Against the Rules Page 17

  He took a deep breath and started going through the crime scene photos. They always shook him up. No matter how analytical he tried to be, he felt like he was moving through an oily sludge he never quite managed to wash off.

  The body had been moved and the actual murder scene hadn’t been discovered. DNA detection hadn’t been as sophisticated at the time of Jasmine’s murder. He made a note to check and see if the evidence was still viable. One photo caught his eye. Her bare torso had bruising, lash and teeth marks. He kept going back to it again and again. Something looked familiar, but he couldn’t put a finger on what.

  Police looked to those closest to the victim, especially in cases showing such brutality. Ed had been in the hospital just as Donley had stated. Her parents were in New York City on a working vacation. It would be interesting to get a look at their financials for that time period. He made another note to see if they were available.

  Continuing to scan through the file, he got to the autopsy report. He knew immediately why he had been drawn back to the photo. The odd bite marks matched those from the Weasel victims. Could Jasmine have been his first? If so, what did it mean?

  * * * *

  The compound—what little he could see of it—was enormous. Double gates hid the armed gunmen patrolling the inner area from the public. If the general populace had any idea what went on behind the handcrafted stone walls, they would demand that law enforcement tear it down boulder by boulder.

  Teague fought to keep his breathing calm as the van pulled to a stop. He realized that his plan had some gaping holes in it. While he had enough weapons to get the job done, he couldn’t survive a full-out assault. How in the hell was he going to escape the barrage of men this place held?

  His conscience still beat him up too. He’d never known a man who needed killing as badly as G., but doing so would sever their ability to rescue a smattering of the kids that had landed in this hellhole. Shit.

  Would they be able to re-establish their window once the inevitable power struggle eased? He didn’t bother trying to fool himself into believing that killing G. would end the illegal activities. It would only slow them down for a short time and get his head off the chopping block, thus keep Channy from danger.

  The van door slid open, spilling sunlight into his eyes as he cringed and huddled in the corner. Non-threatening wuss was the look he was going for. A total computer geek afraid of a hangnail.

  “Get over here, asshole,” a goon ordered, as they pulled him through the door.

  Teague landed on the ground, his wrists and ankles bleeding again from the ties cutting into his skin. Two men cradled assault rifles loosely aimed at him and Foster. Teague continued to lie on his side, his head resting in the dirt. He refused to draw attention or move without permission. His only goal at this point was to get back to Channy. During the four hours he’d been stuck in the van, he’d begun to have a really bad feeling and it had nothing to do with him. His gut was churning. Panic threatened to override all else. She was in trouble. He just knew it. Over the years, he’d learned to trust his instincts. Something bad was going down. Painful though it was, he pushed her from his mind. He couldn’t help her from here. He just had to finish this and get back to her.

  Foster scrambled to his knees, cursing at the men until they kicked him in the ribs and he fell over backwards. Again, he rolled onto his side and rocked until he was sitting. The men laughed at his attempts and kicked him over every time he succeeded.

  Teague was content to save his energy. Through hooded eyes, he got a feel for the place. It was going to be a bitch getting back out of here. He’d seen less armed men at some military installations. At least he knew they weren’t as well trained.

  Sammy walked out of the building straight toward them. “Take ’em down to bunker T-three.”

  “Cut their legs loose, man,” Marco suggested.

  Teague grunted from a kick to his stomach.

  “This son of a bitch is too heavy to carry that far and I ain’t waiting all day for him to hop.”

  One of the goons reached into the van and pulled out a pair of diagonal cutters.

  “G.’s expected this evening. It’ll be your ass if these dickheads aren’t waiting for him,” Sammy cautioned.

  Marco obviously gave that some thought. People who pissed off G. ended up dead. Sometimes it took a long time, sometimes a shot to the head. But dead just the same.

  “Fuck it! Drag his sorry ass.” Marco motioned toward Foster. “He’s a scrawny little shit and more trouble than he’s worth. This SOB is too heavy.”

