He pushed air at her palm. More than air. Something deep inside him rose to rush toward her. He felt it rise, a connection that would be unbreakable. He was giving himself to this woman not knowing if she could accept him as he was, rough and scarred and very lost. He didn't know if he would even come out of this alive, but he had to do this one thing. The need--the compulsion--overcame everything else. He belonged--somewhere. With someone. Airiana Solovyov was his someone.
He heard the sound of the air hitting her palm, an electrical charge that actually zapped her. Two intertwined circles flared into life, a brand. A tattoo. The rings blazed a bright gold and then slowly faded into her skin, disappearing entirely.
Airiana yelped and tried to jerk her hand away, but he held her wrist firmly and brought the injured palm to the warmth of his mouth. His tongue stroked over the exact spot where the two rings had sunk beneath her skin. He traced each one, feeling the brand of Prakenskii, knowing it was on his own hand, trying to soothe the ache she felt. Her eyes widened and she gasped, heat flaring between them.
"What have you done?" she whispered.
He allowed her hand to slip away from him. She rubbed it down her thigh, her gaze clinging to his. "I gave myself to you. What you do with me is up to you. But I don't lie to children, and I won't lie to you. I'm coming back, Airiana." He stepped closer and framed her face with his hands. "I'm coming back for you."
She opened her mouth to answer him, to protest or to plead. He didn't know. He didn't care. He stopped all words with his own mouth, kissing her like a man drowning. Hot. Passionate. Pouring himself into her. Just this one time he took what he wanted from her, dragging her response from her, kissing her again and again, unable to stop himself from sinking further under her spell.
Abruptly he jerked away, and without another word, left her there. He swung his war bag over his shoulder and stalked out, closing the hatch behind him. His body was on fire. Crazy in the situation he was in, but still, he felt alive for the first time in more years than he cared to count.
He checked the other two cabins and both were empty. That meant the boy was on the next level down. There would be more bodyguards and probably a crew member or two. There would also be a despicable deviant who would torture and kill a small boy just because he could.
He had no compassion for any member of the crew who had signed on to work this cargo vessel. There were no secrets on a ship this size out to sea for long weeks. Every man who worked on board the ship was aware of what took place in the cabins.
He went down the stairs using extreme caution. Without Airiana he could move much faster, using his stealthy, silent mode. Air cushioned his sound, preventing any spills so, although he was large, he could move easily through the ship and never be heard. He kept his image distorted so a quick glance from someone passing at the end of the passageway wouldn't be enough to spot him.
His gifts allowed advantages, and as a covert operative, he needed--and used--every one of them. As he neared the bottom of the stairs, he waited a moment to allow the air to speak to him, delivering vital information. Being bound to air was a part of him, natural, like breathing, and he read every nuance in the displacement like a map.
There were two men in the passageway, down toward the end. No others seemed to be around, but it was a long way to get to them without being seen. He slipped down the last two steps and into the shadows just beneath the stairwell, studying the situation.
Two bodyguards--he recognized them both. They were mercenaries out of Italy. Both had belonged to the mob, worked as contract killers, and when it got too hot, they left the country to hire out until things cooled down. He had an entire dossier on both and wasn't surprised in the least that they were on board this particular type of vessel, because the last he'd heard, Evan Shackler-Gratsos had hired them.
Leone Marciante was a brutal killer. He had grown up a bully and had continued to be one. His uncle was embedded deep in the mob in Italy and he had naturally gravitated toward his uncle's work. He rose fast, a ruthless, dangerous man who had no problem killing anyone, even when he was a boy.
His partner, Ricco D'Amato, had grown up down the street from Leone. He'd been wild from the beginning, beating up his mother often and raising hell at school. The two stayed close, probably because their similar personalities allowed them to feel safe tormenting schoolmates and families. It was a natural progression for Ricco to join the mob with his longtime partner.
Leone had a penchant for women. He thought of himself as a charming ladies' man, and often bragged about what a lady-killer he was. He laughed heartily at the intended pun.
