Deadly Pursuit

by Ann Christopher

  “J-Mart’s with her. She’s sitting up. Don’t worry.”

  Amara sagged with relief as Jack came closer, and she finally let go of her briefcase. With awesome strength and a surprising tenderness, he reached down and pulled her to her feet. His hands ran across her arms and back and then up the sides of her neck to her face and hair, checking for an injury.

  “I’m fine.” She planted her hands on his forearms, steadying herself. “Really.”

  This was a lie. She felt like either vomiting or collapsing, she wasn’t sure which. But she’d be damned if she’d do either and embarrass herself in front of Jack.

  Finding no lumps or breaks elsewhere on her body, Jack stroked her cheeks and studied her with a penetrating, unfathomable gaze. When he spoke, his voice sounded scratchy and weak.

  “He choked you.”

  Adrenaline still pumped fast and furious through her veins, numbing her a little, but Jack didn’t look so good. That, to her surprise, worried her. Shrugging, she tried again for a smile.

  “I’m fine.Really. I think I got him pretty good. I hit him with the MacBook.”

  Jack let out a startled bark of laughter and then quickly choked it back. His face darkened again, and this time there was something new in his expression, something powerful and irresistible but well beyond her skills at identification.

  It happened quickly.

  One second she was standing there, looking up at him, and the next she was in his arms with no idea how she’d gotten there, clinging to a thrilling wall of warm muscle unlike anything she’d ever touched before.

  They swayed together, grappled to get closer. Beneath the soft cotton of his T-shirt, his skin felt hot and hard. Right. Murmuring something comforting that she couldn’t quite hear, he pressed her closer to his thundering heartbeat. His fingers slid into her hair again, caressing her scalp, and she felt alive and, better than that, saved.

  Which was a great consolation for being attacked.

  “How is she?” asked a strange female voice out of her line of sight.

  Jack’s arms tightened around her. “She says she’s okay. I think she should still be checked, though.”

  Amara groaned a protest that Jack and the woman both ignored.

  “The police are coming,” the woman said.

  In confirmation, Amara heard the distant but growing wail of sirens and knew it was time to return to the real world. Slowly, with reluctance, she stepped out of Jack’s hold, but he kept her at arm’s length and that was fine with her.

  She looked around and registered the non-Jack parts of the scene. Ten or fifteen people had gathered nearby, most hovering around Esther. A couple of cars had pulled up, headlights blazing. There was no sign of the attacker.

  “I’ve got to go.” His voice sounded harsh now, tense. “Will you be okay?”

  “Yeah. Sure.” Nodding, she tried to hide her disappointment. “But the police will want to talk to you since you’re a witness.”

  An odd, twisted expression crossed over his features. “I’m not sticking around. I’m not wild about the police.”

  “Oh.” What the hell was that supposed to mean? Nothing good, for sure. Jack’s issues with the police probably went well beyond them giving him a ticket or two for Driving While Black. She ought to know, having represented more than a couple of cop-o-phobic people in her day. “Right.”

  “And there are enough other witnesses,” he continued.

  “Right.”

  The sirens got louder, and now she saw flashing lights out of the corner of her eye. Several vehicles, including a satellite truck from the local news, raced into view. She stifled a groan. By the time she finished talking to the police and reporters, it’d be three A.M. Wonderful. It wasn’t like she needed any sleep before closing arguments began at nine.

  Jack’s tight face told her he wasn’t any happier with the new arrivals than she was. That was some consolation. He didn’t seem to want to let her go. That was another. His glittering gaze held hers for so long she was sure her features had begun to melt and blur.

  “Take care of yourself, okay?” he asked, low. “No need to be so brave.”

  This unearned praise startled her. “Oh, no.” Better set the record straight lest he think she was something she wasn’t. “I’m not brave at all. It’s just that Esther needed help and I was the only one around.”

  He stared, at an obvious loss for words, and this time she recognized the look on his face without any problem at all. It was something she’d never seen from him before: the brief but thrilling gleam of admiration.

