Killer Thoughts

Chapter Four

Carl Kerr grunted and spent, finishing inside the ass of his latest lover. Fortunately, this one had taken enough pills to appreciate the fine reaming he’d been given. His boys liked their candy, and they’d do anything for more of it. After Carl withdrew, he watched his new slut roll over, showcasing a smooth chest and a handsome face. So young, so pretty. And just a smattering of freckles over the bridge of his nose.

The young man resembled one who’d gotten away before Carl could sample him. Gavin Caldwell. One of Owen’s men. Owen. Carl sneered at the thought of that fuckhead, wishing he could stem the flood of envy he had whenever he thought of Stallbridge. Rich, respected, and controlling more of the marketplace than he deserved. All because he’d killed Carl’s family to get there.

“Thank you, Master.” The young man grinned and closed his eyes, asleep in seconds.

Carl glared down at him and stomped away. He cleaned up in the bathroom and zipped his trousers back up. He rarely undressed to fuck anymore, too concerned with being caught with his pants down—literally.

The last time the Feds had descended, he’d been a heartbeat away from orgasming into a lover’s mouth. Only some fast thinking and preparedness had allowed him to escape without incident.

Now he remained a fugitive. A rich one, but nonetheless, he hated having to hide his face. And such a handsome one too. He stared at himself in the mirror, loving his light blond hair, the cut sculpted to showcase his Nordic bone structure and bright blue eyes. Though not as large as the historic Vikings would have been, Carl took pride in his thin frame, compact and tight. He had strength of mind. When he needed muscle, he paid for it.

His old right hand, Samson Ruelle, had been too willing to assume Carl’s place. Not content to be an assistant, he’d tried hard to take over in his boss’s stead. As if. Carl snorted. Owen’s men had eliminated Samson, and now the bastard lay dead. A well-deserved killing, from what Carl had learned. Samson had been forced to stab himself repeatedly in the groin before expiring. Lovely.

It had taken Carl time to believe, but he now understood how Owen had committed so many heinous crimes against his family. He clenched the sink tight, staring at himself in the bathroom mirror as he did so, promising retribution against the man responsible for all his bad luck.

Owen was psychic. As improbable—as impossible—as that had once seemed, Carl now knew it to be true. He had money, maybe not as much as Owen, but enough to gain entrance into certain sectors of the government. Owen’s silent partnership in that little place in Bend, the PowerUp! Gym, interested Carl. The place overflowed with ex-government agents.

Owen no doubt collaborated with them on missions as well. From what Carl’s source had told him, Owen occasionally still did work for Uncle Sam. That a man as rich as Croesus would lower himself to government work said something about the workings of his mind. No doubt the prick thought he labored for the greater good. Such a crock of shit.

Carl just wanted to restore his family’s flailing empire. Gun running wasn’t enough. Prostitution, slavery, and drugs helped build his legacy in this downward economy.

“Just doing my part to help with the economic crisis,” he said to the handsome man in the mirror before leaving the room, once again in command of himself. He glanced at the soiled young man sleeping on the bed, noticed the whip marks on his back, and nodded to himself. Continuing through Shannon Martin’s home and pleased that the old bag still considered him her honorary grandson, he found Fielder and Koffman in the kitchen, armed to the teeth.

When he entered, they stood in a hurry. He liked that. “Any word?”

Koffman, the larger of the two, with dark hair, mean eyes, and a scar that bisected his left cheek, nodded. “Yes, sir. Stallbridge is in his home in Bend, Oregon. He’s currently residing with his security, his assistant, a maid, and a cook. And he brought in a new man, Ian Ryder.”

Fielder added, “Word has it someone else arrived earlier today in town that we should keep an eye on. He doesn’t register in our databases. Caleb Dalton, sir. My take is he’s federal. No question.”

Carl frowned. “Dalton. I know that name.”

Fielder spoke again. Despite his average appearance, he had an uncanny intelligence and the wherewithal to use it. “I cross-checked the reference and came up with nothing. However, I believe his appearance relates to your past, sir.” Fielder pushed a file at Carl.

Carl looked down at the table and saw a picture of his brother, caught in black-and-white, an expression of unbelievable pain on his face as he clutched at his heart. “My past?” he asked quietly. He’d only given Fielder access to his personal documents because he knew they related to Owen. And Fielder and Koffman had been working for him for the past five years. No hiccups. Both men knew their place on the team and had no problem skirting the law whenever possible.