  Teague felt the tie wrap tighten before it sprang loose. A foot in his ass landed Teague face first into the gravel.

  “Try anything and I’ll shoot your balls off myself. Now get up. Slowly,” Marco ordered.

  Teague pulled his legs underneath him before sitting up, each move slow and deliberate, feigning stiffness and taking two tries before he stood. He kept his head down, seemingly resigned to his fate, yet seeing as much as possible. The guards on top of the building were going to be a problem.

  He might have to take Foster out with him. Nobody could caterwaul as well as he could. Every eye in the place was on him. He was a great distraction.

  One of the goons opened a side door and ushered them through. The storage room had wooden crates lining two of the walls. A card table was set up near the center. By the far wall, another man leaned down and pulled a throw rug off a hinged door in the floor.

  A wave of his weapon sent Teague down a steep wooden stairwell. He was about halfway down when Foster was tossed through the opening. Teague, with his arms still bound, couldn’t stop their descent. Foster skidded along and over Teague’s back, crushing his ribs into the wooden steps. The goon squad laughed hysterically and slammed the door shut behind them.

  Foster landed on the floor, quiet for the first time all day. Teague hoped that he wasn’t dead. He wanted that pleasure for himself. The bastard.

  Teague hooked his feet behind one of the planks and pulled himself up. He took a couple of deep breaths to make sure that nothing was broken and to leash his desperate need to kill that son of a bitch. Damn, he was feeling a little worse for wear. At the bottom of the steps, he paused to make sure Foster was still breathing.

  As he stepped off the stairs, they sprang back tightly to the door in the ceiling. The wood on wood coupled with the metal hinges sounded eerily similar to a casket door latching. Impotent anger swirled in Teague’s brain. Chaotic thoughts hammered home his desperate situation.

  Teague leaned against the far wall keeping Foster and the doorway within clear view while he dug a knife out of hiding. Seconds later, the tie wrap snapped off his blood-caked wrists. God, it felt good to stretch. His shoulders tingled with pins and needles as feeling returned. Tentatively, he touched his ear and winced.

  Payback was going to be sweet. He’d take pleasure bringing that cold motherfucker down. Sammy’s soul was long dead already. Teague had no trouble reuniting body and soul in hell.

  Teague had lifted extra tie wraps from the back of the van. He was digging around in the catch when Foster came to.

  Decision time. One chance was all he was getting. He tossed Foster onto his back and rested his foot dangerously over his trachea. Eye to eye with a devil, Teague asked Foster, “Why should I let you live?”

  The son of a bitch smirked as if he somehow had the upper hand. “You shouldn’t.”

  If he wanted death, Teague would be happy to give it to him. “Good enough,” Teague shrugged, as he applied a steady, crushing pressure.

  Foster began to struggle. “My son,” he croaked.

  Teague held firm, staring into the eyes that had sold him out time and time again and fucking bragged about it. He lightened the pressure a tad and Foster gulped in air. “What about him?”

  “Sammy.” Foster’s breath came in shallow, quick bursts. “Sammy has my son.” His eyes watered from emotion or from pain—Teague couldn’t tell—but it was a nice touch.
“He’s going to kill him.”

  He continued to stare at the bastard who valued money over honor or loyalty. If his son was in danger, it was his own doing.

  Damn it. Teague had grown up without a father. His mother had worked her ass off to be everything he needed, yet there was always something missing. Did Foster know that?

  Foster might have his uses before this thing was through. Fuck it. He relieved the pressure a tad further, never breaking eye contact. “Go against me again and I will kill you first, before G. or Sammy. Do you understand?”

  Foster nodded once, a mere millimeter, all the movement Teague would allow.

  Before Foster could blink, Teague tossed him over and snapped the wraps binding his wrists and ankles. “What do you know about this compound?”

  “Nothing. I’ve never been here before.” His voice was scratchy.

  “Is your son being held here?”

