To Command and Collar [Masters of the Shadowlands 6] (29 page)

God, he was going to bleed to death in front of her eyes. Swearing under her breath, she used his bolt cutters to cut up her leather harness. Linen napkins made an adequate crappy dressing, and she secured it all in place by knotting a long leather strap tightly around his chest. The wound on his shoulder—she couldn’t figure out how to contrive something for that.

He ignored her, studying the room. “We’re directly across the hall from the top of the stairs. And there’s a chair right outside. I should be able to get rid of one or two that way.”
By sitting in a chair? How much blood had he lost?
“We don’t want to get trapped in here.” He eyed the door, then made Kimberly push and angle the couch so someone entering wouldn’t see the emptiness of the cage until they were well into the room.
“Now what?” she asked. There were going to be too many men for them. She knew it.
He pointed to the heavy ironwork lamp on the end table. “Get that, gatita.”
After she’d unplugged and carried it back, he motioned for her to keep it. “Use it on the first man through the door—unless he’s FBI, of course. Hit him in the head as hard as you can. I’ll go after the others, and we will party.” He waited a beat, then teased her, “This is when you say, ‘It will be my pleasure, Master.’”
Master R’s grin made her feel better, and how dumb was that?
We’re going to die here
. Her chin came up. But she’d do it fighting and not dying little by little in a cage. “I always liked to party.”
“Tesoro mío,” he murmured. Andrea had said the words meant “my treasure.” The approval in his eyes made her insides tremble—and strengthened her legs. He needed her to be strong; she’d give him anything he needed.
He tilted his head to listen, then pointed for her to stand behind the door and took the other side for himself.
Footsteps
. Many. Men’s voices. The horrible sharpness of Lord Greville’s voice.
No
. She lifted the lamp over her head and braced her legs. Her hands shook, almost dislodging her grip, and she growled and steadied them. Master R nodded approval, increasing her determination. She’d hold up her part. See if she didn’t.
The door opened. “Cover the cage—I don’t want extra witnesses,” Lord Greville said.
Her heart was hammering, pounding, hitting her lungs. She couldn’t—couldn’t move.
Someone walked into the room, the open door hiding him from her. “Yes, sir,” the man said. One step past the door’s edge, he spotted the empty cage.
She saw—actually
saw
—his mouth open, but the buzzing in her ears drowned out his yell. With a death grip on the base, she swung the heavily decorated solid iron lamp down onto his head. He fell like a rock.
She almost dropped the lamp. Blood streaked the back of his head. She stared, waited. His chest rose—he was breathing, thank heavens.
As she started around him, the smooth iron base of the lamp slipped from her sweaty hands.
My only weapon
. She snatched it up, curling her fingers into the fancy ironwork on the top. The balance was poor, but at least she wouldn’t drop it.
She heard grunts and shouts outside the door.
Master R
. Fighting all the rest. By himself.
Damn you, Kim. Move
! She lurched into the hall and almost tripped on a man on the floor. Eyes open, chest caved in. A buzzing started in her ears. She edged past him and stopped, trying to see. So many men.
With a roar, Master R swung the chair that had been outside the door and knocked a man down the wide, steep stairs. Then he spun, bending forward, kicking backward to catch another in the groin. The man staggered, lost his footing, and yelled as he went over and down the stairs.
Off balance, Master R dropped the chair, staggering a few steps until he caught himself on the banister. Two more guards moved in.
And Lord Greville
. Kim’s blood turned cold. He’d grabbed the chair. Master R’s back was to him as he pulled the chair back like a bat.
“No!” Kim yelled.
Greville’s head turned. His cold gaze stopped her…held her…
No
. Screaming her fear, her fury, she swung the lamp with all her strength. The heavy base hit Greville in the side of the head, and she felt something break as if the light bulb had shattered.
He fell, and his head…
His head
. The lamp dropped from numb fingers. The floor whirled under her feet:
red carpet, red blood, red carpet…
She was on her hands and knees, choking, trying not to throw up. Cold sweat ran down her face.
God, God, God.
Don’t look
. As the ringing in her ears subsided, she heard a low groan.
Master R
. She pushed up on trembling legs and turned. Still alive. Fighting. A man at his feet. More men ran up the stairs.

