The Reunited

FIVE





RUN—

Even as he came awake, that word echoed through his mind. Joss jackknifed up off the bed, one hand pressed against his gut, where he would have sworn he could feel the brutal, horrifying agony of a bullet lodged inside.

Except he’d come awake like this a hundred times, a thousand. More. Ever since he was nineteen, and he’d stumbled across that mausoleum. Before that, he’d just dreamed about her.

After that, he’d dreamed about his death. The bullet tearing into him. His knowledge that he’d leave her alone. That she’d be vulnerable, that he wouldn’t be able to protect her.

So much worse. So very vivid.

And anytime he was close to where he’d found her, close to the cemetery, the dreams were even more powerful.

Apparently, Orlando was close enough to jack him up.

Somehow, Joss didn’t think he’d be getting many restful nights. He was stuck here for a while.

* * *

“THERE’S nothing in these damn reports,” Joss growled, throwing down a thick stack of paper.

Hours after he’d climbed out of bed, he was ready to fall straight back into it, but he didn’t know if he’d get that wish anytime soon. Taylor had kept his ass trapped inside this hotel all damned day, and he was about ready to go out of his ever-loving mind.

And they hadn’t even done the thing that was going to really drive him up a wall. Joss had to assume they were still awaiting the arrival of whatever agent they needed to sync him with, but he wished they could get it the hell over with.

Taylor eyed him from across the sleek, gleaming wood of the dining room table, one blond brow cocked. The boss had been doing the same thing Joss had—studying reports, photographs, websites—things that had Joss’s brains about to bleed out of his ears, but he looked unperturbed and collected, just like he had looked eleven hours earlier.

Joss felt like strangling himself with his shoelaces at this point.

“Is there a problem?”

Shoving back from the table, Joss stood up and started to pace. The understated luxury of the hotel room felt like it was closing in on him. It was a nice hotel—nice with a capital N, meaning Jones was probably paying for it out of his own pocket. The Bureau wouldn’t spring for places like the Peabody.

Jones normally didn’t, to Joss’s recollection, but maybe it had something to do with his new wife. Dez was stretched out on the couch, doing the same thing they’d been doing. Reading reports. Well, right now, she was pretending, but Joss wasn’t fooled.

She was running on the same, maxed-out level of stress that he was, but he suspected she had reason. There were shadows in her eyes, sadness in her face. A ghost tugging at her, he could tell. Maybe more than one.

He hadn’t done a damn thing yet and he was already going nuts. He didn’t even know why.

Joss felt like his skin had shrunk down about two sizes, and he couldn’t stay there and keep twiddling his thumbs . . . waiting. Eyeing the neatly organized mountains of paperwork, Joss shook his head. “There’s nothing here for me, boss.”

He lifted up a photograph, staring at the girl’s picture and wishing it would bump something loose inside his brain, but all he felt was a stir of pity, a rush of anger.

She had been thirteen years old when she went missing.

Yaeli was found three years later, thanks to an anonymous tip. The tip led them to an unmarked grave in Rhode Island. Her father was still in Mexico. Her mother lived in New York. They hadn’t gone to the police when she disappeared because her mother was in the States illegally . . . a common story. One that would have no happy ending, and possibly no justice, either.

Joss stroked his finger down the picture. I’m sorry, sweetheart.

If he was going to find any justice for her, it would be after they synced him with his next gift set, because he felt absolutely nothing now . . . except that pity, and the rage.

Unable to stare into those dark eyes anymore, he set the picture aside and looked up at Taylor. “There’s nothing here for me. Call me when there’s either new information or you’re ready to do the mind-f*ck on me.”

He was done.

He couldn’t keep reading about all those lost souls . . . disappearance after disappearance.

Not when he kept hearing the sad echo of a woman’s soft cry in his mind.

* * *

“WOW. He’s as charming as ever,” Dez murmured as Joss stalked out. He didn’t exactly slam the door, but he definitely closed it with a lot of emphatic firmness, she decided. Slanting her husband a look, she added, “No wonder you two get along. You’re like birds of a fricking feather. Only he’s not as diplomatic as you are.”

Jones shrugged. “Crawford can use diplomacy when he has to. Right now, he doesn’t have to and he’s pissed off. I’ve run him into the ground lately. There’s just no . . .” Sighing, he dropped his pen onto the table and rubbed his eyes.

