Absolute Doubt (Fallen Agents of T-FLAC Book 1) Read online

  With ice-cold fingers, she touched the scrap of familiar red lace tied to a metal bar. Her blood went hot, then freezing cold. Dear God, this was her missing crimson lace el roce bra. The matching Chantilly lace thong was knotted on the other end of the bar. The lingerie had been in her suitcase yesterday, and gone last night after dinner. A cold chill raced up her spine, and her heart pounded so hard, she thought she'd pass out.

  "This isn't a playroom for one, Miss Sullivan. Are you expecting company?"

  Nine

  "Holy shit!" Hand over her heart, River spun around. Bishop Daklin stood inside the room, the closed door behind him as if he'd materialized out of thin air. The red glow of the lights on his stern features made him look demonic. "You scared the crap out of me."

  "Did Franco invite you into his BDSM dungeon?”

  BDSM dungeon? Lovely. "This is Franco's room?" Icy shivers vibrated through her bones.

  Lips twitching, or a sly trick of the light, the bishop nodded.

  "He has Bibles and crosses and crucifixes, and religious...things. All over the house." She waved a hand for emphasis. River couldn't pull her gaze away from him. He was her anchor in this bondage torture storm. "You're here!"

  "And you shouldn't be. Come along, I'll walk you to your room."

  She started wending her way to the door, then it suddenly registered what he wore, or didn't wear. Gone was the clerical garb, the collar and robes. Instead he wore black pants and a long-sleeved black T-shirt that hugged his body as faithfully as a layer of paint. His dark hair, slicked off his face, was tied in a stubby ponytail. He looked hard, sexy, and perfectly at ease in this room built for sin.

  "If you've looked your fill, I suggest we return to our rooms before our host finds you snooping, or invites you to stay."

  "God, no." She jerked her chin, indicating her awareness of his change of clothing, "Aren't you snooping, too?" Curious. Interesting. Out of left field.

  "I went for a run. Vestments aren’t designed for running."

  "Unless it's down the corridors of the hacienda? At this time of morning?" Liar, liar, pants on fire.

  His shoulders were even wider than she'd thought. His biceps flexed as he folded his arms over his broad chest. The shirt showed the ridges of his abs, and the slab of hard muscle of his chest. After the formal robes, and heavy chain and cross, seeing him dressed this way was almost like seeing him naked. And since she'd already imagined him that way, the black cloth merely hid what she was painfully aware was underneath his clothes.

  "Outside. The streets were quiet and it's cooler. And what are you doing up at this hour?"

  River swallowed to moisten her dry mouth. "Looking for any indication that my brother has been here." She stared up at him. "And before you ask, I didn't find anything."

  His black pants, tucked into black—not running—boots, showed how long his legs were. Nothing made sense any longer. A bishop looked like a spy, he was lying about going for a run, her brother was missing, her stolen lingerie was in a BDSM room, there was blood on the wall, and dear God, what the hell was she doing here?

  River felt a constriction in her chest and her eyelids burned. Oh, shit. Don't go all girly and cry! She was tired, scared, the room was overtly sexual and clearly had seen violence. Worse, Bishop Daklin was practically naked, but just as unobtainable as he'd been earlier at the fiesta. A good cry would wash away some of the tension and stress. But this man,

  whoever or whatever he was, wasn't going to witness her moment of weakness.

  Straightening her spine, she squared her shoulders and locked her knees. Tears deferred. "Seriously? Running? At four in the morning, in boots, in the dark?"

  "Boots protect my ankles, and I have eyes like a wolf, Miss Sullivan."

  The eyes like a wolf she believed. "Protect your ankles?" He shrugged. Which damn well didn't answer any of her questions.

  His gaze flicked to the red of her bra and panties on display.

  Her gaze followed his. “None of this is making sense.”

  “How so?”

  “Those are mine. I don’t know how they ended up here, and you certainly don’t look like a bishop. Or a runner.”

  He focused on the red underwear, ignoring the other things she’d said. “Are they now?”

  “Taken out of my suitcase last night." A shudder rippled through her. "Now I guess I know why. But by whom?” She edged her way toward the door.

  The bishop frowned. “Aren’t you going to take your lingerie?”

