Jonas shook his head. "The Drakes aren't so easy to stop." But even as he said it, he knew Jackson would never agree with him. He was a throwback to the warriors of old. Elle was his woman and it was a duty, privilege and right to look after her. He didn't care about women's rights, or customs or society. Jackson had a code, an honor system. Elle was his woman and he was supposed to keep her from harm's way. He hadn't done it and no reasoning was good enough or ever would be for him.
"She's alive, Jonas, you know that, and her cover has to be blown, which means her life is in danger. Wherever she is, they're hurting her and they have to kill her when they're done finding out everything she knows."
Jonas studied his friend. Jackson was Cajun, with broad shoulders, roped arms, a heavy powerful chest and shrewd, cool eyes--black obsidian, glittering when upset, or absolutely flat and cold, showing no emotion whatsoever. His thick, unruly, wavy hair was as black as midnight. Scars ran down his face and neck and disappeared into his shirt. His features were etched with lines of hard violence and a stillness that belied his lightning-fast reflexes.
Jackson rarely spoke of his family, and from what Jonas had gleaned from the few times he'd mentioned them, they'd lived in the bayou itself, on a small island, boating to the mainland for supplies. His dad had been a fighter, a veteran of more than one war and a biker who left his family often because he couldn't settle, but returned just as often because he couldn't be away from them. From the things Jackson had let drop, his father had begun teaching him survival and fighting and the use of weapons at a very early age.
He seemed to love and despise his father, feeling as if the bikers he'd run with had been his family and Jackson and his mother had gotten the leftovers. Although the details were sketchy, Jonas knew that Jackson had been the one to provide for his mother. When she'd gotten cancer, his father had disappeared once again, unable to face the prolonged illness. Jackson had been fifteen when his mother died, leaving him to run wild in the bayou. He'd fended for himself until his father returned and Jackson was forced to accompany him to live in the biker camps, traveling with them as they moved. His father had died in a knife fight, taking four rival gang members with him just before Jackson's nineteenth birthday, and Jackson had joined the army. Jonas knew Jackson had a brush with that same biker club during his time with the DEA, but he never talked about it.
"We'll find her this time," Jonas said.
The black eyes flicked to him. "Yes, we will. I'm bringing her home. And she's done, Jonas. Be prepared for that. I know how you are about the girls, but Elle's mine. And she's done."
"Jackson . . ." For the first time that he could remember in their long friendship, Jonas felt a stab of unease. Jackson could be quite ruthless and once he made up his mind, there was no turning him from his objective.
Jackson shook his head. "Let's just get a starting point. The storm's coming in fast. Are the girls gathered?"
That was like Jackson. He was done talking. Jonas sighed as they wound their way through the back garden. He'd never understood Jackson and Elle's relationship--or lack of one. Elle kept to herself, in the same way Jackson did. They were both strong-willed individuals and aside from Elle's bad temper, and Jackson's lack of one, they were very much alike--stubborn.
"Ilya's here. He has some information for us," Jonas said. "He prefers to tell us before we go inside."
Jackson glanced at him, his gaze sharp. Whatever Ilya Prakenskii had to say, he didn't want his fiancee, Joley Drake, or any of her sisters to know. And that meant it couldn't be good.
Jackson let out his breath, refusing to give in to the secret part of him that was filled with terror. He'd been a prisoner of war to one of the worst sadists in the business and he hadn't felt fear like this.
Elle. Baby. Stay alive for me. Any way you have to, stay alive for me. I'm coming for you.
The storm was the perfect conduit they needed to boost their energy. Wherever Elle was, she would be waiting, knowing they would never stop looking for her.
He walked around to the side of the Drake house where Ilya waited in the shadows for them. Ilya nodded to Jackson and glanced toward the towering house. "Let's walk."
"They'll know," Jonas cautioned.