  As the first ambulance screeched to a halt at the curb, he backed up a step or two, his hands slowly slipping down her arms and away. When at last the contact between them was broken, she felt hollow and alone, which was ridiculous because she was always alone anyway and probably always would be. Even so, she shivered and wished she had his touch back, his warmth.

  “Good night.” Just like that he melted into the darkness and was gone, leaving her to face the swarming crowd by herself.

  Chapter 4

  “Ahhh … shit.”

  Kareem Gregory tightened his grip on Marcella’s silky black hair as her head bobbed over his lap. Her laughing dark eyes smiled up at him, as if she knew exactly how skilled she was, how freaking unbelievable those full lips felt around his dick, and he decided he’d pick her up a little something extra at Tiffany this week.

  After a minute, he reached toward the end table, found his glass of Le Gay Pomerol 2006 (he’d always been partial to Bordeaux) and silently toasted himself before he took a sip.

  A little celebration was definitely in order because he was a genius.

  His plan was ticking along better than he could ever have expected. The feds had had a few questions for him—they always had a few questions for him—but his alibi had left them nothing to go on. They’d never again have anything to go on, assuming he didn’t trust the wrong people again. He was too smooth for that.

  Marcella, taking a little initiative, climbed up and straddled him.

  He flipped her a condom from the end table. Enthusiastic as always, she went to work while he adjusted his boxers for her, and that was when his cell phone, which was sitting on the coffee table next to the mirror with the lines on it, rang.

  Undeterred, Marcella tossed him the phone and, impaling herself, began to ride hard and fast. The world swam out of focus and opening the phone and pressing buttons suddenly got a whole lot trickier. He managed by the fifth ring.

  “Yeah.” He balanced the phone between his shoulder and cheek, freeing up his hands so he could hold on to Marcella’s big ass as it flexed.

  “Turn to CNN,” said one of his three lieutenants, Roger “Yogi” Watkins, whom Kareem liked to refer to as his VP of operations.

  “I’m busy.” Groaning, and trying not to lose focus at this crucial moment, Kareem licked a nipple as it bounced past his mouth.

  “You’ll want to see this.”

  His vision growing dim with pleasure, his eyes half closed, Kareem couldn’t see much of anything at the moment. “This better be good.”

  Grabbing the remote, he punched a couple of buttons and waited while the wall-mounted TV switched over from Scarface—Al Pacino was a genius—and then …

  The anchors yakking while in the window they showed one of those grainy security tapes, which was an overhead shot of a woman clocking a man with a briefcase and being attacked and choked.

  The crawl said BRIEFCASE BRAWL: PROMINENT WASHINGTON DEFENSE ATTORNEY GETS SENATOR KINNEY’S SON OFF ON DRUG CHARGES, FIGHTS CRIME IN SPARE TIME.

  Big deal.

  “Why am I watching this?” he said into the phone.

  “See anyone you know?”

  Kareem kept watching, and that was when God smiled on him again. Because there, with long, curly hair and the beginnings of a beard that, all in all, made a lame-ass disguise, was none other than Special Agent Jackson Parker.

  No. No fucking way. He couldn�
��t get this lucky.

  But it was and he could. Same build. Same eyes. There he was, talking to the briefcase woman, copping a feel, his face as familiar as Marcella’s tits.

  All business now, Kareem pushed her off him. “Where is this? Where?”

  “Washington State,” said Yogi.

  Kareem did a few quick mental calculations, afraid to get too worked up. “Our friend is still on the coast, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good. I want this taken care of. Tonight.”

  “Tonight? But—”

  “Tonight,” Kareem said. “Get it done. You got me? Offer a bonus or some shit.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t know exactly where—”

  “Isn’t that an apron dude’s wearing? Motherfucker’s working as a busboy or something. Find the restaurant. And if that doesn’t work, find the woman. Follow the tail trail and he’ll be sniffing on down it. You feel me?”

  “Yeah.”