  “Not just no, but hell, no." Like a child warned not to touch a hot stove, River put her hands behind her back. "The el roce were my favs, but I’d never wear them again after--" She shuddered. "--this. Can we please get out of here?" She desperately wanted to, but he wasn't moving, so she didn't either.

  Their eyes locked.

  "After you, Miss Sullivan."

  "For God's sake, open the damn door," she snapped, walking right up to him. The heat of his body penetrated her clothes. The smell of him—-male, fresh air, testosterone—-filled her senses. Her heartbeat tripped, her mouth went dry, and prickly heat flooded her body. She was close enough to see a darker rim of blue around his irises, and the stubble on his jaw. He looked even more forbidding and too damned sexy. "And after being in this room together, discussing my underwear, for goodness sake, the least you can do is call me River."

  #

  Daklin ushered River down the long, dimly lit corridor to her room. He'd been about to go meet his men when he'd heard her leave her room. He'd taken the time to watch her sneak downstairs, following her movements on the live feed on his phone as she searched. He'd timed his departure to intersect with her visit to the BDSM room.

  He knew what was in there. He also knew Xavier was in his bedroom now, having spent an hour in the BDSM room earlier with the maid. Xavier slept in his suite at the other end of the corridor in the family wing, the still bleeding Juanita wide-awake beside him biding her time to flee.

  Daklin could watch the video feed from each room on his smarter-than-most phone. He'd spent an entertaining few minutes watching River move about the BDSM room. Her expression had gone from fascination, to adorable confusion, and then to horror when she'd seen the underwear and the blood. The look of wild-eyed fear in her eyes told him she’d had enough. That’s when he’d decided to go to her side, telling himself all he was doing was making sure Xavier didn’t find her snooping while she was alone, vulnerable, and in that damn room.

  She'd taken a hell of a risk being nosy. Xavier, he of the BDSM room and torture devices, loved his sick games, and if he thought, for even a second, that River had any interest...

  Fucking hell. The thought of that psychopath putting his hands on her twisted Daklin's gut. Her departure tomorrow couldn't come soon enough.

  When she fumbled, attempting to get the key into the antiquated lock, Daklin silently plucked the small wrought iron key from her fingers and opened her door. Placing his palm on the small of her back, he, none too gently, shoved her ahead of him into the room. Her skin heated beneath the thin silk, and her breathing felt, more than sounded, erratic.

  Fuck it! He shouldn't have touched her. The physical contact sent a maelstrom of sensations through his body, and aroused him to a degree he'd never experienced before simply by touching a woman when they were both fully dressed.

  She turned to face him.

  Time to go.

  He who hesitates is lost.

  Eyes not leaving her face, he nudged the door shut behind him with his foot. She didn't move back, and they were just inches apart. Far too close for strangers, far too fucking close for his libido, and far too damned close for a celibate bishop.

  Her breath smelled of the peanut butter she'd raided from the kitchen as she snooped. "Do you enjoy playing with fire? River?"

  Don't touch her again, dickwad. Keep your hands and other body parts to yourself. Open the door, close it between you, cross the corridor, repeat.

  "I know guys hate seeing
a woman cry." Her jaw trembled and her soft gray eyes welled. She didn't need to answer the question. He already knew she was bold and fearless, and would take risks she shouldn't take. Would he do any less if their roles were reversed, and it was his brother who had gone missing?

  Fuck no. If anything, he would have been worse. If he still had the chance to keep his brother alive, he would have done anything. But that ship had sailed on a tide of Tovaritch Premium Russian Vodka.

  "Fair w-warning." Her soft voice shook slightly and her chin lifted. "I'm about to cry now. You'd better make a run for it, Y-your Excellency."

  Aw, shit. He admired her candor. The warning was unnecessary, since a glisten of tears already tracked down her cheeks. She didn't duck her chin, but merely used the flat of her hand to wipe them away as she maintained eye contact. It was both endearing and disturbing. Those liquid, gray eyes seemed to see directly into his blackened soul.

  Daklin cupped her wobbly chin. Her skin felt warm and vibrantly alive beneath his fingers. "Ugly or pretty?" he murmured, indulging a greater need by allowing his thumb to brush across her full lower lip. Soft. Damp. Kissable.