* * * *

Raoul and Kim had disappeared to an unknown location, and Sam was ready to kill someone. No buyer was allowed outside of the ballroom unescorted, so he couldn’t wander through the place, yelling for his pal. As the auction continued, less than a third of the buyers and slaves remained.

The FBI hadn’t shown up.
What did they do, stop for a beer first?
Finally, he spotted a dark jacket, another; then a steady flow of them streamed in under the arched ballroom door.
About time
. Vance followed. He exchanged glances with Sam and stopped nearby as his men moved up the aisle. Their presence was masked by the screaming and sobbing of slaves, the auctioneer’s sick humor, and the perverted display on the stage.
In the front of the room, a door opened, revealing more men. Sam would give odds that they also surrounded the house. He wished he could see the Overseer’s face right now…and where was he, anyway?
A buyer jumped to his feet.
“Cops!”

“So observant.” Vance lifted a bullhorn. “This is the FBI. You will kneel on the floor, hands laced behind your heads. Any resistance will be met with deadly force.” He lowered the bullhorn and added under his breath, “You fucking assholes.”

No one moved.

Vance put the bullhorn to his lips again. “Sit!” His voice whipped across the room with the authority of a hardened cop—and a dom. Most of the slaves dropped instinctively to their knees, and a lot of buyers did as well.

Sam grinned and glanced at Linda, who was still on her feet. His slave was made of tough material.
Mine
. She studied Vance—frowned at Sam, who wasn’t moving either—then knelt as well.

Galen limped up to Sam and gave him an assessing look before asking, “Where’s Raoul and his sub?”
“Don’t know.” Sam scowled. “The Overseer took them somewhere outside the ballroom.”

* * * *

Kim screamed as a guard hit Master R from the side, slamming him into the wall. He grunted in pain, started to fall, then caught himself.
Another headed for him.
Kim lurched for the guard, turning at the last minute to kick the side of his knee. Pain shot up her ankle, but as Master R had promised, the guy went down, bellowing curses. She jumped for another—spoiling his blow at Master R—and punched the side of his neck, even as he backhanded her. Her butt hit the floor, her head a second later with a cracking blast of pain. The lights dimmed, turned black. She moaned.
No. Can’t.
“FBI. Freeze!”
Through unfocused eyes, Kim stared up at the slaver over her, at his furious eyes. She braced for his kick… Then he raised his hands and stepped back.
She lay for a second, pain ripping through her head with each pulse beat, then managed to sit up. Her stomach lurched, nausea churning, making her swallow and swallow again. The room whirled, a merry-go-round of lights. And finally slowed to a stop.
Vance was at the top of the stairs, several uniformed police coming up behind him. Unable to stand, Kim watched as two uniforms dealt with the men Master R had knocked down the steps. One was handcuffed and taken away. The other didn’t move. The remaining officer checked for a pulse and left him there.
Master R
. Where was he? Dread clawing at her, Kim turned the other way.
Thank you, God.
Still standing, Master R was propped up by the wall as he gasped for air. The white napkins she’d used on his wound were soaked with blood.
Kim moaned.
He glanced at Vance and Dan, then looked around and spotted her. His intent gaze ran over her body, returned to her face, and he actually smiled. “Bueno.”
“Raoul,” Vance said. “You’re a mess.”
“And you’re late.” Master R winced and put his hand over the linen napkins.
“Asshole. Where’re you hurt?”
“In the back,” Kim said, talking right over her master. “And over his ribs, and he’s been bleeding forever.” She tried to stand, but the world started to disappear halfway up.
“No, gatita!” Master R took a step toward her. His knees buckled, and he fell back against the wall. He slid down, leaving a bloody trail on the wallpaper.
Oh God
. Kim crawled frantically. “No no no.”
“Medic!” Vance yelled. He pulled Master R forward, netting himself a foul curse in Spanish. “That’s a knife wound. Thought they couldn’t have weapons,” Vance growled, easing the leather vest off Master R’s shoulders.
Still alive. He’s alive
. “It’s from a dinner tray,” Kim said.
“Ugly hole,” Vance muttered. He pulled off his black jacket and ripped the sleeve from his white shirt. After shoving it against the bleeding shoulder wound and getting cursed again, he looked at Kim. “You able to keep pressure on this?”
She nodded, ignoring the pain in her head.
Just watch me.
“Good enough.”
Galen appeared, leaning heavily on his cane. He had jackets under his arm and tossed one over Kim’s shoulders and another over Master R’s legs. “That might keep you from being dumped into the slammer.”
“Whoa!” A yell came from nearby. “Looks like this mother’s not going anywhere. His skull’s cracked like an eggshell.”
A younger deputy at the top of the stairs reversed course, his face green. I know the feeling, Kim thought. Along with the painful throbbing, her head kept replaying that shattering sound. She tried to swallow.
A firm grip on her knee got her attention. “Cariño? Are you all right?”
She smiled down into Master R’s worried brown eyes. “I love you.”