“No choice,” Dez finished for him. Absently, she rubbed her arms and then reached for a blanket. She was cold to the bone, something she might as well get used to, because she couldn’t do her part on this job until Jones had done his part. She was the cleanup crew, and the cleanup didn’t start until everybody else had finished.

Morosely, she stared at the door, still feeling the heavy weight of Joss’s presence. “Can he do this?”

“Yeah.” Joss was right about one thing. Going through the files, photos, and reports wasn’t anything he needed to be here for. It was busy work, something Taylor had hoped would keep the guy occupied while they waited.

Obviously it hadn’t worked. Joss was keyed up over something, and Taylor didn’t think it was just the mind-f*ck. And that mind-f*ck was going to be brutal. Worse than normal, because the more complex the gift, the longer it took Joss to acclimate. The psychic he was planning on using had the most complex set of gifts Taylor had ever seen . . . even more complex than Joss’s ability to mirror anybody’s gift set.

Still staring at the closed door, he blew out a breath. He wished he could act like he wasn’t worried, but this sort of thing was harder on Joss than the man liked to show, and the word mind-f*ck didn’t exactly bring up images of hugs and kittens.

Right now, he was probably heading straight to his room to psych himself up for what was to come. Knowing Joss, his form of psyching himself up involved getting himself good and pissed at Taylor. There may or may not be copious amounts of liquor.

That was fine. It wasn’t anything personal toward him, Taylor figured.

“You don’t sound too certain there, baby,” Dez said.

He slanted a look at her and shrugged. “Oh, I’m certain. Hell, he’s the only one we’ve got who can do this.”

“This has gotta be the craziest gift out of any of them,” she murmured. “And it’s not like any of us have normal ones.”

“Joss is . . . unique,” Taylor said after a moment. He pushed away from the desk. Scowling, he thought back to the past night and Joss’s wisecrack about asking Dez on a date. “He’s also a moron if he thinks I wouldn’t deck him if he tried to ask you out on a date.”

Dez slid him a sidelong look. Something about the smile on her lips sent his blood straight to the boiling level. Of course, everything about her had that power. “Oh, I think he knows that. Somehow, I think he’s known that all along. He was just jerking your chain . . . funny, that. He actually realizes you have a chain to jerk. Most people don’t.”

“Sure I’ve got a chain . . . and a ball.” He gave her a smile. “And it’s got your name on it.”

“You calling me a ball and chain there, Jones?”

He bent his head back over the pages spread out before him. “Why, yes, Jones. I think I am.”

She snorted and adjusted the blanket she had draped over her, shivering a little. He could see her from the corner of his eye and he watched as she stretched out, wished he could say she was relaxing, but he knew better. She hadn’t slept well ever since they’d wandered through a dark, supposedly abandoned warehouse. He’d gotten the address from Jillian. Everything else had come from Dez.

It had been full of ghosts. New ones . . . mostly female, mostly young . . . and all of them had screamed. They wouldn’t rest for her, not until they were laid to rest, but Dez couldn’t do this job and they couldn’t afford to let her work it until they had the men responsible in custody.

That was what was really getting to her, knowing she couldn’t help. The tension in her eyes, the rage in her soul, all of it would eat at her until they’d laid those souls to rest.

Something they couldn’t do without Joss.

And they couldn’t do that just yet, either.

“Who else are you going to have him sync with?”

Tapping his pen on his desk, he pondered just how he was going to make this happen.

Taige was going to have his ass. Cullen would go for his throat.

But he couldn’t damn well help it that they’d brought their daughter to Disney World and she’d picked up on a slave ring, could he?

“Uh-oh.”

He looked up and saw that Dez had shifted on the couch and was studying him, chin propped in her hand. “That look on your face spells trouble, Taylor.”

“Tell me about it.” Pinching the bridge of his nose, he leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. It was bizarre, how easily she could read him now. And to think, a year ago, she hadn’t even been in his life . . . because he’d pushed her away.

What in the hell had he been thinking?

A soft sound caught his attention and he lowered his hand, opened his eyes. Dez stood at his side. She lightly pushed on his shoulder and he obliged, turning away from the table. As she straddled him, he loosely wrapped his arms around her waist and stared up at her face. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, reaching up and cupping her cheek, his tanned skin pale against the dark, smooth brown of hers. She felt like satin under his hand . . . soft, warm . . .

“You’re trying to distract me.”

