Iris Johansen - Eight Days To Live

“Son of a bitch!” Weismann swung the barrel of the gun toward him.

Caleb rolled the few feet toward him, grabbing at the gun and jerking it away. In one motion he rose and swung the barrel at Weismann’s head.

Weismann grunted and fell to the ground. Unconscious but still alive.

Caleb stared down at him in disappointment, his heart still racing.

Too easy. He wanted more.

He wanted a kill.

He reached down and gently pushed back the hair from Weismann’s temple, where the blood was pouring from the cut made by the rifle barrel. What harm? Weismann was a murderer. Take what he wanted and walk away.

Not possible.

The realization caused a bolt of fury to sear through him.

Keep it under control. Anger was the enemy. It made every breach of the code seem valid.

But killing this scum wasn’t a breach of his code. That was why he was a hunter.

Excuses. This was more complicated. Jane needed information from the bastard. She wanted him alive.

He had to let him live… for a while.

He reached down, picked Weismann up, and slung him over his shoulder. He was a big man but Caleb didn’t mind the weight.

He needed to channel every bit of his mind and strength into trying to keep himself from making the kill.

“HE’S COMING.” JOCK TURNED AWAY from the window. “And he looks like paintings I’ve seen of frontiersmen carrying home the carcasses from a buffalo hunt.”

“He’s here?” Jane ran to the door and flung it open.

Caleb was coming up the road, and the carcass on his back was no animal. He was carrying the burden without effort, striding quickly. His hair was rumpled and his shirt stained with blood.

She stepped out on the doorstep. “Caleb?”

He stopped before her and threw the man on his back to the ground. “Weismann. As promised.”

She gazed down at the man. Eyes closed, auburn hair now covered in blood. “Is he dead?”

“No. I hit him with a rifle butt. He’ll probably have a concussion, but the chances are fair that he’ll be able to talk. Let’s get it over with.”

The words were spoken with such leashed ferocity that her gaze flew to his face.

Caleb’s dark eyes were glittering in his taut face, and his lips were full and sensual and slightly drawn back from his teeth. He looked wild, barbaric. No, he looked… hungry.

“Get what over with, Caleb?” Jock said softly as he shut the door and moved to stand beside her.

Caleb’s glance at him was like a dagger thrust. “Don’t mess with me, Gavin. This isn’t the time.”

“No, I can see that.” Jock turned to Jane. “Why don’t you go in and-”

“No,” Caleb said sharply. “She wanted him. She’s got him. I have to have it finished.” He looked at Jane, and she unconsciously braced herself. She felt… scorched. “Do you want me to wake him so that you can talk to him?”

“He’s unconscious. How can you-”

“If you want it, I can do it.” He knelt beside Weismann and added recklessly, “What the hell. I’ll do it anyway. It’s just a question of adjusting the blood flow…”

“I’m not sure that-”

Weismann screamed in agony, and his lids flew open.

“What happened?” Jane asked, startled.

“I told you, blood flow. I didn’t say it wouldn’t hurt.”

Weismann was cursing venomously, his eyes fixed balefully on Caleb.

Caleb bent closer to Weismann, and said softly, “Be polite. I’m holding on by a thread. The lady wants answers, give them to her.” He looked at Jane. “Ask your questions.”

“I will. Just don’t hurt him again.”

“Do you hear that, Weismann? She’s feeling sorry for you. That weapon I took away from him was an M-25, very good for sharps-hooting up to 980 yards, and he was getting set to pick us all off as we came out of the cottage.”

“And I would have gotten you.” Weismann’s gaze went to Jock. “Stop him. You’re not going to do anything to me. You’re in Venable’s pocket. The CIA needs the information I have. He’s willing to pay.”

“You killed Adah Ziller, and God knows what other deals you’ve been making on the side,” Jock said. “Venable may not have any use for you any longer.”

“You don’t believe that. What’s the death of one greedy bitch matter? Tell him to let me go. Who is he anyway?”

“Seth Caleb,” Caleb said. “And no one tells me anything, Weismann. They ask politely. Or, in your case, they beg.”

“Stop this,” Jane said as she took a step nearer. She wanted to be done both with Weismann’s ugliness and the wild recklessness she could sense in Caleb. “All I want is for you to tell me what you know about why I’ve been targeted, Weismann.”

Weismann’s lips curled. “Then tell Venable to pay me. Or you can spend the next few days trying to dodge Millet and hope he doesn’t find you. Let me go, and we can negotiate.”

“I think not,” Caleb said. “I’ve lost patience. Talk.”

“Caleb,” Jane said.

He smiled. “I won’t touch him.”

That brilliant smile was terrifying. “Just persuade him to change his mind. I don’t care if he thinks you’re his brother.”

“I care.” He leaned still closer to Weismann, and whispered, “You’re not worth the extra effort I’d have to make. So tell Jane what she wants to know.”

“Screw you.”

“Screw. Interesting word. Painful word.”

Weismann shrieked, his body convulsing, his spine trying to curve.

“Talk to Jane,” Caleb said. “Don’t be impolite. She asked you a question.”

“Son of a bitch.” Tears were running down Weismann’s cheeks. “What’s happening?”

“Caleb,” Jane said sharply.

“Too late.” Caleb said. “A little hemorrhage…”

Blood was pouring from Weismann’s nose.

“Convulsion.”

Weismann howled and bent double in agony.

“Dammit, Caleb,” Jane said.

“He can stop it. All he has to do is talk to you.”

And Caleb wouldn’t stop. He was enjoying it too much.

“Do it, Weismann,” Jane said curtly. “For God’s sake, answer.”

Weismann was scrambling, desperately trying to scoot backward. “Get him away from me.” He gazed frantically at Jock. “Gavin, do something.”

“Why? I’m finding this very interesting. I’d guess you’re the only who can end it.”

“Cramps,” Caleb said.

Weismann flinched back, his legs twitching. “Monster,” he gasped. “You’re-a-monster.”

“Yes, tell her what she wants to know.”

More pain.

Weismann howled.

“Why did they target her, Weismann?”

“Damn you.” He could barely talk because of the blood running down into his mouth. “Stop it. How can I talk when you keep-”

“Two minutes. Then it starts again if you don’t tell her everything that she needs to know. Why?”

He was silent. “It’s that painting of the man. The one she called Guilt .”

“That painting?” Jane repeated. “That doesn’t make sense.”

“Weismann is going to make sense out of it for you,” Caleb said. “Go on, Weismann.”

“I don’t know everything,” Weismann said sulkily. “Millet doesn’t trust me as far as he could throw me. But I managed to slip around and listen to him rant to some of the others after I saw how angry he was when he received that clipping.”

“You thought it would prove valuable,” Gavin said.

Weismann ignored him. “It wasn’t the painting as much as the title that bothered Millet and the others. He said by naming it Guilt , you’d committed blasphemy.”

Blasphemy. That word again. “How could I do that when that painting was born purely from imagination?” Jane asked, in frustration.

Weismann shook his head. “That’s not what Millet said. He said you must have seen it in the temple. He said that even if you weren’t a blasphemer, they’d have to stop you before you could tell anyone about the temple.”