  Foster glared at him with pure hatred, making Teague question his decision.

  “I don’t know. I haven’t seen him in days.”

  Foster had hesitated long enough for Teague to know that the bastard was lying. He probably didn’t even have a son. The knife in his hand felt good. A comforting weight, yet a reminder of the responsibility he carried. He wanted badly to swipe the blade across Foster’s jugular and end his bullshit once and for all. Unfortunately, Teague didn’t believe in taking a life without just cause. Everyone was put on this planet for a reason. Though he was sure that Foster was more trouble than he was worth, he couldn’t justify murdering him in cold blood. Yet.

  “Really, man. I swear. Sammy picked him up on his way home from school.”

  His story still didn’t ring true. Teague had honed those instincts from years on the run. He could smell a lie and this asshole wouldn’t know the truth if it ran him over.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Ed, you going fishing?” Donley called from Chantel’s car as he sat looking for anything that would help him determine her whereabouts. He was losing his mind with worry. All those parents he’d dealt with throughout the years and it took this before he truly understood their pain. A healthy dose of guilt settled over his shoulders. And he vowed that if he ever got his hands on four-six-two again, he was a dead man.

  Ed wheeled the cooler near Donley. “Soon. I need to clean and double check my gear. Any word on Chantel?”

  “Not yet.” Donley swept his hand through his hair, a sure sign of agitation.

  “Let me know if you need anything.” Ed’s cock throbbed as he wheeled Chantel’s unconscious body past her father. The fucking NBIA chief wouldn’t know a clue if it dropped on his sorry ass. That’s why Ed had failed his psych exam. He was too intelligent to join their ranks. With a sigh, he headed back to the guest house. He couldn’t continue to play with the monkeys—Chantel would be waking soon and he still needed to get her settled into her new home.

  He shut the front door, taking only a moment to bolt it. Carefully, he pulled the cooler through to the master bathroom and moved back a panel he’d made in the far wall. It took a few attempts to wheel the large, cumbersome cooler through the opening. Blood was pounding in his temples, thrumming in his cock. The time had come. Finally, all his hard work had paid off and now she was home.

  Painstakingly, he had transformed a small root cellar into a two room haven fit for his latest project. Chantel. He’d considered her every need, learned from past experience and planned accordingly. First stop was the shower to wash the enemy’s smell from her body.

  He opened the cooler and dragged Chantel over his shoulder. Next, he removed her shoes and sweatpants. Leaning her against the shower enclosure, he ripped the blouse and bra off her as well. Her head slumped against the wall. So young and pretty. Just like his Jasmine.

  His eyes freely roamed her body. His new prize. She would learn to serve him, he owned her now. Her every thought would be geared to his pleasure. His eyes narrowed. Rage shook him over the marks adorning her body. Marks that had been put there by another man.

  “Tsk, tsk, Chantel. I hadn’t wanted our time together to begin this way.” He smashed his fist into the wall.

  He watched her eyes flutter and grow wide with recognition. Then fear. His cock jerked with anticipation. He loved that look. It was why he had chosen that specific drug. The effects were long lasting. First complete unconsciousness, followed by awareness yet complete immobility.

  The first time he’d used it, he’d been pleasantly surprised. He’d thought that the rush would be diminished by his subject’s inability to move. Yet it was just the opposite. He found that it ratcheted their fear to a new level.

  For some reason, a couple of them had retained control of their eyes. It fascinated him really. Eyes were such a small part of the body, but their ability to express fear, confusion and a myriad of other emotions was truly phenomenal. Until his subjects were washed in the blood and ready for him, he found it best to keep them drugged. Otherwise, the temptation was just too much.

  His eyes traveled to the vidcam, ensuring that it was positioned correctly to document her homecoming.

  “You should have waited for me.” He shook his head in disappointment. “Impatient whore.” He lowered the shower head directing it over her body, then cranked the hot water handle open. “Just like my Jasmine. She didn’t wait for me either.”

