Ocean Kills (Ocean Breeze) (31 page)

Her tongue pushed into my mouth as she increased her rhythm. My eyes rolled into the back of my head. I couldn't think apart with the pressure and intense build-up of what she was doing to me.

“Come, Callan.”

She kissed me harder. Teeth against teeth. Completely in control. How did this happen? I wanted her beneath me. Not riding me with her hand—no matter how amazing it felt.

She growled and bit my neck. I couldn't stop it.

Spasms of release shot out of me. I grabbed her, squeezing her close as I came in her hand. I scooped a fistful of her hair, groaning deep. I dragged her lips back to mine as I jerked in the aftermath of such an intense orgasm.

“Fuck. That was. I don't have the words. Amazing,” I murmured against her mouth.

Her hand unclasped around me, wiping it on my bedspread. She reached for her machete. “I think I earned this, don't you?”

A wave of sickness built in me; I cocked my head. What was that?

Ocean leaned and kissed me. “Goodbye.”

I realized what she meant to do.
No!
I couldn't let her leave. I held on, but it was no use. The rush of gravity tugged my stomach, and I was left holding nothing but air.

Chapter Thirty: Ocean

C
allan was replaced with a whirlpool of speed, which then solidified into Durham, South Africa. My machete rested in my hand. The same hand that pleasured his velveteen-encased hardness only moments before.

I smiled. I liked that I affected him so much. It turned me on—made me feel sexy as hell.

I touched my bottom lip, which was swollen from his kisses. Going to visit him was risky. I hoped to find my machete on the coffee table where I left it and not see him. But it turned out taking advantage of him was better for both of us. I was warmer than I’d been in a while. The coldness in my soul thawed a little, thanks to Callan. He wanted me. That made me fight harder. 

Stop thinking about him. Time to work.
I shook my head, focusing on the task at hand. If I killed Bazeer, I could return to Callan. My heart bubbled.

Durham, if possible, was prettier than Century City. Clean streets, new street signs, and palm trees galore. The sun was a golden disk in the teal sky, pavements wispy with mirages of heat.

A black car appeared. All my emotion and enjoyment from seducing Callan shut down to nothing. My mind emptied. My body coiled with energy ready to hunt.
This is it.

A man, dressed in white with a black turban, jumped into the car once it coasted to a stop. They took off with a squeal of tires.

Shit.

I gave chase, running in the middle of the road, hoping the driver wouldn’t see me sprinting like a cheetah behind him. I was fit, but not fit enough to keep this speed for long. Every meter, the car crawled further away from me. Every street, it decreased from life-size to toy car to speck.

My lungs burst and my legs screamed with lactic acid, but I put my head down and forced more speed from my depleted body. How long I ran, I didn't know. Did I lose them? Was it over before I began?

My eyes pierced ahead; hope danced in my limbs.
Keep going!

A black speck pulled to the curb in front of an impressive hotel.

Yes!
It was the car. I ran faster, never taking my eyes off the three men who climbed out of the vehicle. None of them was Bazeer. The two dark-skinned men were built like boulders. They escorted the turban wearing man into the foyer of the hotel.

Run harder!

I couldn't afford to lose them in such a big establishment. Who knew what room they were headed to?

A few moments later, I skidded to a stop and charged into the lobby. Large pillars of marble and a red-carpeted staircase welcomed me. The hotel’s logo was mosaicked into the floor.

My breathing was erratic. I gulped air, forcing my lungs to calm down.

I was quick enough to see them climb into an elevator. The hotel security arrived behind me. “Are you a guest, ma’am?”

I didn’t answer, bolting from under his nose toward the fire escape stairs. My legs screamed as I ran the steps two at a time. I burst onto the next level and watched the elevator levels ping up and up.
Come on. Come on. What level?

Finally, it stopped at forty-eight. No time to take another elevator—I’d never know what room they entered. I gasped and summoned my power.

It popped and fizzled, blooming into a searing headache—carting my molecules from the floor I was on to the forty-eighth. As my body realigned itself in its new location, I watched the three men enter a room to the right, about ten doors down.

The corridor was beige blandness. Beige wallpaper, beige carpet. The only color was from the bright yellow doors leading into rooms.

I bent over, breathing hard, swiping away my nose bleed and blinking residual pain from my eyes. My fingers were sweaty as I unsheathed my machete with a gentle ring. My heart squeezed at the thought of Maurice. Sweet Maurice, who wanted me to stop, but still gave me weapons regardless. He was a gem. A man who knew the real me. 

Not waiting another second, I bolted to the door and ducked. My knuckles rapped quietly.

Muffled voices sounded inside before shadows of feet appeared beneath the door. I stayed low, not wanting to be seen through the peep-hole.

The door opened and I moved lightning quick. Ramming the bodyguard with my shoulder, he grunted and stumbled. I used the side of my hand to hit his throat, leaving him wheezing as I leapt into the room. 

The suite was decadent: sweeping silver drapes, flower arrangements on sideboards and coffee tables. Air perfumed with sweet blooms. The large windows captured the sugar-soft sand and crashing waves of Durham beach.

Eyes as black as death locked onto me. Bazeer.

I sneered, “Me again.”

Then it was crazy madness.

Yells.

Shouts.

Total confusion.

Perfect for me—the assassin.

A bodyguard leapt on me. We clattered to the ground. My eyes jumped to the oversized bed and shock stole my breath. The twin blondes lay sprawled. Their legs and arms were bound; gags around their mouths.

