Page 39 of Into Darkness (Night Prowler 6)
Thorne smiled. “It’s all pre-Flash imagery, of course. We had to really dig deep to recover all the data. It works for any spot on Earth, but since you grew up near the beach . . .” He shrugged. The casual smugness of it made her want to kill him so badly she had to bite her lip, hard, to distract herself.
Because what if—what if—what he’d said before was actually true? About Leander? About the girls?
Jenna closed her eyes, fighting hard to maintain her control. She didn’t want this man to see her fall to pieces. She stayed like that for a silent count of ten, until Thorne said something that made her open her eyes.
“Your daughter is lovely, Jenna. She obviously gets that from you.” He reached inside his jacket, withdrew an envelope and stood there fingering it, staring down at her with a predatory light in his gaze. “Would you like to see a picture of her?”
A sob stuck in the back of her throat. She raised a hand and covered her mouth, afraid of what would come out. A sudden hot prick of tears flooded her eyes.
“Here,” he said softly, and removed a photograph from the envelope. He held it out between two fingers, and, for the first time in twenty-five years, Jenna broke down and cried.
The camera had caught the image of a young woman running. Her arms and legs were bent in a way that suggested she was moving fast, and at the exact moment of the shot, neither of her feet was touching the ground. Her hair—long, braided—streamed out behind her in a blurred streak of gold. Her face was turned toward the camera, suggesting she’d been just about to look over her shoulder, and Thorne was right: She was lovely. Lovely and fierce, because Jenna knew deep in her guts that this picture had been snapped when she was being chased, but there wasn’t a trace of fear in her eyes. If anything, she looked almost exhilarated.
Her baby. A grown woman now.
All those years, lost.
“It was taken by surveillance cameras so the quality is a little poor, but there are others.” He removed another photo from the envelope. This one was posed, official-looking, featuring a slightly younger looking version of the girl in the first photo staring directly into the camera.
“This is from her work identification badge. That’s how we discovered her; she didn’t seem to be able to keep her . . . powers until control.” His voice grew as gentle as his eyes. “Tell me where the Ikati are hiding, Jenna, and I promise you I will return your daughters to you. Unharmed.”
Fury flashed over her, scalding hot, and Jenna’s face burned beneath the stream of tears. He’d stolen so much from her—husband, children, family, home—the most precious things in any woman’s life, including years that could never be retrieved. And why?
Simply because he could.
She stood, not caring about her tears, the way her hands were shaking, or the way her voice broke when she vowed, “Someday I’m going to end your life, Sebastian Thorne. For every year you’ve taken from me, for everything you’ve done, one day I’ll watch the light go out of your eyes and then I’ll spit on your corpse. I will never cooperate with you.”
He slid the photos back into the envelope. He placed the envelope back into his coat pocket. He turned to the Oracle. “Bring up subject four-nine-eight-six.”
The wall of glass flashed black, then showed the interior of a cell exactly like the one she’d just left. A man reclined on the folding cot, his back against the wall, a leg folded beneath him, the other stretched out to the floor. Bare-chested and barefoot, lean and leonine, he was reading a book. Thick black hair brushed his broad shoulders, a week’s worth of beard shaded his jaw. The image appeared to be static, the man held so still, but then he turned a page of his book and Jenna fell to her knees on the plush ivory carpet and let out a scream of anguish so primal and raw Sebastian Thorne took a few steps back in alarm.
She sobbed, “Oh God—Leander!”
“You can put your family back together, Jenna,” said Thorne urgently. “Just tell me what I want to know and he’ll be transferred here immediately. As soon as we have your daughters, they’ll be brought here as well.”
Violent sobs wracked her body. She hugged herself, rocking, crying, unable to look away from the image on the screen.
Alive. He was alive! The love of her life and the father of her children was alive!
Or was he? Could this be another trick?
“How do I know that’s even him? This video could be years old! He could be dead by now!”
Thorne nodded. “Fair enough.” To the Oracle he directed, “Bidirectional audio on.” There was a short burst of static, then he said to the screen, “Good morning, Leander,” and the man in the video jerked up his head.
He carefully laid aside his book. “Thorne.”
The tone, pitched low and commanding, the British accent evident even in the single word he’d spoken; she’d know that voice anywhere.
Jenna couldn’t breathe. Her lungs refused to do their work. She only
stared at the screen, her mouth open, her face wet, her body frozen in place.
Thorne said, “I have someone here who’d like to speak with you,” and looked at Jenna.
She tried to form a sentence. She tried to think of the words that could convey the depths of her agony and wretchedness and longing, but in the end she came up with only one.
“Love.”
