Hidden Currents (Drake Sisters 7)

Elle swayed unsteadily, her head screaming at her. "I'm going to have to lie down."

"Me, too. Let's just get into the house in case Gratsos tries something else."

"I don't think Stavros will be in any shape to try anything against us for a while. He's going to need a little medical attention." Elle smirked at him.

Jackson wrapped his arm around her waist tighter and began to walk her toward the house. Bomber dropped into position at his side, his body relaxed, which helped Jackson breathe a little easier. If Elle said Gratsos was done for a while, he wanted it to be true, but he wasn't going to take any chances. The man just kept coming at them.

"You're going to let your handler know you're safe? Are you certain that's wise?"

"I have to, Jackson. It isn't fair to him and he might be able to come up with a plan to help us with Stavros."

Jackson remained silent. He had his own plan for Gratsos and it didn't include allowing the poor excuse for a human being to live.

14

THE room was hot, too hot, so hot he could barely draw in a breath without scalding his lungs. It was small and had no windows, no ventilation other than a small hole up near the ceiling. Most of the time they kept a bright light on him, forcing him to stand for days, beating him when he toppled to the floor or just plain sat down out of defiance--well, more necessity than defiance, but they didn't see it that way.

He'd been there weeks now, with no end in sight. Alone. Always alone. Occasionally they brought in others and tortured them--he could hear the screams and the sounds of brutality, the cries, usually in another language--and he was certain he was the only American prisoner they had. It was probably the reason they didn't kill him.

He wasn't certain he could have kept his sanity without her--without that voice, so soft and melodic in his head, taking him to another place, telling him she was with him, sharing her mind so that he felt he wasn't alone in that small six-by-six room. When she wasn't with him, he composed music in his head, long concertos and entire symphonies. Or he took apart weapons and put them back together, all in his head, paying attention to every detail. Sometimes it was bombs, making them and taking them apart. Complex math problems and then back to weapons--in his mind he traveled back and forth, trying to keep from going insane.

They were coming. He could hear them. He always heard them. His heart began to pound and his stomach lurched. Air rushed out of his lungs in anticipation. It was going to be bad. It was always bad. They'd reduced him to an animal--no--less than an animal. He had rope brands from the tight bindings on his arms after they hung him for days, beating him with chains and whips and cables. He knew his arms were infected, he was running a fever, but it was all about breaking him.

He'd been in the camp too long and had seen prisoners come and go enough to know that each time they came at him, he was either going to survive and be tougher, or they would break him and destroy him for all time. The voice--her voice--became his reason to be tough, to survive. He'd been buried in the sand up to his neck for three days. That had been one of the worst ordeals, with the heat and the insects and the pressure on his body. He'd ended up with three broken ribs and several raging infections that lasted weeks.

A guard came in and his heart sank. He recognized the man as one of the most sadistic, a man who took pleasure in torture. He'd seen him put a drill through the back of a man's hand and laugh before beginning to chop off body parts, slowly killing the man. He often sexually assaulted the prisoners, and then beat them for hours, pausing only to take breaks when he was tired. He favored blowtorches, drills and electric shock.

At once, she was there, almost as if a part of her never quite left him and when he despaired the most, she moved in his mind, filling him with warmth and strength, although he didn't want her to witness whatever might happen.

You have to go. Now. He's the worst.

She couldn't be there if the guard assaulted him and then began to beat him because he planned to resist. If she went, he would be more alone than ever and maybe this time he could get the guard so angry that he'd lose control and kill him. Jackson couldn't see any other way out.

I'm not leaving you. I know what I'm asking, but please don't try it. Cooperate until that moment comes and believe me it will. There's always a moment when they won't be paying attention. I'll be with you and I'll pour strength into you so you'll be able to escape.

She'd kept him from trying to incite the guards to kill him before. He'd been there for weeks and no one had escaped. No one had come. He couldn't tell her where he was so she couldn't send a rescue team in. They moved him often. He didn't see that there was much hope at all. He couldn't promise her, not the way she wanted him to, but he did the mental equivalent of shrugging, as noncommittal as possible.