  "Oh, ugly tonight," she said with endearing honesty. "I haven't c-cried for a while, and I'm due, so this deluge will be epically hideous, I'm sure."

  Daklin drank her in. Flushed cheeks, shiny, quicksilver eyes, and soft pink lips. Hot tears seeped beneath his palm, but he didn't help her when she wiped them away. As she did so, her fingers brushed his. Sparks instantly shot from the secondary contact directly to his groin.

  "Why are you sad?" he asked, his voice unusually gruff.

  Her jaw flexed. "I'm not sad. I-I'm frustrated. Scared. Angry. Helpless. Oliver's disappearance is getting to me. He deposited millions of dollars in my bank account without telli-- What?"

  "He gave you millions?" That answered the question of where the money had gone.

  "Five to be exact. I've been trying to figure out why. To pay a ransom? If so, I haven't had any demands. And who would kidnap him? He's mega smart, and apparently his skills are in great demand. He's been fending off job offers from corporations all over the world for years. Do you think maybe someone made him an offer he refused and they just took him?"

  She was on a roll. Daklin merely shrugged in response, kept his mouth shut, and just enjoyed the view.

  "And here's the other weird part of all this. No one in town seems to know him and he's lived here for years. And I discovered tonight that what Oliver told me about Franco being a sick puppy is true. And you."

  "Me?"

  "You jangle my nerves, Ash Daklin."

  He craved the taste of her as badly as he'd ever craved Russian vodka. "Say that again."

  "You jangle my nerves?"

  He smiled. "My name." No one called him by his first name other than his mother. And Josh.

  "Ash. Asher," she whispered.

  Daklin didn't realize he'd lowered his head until her swimming eyes widened and she sucked in a small gasp. Warm, moist, peanut butter-scented breath flavored his lips. Long dark lashes lowered as she lifted her face for his kiss.

  Using every ounce of discipline he could muster, Daklin pulled away, cupped her shoulders, and stepped back. Not far enough, because they stood right inside the door.

  "No more exploring, Miss Sullivan. You’re treading into places far more dangerous than you realize." He reached back for the door handle, and when his fingers closed around the cold metal, he gripped it so tightly, he felt the bones in his hands twist.

  Dazed gray eyes snapped open.

  "Lock your door. Have a safe return home. I probably won't see you before you leave." Opening the door just wide enough to slip through it, Daklin shut it softly in her astonished face.

  For several seconds he stood in the dim corridor, struggling to regulate his heartbeat, which was in fight or flight mode. Run.

  Straightening, he was about to do just do that when he heard her muffled response to his hasty exit. "And fuck you, too, Ash Daklin!"

  Daklin had to wait until he was outside, and well away from the hacienda before he cracked up laughing. It hurt like hell, and he stopped abruptly. It wasn’t funny. River Sullivan was more addictive than Tovaritch, and a hell of a lot more dangerous to his peace of mind than E-1x.

  #

  "Check out your bishop’s face when he looks at her."

  "Whatever you think you're seeing is your imagination. He's a man of God."

  "He's a man. He wants to fuck her. Trust me."

  "I want to fuck her."

  “Fucking clouds your brain, Franco. Thinking with your cock makes you more stupid than usual. I don't like your bishop. He's too nosy, asks too many questions that have nothing to do with your apparition. I won't tell you again. Kill them both."

  Distance made him bold. If the other man had been in striking distance, Franco would have remained mute until given permission to speak. "First of all," Franco said, his voice flat and dead, "Don’t you dare tell me what to do in my own home, nor how to do it. I refuse to kill a man of God, a man sent by the Pope himself."

  Refusing his partner's requests would have repercussions. Refusing brought terrifying retribution. Not their normal dominator subservient style retribution, but consequences Franco could only imagine. Which was why Franco had forced his sons and daughter to leave the valley days ago.

  "Jesus, did you suddenly grow a pair, Francisco? Apparently we've been apart far too long. When we get off the line, use the flogger with the metal tips. Five hundred lashes. Put some muscle into it. I'll be watching."

  Franco bit his lip. Fuck him.

  "Answer me."

  It was impossible not to. ‘Yes’ was always the correct response. He was like Pavlov's dog. "Yes, Master." His skin felt too tight, too hot. With only two days until their shared mission came to fruition, they were both walking on pins and needles.

