Page 67 of Ghost Hunted

Logan

“You need to get away from her now.”

“Fuck that, Damien. You know very well that’s not going to happen.”

I inch as far away from the bedroom door as possible, unwilling for Lia to hear any part of our conversation.

“I told you, I’m going to take care of her. It’s going to be fine.”

“It’s not going to be fine.” Al Campbell’s boisterous voice cuts in. “This is just the beginning. Little by little, her memory will disappear altogether, leaving only pure violence.”

“I don’t care if she’s violent,” I growl. “I can handle it. I told you so, Damien. I’m ten times stronger than her. I can take her.”

“So what, you’re going to spend the rest of your life with a killer in between your sheets?” scoffs Damien. “Come on, man, be serious. She’s not the same Lia who disappeared eighteen years ago. That Lia is dead. You grieved her. This Lia is some twisted abomination of—”

“Stop that.” I choke out the words. “She’s mine. All of her. Every single version of her. I can handle them all, and… oh, shit!”

“What is it? Logan?”

I hear his voice on the other end of the line, but I’ve already tossed the phone aside. The front door just caved in, and behind it stand three masked bikers.

The Puicin Gang.

Driving away from them last time, I hadn’t noticed how terrifying their masks are, but Lia’s description is apt: they’re like black holes, and as my eyes rest on them, it feels like I’m being sucked into a dizzying vacuum.

They’re each pointing AK-47s at me. I stand up, trying to reach the bedroom where I’ve left Lia, but surprise has lost me valuable seconds, and they’re faster than me. They corner me, cutting off access to it.

Maybe that’s for the better, anyway. Maybe they won’t know she’s in there. I know it’s a silly hope, but I cling to it.

“Don’t piss your pants,” chuckles a very Irish-sounding voice from behind one of the masks. “We didn’t come for you.”

I hadn’t been close to pissing my pants before those words, but fear rips through me now. “You’re not getting her. I won’t let you.”

“We’re here to collect our debt. Puicin always collects its debt.”

The biker speaking waves his gun over to the door, and I try to reach him, but the other two bar my passage.

“Whatever your debt is, take it up with me. Don’t touch her. Take me. Kill me. Please.”

He ignores me, turning toward the bedroom door I left Lia behind. Goddammit, I hate being this helpless. I hate that I left my gun on the opposite side of the room. I’m not usually this stupid; Lia makes me crazy.

My eyes train around the room, resting on the bazooka propped up right beside the door, which I’m pretty sure Quill loaded. But I could never reach it in time. Besides, even if I could, detonating it would... I can’t even bear to finish that thought.

“Hold on.” I desperately hunt for anything to say that might make the masked biker turn away from Lia’s room, and from the bazooka that he still hasn’t spotted. “What’s the debt? Tell me what the debt is. Let me pay you.”

“It’s not a payment in money,” he growls. “We’ve come for her.”

“Okay.” I swallow with difficulty, trying to find the words to at least distract him. “You’ve already taken Jane. Isn’t that enough?”

He whips his head back to me, and though he’s masked, I can imagine his eyes slowly appraising me. But when he speaks at last, the only words he says are, “No. It wasn’t enough.”

I’ve got his attention, at least. All three men’s attention. They’re so focused on me that when the door of the bedroom splinters open with a loud crack, they don’t have time to react before Lia’s grabbed the bazooka, and points it at… all of us.

“Lia,” I gasp. “Put that down. I’ve got this.”

I don’t have this.

“Put it down, baby. Everything’s okay.” I try to edge toward the side of the room where I’ve left the gun, but Lia’s bazooka follows me. And when I look into her green, foggy eyes I realize… she doesn’t know me.