The guard stepped in close to his thin, torn body. The second guard, a smaller man with a long beard, and eyes that said he was just doing his job, but didn't have to like it, threw a bucket of ice cold water over his head. It was a shock with the room so hot and his body temperature high.

"Wake up, pig fodder."

Jackson could never be certain he understood the various insults correctly but the loose interpretations never mattered that much to him. He opened his eyes and looked at the miserable excuse for a human being standing, legs apart, a sick, malevolent gleam in his eyes as he studied Jackson.

"Tell me about the unit you're with. You owe them no loyalty. They abandoned you to us. Where are they going to be next?"

Jackson gave a little sigh and repeated his name and rank and serial number as he had a hundred times before. This was always the opening to the macabre dance they did together. He barely got to his rank when the guard delivered the first blow, rocking him back. The beating went on for what seemed like hours. First with whips, the lashing shredding clothes and tearing open skin up and down his body. No part of him was left untouched. Then came the kicking and punching.

The guard paused to take a rest, going out of the room. The second man stayed in the corner and when Jackson looked at him, he looked away, but he didn't interfere when the first guard returned, this time with a cane filled with nails sticking out of it.

Jackson knew he wasn't going to go through that and survive intact. He'd been beaten with it once before and the pain had been excruciating. Worse, the infections had been everywhere, the untreated wounds festering with the heat and insects. He was done. It was over.

She knew the exact moment he broke. Not in his resolve to hold out against his captors, but to force them to kill him. He heard her broken cry.

I'm sorry. I'm not strong enough to go through this again.

Live. Live for me. I know what I'm asking, but please, don't do this. Don't give up.

The guard approached him, an evil smirk on his mouth, his face twisted with his hatred. Closer . . . closer. Jackson watched him coming, holding himself still. Deep inside he heard her sob and then she suppressed the small cry. His heart stuttered. For a moment, he thought he could find the strength to endure, but the guard swung the heavy nail-studded cane and struck him across the chest. The breath left his lungs in a harsh rush and he heard a high-pitched animalistic sound escape his throat.

The guard laughed and stepped close to spit in his face. Jackson reacted, whipping his head up and slamming it into the guard's nose, breaking it. At the same time, he lashed out with his feet, letting his arms take his weight as he kicked the man in the groin. Jackson landed hard on the floor, his arms stretched and burning.

The guard thrashed around for a few minutes, fighting for air, while the second guard rushed over to wrap another rope around both of Jackson's ankles. There was a silence broken only by the harsh breathing of the sadistic guard. He got slowly to his feet, his face a mask of blood. He swore, grabbing Jackson by the feet and began to drag him across the stone floor to the door. He stopped and viciously planted a boot in Jackson's ribs before screaming at the other guard to help him.

Blood and spit ran down h

is face and he kicked again at Jackson's head before once more yanking on his feet. Jackson was dragged outside and through a courtyard to the back of an old beat-up car. His mouth went dry. He'd seen a body come back after they'd dragged him through the pitted, rock-filled, sandy road. There hadn't been any skin on the body, it had looked like raw meat on a hook.

The guard lashed Jackson's arms to the bumper and signaled to the other man to get into the driver's seat. They argued for a couple of minutes and then the sadistic guard drew his weapon. The other man got into the car and turned the engine over. Not bothering to wipe off the blood, his captor spat on Jackson's face and then threw himself into the car. Jackson heard the door slam.

Leave me now. She couldn't be in his head when he died, not like this, dragged behind a car like a dead carcass. Thanks for everything. You have no idea what you've meant to me.

I'm not leaving you. I won't.

If there had been a heart left in his body, her emotion would have broken it, but at last, everything in him was gone. He felt the rumbling of the car, the blast of the exhaust, a terrible jerk on his arms as if they were being pulled from their sockets and then he was being dragged through the rocks and sand.

He had thought he knew pain, but he was unprepared for the excruciating agony rushing through him. He nearly lost consciousness as the rocks and sand ground away his clothes and then his skin. His head was positioned higher, so the sand thrown up acted like a grinder on one side of his face, burning until he thought there was nothing left but bone.