* * * *

With an FBI jacket over his shoulders, Sam worked his way back into the ballroom, shoving past a cop and the buyer he’d threatened earlier.
“Hey! Arrest him too. He was whipping a slave,” the asshole shouted.
The police officer frowned at Sam, then the jacket he wore. “Wait one minute, please.” He pulled a notepad from his pocket, flipped to a set of thumbnail photos. Sam saw his own face, Kim’s, and Raoul’s. The cop nodded politely at him and gave the slaver a push. “Let’s go, you.”
Sam shook his head. The two feebies had definitely tried to make sure their civilian undercover people were safe. Holding the blanket he’d found, he headed back to Linda. An FBI agent with a bolt cutter had just gotten her unchained from the long cable.
Sam scowled. That was inefficient at best. “You know,” he told the agent, “if you could locate the asshole called the Overseer or Dahmer, he’d probably have master keys.”
“You seen him?”
“Maybe the kitchen or upstairs. He’s not in the ballroom.”
The feebie motioned for a uniform. “Get a description from this man and find the Overseer guy. Try the kitchen first, then upstairs.”
Sam filled the cop in and turned to his woman. “Linda.” He kept his eyes on her.
She stiffened, her gaze on the floor. Embarrassed.
Hell.
He stepped forward and wrapped her in the blanket.
The agent with the bolt cutters was working on the next woman’s chain. He looked up. “Hey, where’d the blanket come from?”
“There’s a stack in the closet by the front door.” Sam pulled the blanket more securely around Linda.
Streaks of red appeared on her cheeks. She stared stubbornly at the floor. Dammit.
“Look at me,” he growled.
Her eyes lifted. Pretty, pretty brown, then down again.
“They’re going to take you all to a ward in the hospital where the docs can check you out. The feebies will be doing interviews. I doubt they’ll let me in to see you.” His jaw hardened when she didn’t answer. Unease tightened his gut, flattened his voice. “Give me a way to contact you.”
Her chin jerked up, and she gave him a stunned look of revulsion. “No. Never.” She took a step back from him. “I never want to see you again.” Another step back. Her lush mouth had flattened in a tight line.
He saw her shiver and knew she feared reprisal for the rudeness, but her determination to keep him away had been enough to risk it. He could read her as clearly as if he’d been in her head.
The agent dealing with the next slave over frowned.
This wasn’t the time to push. He’d made a hell of a mistake with her, going with the scene dynamics, and not taking into account the rest of the world. “All right. My name is Sam. When… If you want to reach me, ask at the Shadowlands here in Tampa.” He hesitated. “Be well, Linda.”
She looked away.

* * * *

They’d taken Master R from her, said they were airlifting him to a hospital. Kim had watched, still unable to stand, unable to do anything except shiver.

He was gone. She was alone. The memories of shattering, blood, and screaming kept surging forward in waves, twisting her stomach. If she could manage to get to her feet, maybe she could… Where would she go?

“Hey, what’re you doing here?” a cop asked brusquely and tried to yank her up. She yelped and grabbed her ribs. The Overseer had gotten in a good punch. He stopped pulling but didn’t let go. “You slaves are supposed to all be in the ballroom

until—”
“They’re not slaves, now are they?” A cold, gravelly voice. Kim looked up as Master Sam
walked over. “Last time I looked, slavery was outlawed in this country.”
“Sorry. I’m sorry, sir.” The cop released her and took a step away. “Um—” Sam moved in front of the officer and knelt. “Are you all right, Kim?”
“My master.” Her mind blanked on the name. “My…my Master R. I need to go there.”
Where he is
. “He’s hurt. I need to go there.”

Sam didn’t answer, just wrapped the blanket he held around her and over the black jacket she wore. When did she get a jacket? Her thoughts stuttered, started forward again. If her head would just stop
hurting
… She pulled the covering closer. “Thank you.”