“I’ve gone through pictures and files and inputted data. This man’s description, his picture, matches one of the witnesses at the time of your brother’s death. Granted, he was younger then, but I’m pretty sure it’s a positive ID.”

Excited by the possibility of getting closer to nailing his nemesis, Carl looked at the picture underneath his brother’s—a photo of Caleb Dalton, Owen’s likely accomplice. Though he didn’t recall the man, someone had seen him and questioned him at the hotel where Carl’s brother had been killed. Fielder pushed another photograph toward Carl. A snapshot of the man’s face in the background of a surveillance camera photo nailed his suspicions. When compared to the current picture of Dalton, they fit.

“So. Owen’s called in the big guns, eh?”

“Seems so, sir,” Koffman added in a quiet voice. “Do we make plans to storm his place in Oregon? It wouldn’t be that difficult to take him down. He’s got two security guards, that bodyguard he calls an assistant, and two domestics—females—working for him. That’s it for manpower. Granted, his security system is state-of-the-art, but I’m sure we could work around that. A contained blast would be easy to manage.”

And way too impersonal. “No, we wait for a bit. I want eyes on him at all times, though.”

“Yes, sir. We thought you might, so I had Neever and Sands standing by. They’re in Bend and waiting on word from you.”

“Excellent.” Carl beamed. “Give them the go-ahead. But discretion is key. I’m sure Owen’s aware I’m waiting. Watching. But let’s let him sweat.” The more torturous the wait, the better. Carl wanted Owen to suffer. The thought gave him a thrill, and he decided to revisit his plaything in the bedroom once more. “I’m going to be indisposed for the afternoon, but tell Harry to get that business in Vancouver off the ground. We’re moving too slow.”

“Yes, sir.” Fielder nodded his head in a little bow. Koffman did the same.

Carl left them to find his slut sprawled on the bed, his ass still full of Carl’s leavings. Perfect. He locked the door, then turned back to the bed and unzipped his trousers.

“Hey, handsome,” his boy said in a thick voice. “How about another hit?” The slut turned over and waved his delectable ass in the air.

Carl snorted and reached into his pocket. He tossed a blue pill on the bed, then watched his boy swallow it dry. His boy then presented himself on his hands and knees, willingly strapping a collar and chain around his neck. Carl smiled and approached his new slave. If Carl fucked him hard enough, he might just reach his own high. Thoughts of making Owen pay dearly only added to his pleasure. And later, when his boy moaned in delighted pain, begging for more, Carl found his own perfection in the rush of violent desire.

Owen clasped hands with Caleb Dalton, a man he hadn’t seen in way too long. Just as he remembered, Caleb had a hard face and hard hands to match. Not attractive by any stretch, Caleb had that powerful aura that often alarmed those not used to being around such strength. And no two ways about it, Caleb was mesmerizing in his own way. Short hair that had turned silver when the guy reached his twenty-fourth birthday surrounded blunt features—a square jaw, crooked nose, and lean face. The man’s dark brown eyes glowed with humor as he shook Owen’s hand.

“Getting bigger, eh, Owen?” he said with a glance at Owen’s arms.

Caleb himself was no slouch. Once a trainer for the PWP, he had also been given the drugs that finessed and empowered his psychic abilities. Off the drugs since the program had closed, he apparently exercised like a demon.

“Either you’re eating steroids for breakfast, or you’ve been working out like a dog,” Owen drawled.

“Woof woof.”

Owen laughed.

Ian cleared his throat. “Ahem.”

Owen turned back to the group. He’d gathered everyone together in one of the two conference rooms he used when conducting business at home, wanting them all to meet Caleb, who would be staying on for the next few weeks, or at least until Owen sealed Kerr in his coffin. “I’m sorry. This is Caleb Dalton, an old friend of mine and current troubleshooter for the government.”

“That’s one way to pretty it up,” Caleb muttered with a grin. “I’m a small-arms expert, demo man, and hand-to-hand trainer working for DoD.” The Department of Defense. “We can talk vitals later.”

“Sounds good,” Reuben answered.

“Reuben Knox and his brother, Joe.” Owen pointed them out. “Tim Mallory, my right-hand man, assistant—you name it, he does it.”

“Tim.” Caleb nodded.

“Sir.”

Owen rolled his eyes. Tim and his love affair with formal authority. “This is Bev Dorset, our cook and resident wonder woman. She makes the best sticky buns you’ve ever had.”