They squirmed when they saw me. Tears dribbled down their cheeks. The Arab man’s hand rested on one of their thighs.
Fuck, no he didn’t! How dare he?

I snarled; a burst of energy combatted the guard’s weight. He was off-balance and it was to my advantage. I surged upward, swinging my arm and slicing his chest in one move.

He bellowed and backed away. My concentration snapped back to Bazeer. The Arab wasn’t the target here. I’d kill him next. Bazeer was my real target. 

I jumped to my feet, anger pulsing in my veins. My mouth tasted metallic. I wanted to dance in Bazeer’s blood.

Bouncing on my toes, I was unable to stand still. The coldness in my soul was a geyser of steam, warmed by my furious rage, but this time it was my own. No sick voices, no vile whispers. The blood-thirst was all mine. 

Bazeer. I wanted Bazeer.

Screaming with wrath, I attacked. My hand wielded my machete with precision. Bazeer's ruthless face grew slack. Worry filled his eyes as I crouched and slashed him. I was too far away to slice right through, but blood bloomed on his lavender shirt.

His fingers clutched his chest. “What the fuck? How?” His voice was hoarse.

I took another swipe, but a heavy hand wrapped around my hair, jerking me back. I screamed and hacked at the wrist holding me.

A loud grunt and a spray of blood splattered my clothing. I was released.

Bazeer moved like a cobra, lunging for a room service tray.
Oh no you don't, you bastard.

I twirled and kicked him hard. He tumbled, but scrambled to his feet.

The wound I inflicted didn't slow him down at all. He turned to me, evil glinting in his eyes. “You will die, you bitch. Come here. I will prove it to you. I will debone you!”

Not one to run from a challenge, I soared through the air and slashed at his neck. He ducked and wielded the steak knife stolen from the tray, still holding remnants of food. It kissed my skin, but didn't break it. Crap, he was fast.

I lunged again, but Bazeer dodged my blade. I breathed hard, hair stuck to my sweaty cheeks. The sight of the blonde twins gave me a burst of adrenaline. The Arab cowered in the corner, eyes wide. I bet he hadn't bargained for this when he bought two innocent little girls.

Bazeer swore in Afrikaans, launching himself at me. I parried, but not fast enough. His blade cut my forearm. Blood sluiced, but it only fuelled me more. The pain was muted, muffled by my single-minded determinedness to take his life.

“Die, you bastard,” I screeched, coming up from the crouch as he towered over me. My blade sliced sweetly up through his rib cage, no obstruction, no pause. I hoped I punctured his heart.

In sheer dumb luck his arm spasmed and grabbed me, sinking his steak knife into my left shoulder.

Together, we crashed to the ground. Life dimmed in his eyes.

I’d killed him. Those girls had their vengeance, but there was no satisfaction. I won, but I was too cold inside, too empty to care.

Hissing, I looked at the knife imbedded in my flesh. I reached to remove it, but strong hands hauled me up. Foggy with agony, I twisted in their grasp. “Let me go.”

“What do we do?” a gruff voice asked.

“I don't know. This wasn't supposed to happen!”

“Just, um. . . finish it. Yeah. Kill her. Then we'll take the girls and go.”

Death. So this was how it ended. Not how I pictured it, but it had to happen sooner or later. I only hoped Callan could forgive me. And Maurice. Poor Maurice.

My vision flickered as someone yanked the knife from my flesh. My arm was suddenly covered in flowing crimson. A waterfall of red made me swoon with weakness.

Did Bazeer cut an artery? It was so unfair. Every beat of my heart erupted more of my life-force in volcanic spurts.

The man let me go. I fell and bounced on the carpet. I cried out, clutching my arm. Instantly, the white rug turned scarlet. My steady pulse made the puddle larger and larger.

I saw eight legs then two. Hallucinating as I was sucked by blackness.

A burn began—an inferno heat branding my spine. The seventeenth black mark scorched my flesh, causing me to jerk into a ball. I moaned as the hotness morphed into ice fingers, stealing another segment of my soul. A suck, a pull, a vacuum of coldness, and another piece of myself was gone. How much longer did I have to live? Not that it mattered; my death sentence loomed above me.

Taking a ragged breath, I crawled toward the door, but someone stomped on the small of my back. My arms splayed, and my cheek crushed against the carpet.

A few seconds later, I could hardly breathe. More blood stained the floor around me.

I was cold. I shivered. Hell was said to be a furnace of a death, so why was I freezing?

The click of a gun barrel made my heart stutter. The foot lifted off my back.

A grunt as someone prepared to shoot.

Then. . . nothing.

Chapter Thirty-one: Callan

O
cean was late. 8:00 a.m. came and went. My desire to have her safe in my bed made me a useless wreck. Where was she? Couldn’t she at least text me to let me know she was safe? Unwilling to let myself be eaten by worry, I tried to focus on work.

Overnight, the KCIA system compiled as much as it could on the missing girls from Australia. It even predicted where and how soon another victim would be taken. How the computer could figure that out, I had no idea—I was useless when it came to that piece of technology.

I called Wade.

“Hello?” a barely recognizable voice mumbled.

“You awake, Wade?” I paced my tiled floor, looking at the sea. My memento from my late night surf twinged. Was there still blood on the sand from my incident with the shark? I still couldn’t believe how stupid I’d been.

“Bliss? Crikey, what cha doing calling me so early?”

“Early? It isn't early.”

“It is when you've done the red-eye last night.”