Deception Island (20 page)

Chapter 20

Chamuel shoved Holly out of the helicopter, his hand clamped around the back of her neck. She landed awkwardly on hard sand, pain scooting up her blown knee, forcing her to juggle her feet to maintain balance. They'd landed in a compound—a ring of simple thatched timber huts, dominated by a bigger building. He pushed her forward, shoving her head low.

Once they'd escaped the radius of the blades, the chopper's whine changed pitch and the machine lifted, pelting a million grains of sand into her face. She ignored the sting in her eyes and the drilling pain in her temple. She had to get a handle on her surroundings, figure out where she could be, find opportunities for escape. The sandy ground meant they were near a beach. A hazy blue-green mountain rose in the distance, its peak shrouded by cloud. A volcanic island, or the edge of a continent? Didn't look like Australia, but it could be anywhere in Southeast Asia.

Damn, she should have grilled Rafe about where their island was—it would at least have given her a starting point. One of the many things she should have sussed out, rather than getting distracted by his glorious body. As the helicopter noise receded, crashing surf and thrashing trees took its place. A dozen dull-eyed men and boys sat or stood on the balconies of the huts, some smoking, every one decked out with serious firepower. One guy had skin as dark as midnight, two were Asian, the others had Rafe's coloring. The Lost Boys? She'd pictured them in uniforms—but why would an underground militia advertise itself? Chamuel shouted to one of them, gesturing. He used Gabriel's name.

Tears streamed from her burning eyes. She fought to keep them open as far as a slit. Through the blur that was left of her vision, she picked up the outline of a man walking to her with an unhurried, confident stride. He snapped out a few words, directed at Chamuel. Her heart raced. Rafe?

Not Rafe, you moron
.
This guy had a similar build and walk, and his language and commanding tone sounded the same, but he was shorter, his voice raspier and nasal. Gabriel? The footfalls of another guy thumped away through the sand and clonked up the steps leading to one of the huts.

The man loomed over her. He placed two fingers under her chin and raised it. The sun pierced the cloud cover, searing her corneas. Someone jogged up—the guy who'd run into the hut—and handed him something small and white, too bright to look at. The man brought it toward Holly's face. She flinched and shut her eyes tight. Chamuel gripped her hair with one hand and her waist with another, yanking her backward into his body.

“Relax, my dear,” whispered the man holding her face, in a thicker version of Rafe's accent. “This will help.”

Something cool and wet touched her eyes. A washcloth? The man squeezed it, sending water running across her eyelids to pool in the hollow by her nose and slide down her cheeks, soaking the gag. He swept the thick, soft cloth across one eye, from temple to nose, and then the other, dribbling out water as he went. A peppery cologne drifted from him. His fingers left her chin and alighted on her forehead, coaxing her head down. He pressed the cloth across her eyes, while cradling the back of her head, dislodging Chamuel's hand.

“Better?” said the man, drawing the cloth away.

She opened her eyes, tentatively, wincing at the light bouncing off the guy's white shirt. Fighting the bright, blurry haze, she forced herself to focus on his face. Intelligent brown eyes crinkled. Dark curly hair touched the open collar of his crisp shirt. Late thirties, she guessed. His nose was disfigured, as if it'd been cut cleanly straight across and had joined back together wrong. If not for that, he'd come under the label of classically handsome. He wiped a rivulet of water from her cheek with a delicate finger.
This
was Gabriel?

“I can see how Raphael had trouble killing you.” He smiled, revealing unnaturally perfect teeth.

He spoke sharply to Chamuel. Holly picked out the name Raphael. The pilot answered with a single word. Gabriel's neck flushed, corded veins sticking out. As their conversation heated, spit peppered Holly—Gabriel's on her face, Chamuel's on her neck.

Gabriel had to be getting the news about Rafe's apparent death. He bared his teeth and clawed at his hair with his fingers, like he was morphing into an animal in some paranormal movie. So he'd wanted Rafe alive. Would he blame her for messing up his plans? Her stomach curled. With her hands bound and her knee busted, her defenses were flimsy.