Fifty-six years young, the woman had only recently gone gray. He respected and loved Bev. She’d been a great comfort to him and Heather throughout the years, especially during their rough period of loss. He treasured her.

Bev blushed. “Oh, now. Don’t forget my chocolate chip cookies.”

Caleb laughed.

Ian, Owen noted, didn’t look pleased. Because others had attention, or because Caleb stood so close? Owen hoped for the latter. In some ways, Ian was easy to read, yet in others, he remained an enigma. Owen skipped Ian, saving the best for last, and pointed to the petite blonde next to Bev. “Meet Dolly Hampton, our housekeeper with a capital H. Without her, this place would—”

“Go to hell in a handbasket.” Dolly winked. “My mother used to say that all the time, but working here, now I know what she meant. Nice to meet you, Caleb.” A pretty woman in her early forties, Dolly had been working as a live-in housekeeper for the past six years. He’d never had a complaint about her, though if what he suspected continued to build between her and Reuben, he might have to intervene. Reuben watched her like a hawk—when she wasn’t looking. They both acted like the other didn’t exist. Polite nods and small conversation if forced, but Owen felt the sexual tension. He didn’t oppose them dating, but things could get awkward if they didn’t get on well. And he didn’t want to lose the Knoxes or Dolly. It was hard enough to find people he could trust to live underfoot.

A glance at Reuben showed him frowning at her friendliness with Caleb.

Oh hell. Might as well accept the fact they’re going to mix it up sooner than later. Owen stifled a sigh. “And this,” he said as he waved a hand at Ian, “is Ian Ryder. Ian has been helping me track down Kerr.” He paused, not wanting to go into too much detail with the ladies present.

Dolly seemed to read his mind. “I’m back to work, then.”

Apparently, Bev too, because she smiled and said, “With more mouths to feed, I need to replan my meals.”

The ladies left, and the group waited for Ian to speak. As usual, Ian managed to shock Owen and everyone around them.

“Caleb Dalton?” he sneered. “Aren’t you that prick that benched Gavin because of a little mishap?”

Caleb’s smile vanished as if it had never been. “Ryder…Ryder. Oh right. The fuckup who nearly broke the PWP before we officially disbanded. Caught stealing from the cookie jar one time too many, eh? So who did you blow to get out of jail the first time?”

Owen watched the byplay, stunned yet titillated to see his old friend and his new lover duking it out. A glance at the others showed them equally engrossed.

“Please.” Ian snorted, seeming not at all intimidated by Caleb’s clearly larger frame and angry frown. “The government begs me to use my skills to take down the enemy; then they want to jail me for it? I blew your brother, your father, and your boyfriend to get out. That’s who.”

Caleb stared at him, the veins in his forehead prominent. “You little shit. First of all, no one asked you to steal four million from the Ops Fund. You did that all on your own.”

“Hearsay.” Ian waved him on.

“And second, ‘benching’ Gavin Caldwell was the right thing to do. The kid froze on an op and nearly killed two agents while doing so. He wasn’t ready for the big time, not then. From what I hear now, he’s doing great working for your boss. A formidable CPA, right?” Caleb asked Owen, overly polite.

Fascinating. So Caleb had trained Gavin Caldwell at some point. Jack’s accountant, Gavin, was a whiz with numbers. He’d worked for Owen with another of Jack’s people to retrieve Chronicles, the book Kerr had stolen. But Owen still couldn’t imagine the quiet, pleasant man in the field. He just didn’t seem to have the temperament for the rougher stuff. Numbers and percentages? Sure. Murder and mystery? Not so much.

Seeing that everyone was looking to him for an answer, Owen shrugged. “Right, Gavin’s a great accountant. He’s not exactly my employee, though. He works for Jack at the PowerUp! Gym.” Of which Owen remained a silent partner.

“Keiser. Another asshole.” Caleb shook his head, this time with what seemed like reluctant amusement. “You really know how to pick ’em, Owen.”

“You oversized, thickheaded dickhead.” Ian fumed and, to Owen’s surprise, moved right into Caleb’s personal space. “Jack Keiser is a better man than you could ever hope to be.”

A rush of what seemed like jealousy flooded him. Ian’s defense of his boss should have made Owen feel better that Ian had a sense of loyalty to his team. Yet Owen didn’t like the thought of Ian praising anyone but him.