Ricco preferred men. Not men, younger boys. Teens as a rule, but it was rumored he sometimes preyed on street boys even younger. He generally garnered their loyalty, using his street teams for information, spending money on them and setting them to be drug runners, even occasionally using them for other crimes. He was far more careful than Leone, making certain no trail ever led back to him. Where Leone loved to brag about his prowess with women and his work, Ricco rarely spoke. Maxim considered him the far more dangerous of the two.
He always found it interesting how criminals found one another so easily. They formed packs when they came across one another, especially child abusers. They exchanged pictures, stories and even children, aiding one another across countries.
These two men had left Italy, but they found the very man, Shackler-Gratsos, who would allow them to continue their lifestyle. Maxim slipped his gun into his belt and loosened his knife. He breathed into the air, blowing out a steady flow from under the stairwell. The surrounding air turned warm as it streamed along the narrow corridor, filling it from floor to ceiling, slowly elevating the temperature.
Evan must have provided the bodyguards for whoever was in that room. The man probably wanted to torture and kill a child in private, far from anyone who would know him--including his own bodyguards. There were a few, like Saeed, who thought themselves so powerful it didn't matter, but most didn't want their sins out in the open where they might be blackmailed.
He waited a short time until he knew the two men would be feeling the rise in temperature and then blew more air, increasing the heat until it was much hotter in the passageway. Both men took off their jackets, exposing the harnesses their weapons were housed in.
Leone swore loudly and walked over to tap on a vent. "What the hell? The air down here is stifling," he snapped, wiping at the beads of sweat forming on his forehead.
"It's happened before," Ricco said, his voice low and calm.
"Not like this. It's bullshit. I'll bet Galati's room is plenty cool for him and his little friend." He laughed. "That kid looked like a scared little rabbit. He thinks you're going to save him. I love that look of utter devotion they give you. They do anything you want them to, don't they?"
Ricco shrugged. "He's a smart kid. He could be of use to me, but once they're aboard this ship, there's nothing to be done but get rid of them. I tried to steer Galati to another boy, but he chose Benito." Ricco turned cool eyes on his partner. "We were given orders to give Galati whatever he wanted so . . ." He shrugged.
"Too bad. Are you in love with him?" Leone taunted. "Maybe you want to take him home with you?"
He sounded jealous, which again, didn't surprise Maxim. Leone might appear the dominant in the relationship, but it was actually Ricco. Leone had no one else in his life and he didn't share well with others. Maxim would bet his last dollar that Leone had helped Galati choose Benito out of Evan's special catalogue of young children, probably from a video recording.
"What I want doesn't much matter. Galati has his hands on him now. He'll be brutal with the kid and ruin him. The kid's straight and needs to be handled with care, but Galati plans to kill him so he's not going to bother with finesse." Again Ricco shrugged, but his eyes were watchful on Leone's face.
"You're the one who killed his family," Leone pointed out. "Just so you could cultivate him. I wonder how he'll feel when Galati
whispers that to him right before he kills him, or maybe he's already done it. He likes the kids to know ahead of time what he plans to do to them. He said the terror increases the fun. He strangles them and lets them come back just so he can do it all again."
Maxim increased the temperature again, this time the heat rising fast, as if fires had broken out all around them. The metal on the walls of the passageway nearly glowed. Both men's shirts were damp, sweat running in rivers and pooling on the floor. They began to look uneasy, tempers increasing along with the heat.
"This is bullshit," Leone said, kicking at the wall.
Ricco said nothing, but he tested the temperature of the wall, using the flat of his hand. It was hot, but not excessively so despite the fact that it nearly glowed, a trick, maybe, to the eye. "I think the ventilation system stopped working is all," he said.
"I don't give a damn what happened," Leone snapped. "Someone needs to fix it."
Maxim added a whisper of condensation, so fine it could barely be seen, but the water in the air increased, hot now, turning the passageway slowly into a steam room. Again it was a slow process to fill up the corridor, and at first neither noticed until the long fingers of haze began to creep around them as if they were in a sauna.
