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her life is in danger. Wherever she is, they’re hurting her and they have to kill her when they’re done finding out everything she knows.”
    Jonas studied his friend. Jackson was Cajun, with broad shoulders, roped arms, a heavy powerful chest and shrewd, cool eyes—black obsidian, glittering when upset, or absolutely flat and cold, showing no emotion whatsoever. His thick, unruly, wavy hair was as black as midnight. Scars ran down his face and neck and disappeared into his shirt. His features were etched with lines of hard violence and a stillness that belied his lightning-fast reflexes.
    Jackson rarely spoke of his family, and from what Jonas had gleaned from the few times he’d mentioned them, they’d lived in the bayou itself, on a small island, boating to the mainland for supplies. His dad had been a fighter, a veteran of more than one war and a biker who left his family often because he couldn’t settle, but returned just as often because he couldn’t be away from them. From the things Jackson had let drop, his father had begun teaching him survival and fighting and the use of weapons at a very early age.
    He seemed to love and despise his father, feeling as if the bikers he’d run with had been his family and Jackson and his mother had gotten the leftovers. Although the details were sketchy, Jonas knew that Jackson had been the one to provide for his mother. When she’d gotten cancer, his father had disappeared once again, unable to face the prolonged illness. Jackson had been fifteen when his mother died, leaving him to run wild in the bayou. He’d fended for himself until his father returned and Jackson was forced to accompany him to live in the biker camps, traveling with them as they moved. His father had died in a knife fight, taking four rival gang members with him just before Jackson’s nineteenth birthday, and Jackson had joined the army. Jonas knew Jackson had a brush with that same biker club during his time with the DEA, but he never talked about it.
    “We’ll find her this time,” Jonas said.
    The black eyes flicked to him. “Yes, we will. I’m bringing her home. And she’s done, Jonas. Be prepared for that. I know how you are about the girls, but Elle’s mine. And she’s done.”
    “Jackson . . .” For the first time that he could remember in their long friendship, Jonas felt a stab of unease. Jackson could be quite ruthless and once he made up his mind, there was no turning him from his objective.
    Jackson shook his head. “Let’s just get a starting point. The storm’s coming in fast. Are the girls gathered?”
    That was like Jackson. He was done talking. Jonas sighed as they wound their way through the back garden. He’d never understood Jackson and Elle’s relationship—or lack of one. Elle kept to herself, in the same way Jackson did. They were both strong-willed individuals and aside from Elle’s bad temper, and Jackson’s lack of one, they were very much alike—stubborn.
    “Ilya’s here. He has some information for us,” Jonas said. “He prefers to tell us before we go inside.”
    Jackson glanced at him, his gaze sharp. Whatever Ilya Prakenskii had to say, he didn’t want his fiancée, Joley Drake, or any of her sisters to know. And that meant it couldn’t be good.
    Jackson let out his breath, refusing to give in to the secret part of him that was filled with terror. He’d been a prisoner of war to one of the worst sadists in the business and he hadn’t felt fear like this.
    Elle. Baby. Stay alive for me. Any way you have to, stay alive for me. I’m coming for you.
    The storm was the perfect conduit they needed to boost their energy. Wherever Elle was, she would be waiting, knowing they would never stop looking for her.
    He walked around to the side of the Drake house where Ilya waited in the shadows for them. Ilya nodded to Jackson and glanced toward the towering house. “Let’s walk.”
    “They’ll know,” Jonas cautioned.
    The Drakes always knew.