You’re mine, you little thief.

Instead of having to separate the two, however, Owen watched as Caleb chuckled.

“You got that right. Jack’s a huge pain in the ass, but a great guy to have backing you up.”

Ian opened his mouth and closed it like a fish out of water. “Oh, ah, right, then.” He took a step back but kept a wary eye on Caleb, as if not sure what to think.

“If the drama is over, how about we get back to work, gentlemen?” Owen suggested.

Ian flushed. “Hey. I’m just calling it like I see it.”

Caleb shrugged. “If the little guy wants to vent, let him, Owen.”

“Little guy?”

At that, the Knox brothers and Tim cracked smiles. Owen had to cough to cover a chuckle. Ian looked incensed.

“Fine. Ian, are you done yet?” he asked in his best patronizing tone, knowing how much it irked his thief.

He could almost see the steam pouring from Ian’s ears. And Jesus, but Ian in a mad was just the hottest thing. His blue eyes practically glowed with passion, and his energy tantalized. Standing so close, their personal fields seemed to fit, overlapping and seething with wild power. Sometimes Owen felt that around others. He sensed Caleb in that way, but not with the sexual vibes pouring off Ian. Owen wanted nothing better than to take his little thief back to the bedroom and fuck him into submission. Apparently Ian caught some of that emotion, because his flush grew deeper and he glanced away.

“I’m done, boss.”

Too bad. “Great. So Caleb is on board to help me nail Kerr. If you all study the folders I’ve laid out, you’ll see exactly what we’re dealing with. Joe, Reuben, I added to what you already had. You’ll want to check that over.”

“Roger that.” Reuben nodded and took a seat at the conference table in front of a manila folder.

Joe motioned to the door. “I’ll have Reuben fill me in later. I’ve got to get back to the monitors.”

“Sounds good. Thanks.” Owen nodded.

Joe left and closed the door behind him.

“Still got security holed up in the same place?” Caleb asked.

“Yes.” Out of the corner of his eye, Owen noticed Ian’s lips flatten and couldn’t have been more pleased. So, his thief didn’t like Caleb’s familiarity? Good. “And there’s a backup in the outside bungalow, where the Knoxes are living.”

“Good to have security on-site and outside.” Caleb sounded pleased.

“Sir, if I could add something?” Tim asked.

“Go ahead,” Owen answered.

“I’ve noticed some odd marks on our road, like vehicles coming and going that aren’t ours.”

The road to Owen’s home was private, his property the only thing out there off the main road. Owen tensed. “Is that right?”

Caleb looked interested as well. “See anything?”

“No. It’s a solid half mile long, and whoever’s been around is good enough to be out of sight whenever I’m on the road.” Tim frowned and said to Owen, “But I know what our tire treads look like. I wanted to be sure before I brought the matter to you and Reuben.” The head of security.

“Good work, Tim.” Owen had been waiting for something like this. “Kerr is baiting me. I’m sure he knows all about us, everyone here, and what we’re doing.”

“He’ll have marked my presence as well,” Caleb added quietly.

He and Owen shared a look. That couldn’t bode well. Back when Owen had been young and stupid and filled with seething hatred, he’d used Caleb to spot for him to kill Henry, Carl’s older brother. Except he and Caleb had been sloppy, and Caleb’s face had been caught on camera, a fact they both regretted. Nothing could tie him in any way to the murder, but Caleb had been there. If Kerr paid any attention to detail, he’d put two and two together.

“Shit,” Owen growled. A stupid oversight, not to have foreseen. He was better than that.

“So much for the element of surprise. No way I’m getting close to him now.” Caleb swore again. “But maybe I can still help from here.”

“I can’t ask you to do that,” Owen protested, trying to think ahead.

“Actually, it’s not exactly a favor. Kerr has been on my radar for some time.”

Owen stared at him. So. Kerr must have pissed off someone high up, because Caleb was a cleanup specialist. As in, he targeted with his mind and directed hits with precision. He never made a mess, left any question as to who might be involved, and vanished like a ghost afterward. A telepath and telekinetic with above-average talent, Caleb commanded two areas of psychic ability, a unique feat in itself. But to be so strong in both fields was truly special. The man had no equal that Owen knew.

“Owen? Do you think you and the silver fox could get to the point? I’m not getting any younger,” Ian said snidely. “What exactly do you want me to do now? Where do we go from here?”