Chamuel pushed her, pitching her into Gabriel. Her vision cleared, just in time to see Gabriel raise a hand. Instinctively, she tried to pull her arms over her head, but the cable ties gouged her wrists. He shoved her head sideways, wrenching her neck, then kicked her hip. She smacked into the sand, pain bouncing around her body. He stood over her, shouting indecipherable words, like he was insane. With anger or grief? Safe to say Rafe was central to his plans, whatever they were. She squealed into the fabric jammed in her mouth, widening her eyes.
Take off the fucking gag.

He yelled instructions toward one of the huts, as she pushed up into an awkward sitting position. A guy on the porch relayed the directions inside. It could have been English, but the wind and waves masked the words. A whippet of a young Asian woman appeared in the doorway, wearing a dirty pink dress. From behind her emerged a boy, clasping her hand, brown eyes wide with fear. Oh, God. Rafe, in miniature. An amulet hung from his neck—a match for the pendant hidden under her sweater.

Gabriel shouted at the woman, and she hurriedly nudged Theo down the steps, whispering to him. He sauntered to the boy and knelt, brushing the kid's hair back with his palm. Theo froze.

“Tell him his father is dead,” Gabriel hissed to the woman.

Holly went cold.

The woman slapped her hand over her mouth. The guy on the porch behind her jabbed her with the point of his rifle.

“Ton papa est mort,”
she said, her quiet voice wavering.

Mort
, like
la petite mort
. Meaning, death.

The boy stared at the ground, trembling. A strangled whimper escaped him. Holly's eyes stung as she watched the hope drain from his little body, leaving it slumped. She shouted into the gag. A force punched into her lower back, smacking her belly-first onto the ground. Someone had kicked her. Chamuel? She swayed to her knees, her injured one tight and protesting. Rafe's kid at least appeared physically unharmed—clean and healthy, and his T-shirt looked new, still creased with the manufacturer's folds. But those wild, scared eyes...

“Tell him
she
killed his father.” Gabriel took his eyes off Theo long enough to nod toward Holly.

Crap. The woman's mouth dropped open.

“Tell him,” Gabriel ordered.

As she translated, Theo slowly raised his head and stared at Holly like he couldn't absorb the information. She yelled but it came out as a strangled whine. All she could do was shake her head.
Don't believe them, kid
. His mouth contorted, the edges of his lips sinking. He blinked hard to clear the tears. Oh, God, he thought his father had died and he was trying
not
to cry? That was one tough kid. Or maybe just a terrified one.

Gabriel cradled Theo's cheeks with both hands, forcing the boy to meet his gaze. “Tell him this is his home now, with us. I am his father, and these are his brothers.”

The woman stammered out the translation. Theo whimpered, his eyes huge.

“We will start his training tomorrow. Tomorrow he begins to be a man.” Gabriel kissed Theo's forehead. “Tell him!” he shouted at the woman, adding what sounded like a string of curses.

Fat drops of rain spattered on the ground and on Holly's head. As the woman translated, Gabriel issued instructions to the men. He strode into the largest building. The woman herded Theo back to the hut, her butt nudged by a soldier's rifle. Shit. Holly would have to find a way to tell him the truth, and soon. A kid shouldn't have to feel that kind of pain.

A small dusty truck raced into the clearing. Holly made out dive tanks and surfboards in the back. Weird. She couldn't see these guys catching waves.

Chamuel kicked Holly's lower back. “Up,” he said. She staggered to her feet, testing her knee. He shoved her in the direction of the building Gabriel had entered. She collapsed into the sand and had to haul herself up. Two armed men on the doorstep separated just far enough to let her squeeze through, one of them grabbing her ass as she passed. She gritted her teeth. Better they get a handful of that than the iPhone or knife. Thank God she'd pulled on her cargoes that morning, not her shorts.

Water pelted the tin roof. In the distance, thunder rolled. She stumbled into a large room with a dark timber floor, the pitched roof held up by roughly hewn wooden columns, with sliding shutters around the perimeter for walls. Most of the shutters were drawn back, leaving three sides open to the outdoors. Several long dining tables were lined up, their chairs neatly pushed in. Lounge chairs were arranged in a nook. Through an internal door, she glimpsed a gleaming commercial kitchen. Another door was closed. This was no rustic camp.