A car came fishtailing up beside them, honking wildly, the driver waving his arms and finally pulling sideways in front of them, forcing the guard to comply. The car slid to a halt, the spinning wheels throwing sand all over the open wounds in his face and the entire left side of his body. The sand had shredded the few clothes he'd been wearing, leaving him raw and bloody, pitted from head to toe with sand.

Jackson lay there, the sand burning through muscle to bone, but he didn't have the strength to even lift his head to see what was happening. His arms felt as if they'd been jerked from their sockets and he was fairly certain something bad had happened to his left shoulder. The pain made him nauseous and the world around him spun, until his focus was off and everything tilted insanely.

The car door slammed and the driver came around to the back of his car, his legs in his line of vision. The sadistic guard rushed from the other side, roaring with anger. The driver of the other car got out much more slowly and came around to straddle Jackson's body. He kicked sand in his face, but Jackson didn't think the man even realized he'd done so. Jackson, as a human being, was of so little concern, they barely glanced at him.

An argument broke out, with the sadistic guard screaming that he would kill Jackson, that he'd do whatever he wanted. The driver of the other car, a stranger to Jackson, didn't raise his voice, but insisted that he was valuable and not to be killed. The man drew a knife, grabbed the rope binding Jackson to the bumper of the car and wrenched his arms up to pull the rope taut. It hurt like hell. For a moment little stars danced on a black background and Jackson was certain he would pass out.

No! Her voice was sharp. They aren't paying any attention to you. There's only three of them. You noticed the gun in his belt. When he shoves the knife back into the scabbard, that's your chance, Jackson. There's a car, water, and weapons and no one around. You have to do this. I'll give you everything I can, but you have to do this.

She was right. It was now or never. It didn't matter how weak he was, how exhausted or hurt, if he didn't take this one chance, another might never come along. Her resolve became his. He strengthened it with his hatred of his captors. He had learned to pray, and he had learned to hate. He never prayed for anything but the strength to endure, to hold out, to keep his soul intact, but now, he prayed for the strength to kill and kill swiftly.

His arms screamed, his shoulder throbbed and pulsed with pain, but all of that was pushed aside. He hung by the ropes, eyes narrowed to slits, his body coiling into the machine he'd been trained to be. The knife sliced cleanly through the ropes and he fell to the sand and watched as the driver shoved the blade back into the scabbard inside his boot. All the while, the driver and the guards continued arguing, paying him no attention at all.

As the sadistic guard stepped closer, fury goading him to double his fists, Jackson felt strength and power pour into him. It was so much so fast, he could barely contain it. He'd forgotten what it was like to feel the rush of adrenaline coupled with full power. His brain was clear, precise, every step planned out in advance. He struck, ripping the knife free with his left hand, the smooth arc of his hand continuing to slice deep into the thigh, cutting through arteries as he reached for the gun with his right hand, ripping it from the belt and shooting the sadistic guard right between the eyes.

He rolled, his legs sweeping down the driver he'd cut. As Jackson rolled, he shot the second guard three times in the chest and once in the throat, driving him backward. Sitting, he shot the driver in the head and slashed through the rope binding his ankles together. Something moved behind him, brushed against his back and he twisted around, the knife in his hand, his heart pounding, his other hand swinging at the unseen enemy.

"Jackson!"

She moved in his mind. Fear. Compassion. Elle. Jackson found himself sitting upright in the bed, a knife in his fist, sweat gleaming on his body. His hair was damp with it, the sheets soaked. Elle sat nearly beneath him, her hands in her lap, her expression soft and loving. He looked down and saw the blade of the knife pointed toward her, inches from her body. His stomach lurched. He opened his fingers and let the knife fall to the mattress between them.

"I'm sorry, baby. Tell me I didn't hurt you." He wiped the sweat from his eyes, rubbing his palms over his face and then through his damp hair. "Hell. I could have killed you. What the fuck was I thinking, bringing you here?"