The Drakes always knew. They'd been trying for a month to find Elle, uniting over and over to find their lost sister, and because they couldn't, they knew she was a great distance away and under extreme duress. Elle was powerful, probably more so than any of them. Jackson had seen her nearly bring a building down with the explosive energy of her temper. She was always carefully controlled, but if she couldn't get herself out of whatever situation she was in . . . Jackson closed his eyes again, his stomach turning over. She had to be injured. If she couldn't reach them, she had to be injured, there was no other explanation.
Elle hurt. The thought was terrifying. Elle in the hands of a man capable of human trafficking was even worse.
You know I'll never stop until I find you. Stay strong, baby. For me. For your sisters. For Jonas and Ilya and the entire damn village. Stay alive, Elle.
He wanted her to love him enough to live for him. He wanted to be her reason. She was his. She'd been his ever since he first heard her voice, soft and silky and so damned sexy. Something inside of him had come awake--had come to life.
He didn't have emotions the way Jonas had them. Caring for everything and everybody, every cause, that was Jonas. Saving the world, determined to save Jackson. Jackson glanced at Ilya. The Russian was much more like him. Controlled. Disciplined. Utterly dangerous. Sometimes he wished he could be more like Jonas, especially when it came to expressing his feelings to Elle, because if anyone was going to save him, it was Elle. He'd never wanted a woman for his own until Elle and she was as elusive as the wind.
He swore softly under his breath and turned away from the other two men. Both noticed every detail, and he didn't need their scrutiny right then. He should have just stepped up to the plate, been a man and taken what was rightfully his. He'd let her down.
Ilya stopped walking beneath a stand of trees and glanced up at the captain's walk. Three stories up, Hannah Drake Harrington, Jonas's wife, paced back and forth, her long blond curls spiraling in the strong wind. Several times she lifted her arms, drawing in the wind, calling to it as she did when she wanted to command it. Jackson knew she was gathering energy in preparation for their sending.
Ilya kept his voice low. "I've pieced together information from several sources who owe me. Elle's cover has been carefully built over several years, which explains her frequent disappearances. She used the name Sheena MacKenzie, a young, very attractive and wealthy socialite playing in the European circles mainly. She was known to be quite the adventurer, very skilled at everything from caving to mountain climbing."
"Which Elle is," Jonas interjected.
"By night Sheena MacKenzie was on record, suspected by Interpol of being a very high-class and successful thief."
"So she didn't infiltrate as a woman kidnapped and used in the trafficking ring," Jonas said. "Her people leaked the false information to Interpol? Or were they in on it? As far as I know she doesn't work for Interpol."
"If my informant has it correct, there was a loan and cooperation. The man they're after is a big fish," Ilya explained. "The main suspect is a man by the name of Stavros Gratsos."
"The shipping magnate." Jonas whistled softly. "He's got more money than half the world. What would he want with a human trafficking ring?"
"It's a huge moneymaker, Jonas," Ilya explained. "More than likely that's how he got his start in the first place. He's been suspected, but no one has ever found proof. Human trafficking is second only to drugs and growing every day. One house can earn well over a million a month in one city. Imagine if you have a house in every city all over the world. It's global, not just one small area, and Gratsos has his finger in every pie. It wouldn't be difficult, and he's so far out of reach of authorities, he'd get away with it, and probably has for years."
&n
bsp; "What exactly was Elle doing?" Jackson asked. Human trafficking. The thought of Elle in the hands of men like that left him shaken and cold and useless. He couldn't let his mind go there. He tried not to remember her voice, so shaken, reaching out to him and how he couldn't find her. She'd been in the hands of a madman for a month.
"She met Gratsos casually a few times," Ilya said, "and according to her handler, Gratsos seemed quite captivated by her."
Jackson closed his eyes briefly. He understood completely. Elle had that effect on people. She seemed elusive, out of reach. A combination of sexy and innocent that could capture a man's attention and not let him go. He knew better than most. Once he'd heard her voice, that soft bedroom voice that sank into a man's skin and settled in the pit of his stomach and gathered full force in his groin, he'd thought of little else. The obsession had only increased in her company.