  Clicking the phone off, Kareem stared up at the TV and watched as they showed the security video two more times, and then finished the segment and went to commercial. When Jackson Parker’s face disappeared for the last time, he stood there for a moment, stunned, and then laughed and sank back onto the sofa.

  Marcella climbed back onto him, picking up where they’d left off.

  Frenzied with triumph now, not bothering to be gentle, he flipped her onto her back so he could fuck her good. She got louder and louder as she moved against him, and he couldn’t tell whether she was crying with pain or pleasure, not that it mattered to him either way. All that mattered was that he was the man and each sharp thrust of his hips felt like another nail in Jackson Parker’s coffin.

  J-Mart wiped down the last strip of counter and watched the stragglers file out the door and disappear into the darkness. There’d been several new customers here tonight, mostly young, female and hot—not counting a couple of obvious fruity-toots.

  He’d seen two redheads, a blonde, a pretty young thing with the brightest baby blues he’d ever seen and an ugly gray GIVE PEACE A CHANCE sweatshirt that couldn’t hide a pair of world-class tits, and two fine black women he wouldn’t have minded being sandwiched between.

  None of the beauties—male or female—had come for the food.

  They’d all come to see Jack, the local hero who’d been plastered all over the news today, and pretty face after pretty face fell with disappointment when he told them Jack was off tonight.

  The press had been here earlier, too, but, knowing how Jack liked his privacy, J-Mart had shooed them out and refused to give either Jack’s last name or his address, both of which were none of their business.

  They’d be back tomorrow, though, and so would Jack. Maybe he should call the kid tonight and warn him about his new fans. Give him a heads-up so he’d know what was waiting for him.

  It was a good thing Jack’d been scheduled off tonight; something told J-Mart he wouldn’t have appreciated the groupies.

  J-Mart, on the other hand, loved groupies.

  Baby Blue came up to the counter and handed him a ten. “Great pie.”

  J-Mart rang her up and got the change out of the register. “You’ll have to come back and see us again.”

  “I might just do that.”

  Flashing a smile that had parts of his body sparking with the kind of interest he hadn’t felt in years, she turned and went to the coat rack for her jacket.

  If only he were thirty—no, forty—years younger.

  Sighing, he watched her leave and turned to the only remaining customer.

  Amara.

  That one had balls of steel. He’d commanded a soldier or two who hadn’t shown one-eighth of the courage she’d shown last night. She also had a wounded streak a mile wide, and it had gotten wider when she realized Jack wasn’t coming in tonight.

  Edging around the counter, he stood at the end of her booth and gave her a kindly smile as he watched her pack up her briefcase. Truth was: he felt sorry for her. If there was anything going on in her life other than work, he’d never seen any sign of it.

  Something was brewing between her and Jack though, and J-Mart intended to fan that flame as much as possible. Lord knew Jack needed somebody in his life. In all his seventy-four years, J-Mart had never met a lonelier soul than Jack Patterson.

  “You get a new laptop already?”

  Amara grinned and reached for her scarf. “This one is fine, believe it or not. My files are so thick, I think they made a nice cushion for the computer.”

  “Heard you got that snot-nosed senator’s kid off scot-free.”

  Her grin widened. “Allegedly snot-nosed.”

  J-Mart laughed. Yeah. This one was perfect for Jack. She’d keep him laughing and Jack needed to laugh. “He’ll be back tomorrow.”

  Amara ducked her head, flushed until her ears glowed and made a production out of tying her scarf. When she looked up again, the grin was gone. “Who?”

  “Don’t kid a kidder, girl. You know damn good and well who I’m talking about.”

  “J-Mart,” she said sourly, “I know you’re older than dirt and you make the best pie in the city, but if you call me girl again, I’m going to have to take you off at the knees.” She hefted the briefcase for him to see. “Don’t make me use my computer on you.”

  This time he roared, his heart lighter than it had been in what felt like years.

  “He likes you, girl. Don’t let him fool you.”

  An unmistakable flare of interest lit her eyes but she tried to hide it behind a scowl.

  “If anything, Jack wants to screw me. There’s a difference.”