"I'll go check and see what's going on," Ricco said abruptly.
"The hell with that. I'm not staying here to burn to death," Leone protested. "I'm going too. No one's going to disturb Galati and if it's getting hot in there, he can boil for all I care."
Ricco shrugged and started down the passageway toward the staircase. Leone followed, grumbling every step of the way. Maxim let them come within several feet of him before he fired two rapid shots, aiming for the kill, a bullet right in the middle of the forehead, his signature shot. Both went down simultaneously. Neither ever saw Maxim and probably didn't know what hit him.
Maxim used a silencer, but still, he remained beneath the stairwell, in the shadows, in case Galati or anyone else heard the shots. He was patient, taking his time, ignoring the two bodies lying on the floor. He allowed the temperature in the passageway to cool just a little, although it didn't affect him. He kept a bubble of cooler air surrounding him, but he didn't want Galati to get spooked and maybe kill the boy.
He found it difficult to think about the boy locked in a room with a man who intended to use him and then kill him. He couldn't allow his mind to go there, not and be of any use to the kid. He'd been taken from his home and become a prisoner of the state, beaten and trained, shaped into a killing machine, so he knew, more than most, what it was like. He could identify in many ways with the boy.
Maxim was grateful Airiana wasn't with him. He had no idea what he'd do to Galati, or what condition he'd find the boy in. Like little Nicia, the boy would be traumatized for life. To have a woman witness such a humiliating and degrading circumstance would only make it worse.
Nothing moved. No one came to investigate. He slipped out of the shadows, nudged Leone's body aside with the edge of his foot and padded silently down the passageway. The hatch to the luxury cabin was sealed. He couldn't go in with guns blazing, he needed Galati to voluntarily open the door, so that he was away from the boy.
He had to heat the room through the ventilation system. Doing so could spread the heat throughout the ship, but still, even if the crew became alarmed, they wouldn't think to come to the cabin as the source. They'd be checking the engine room first.
He located the shaft in the passageway and manipulated the air once again, sending both hot air and condensation into the cabin. The room, although good-sized for a cabin on a cargo vessel, was small in comparison to the passageway and it warmed fast. He could feel the heat radiating from the hatch. He stayed to one side of it, pressed against the wall, allowing the air around him to distort his image.
The lock spun and the hatch swung open. Galati, naked, sweat dripping from his body leaned out to take a breath. Maxim yanked him into the corridor and threw him up against the wall. Galati's head hit first, Maxim's strength was enormous enough to nearly knock him out. Only self-preservation kept Galati from falling, although he staggered and grabbed his head, trying to focus.
"What the hell?"
"Hell has come for you," Maxim snapped and slammed the knife deep into Galati's throat to shut him up and get it over with fast. He twisted the blade, withdrew it and then stabbed into the carotid artery for good measure.
His temper had surged forward, a volcano erupting when he'd been taught to stay in control. He was tempted to do a little torture of his own, and he knew more ways to cause pain than Galati had ever thought of, but he never wanted to be that man. He wanted to execute fast and dispassionately. The problem was, he detested men like Saeed and Galati who preyed on children.
Maxim let the man drop to the floor and left him there, sprawled out naked and dirty, lying in his own pool of blood. Stepping over the body he hesitated at the doorway, steeling himself for what he might find.
The boy looked to be about twelve or thirteen. He was tied over a rack in a kneeling position. His body was covered in whip marks and bruises. Tears ran down his face, leaving tracks, but his eyes were defiant, furious, filled with hatred, which told Maxim the kid had a chance at recovery.
"He's dead," he announced. "I've come to get you out of here. Nicia is alive and I've left her with my woman in a safe place. I'll take you there and get the others." He spoke softly, seeing the distrust on the boy's face.
He cut the ropes digging into the boy's wrists. His hands were swollen and bruised, nearly purple. Galati had deliberately used a harsh rope to hurt the boy more.