“No. I’m just telling you that you’re beautiful.” He slid a hand under her shirt, went to flick her bra open, only to discover it had a front clasp. Improvising, he eased her back and pushed her shirt up, burying his face between her breasts. “If I wanted to distract you, I’d do this.”

“And it would work.” She combed a hand through his hair. “But you need to tell me what’s up . . . what’s the deal, Jones?”

“I’m going to have to call Taige.” He closed his eyes and rested his head on her shoulder.

Dez stroked the back of his neck, her fingers soothing, gentle. “Okay. That doesn’t usually have you so glum. Besides, I know her . . . if you tell her what’s at stake, she’ll help out.”

“It’s not Taige’s help I need.” Lifting his head, he traced his finger over the bow of her lip. “Last month, they took Jillian to Disney. She started having nightmares almost right away, but she didn’t tell them.”

She nipped his finger and then caught his wrist, tugged his hand away. “That’s odd. Wouldn’t Taige feel it if Jillian’s nightmares were that bad? Both of them have the same kind of gift. Living together as long as they have, you’d think they’d be a little more in tune than that.”

“Nobody is in tune with Jillian anymore, I don’t think. They don’t have the same gifts. Not anymore. Jillian has the same sort of telepathy that Taige does, but . . .” Taylor rested his head against Dez’s chest again, eyes closed, breathing her in, letting the warmth of her soothe him. “She’s far surpassed anything Taige will ever be able to do. And she’s fourteen. Fourteen years old, Dez. How can she handle it?”

Dez was quiet. Her fingers stroked through his hair, and he concentrated on that simple gesture for a minute before he made himself continue. A kid. Jillian was just a kid. And she had to live with all that darkness in her head. Everything she saw, everything she knew . . . it was hard enough for him to live with, and he did it because it was the job, because he knew he made a difference.

“She ended up calling me. Last month when I had to leave for a few days? It was to come down here. I met her in the park.”

“Jillian . . . you met Jillian in Disney World. Taige let you?”

“Taige didn’t know,” Taylor said grimly. “She took off for a few minutes—the kid didn’t bother to tell me that part until after we’d met up. She pushed a notebook into my hands and then disappeared. I never saw Taige or Cullen.”

“She disappeared? After what happened to her?”

Taylor shook his head. “I tried to tell her that—the girl has a mind of her own. I think I feel sorry for her parents.”

When Jillian Morgan had been younger, she’d been kidnapped. Taylor’s unit had been put on the task, and he’d learned some interesting facts about the young girl—namely that she’d actually known she would be kidnapped . . . she’d seen it. So far, Taylor had narrowed her gifts down to precognition, psychometry, and telepathy.

He only hoped that was all she had inside that brain of hers. But she’d gotten stronger over the years, and it was entirely possible new gifts had emerged as she’d gotten older.

Many of his psychics hadn’t even developed any of their gifts until puberty. By the time Jillian had hit that age, she’d already hit a level of control that made some of his people look like rank amateurs.

Now the teenager was living another nightmare . . . somebody else’s nightmare. He knew that didn’t always make it any easier. Trapped inside somebody else’s misery, somebody else’s pain. And when she wasn’t able to do much more than watch from the sidelines . . .

Except Jillian hadn’t watched. There were missing kids. Missing women.

Some of them, Jillian had said, were already gone. The missing . . . For Jillian, that meant they’d been killed. And she had decided she’d stop it.

Frustration chewed at him; he’d told Taige this would happen. He’d seen it, even when Jillian had just been a child, just like he’d seen in Taige. His people were his for a reason . . . they were warriors. Jillian was already walking down that road.

He hated it. Taige, Cullen, they had no idea how much he hated it.

He’d never track her down, but in the end, it wouldn’t matter, because she’d come to him.

His phone started to ring, cutting through the dark, heavy cloud of his thoughts.

He wasn’t the least bit amused, or surprised, when Evanescence’s “Haunted” came blaring from it. Dez had programmed the ring. He didn’t do ringtones—exactly what he needed, to have a ringtone like that go off in the middle of a meeting. But his wife wasn’t part of his unit . . . not anymore . . . and she had a sense of humor that was, at best, strange.

It was the ringtone she’d programmed for Taige. Thankfully, he could count on his hands the number of times Taige had called him.

Sighing, he accepted the call, already bracing himself. Jilly, kid, what have you done now . . .

“What is your damned room number?”