty minutes passed before he thought he could function the way he needed to. He took a minute to go to the bedroom and check on his “guest.” Still out of it. A hand on the guy’s head took him a little deeper into a screwed-up psyche than he wanted to go, but it also told him the guy wasn’t going to emerge anytime soon. That psychic jab had a little too much power, especially on top of Joss’s less-than-gentle probe. He’d be out for hours.

Back in the main part of the cabin, he had another drink, started dissecting bits and pieces of that screwed-up psyche.

A taker. A user. Entitled son of a bitch. He wanted, so he took. He liked things . . . liked having them, owning them. Breaking them, if he so chose. Girls were things. He also liked the hunt, as he saw it. Liked finding the perfect specimen—a particular sort of girl for a particular sort of buyer. Finding her, stalking her, kidnapping her. It was one of his passions, and he loved it.

So far, all contact with this new person had been via text. No phone calls, no direct meets.

That was good.

He wasn’t happy about being here, and this ludicrous cabin had him irritated. He’d hidden it, during the few phone calls, even hidden it inside the cabin, in case it was bugged.

That was a worry, one Joss hadn’t considered and should have—

But the place wasn’t bugged.

Not yet . . .

That strange little buzz in his mind had him hunching his shoulders, almost like somebody had whispered that in his ear. But he knew better. It was just another facet of Jillian’s gift. The cabin wasn’t bugged, but it would be. Soon. Great. Just great. Now Joss also had to worry about getting Hennegan out of here before that happened. Wasn’t that just awesome?

Okay, so he’d get ahold of Jones. Put his new friend in the trunk of a car.

Step into those size thirteen shoes and bring this entire house of cards crashing down. And heaven help anybody who got in his way.

Dru’s face drifted through his mind, and he seized on it. Thinking about her was one definite way to chill his rage down.

And a hell of a lot more pleasant. Once this was done . . . then he’d go after her.

Spoken for? Damn right. He’d spoken for her another lifetime ago and that hold was still there. She still felt it.

He just had to prove it to her.

And he would.

After he got through this hell.

* * *

BUSINESS rarely bothered Patrick.

He enjoyed business pursuits of all kinds, and sometimes they came with necessary evils. He accepted them because, in order to excel, he had to handle those small details with the same care he’d apply to the big details.

In the end, it all added up to the big picture.

It mattered.

But in just that moment, he’d rather be doing something other than seeing to business. Back with Ella, preferably. Or . . . ideally . . . at his place, nearly thirty miles away. Private, lush . . . and his. Lush, and his. That was what mattered. Just as Ella was lush . . . and his. Elegant, yet possessing an earthy sensuality that had stunned him rather pleasantly just a short while ago.

He could already imagine it happening again. He thought of having her back at the estate, that elegant sexuality ready for him whenever he wanted. He could see them sitting by the pool, her clad in one of those lovely dresses of hers, her pretty legs neatly crossed. He’d let her hold the cat. Demeter would like her, he thought. He could feast on her with his eyes . . . and then have that tiger she kept inside her come out to play.

His penis twitched at the memory. He wanted more.

But that wouldn’t happen tonight.

If it did, she might get it in her head that she could control him through sex. He wasn’t a man who’d be controlled through any means, and there would be no thinking otherwise.

Still, it had been very nice.

It would happen again.

Soon, this tedious business would be dealt with and his operation would resume functioning like a well-oiled machine. It was his own fault things had gotten tripped up. He’d been focusing on the wedding, thought he’d make it an . . . experience, and while he’d been focusing on that, he hadn’t watched his business as well as he should have.

When a businessman didn’t keep his eye on all aspects of his business, there were problems. Patrick had a problem of epic proportions. His best asset had become his worst nightmare and at the very worst time. Then he’d been forced to replace him, because things were already in motion for the wedding and he simply couldn’t cancel.

That wasn’t about to happen.

This new man was costing him more money, but he was supposed to be top of the line and smoother than glass.

Excellent.

Things would level out and then Patrick could focus on the things that mattered, once his business got back to functioning as it should. Life as normal would resume and he could direct his attention to his career, his other business interests . . . his new wife.

It wouldn’t be long until he had his new wife living on his estate and he could bring out that inner slut whenever he so chose.

It was dark and quiet by the time he pulled through the gates.

The security guard came out and smiled as he recognized him. “Evening, Mr. Whitmore.”

“Hello, Jake. Out to have a drink with a friend. Couldn’t get away any sooner,” he said, giving the guard a pleasant smile. Always best to be friendly and pleasant to the staff. A*sholes tended to be remembered. Patrick tried to avoid that.

The guard smiled. “That wedding of yours is getting close. I imagine you’ve got your hands full.” With a nod, he disappeared back inside and the gate swung open, letting Patrick pass through.

Yes, the wedding had his hands full. Although it was the party afterward that was the most pressing detail.

Tonight would help cover the rest of those concerns, though.

As long as this new player worked out.

As he pulled up in front of the cabin he’d set aside for his guest, he smiled. He wondered what the man thought of the accommodations. While they were adequate, they were no doubt lacking, compared to what the man was likely used to.

Patrick had his reasons for doing it, though. One, he could control things, to some extent, on these grounds. Observe who came and went. And he had people on his payroll who would see to it things would be . . . monitored, if he hired this man.

If.

He also liked making sure people understood their place in the scheme of things . . . it was wherever the hell he wished to place them.

The man came highly recommended, but that didn’t mean much. The last man had come highly recommended as well. It hadn’t stopped him from trying to f*ck Patrick over.

He parked the car and climbed out, giving a casual look around. The Ford Explorer was a deep maroon, looked like a family car. Good choice. Not quite the “drug dealer” or “dirty cop” car that some of the pricier models were, but it would provide a good ride, and lots of room. Appeared to be well cared for, and he didn’t see a rental tag sticker. Noting the license plate number, Patrick committed it to memory.

He’d run a check once he left. He doubted it was traceable back to anything, but he had to be certain. If the man couldn’t handle this small thing, then he was useless.