Hunted Read Online Free PDF Page B

and his aristocratic features softened the hardened dark eyes. He was handsome, if she cared, which she didn’t. Men, handsome or not, held no appeal to her. Passing lights shone off his bald head. This was a guy one probably didn’t want to push too far.
    “You can call me Shadow.” His voice went with the rest of him, dark, dangerous, but steady.
    God, she was losing her mind.
    Dusk nodded and looked back at the boss man. Then again, Shadow looked like a teddy bear compared to the dealer who’d just shot a man as easily as one might squash a bug.
    “Who,” she started, then licked her lips before continuing. “Who are you?” she asked, hating how her voice trembled. “Is—is this a trick? Are you l-lying to me?”
    The client smiled. “You may either call me Mr. Reyer”—he paused, then continued, his voice more edged—“or John. For now. And no, this is no lie, no trick.”
    The words were spoken like anyone giving their name, but Dusk was under the distinct impression that Mr. John Reyer was not John Reyer at all. So who was he?
    “ What are you?” she asked.
    He grinned. Shadow let out a rolling, rusted laugh. No one answered her questions.
    The car drove further along the waterfront until coming to rest in a deserted lot. Warehouses loomed up on all sides. The car stopped, and the driver leaned over, popping the trunk. The dead man in the passenger seat did not seem to bother him. The driver got out and walked around, lifting the trunk lid. Headlights blinked across the way.
    John Reyer, or whoever the hell he was, studied her.
    “We’re ditching the car here and getting in one over there. From there we’ll take you to a safe house where you can change. We’ll let you in on a few things and try to answer your questions before getting out of here.”
    He opened the door and held his hand out. For a moment she only stared at it. His words played in her brain.
     . . . found you . . . help you . . .
    Get you out of here . . .
     . . . out of here . . .
     . . . help you . . .
    She reached out and clasped the offered hand, letting him help her from the limo. The sharp click of her heels on pavement echoed against the buildings.
    Cold air settled and swirled in the deserted lot, carrying the smells of stagnant water and oil. Dusk looked across to where the car was parked between two buildings and saw a figure walking toward them.
    “You get her?” a female voice asked.
    “Did you doubt it?” Shadow asked.
    “With John, no. He’d talk the devil into selling his pitchfork.” She crossed the beam of headlights and Dusk saw the woman was dressed all in black. Black pants, leather jacket, gloves, boots, dark black hair slicked back. The only color was the paleness of her face. Maybe this was some dream, and Ms. Charlie’s Angel was no more real than the rest of this.
    The woman looked at her. “Well, I bet that collar is fun, huh? Come, freedom awaits you.” She was American, or at least spoke with an American accent, Southern, from the sounds of it. “I’m Becca. You’ve met John and the other man is Shadow and the driver is George.”
    Dusk rubbed her bare arms as the cold December wind blew against her bare legs and feet. It was so cold her nipples had hardened against the dress and goose bumps prickled along her arms and legs. She couldn’t stop shaking. And if she wasn’t careful, she’d fall in these damn heels.
    Shadow shut the trunk and set plastic gasoline containers on the ground. He opened one can and the sharp scent of gasoline confirmed her assumption. He looked at her. “You really don’t have to worry.”
    She didn’t reply.
    “Come on, let’s get you into a warmer place,” John interrupted, reaching for Dusk’s arm.
    She sidestepped and stared at him. His eyes bore into hers but he turned and walked toward the other car, which she noticed was identical to the one they’d left. Should she follow him? She looked around. She knew this part of town. What if she ran? Would