She was short, the shortest of her sisters, with a petite, very feminine figure. Her eyes were as green as the sea, like two sparkling gems that enticed and promised. Her wealth of red hair was straight, without a hint of the curls that her sister Hannah had. The silken fall cascaded past her waist, a bright waterfall that took a man's breath. Jackson had a lot of fantasies about that hair--and her mouth, her perfect bow of a mouth. She seemed small and fragile, a woman to protect and cherish, so feminine a man might want to own her, yet there was steel inside her. She could appear cool and distant, yet any man would see the fire in her, the passion smoldering so close to the surface, passion a man would want all to himself. Yeah, he could see Gratsos being captivated by her. She was exotic and elusive and just out of reach. Someone used to getting anything he wanted would be more than intrigued by her.
"You think this Gratsos has her locked away somewhere?"
Ilya nodded. "Interpol and her handler believe she's dead. We know she's not. Gratsos might believe the cover story--a thief trying to steal from him. He might suspect her of being undercover, but he'd want to believe she was a thief, especially if he had the hots for her, which my informant said was obvious. Even believing she was an international thief might intrigue him further. If he's dirty dealing, he might be even more attracted thinking that she could be."
"He'd be angry with her, that she wasn't falling into his lap," Jonas said. "If he really was dealing in human trafficking, then he couldn't afford to risk that she was undercover and spying on him. That kind of charge, even for someone as powerful as him, would rock the world. He'd have to kill her."
Ilya nodded. "That would be the smart thing to do and Gratsos is a very smart man, but he's also very egotistical and believes himself to be above the law. He was penniless as a teen and built an empire from sheer guts and brains. Tragedy struck his family from the very beginning. His father married a woman, had twins, and she and the other boy died a month later in an automobile accident. The father was a mean son of a bitch, but Gratsos proved to be a very intelligent boy and he caught a few breaks from teachers. According to rumor, his first venture was smuggling and he was good at it. He had no compunction about operating outside the law then and I'm certain he doesn't have any worry over it now either. He owns tankers for transporting oil and freighters for dozens of other very lucrative contracts. Smuggling a few women on board wouldn't be a problem. If he's been doing this from the beginning of his career, he'd be very good at it by now. Keeping Elle might prove to be irresistible to him. He would like the idea of a woman like Elle under his thumb, right under the noses of the authorities while he carried on with his yachting and parties and business as usual."
Jackson clung to that, without thinking too much about what a man who held himself above the law and unscrupulous enough to deal in human trafficking, might do to a woman he believed he now owned. Elle was in trouble and if Gratsos was the man holding her, he had the means to keep her hidden from the world for a long time--until he tired of her.
He took a breath and forced his mind away from disaster. He had to think with a clear head. Find her first. Extract her. Keep her safe. Deal with everything else later. Just first find her. He looked up at the sky. Already he could feel the crackling of energy. Hannah was moving off the captain's walk back to the house, signaling it was close to time.
The Drake house towered above them, rising like an ancient dragon with widespread wings poised on the edge of the cliff. Water pounded below, sending giant sprays of white foam high up into the air, the water murky and dark, roiling like a witch's cauldron. The wind whipped across his face, lashing him with stinging droplets of seawater. Jackson tasted the salt along with his fear. This house would be his when he claimed Elle. Her legacy would be his.
Elle was the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter. She carried all the powers of the Drake family in her slender body, and with it, the ability to continue the line. Which meant birth control didn't work well on her.
She was to be the mother of the next generation of Drakes. He would marry her, but they would keep her name. Their seven daughters would possess the power of the Drake family. He had waited, letting Elle run, making her run, because he had been afraid. Not of the children he had no idea how to be a father to--he'd learn that--but of his own violent legacy. And how could he explain it to her without putting her in danger?
He wasn't a man able to relinquish too much control, and Elle defied him at every turn--more than defied him, she challenged him. He hadn't trusted himself enough not to lose her when they both were such strong personalities and in hesitating, she'd turned away from him--and eventually, she'd even given up on him.
Elle. Damn it. Where are you? Answer me. He put every ounce of command, of iron will--a will honed and shaped by violence--into the demand. Answer me now.