  “I thought you didn’t know who I was talking about.”

  “Funny.” Her lips thinned with enough irritation that he knew he’d hit a sore point. So she wasn’t immune to Jack Patterson. Good. “You’re a regular Richard Pryor, aren’t you?”

  Chuckling, he took her elbow and steered her to the front door, where he paused to flick out the lights, flip the black and white sign to the CLOSED side and snatch her jacket off the coat rack and his from behind the counter before he locked up.

  As always, he felt a surge of affection for the Twelfth Street Diner, his tiny kingdom. No one would ever mistake it for a five-star restaurant, but the food was good and the Formica and linoleum were his and his brother’s, bought and paid for. The work was hard and the pay pitiful, but it sure beat the hell out of getting shot at in the jungles of Vietnam.

  “I’ll walk you out.”

  “I don’t need a babysitter, J-Mart.”

  “Great. Think of me as your bodyguard then.”

  For a second he thought he was going to feel the business side of her briefcase for sure, but after huffing and glowering she gave up the fight and let him lead her down the steps to the sidewalk. Maybe last night’s experience made her thankful to have an escort to her car even if she was too proud to admit it.

  The night was crisp and fresh after yesterday’s sleet, the air still with waiting for tomorrow’s rain. After five or six steps the relentless cold penetrated his bones and he felt the familiar dull ache of his arthritis. If he’d been smart, he’d’ve worn a heavier jacket today, but of course if he’d been smart, he’d’ve moved to Orlando twenty years ago.

  The prospect of another winter here in the great Northwest was every bit as appealing as his next prostate exam. He stepped up the pace to Amara’s black Saab SUV and walked her around to the driver’s side.

  “I’ll see you in the morning, girl.”

  The wry twist of her lips told him that this additional girl was duly noted, but she didn’t call him on it. “Actually, you won’t see me in the morning. I just finished up some paperwork and now I’m taking some time off.”

  “Time off? Don’t tell me you’ve got a life …?”

  She opened the door and tossed her briefcase inside. “No life. What I’ve got is fifteen vacation days that I’ll lose if I don’t use before the end of the year.”

  “Why
don’t you use that time over the holidays and go visit family?”

  But he knew she didn’t have any family and the telltale flicker of sadness behind her eyes confirmed this before she hid it behind a careless shrug. “I’m not big on holidays.”

  “Me neither, girl.” He thought of his daughter Jenny back in Boston, with her buttoned-down corporate husband and big house that had six bedrooms, none of which ever seemed to be available for a broken down army sergeant at Christmas.

  Loneliness echoed through him. “Me neither.”

  Settling into her seat behind the wheel, Amara shut the door, started the engine and rolled down the window. “Where’d you park? Need a ride?”

  “Oh, I’m not leaving. I’ve got another hour of prep work for the morning and then payroll after that.”

  “Looks like I’m not the only one with no life, eh?”

  “I’m too old for a life.” Grinning, he smacked his palm on her hood, shooing her on her way so he could get back inside where it was warm. “Get outta here.”

  With a beep and a wave she rolled off. Taking a moment to appreciate the purr of a powerful engine, he watched her go until her taillights disappeared around the corner at the light.

  Once she was safely gone, he zipped his jacket up to the neck and scurried back down the sidewalk at a pace that had his knees protesting. He fumbled with his keys and got them into the lock by the third try. A rush of blessed warmth hit him in the face as he went back into his haven, but he kept the jacket on for now. With his luck, it’d be noon tomorrow before he got his creaky bones heated up again.

  He headed through the swinging door, past the kitchen and down the narrow hallway to his office. Paperwork first, while his mind was still fresh, and then he’d start in on the—

  Clink.

  J-Mart froze, listening, halfway between the kitchen and the broom closet.

  The diner was full of late-night sounds and he knew them all. The hum of the refrigerator, the rumbling grind of the ice machine, the nonstop trickle of the world’s most stubborn toilet, which resided in his men’s room and wasted enough water to fill a small pond. There was no clink.