  He grabbed the soap and began to scrub his new possession. Steam swirled too heavily. He tempered the water to keep the vidcam image clear. Documentation was important.

  Silent screams reverberated in her head as Chantel was flipped over unceremoniously. The water, hot and scalding, hurt almost as bad as his hands scrubbing her skin raw. Her body was unresponsive, heavy as if an invisible weight pressed down from above. Fear, a living breathing entity, threatened to choke the life out of her. Her stomach rebelled. She felt the sensation, but nothing happened. Her muscles refused to work.

  How had this happened? Dear God. Ed was the Weasel. All this time and no one knew. Her father would never look at Ed as a suspect. Any hope she had had plummeted.

  Her head smashed against the side of the enclosure as Ed flipped her back over and began to scrub with renewed vigor. Panic surged through her and tears poured from her eyes as she realized that she had counted on Ed to save Teague. No one was going to help him. Teague had relied on her to get help and she’d failed him. Teague was going to die and there was nothing she could do about it.

  “I’m sorry, but you’ve given me no choice.” His tone was calm and chilling. “You’ll have to be punished. I didn’t want that for you.” A sharper edge seeped into his voice. “It’s all your fault.” He turned off the water and grabbed a towel, blotting her dry enough to carry.

  Chantel was thrown over Ed’s shoulder in a fireman’s carry. Her arms uselessly draped over his back. The frustration of her body ignoring her commands became maddening. She needed to fight. To scream. To get his slimy hands off her. His touch sickened her beyond anything she’d ever imagined. A thick, musky odor assailed her senses.

  Somehow, she needed to get help for Teague and herself. She couldn’t wrap her mind around the idea of Ed actually hurting her, but the images of those women tortured by his hands were never far away.

  She summoned all her strength, determined to make a stand. And… Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Her body refused to obey. Tears were her only source of release.

  Ed pulled her down off his shoulder. A fist bunched in her hair, an arm wrapped under her breasts and gripped tightly to her ribs.

  “Look at this!” He held her in front of a cot. It had a lacy white pillow at one end and a white blanket folded at the other with manacles attached to the legs at both ends. “I did all this for you.”

  Terror hit her like a punch in the gut. This was real and he was going to kill her. But not until he was finished with her. Now she knew what Teague had meant by ‘worse than death’. Whatever Ed had planned for her was certainly worse than dying. She wanted to peel his hands off her body
and scrub what little skin she had left, knowing that she’d never feel clean again.

  “You could have had this.” He yanked on her hair, bouncing her head like a bobble doll. “But no. You had to let another man touch you. Now you must be punished.”

  He dragged her to the corner of the room. Her heels scraped across the rough concrete. Her inability to move, to fight or to scream was, if possible, worse than his touch. By not fighting, she felt like she was somehow allowing this to happen. She heard the clanking of metal and knew that this wouldn’t be good. He pushed her backwards, one hand under her sternum, into a cage. While he held her with one hand, he snaked his other through the bars and pinned her until he could latch the door.

  Her body refused to hold her up. Though the human-sized cylindrical birdcage was barely large enough to stand in, without muscle control she slid partially to the bottom. Her head and knees pressed against the bars in a contorted mess. One foot slipped through the opening, further compressing her weight.

  Ed’s eyes narrowed, striking fear through Chantel. “Do not push me, Chantel. You wouldn’t like me when I’m angry.”

  His voice grated on her nerves. The calm, patient man she’d known and loved as a child couldn’t possibly be doing this. His face so similar and yet so different. Cold and dispassionate. She was nothing to him. Absolutely nothing. There was no doubt in her mind that he would kill her.

  “Like a cat in heat, you gave your body to another man. So, this is your new home.” He rubbed a hand over the bars while the other rubbed his obvious erection.

  Chantel felt bile pool in the back of her throat. She wanted to gag. Needed to gag, but her muscles wouldn’t. The acidic concoction burned.