Midnight Games: A Killer Instincts Novel (7 page)

Unless he’d left so he could blow his own brains out . . . In which case, someone needed to go after him. Pronto.

Before Trevor was forced to decide, his phone buzzed. The incoming text sent a wave of relief slamming into him.

“It’s from Holden,” he said. “He’s at the airfield, just chartered a flight. Says he’s going home to see Beth’s family.”

Isabel’s blue eyes filled with worry. “Is that really a good idea? Should we try to stop him?”

After a beat, Trevor shook his head. “Let him go. You saw the shape he was in—he wouldn’t be much help to us anyway. If anything, we’d be splitting our focus, trying to find Morgan while worrying about Holden.”

She didn’t look convinced. “I don’t know if he should be alone.”

“Trust me, even if he’s surrounded by a hundred people right now he’d still be alone.” Trevor choked down a familiar lump of sorrow. “He’s going to be feeling alone for a long, long time.”

•   •   •

Noelle’s ranch was a sprawling eighty-acre spread in the California countryside, and of all the homes Noelle owned, this was Isabel’s favorite. The property sat at the foot of a redwood forest, the land abundant with native oaks, winding creeks, wildflowers, and endless pastures.

The house itself was reminiscent of eighteenth-century Spanish colonial architecture. Single story with a stucco exterior and a U-shaped floor plan that allowed for a gorgeous interior courtyard. From the outside, it looked harmless, but Isabel knew the place was more secure than a prison. Bulletproof windows, top-of-the-line alarms, motion sensors, not to mention strategically placed booby traps all over the property.

Last time Isabel had come here was when she and some of Noelle’s other chameleons met up for a little R&R. An assassins’ retreat, Juliet Mason had called it. It had been surprisingly fun, but then again, it was impossible not to have a good time with Juliet and Paige. The two women could drink Isabel under the table—that was for sure.

The group arrived at the ranch in the midafternoon, after a short flight in the twin-engine Cessna they’d rented at a private airport outside Oaxaca. Much to Isabel’s surprise, Trevor had piloted the small plane himself. The fact that she’d had no clue he could fly a plane was just another reminder of how little they knew about each other.

Which raised the question, how was it possible to feel such a powerful connection to a man she hardly knew?

Abby and Kane—along with the three puppies, which Abby had refused to leave behind—were already on their way to Costa Rica to set up the new compound. Trevor, D, and Ethan had come with Isabel to the ranch, despite Dr. Amaro’s insistence that D stay in bed. When the good doctor tried putting her foot down, the man had predictably refused to follow orders and heaved himself out of bed, looking so pale and swaying so hard Isabel had almost laughed.

He didn’t look any better now. Skin devoid of color, normally sharp eyes glazed, stumbling slightly as he walked. It was incredibly unsettling seeing the tattooed warrior looking so . . . unwarriorlike.

They strode into the living room, which never failed to startle Isabel. It was so very homey with its wood-paneled walls, gleaming windows, and cozy furniture in neutral shades. Each one of Noelle’s properties gave off a wholly different vibe, but the sterile Paris penthouse was the only one that actually seemed to suit the woman.

“Noelle lives here?” Trevor’s expression was dubious as he looked around.

“Yes, but only when she’s not in Paris or Vermont or Tokyo or any of her gazillion other safe houses,” Isabel said drily.

Across the room, Ethan had approached the stone fireplace and was studying the barren mantel. “There isn’t a single photograph in this house,” he remarked. “Doesn’t she have any family? Friends?”

“Friends, definitely not. Family, I’m not sure,” Isabel admitted. “You’d have to ask Abby—she knows more about Noelle’s background than I do.”

“Speak of the devil,” Trevor said as his phone buzzed. He quickly took the call. “What’s up, Abby?” He listened. Frowned. “Are you frickin’ kidding me?”

Everyone in the room went on the alert.

“No, she’s not here yet . . . yeah, I’ll let you know.” Trevor hung up with a soft curse and addressed the group. “Morgan never showed up for his meeting.”

D and Ethan released their own expletives, the former’s far more creative than the latter’s.

“According to Breckin—the CIA agent he was meeting with,” Trevor clarified for Isabel— “Morgan bailed on the meeting. No phone call, no message. He just didn’t show.”