Chamuel pushed her onto her knees. Rain cascaded down the hut's open sides, creating walls of water. With his back to her, Gabriel surveyed a blur of green jungle and charcoal skies, his hands slung in the pockets of sharply pressed chinos.

He spoke to Chamuel, who clicked open a knife. She swallowed. Shit. He yanked her neck back and sliced off her gag, nicking her jaw in the process, then shoved her forward and sawed off the cable ties. Something wet and soft touched the nape of her neck. His tongue. Creep. She flipped around and scooted backward, out of his reach. He checked Gabriel wasn't watching and made a show of circling his tongue, leaving a strand of saliva drooping from his lips. “Later, Miss America.”

He left. The two guards leaned against the doorway, eyeing her with casual arrogance.

Gabriel sauntered to a table, poured two glasses from a bottle of mineral water in an ice bucket, and, using stainless steel tongs, clinked in ice cubes. “You must be thirsty, my dear. Please, sit.” He nodded at a bamboo lounge chair. She sat warily, rubbing her wrists. A dull ache gripped her head. He handed her a glass and sank into a chair opposite, resting snakeskin shoes on a leather ottoman. She downed the water, her throat so dry it hurt to swallow. Gabriel looked like a millionaire on holiday, not the dangerous warlord Rafe had painted him as. She wasn't fooled—the appearance of respectability could be an asset to a criminal.

“I have seen many killers in my life. You do not look like one,” he said, his words sounding careful and clipped.

“Neither do you.” She chewed her cheek. “And I'm not a killer. He's still alive.”

“You are lying. My men disposed of his body.”

“That wasn't his body.”

Gabriel lifted an eyebrow.

“It was a pirate, who came to rob us.”

“Pirates do not rob my islands.”

His
islands? “Well, they tried. And a guy died, and that was his body your men got rid of. Rafe is back on the island.”

“Rafe...?”
He grunted. “I do not know why you tell me this lie.”

“It's not a lie, I swear. You have to go back and get him.”

“You are trying to trick me, somehow. You think I would believe your word over my men's?”

“You seriously don't care that your friend is alive?”

“He was no friend.” His eyes narrowed. “You think I care.”

“I see you do.”

A flash of darkness crossed his face. The werewolf in him, ready to lunge. “I set Raphael a test and he failed. It is always disappointing when people fail me. His death is of no consequence.”

A test. So he
had
wanted Rafe back in the Lost Boys? “He was supposed to kill me.”

“He was ordered to kidnap a senator's daughter. His first failure. His second failure was not killing you. And I see he told you far too much, including his new name. He is no good at following orders, these days.” He waved a manicured hand. “It does not matter now. I suspected he would let me down. It is a shame, but I am very good at adapting.”

“Do you plan to kill me?”

“Ah, so that is your intention, in lying to me. You think it will buy you time.”

“I'm telling the truth. Do you really believe I could kill someone like him?”

He pressed two manicured fingers to his lips, his gaze landing on her wounded temple. “You have had the misfortune of suffering a blow to the head. That may account for your confusion. My lieutenant confirmed the identity of the body. He is a...
troubled
man, but I will believe his word over yours.

“My cleaning staff will arrive at the island in a few days, weather permitting. Maybe Raphael will give them a surprise.” He shrugged. “And maybe he will not. Do not worry, my dear, I would rather not kill you. Where is the profit in that? There are many uses for a woman like you, and I have costs to recoup.” He smiled, his eyes dead—a man practiced in faking emotions. “You may come to wish Raphael had done his job, my dear.”

She jammed her fingernails into her fisted palms. A few days. She just needed to stay alive for that long. “People are looking for me.”

He smiled. “That is the curious thing. I have eyes all around the Indian Ocean and Asia. As soon as Laura Hyland was...
found
, all activity to find her stopped. No one is looking for you, there is no mention of another missing woman in the global media. The senator and his people have returned to America, and a crew is sailing the yacht back. Whoever you are, you are of no value to your country. I believe very few people know of your little deception, and those who know do not care. That makes you very valuable to me—there is something very appealing about a lost person, do you not think?”