  "You made a fatal mistake inviting anyone, particularly a bishop here, now of all times. You made this problem. You'd better solve it.

  Franco would get rid of the girl. Bishop Daklin, though, was another matter. If only the bishop would write that letter authenticating his apparition to Rome. Franco could go to his Maker in peace.

  #

  Daklin needed a drink.

  A bottle.

  Instead, the sky opened up about a mile from town and in seconds, the deluge soaked him to the skin as he trudged up the mountain on foot. "Great, just fucking great." It didn't cool him off any. If anything, it intensified the itch beneath his skin. Still mind-fucked from the exchange with the delectable, enticing, forbidden River Sullivan a few minutes earlier, he knew damn well that if he'd kissed her, he wouldn't have stopped.

  While he empathized with her desire to find her brother, he wasn't prepared to indulge her need to try to find him in Los Santos. She'd most certainly hate him if, and when, they captured him. Knowing unequivocally how she'd feel about his part in it, Daklin didn't need to be present to witness it.

  River couldn't be allowed in any way to compromise the op. And she wouldn't, thank God. In a few hours, she'd be gone. Out of sight, out of mind. She was a fever in his blood, and almost made him forget what he was there to do.

  Redeem himself. Do an exemplary job blowing the shit out of the target, apprehend Xavier, capture, if he was still alive, the brilliant and elusive chemical engineer who'd almost certainly invented E-1x, and kill as few civilians as humanly possible.

  Daklin shook his head, his hair spraying water as he half-ran, half-lurched his way up the steep hill. In the equation, he was expendable. He didn't particularly want to die. But he didn't particularly care if he lived either.

  Before his leg injuries, he'd been capable of running ten miles with a loaded pack on his back. No sweat. Now, a couple of miles up a steep grade had him sweating and gritting his teeth from the agony in his thigh. Because of the injury to his left leg, his gait changed as he walked/ran/hobbled, throwing his body out of sync, torqueing different muscles and tendons.


  The only reason he was making it one more step, and then another, was that he'd faked himself out, promising himself a slug of Tovaritch when he reached the others.

  Too bad it was a lie, because by the time he reached the bend before the river where he'd arranged to meet his men, he was in too much pain to walk. Hobbling, every step was white-hot agony.

  He walked the last half-mile so when he rounded the bend and saw the truck, his breathing was normal, and his gait steadier. His men didn’t need to know his physical limitations until it was essential for them to have that knowledge.

  A full moon flooded the narrow, jungle-lined road with white light that even the dense overhang and torrential rain couldn't completely block. If it wasn't raining tomorrow night at this time, the moon would be an even brighter spotlight. With any luck, it wouldn’t affect what they were here to do.

  Turley and Gibbs were on duty at the mine. Nyhuis, Ram, and Aiza, leaning against the side of a dusty black four by four, straightened as Daklin approached.

  "You're late," Aiza said as Daklin joined the men where they waited under the heavy foliage of a twisted rubber tree. "We thought Xavier might be insisting you stay once 'Mary' mentioned the twelfth."

  Tonight's apparition had been masterful. "Nicely done weaving in those numbers to see if he would bite." Daklin stood still, allowing the pain to wash through him. "As you saw, he wouldn't be dissuaded from his course of action, but he did confirm that the numbers were a time. 3:33 in the afternoon."

  "Now all we need is the location." Ortiz directed them toward the truck. "Let's pray our tech people are making inroads into that cloud site. The sooner the better."

  “That’s one mean limp, Daklin. I’m surprised Control cleared you to be in the field.” Nyhuis smirked, his bald head catching the light like a white skullcap.

  “It’s fine.” Daklin bit back the urge to tell the man to fuck off.

  “An explosives engineer who can’t run when the need arises is a dead man.” Travis Nyhuis was not only good at getting under his skin, he was an all-around dick, and dangerously unpredictable. Commonly referred to as a meat eater, he was an operative whose method in combat was to fight tangos using the most violent methods possible. There was a time and place for that, but this wasn't that time. This was merely a reconnoitering exercise so they knew where to set the charges when they were ready. Daklin didn't like Nyhuis, and he knew the feeling was mutual.