From what she knew of Jim Morgan, the man was a professional right down to his core. Skipping out on a meeting didn’t seem like his style.

“He left the compound, what, two, three days ago?” Isabel asked.

Trevor nodded. “Three.”

“Did you call his pilot? Did the plane actually make it to D.C.?”

“It did. Abby spoke to Sam, our regular pilot. He’s been on call at a private airport near Arlington for the past three days. Morgan told him to wait, said they wouldn’t be grounded for more than a day, but Sam hasn’t heard from him since.”

The anxiety in the air was palpable. So was the fatigue. Isabel felt like she had grains of sand lodged in her eyes—she hadn’t slept since she’d left Nigeria, and that had been more than forty-eight hours ago. She could barely stay upright.

Lurking in the doorway, D looked on the verge of collapse too, but she knew the man would never admit he might need to rest.

Meeting those veiled black eyes, Isabel walked toward the big mercenary. “You need to lie down,” she said firmly. “Let me show you to one of the guest rooms.”

That the normally ill-tempered D didn’t protest was incredibly telling.

Without a word, he followed her down the wide hallway. His scuffed black shit kickers didn’t make a single sound as they traveled over the tiled floor, a mosaic of soft pastels. Isabel gave him the room she’d used last time, a large space with a queen-size bed, an enormous bay window, and a private bath.

“When’s your boss showing up?”

The gravelly inquiry surprised her. She’d noticed that D rarely spoke to anyone other than his teammates, not if he could help it.

“Her jet left Paris an hour ago, so she should be here around midnight.”

He just nodded, then lowered his enormous body onto the bed and stretched out on the peach-colored bedspread.

His black muscle shirt left his arms exposed and drew Isabel’s gaze to his tattoos. The Japanese-style images on his biceps were gorgeous—a deadly samurai fighting the green-and-black diamondback snake coiled around his forearm. Another snake circled his neck, this one red and black, with a forked tongue and a thick body that seemed to undulate whenever its owner moved. On the inside of each wrist was a mysterious set of dates, which Isabel didn’t dare ask about.

God, he was such an imposing man. Terrifying, even. She couldn’t imagine any woman being fully at ease with him. He was the kind of man you’d forever be on edge around, constantly waiting for him to snap. If he possessed even an ounce of tenderness, she had yet to see it.

Unlike Trevor, whose touch earlier had been so tender she’d wanted to drown in it.

She quickly pushed aside the memory of their disturbing encounter in the clinic. She couldn’t let herself dwell on that almost-kiss. Not if she wanted to keep a level head around him.

“You want help taking off your boots?” Isabel asked, glancing at the black Timberlands hanging off the edge of the mattress.

“No.”

With that, D closed his eyes, effectively dismissing her.

Okay then.

Deciding not to push her luck—the stubborn man was resting, at least—she ducked out of the room, closed the door behind her, and bumped right into Trevor.

“Oh.” A squeak flew out as her forehead collided with his collarbone.

He chuckled, catching her waist to steady her. “You okay?”

Damn it. He was touching her again. The heat of his palm sizzled through the soft fabric of the T-shirt Abby had given her, and his woodsy, masculine scent infused her senses and wrapped around her like a warm blanket. He always smelled so good, no matter what.

“D give you any trouble?”

Feeling awkward, she took a step back, which caused Trevor’s hand to drop from her hip. “No, he just ignored me and went right to sleep.”

“You should get some sleep too. You look like you’re about to pass out.”

She sighed. “I feel like it too. I haven’t slept in days.”

They moved away from D’s door and continued down the hall. Isabel stopped in front of the next guest room. “You take this one. Ethan can have the room right across the hall. Noelle will commandeer the master bedroom when she shows up.”

“What about you? Where will you sleep?”

His voice was so husky it sent a shiver up her spine. It also summoned the memory of the last time they’d discussed sleeping arrangements. That final night in Manhattan.

What do you say, Isabel? Will you let me sleep next to you tonight?

She’d said yes. They’d slept in the same bed that night. There’d been no sex, no physical contact, just a man and a woman lying together in bed and going to sleep, yet somehow that had felt even more intimate than sex. Sleeping with someone required letting down your guard and placing a substantial amount of trust in the other person. And she’d realized the next morning that she must
really
trust Trevor—because that had been the best damn sleep she’d ever had.