Owen stopped his automatic retort, because he never mixed business with pleasure. But the minute he had Ian alone again, he’d show the smart-ass just what he wanted him to do.

IAN KNEW IT wasn’t smart, but he hated watching Caleb Dalton, a fucking G-man, flirt with Owen. If he had to witness it any longer, he’d be sick. Owen could fuck whoever he wanted, but Dalton was a grade-A dick. He had that smug attitude and moral sense of self-righteousness that grated on Ian’s last nerve. It didn’t help that he and Owen apparently had a history neither planned on sharing with the rest of them.

Tim and Reuben didn’t seem to mind Dalton. But Ian wanted to punch him in the mouth. Then scratch his eyes out. Yeah, dramatic and a bit too queenish, even for him. But if he’d ever thrown a fit in his life, he deserved to have one now. Though he and Owen were just fooling around, Ian didn’t play with more than one partner at a time. He didn’t cheat, and he didn’t like sharing his lovers. Not until he was through with them. If Owen thought he could screw both Ian and Dalton under his roof, he could think again.

“Thank you so much for keeping us on track, Ian,” Owen drawled.

Dalton grinned at him.

Laugh at me? It’s so on. Ian might not be able to hurt Dalton physically. But he could fuck up the man’s bank records. Hack into his financials, personal data, and anything else on the computer and—

“…got that?” Owen stared at him as he finished.

“Um. Say that again?”

Dalton sighed.

Reuben and Tim exchanged a glance.

“So you want us to stay close, sit tight, and keep a low profile, sir?” Tim asked.

Ian gave him a grateful smile. At least someone around here had his back.

“Right.”

Owen rubbed his nape, a sign Ian had come to recognize as the man’s mounting frustration.

“I have business matters I have to get to. Reuben, cover all the bases again, but this time you have Caleb to help you. I want you to recon those treads Tim noticed. Ian, you’re on your own until tomorrow. Call Jack and have your things sent here.”

“What? I already brought a bag.”

“We’re all bunking down. There’s plenty of space.” Owen sounded distracted. “Pack enough for a two-week stay. Hey, think of it as a vacation. We have a pool, a weight room, and a studio you can use if you want to paint.”

“Anything I’d know?” Caleb asked. “Like maybe a Chagall? I heard they found a counterfeit one floating around in Houston not too long ago.”

“Please. I doubt you’d know a Chagall from a Picasso.”

“Got me there.” Caleb laughed. Then he slapped Owen on the back. “Hey, can I talk to you for a minute?”

“Sure. I’ll see the rest of you later.” Owen glared at Ian in particular before taking Dalton aside.

Tim ushered Ian out when Ian would have remained behind on one pretext or another.

“Hey.”

“Sorry, Ian. Owen’s orders. Now, who do we need to call to get you set for the next few weeks?”

Ian didn’t like Caleb and Owen together. Then he forced himself not to care. Hell, he’d fucked Owen once. Well, twice, counting their time in the shower. He had no claim on the man, and it wasn’t as if some rich bastard like Owen would look twice at Ian for anything long-term anyway. Not that Ian wanted that. Because he didn’t.

In a foul mood, he wondered who he could annoy the most by requesting a favor. “I’ll call my buddy Keegan. He’ll help.” Keegan would be so pissed. Ian started to feel better.

“Rory’s husband?”

Rory, Owen’s cousin, had legally married Keegan Price while also being in a relationship with their third, James Foreman. Keegan and James worked at the gym, a telekinetic and a pyrokinetic with enough power to wipe out half of Bend. Rory was a delight, though. She had good taste too. She absolutely loved Ian. She’d even made him the stud he wore in his left ear.

He fingered the small sapphire and thought about the three of them. Keegan, a happy-go-lucky bruiser almost as big as Jack. James, a clotheshorse and sexy man who could have modeled for a living but preferred setting things on fire. And Rory, a lovely jewelry designer with a psychic affinity for gemstones. An operation to recover Owen’s stolen locket had resulted in the three of them coming together last year, and they hadn’t been apart since.

Their happy trio gave Ian hope that not all relationships crashed and burned. And hell, if Keegan could get someone to tolerate his Texan drawl, Ian had it made. Someday he’d find a future with a man of his own. Maybe.

He glared back at Owen and Caleb talking in low voices to each other. “Yeah, that Keegan. I’ll call him. Don’t worry. He’ll be happy to help.”