"Flex your fingers to get the blood back into your hands," Maxim instructed over his shoulder as he went to the hatch to watch down the corridor. "Shake your arms out. When you can hold the knife, I want you to cut your ankles free. We could have company any minute."
He wanted to give the kid something to do to help himself and at the same time, by giving him a weapon, show he was no threat. Still, he kept an eye on the boy.
"He has two bodyguards," the boy said. He spat onto the bed several times and then reached for the knife. "They'll kill you for him."
"He's dead and so are they," Maxim said. "And we have to get the hell out of here. Do you have any clothes?"
"My name's Benito," the boy said and tried to stand. He groaned and nearly fell.
Maxim didn't make the mistake of trying to help him. "When we get to the safety zone, remind me. I have some ointment that will help in my bag."
"My clothes are on the sink. He said he likes to keep them for a memento." The boy turned too-old eyes on him. "He was going to kill me."
"I know. He's dead," Maxim reiterated for the third time. The boy was in shock but trying to fight his way back. His alarm system nagged at him. They weren't going to get a clean exit, the boy could barely walk.
Benito staggered over to the sink and turned on the water, rinsing his mouth repeatedly and spitting. Maxim pretended not to notice the tears still tracking down the boy's face. He wanted to kill Galati all over again. He thought of himself as a monster until he ran across men like Saeed and Galati and those who supplied them.
"We're going to have company in a minute. Get dressed," Maxim repeated, keeping his voice low and confident. "Keep that knife close, you may need it, but don't do anything unless I give the okay. Do you understand? We still have to get the others free. I need you to stay quiet and obey me."
For the first time he looked the boy in the eye to show he meant business. Benito dragged on his clothes, or tried to. Clearly every movement caused pain. Maxim had no idea how long the boy had been tied in that position, but judging by the swollen purple bands around his ankles and wrists, it had been awhile. The boy had been caned and whipped, the cuts deep. Pins and needles had to be horrendous, but he valiantly struggled into his clothes.
Maxim nodded approvingly when he picked up the knife. "You'll do, Benito. Stay close to me no matter what happens. Behind me," he added. "We'll
get out of this alive, but I might have to kill a few people for that to happen."
Benito nodded. "All right by me," he said. "Kill as many as you'd like."
Maxim entered the passageway first and headed toward the opposite end where the stairs would lead down to the next floor. That was the engine room, and below that was the cargo hold where he was certain the other two girls were being held.
Movement behind him had him spinning around, his gun tracking. The boy bent over Galati, stabbing down with the knife several times, his face a mask of hatred.
Maxim remembered rage. Deep down he still felt it and in certain situations, such as this one, it welled up like a volcano, impossible to suppress. He understood rage. He moved up behind the boy and gently caught his wrist, stopping the movement.
"He's dead."
"Not dead enough," Benito said, and spat on the body.
"Dead is dead. You're indulging yourself," Maxim kept his voice harsh. "I need you one hundred percent if we're going to get those girls free. If you can't control yourself, you're of no use to me--or them."
Benito straightened up slowly, wincing as he did so. "I'm with you."
Maxim nodded and slowed his pace. They were going to get caught. The air was moving again and sending him all kinds of messages, none of them good. He had planned to take the boy to Airiana and leave him in the relative safety of the empty luxury cabin, but Benito needed action to bring him back.
"Good. We're about to have company. They're coming down the stairs now and we don't have time to reach the stairwell. Hug the side of the wall and let's make it to that passageway just ahead."
Benito tried but there was no way he could double-time it. Maxim glanced toward their destination, saw they wouldn't make it, and he signaled Benito to halt, waving him against the wall. Maxim took up position in the center of the passageway, once more distorting his image to look vaguely like Ricco. The two crew members ascending the stairs would see who they were prepared to see, at least until they got close.
He walked fast, covering the distance quickly now, bending air continuously so that it shimmered in waves, the distortion all around him.