But not this time. She couldn’t open that door again.

“There’s another bedroom next to the den,” she said. “On the other side of the house. I’ll take that one.”

A soft breath left his mouth. God, his mouth. It was far too sensual for someone so masculine.

“All the way on the other side of the house, huh?” He slanted his head. “What are you so scared of, sweetheart?”

Don’t visit again, Isabel. I can’t stand the sight of you.

Her most recent encounter with her father suddenly flew into her head like a gust of frigid wind. She made an effort to visit him at Sing Sing prison a couple of times a year, though why she bothered, she had no clue. Bernie Roma wanted nothing to do with his daughter. Sometimes, when she was feeling particularly down on herself, she didn’t even blame him.

Daddy issues. What a fucking cliché. But it ran deeper than a case of Daddy-never-loved-me. Isabel had known from a young age that her family was fucked up. At seven, she’d watched her father beat a man within an inch of his life. At ten, she’d found her mother lying in a bloody bathtub with her wrists slashed to hell.

When your father was the number three man in the De Luca crime family in Brooklyn, it was pretty much a guarantee that your childhood would be less than conventional. Running away hadn’t been an option, not in the physical sense anyway, but over the years she’d developed a different form of escape—becoming someone else.

Now it was all she was good at. All she had.

So what was she afraid of? God, where did she even start?

“Isabel?”

“Stop looking at me like that,” she murmured.

“Like what?” he said gruffly.

“Like . . .” She felt frazzled. “I don’t know. Like
that
.”

“You mean, like I’m concerned about you? Or like I want to fuck you?”

Her breath hitched in shock. She couldn’t believe he’d just said that. So candidly, and so vulgarly, and yet his words evoked a rush of pure desire that made her breasts tingle and her thighs clench together.

Trevor the gentleman she could handle. But this Trevor? The sexy one who wore all black and eyed her with raw lust? Whose strong jaw was covered with beard growth and whose muscular body rippled with power?

She didn’t stand a chance around this Trevor.

“I can’t talk about any of this right now,” she told him. “I’m exhausted and I’m not thinking clearly, and that’s not the state I want to be in when we have this conversation.”

There was a beat, and then he let out a breath. “Fair enough.”

She took another step back, desperate for some much-needed space. “Make yourself at home. I’m going to try to get some sleep before Noelle gets here.”

•   •   •

Eddie Lassiter loved beautiful women. Sadly, the Nevada trailer park he’d grown up in had lacked that particular commodity. Instead, he’d been surrounded by bleached blondes with overly painted mugs. Freddy-fucking-Krueger fingernails and tight, unflattering outfits.

Trashy and cheap. Those were the women of his youth.

Nowadays he had the pleasure of spending time with more
sophisticated
women. He didn’t even mind paying for them, either. Just meant it was easier to kick them out the next morning.

The two brunettes currently sharing his bed had come at a hefty price, but damn, they were worth every fucking penny. Smooth golden skin, big tits, long legs, and tight pussies.

And they were twins. What man in his right mind didn’t want to see a pair of identical twins licking each other up like ice-cream cones?

“Oh baby, that’s what I’m talking about,” Lassiter drawled as he watched the sisters go at it.

He was standing at the window in his robe, blowing a puff of cigarette smoke into the humid night. The tantalizing scene on the bed thickened his dick and made his balls ache. Shit, he wanted to fuck these bitches again. All damn night.

He took a last drag and flicked the cigarette out the open window. On his way to the bed, his cell phone rang, bringing a jolt of annoyance.

One of the brunettes briefly lifted her head and met Lassiter’s eyes. “We stop?” Her Spanish accent was as endearing as the sight of her sister’s juices glistening on her mouth.

“Oh no, baby girl, you keep going.” He wiggled his eyebrows before answering the phone. “Lassiter.”

“We’ve got a problem.”

His good mood faded. “What is it?”

“Our guys are dead.”

“What the fuck you talking about, Lex?”

“Shanahan didn’t check in, so I sent in a secondary team.” Lex Delaney, Lassiter’s right-hand man, sounded grim. “The compound was blown to smithereens. Nobody could have survived that blast. There were some bodies scattered outside the main house—they were all ours.”