She reached out a hand to him, but he jerked away from her, backing to the other side of the bed, feet on the floor, hands still rubbing over his face in agitation.

"Jackson--"

"Don't. Just fucking don't. Call Sarah and tell her to come and get you. I'll come over in the morning. Take Bomber with you."

"I don't think so."

Temper hissed in her voice, making him turn his head and meet her glittering gaze. "What did you say to me?" he asked, his own voice lowering, taking on an edge.

"You heard me very well, Jackson. I'm not leaving. You had a nightmare. A flashback. Whatever. It happened. We'll deal with it."

He glared at her. "Are you out of your mind, Elle? I could have shoved that knife in your throat. Right then, in that moment, you were the enemy. You sat there looking at me, totally without defending yourself. You didn't even put up your damn hands. Who does that, Elle? Lies there offering herself up like some sacrifice?"

"I didn't want to add to your nightmare. I just talked to you to bring you out of it."

Now her voice irritated him. She'd gone all soft again, understanding. He leapt up, paced across the room to his jeans and dragged them over his hips. "Well, you didn't talk me out of it, did you, Elle? You became part of it. And I could have woken up with a knife sticking out of your belly and my hand on the hilt."

"Nothing happened, Jackson," she said, obviously struggling to keep her voice soothing.

"Don't use that voice on me. I'm not a fucking child."

"You're certainly acting like one. You think by saying 'fuck' to me that makes you Jackson the badass? I'm not afraid of you, Jackson."

He swung around, crossing back to her side of the bed with purposeful, long strokes, deliberately looming over her. "Well maybe you should be."

She refused to drop her gaze. "I'll never be afraid of you. Not if you come at me with a knife and not if you yell the 'F' word at the top of your lungs. I love you. I'm in your mind. You'd never hurt me, not for any reason. So get over your big bad mood."

He glared at her again. "Has anyone ever told you that you

're not the most soothing woman in the world?"

"The idea isn't to be soothing," Elle said, "it's to knock some sense into your incredibly thick skull."

They stared at each other, Jackson breathing heavily. He shook his head, looking away first. "Damn you, Elle. You don't seem to have one ounce of self-preservation left in you. Do you think this won't happen again? It happens on a regular basis. I've stabbed the mattress more than once. I don't sleep for days on end. It isn't going to stop."

"No, you're right, it isn't going to stop. You have scars on your body, Jackson, and the worst ones are where no one else can see them. They aren't going to disappear. You said that to me, because you've lived it and you know. What happened is a part of you. Sometimes everything will be fine, and other times it won't."

She threw his words back in his face. If they were good enough for him to tell her, then they were good enough for him to live by. "That's just going to be a part of our lives. I can live with it. And you'll have to live with my scars, because believe me, Jackson, I have plenty of them. You told me what happened to me wouldn't come between us. I'm not a coward, and I love you. I refuse to walk away and you're damned well not walking away from me."

She stood up, stepped right up to him, refusing to be intimidated by him. "Not after you made me live. Not after your promises to me. You don't have that option." He stood there, looking back at her, his black eyes glittering with heat. He looked savage, mean even, but she didn't blink, staring up at him defiantly, even accusingly.

"Do you know what they made me into, Elle? You think I was an animal crawling on that floor, blind and sick and broken. I was a monster learning hatred, finding ice in my veins, a place I can go where I feel nothing--nothing at all. A place I can go to kill. That's what you're living with. That's who I am. That's what Kate saw that night."

She didn't flinch or turn away as he expected--as she should have. Her eyes softened and he saw--love. "Kate saw what I see. A man who tries to save the world. A man who doesn't run from a fight. One who stands and can always be counted on. When I was alone and terrified and half out of my mind with pain and revulsion and even shame, I knew absolutely without a shadow of a doubt that you would come for me. I knew you would never stop looking, no matter how many weeks, months, even years. I knew it in my head, in my heart and in my very soul. That's the man you are. That's the man I see standing in front of me. And if you don't see him, get your ass in the bathroom and look in the mirror."