He rubbed his shadowed jaw and looked up as lightning lit up the darkening sky, lacing the brooding clouds with white-hot lances, spears that felt as if they pierced his eyes and went through his skull right to the back of his head. He dropped to his knees and pressed his fingers hard to his temples, his stomach churning, the pain in his head so intense he was sick to his stomach.
Everything receded into the background, Ilya's and Jonas's anxious voices fading away. The world around him curved and trembled. The ground shifted, became soft and giving beneath him. He heard a voice whispering and at first he couldn't make out words, but he reached and the voice became stronger. Sheena. Look at me. Talk to me. Who are you? What are you doing here? Who sent you? Talk to me, Sheena, and the pain will go away. Male. Persuasive. He'd heard voices like that before, molding their victim, holding hope just out of reach.
Jackson went still, afraid to move, afraid to hope. He'd touched her. He'd connected and if someone was questioning her as Sheena, her cover was still intact. He tried to breathe through the pain--her pain--and let his mind expand, reach out strongly to hers. Elle. Baby? Can you hear me? I'm coming for you. We're coming. Stay alive for me, honey.
He felt the faint far-off touch, just a slight stirring in his mind. Fragile. Tenuous, as if she was afraid to believe. Jackson?
Her voice sent a vise gripping his heart, squeezing until there was actual pain. For a moment he thought he might be having a heart attack. I'm here. I'm with you. Tell me where you are, Elle.
I don't know. I can't think straight. My head . . . She trailed off, and the connection between them wavered.
Don't! His voice was sharp. Stay with me, baby. I need you to look around you. What do you see? Who's with you?
There was a moment of hesitation. Lightning lit up the sky and thunder crashed close, the sound louder than the booming of the sea. White light burned behind his eyes and he had to close his lids tightly against the shattering pain.
A hand fell on his shoulder. "Jackson?"
Jackson shrugged off the distraction. "I've got her. I've got her," he snapped. It was difficult being in two places and he needed to be with her. She was slipping away, even as he reached for her. Elle, no!
She was gone, out of his reach and he stayed on his knees, breathing deeply, dropping
his forehead to the ground and staying still until he got himself under control.
"She's alive," Ilya said. "We'll find her."
Jonas held out his hand and Jackson took it, allowing his friend to pull him to his feet. "Why didn't you connect with us and strengthen the bond?" he demanded of Ilya without looking at him, that cold coil inside of him that was dark and dangerous now, unfurling.
"I tried, Jackson," Ilya said, his voice utterly calm. "Whatever you two have together is a bridge that is solidly between only you. I couldn't join you."
"I couldn't hold her to me," Jackson said, frustrated. "If you can't join me, what are we doing here? How is this going to work?" Because it had to work. The pain had been her pain. She needed help. Wherever she was, she needed medical attention. "She was confused." Almost childlike, more fragile than he'd ever known Elle to be. And that scared him almost as much as her being in the hands of madmen.
"Jackson." Jonas put a steadying hand on his shoulder. "We'll find her."
Ilya gestured toward the house. "The women want us in now."
Jackson glanced up at the empty captain's walk. Hannah would know the optimum time to try to send the wind to Elle. If they were lucky, and all the elements fell into place, they would create a surge of energy capable of crossing great distances to Elle.
I'm coming, baby, he whispered to the night and followed the other two men up the winding path to the huge, sprawling house.
Sarah Drake stood at the door, holding it open for them. Her pale face was still, anxiety in her large blue eyes. The wind tugged at her dark hair, giving her an ethereal look, one Jackson often associated with the Drake women. Sarah was the oldest and engaged to Damon Wilder, a neighbor who owned the house just below the Drake family estate. His arm around Sarah's waist, Damon greeted the other men with a slight nod and, leaning heavily on his cane, turned and limped back across the living room to stand against the wall.
Jackson followed Jonas inside, Ilya trailing behind him. The atmosphere in the Drake home was usually one of warmth and laughter. Tonight it was heavy with tension and sorrow.