Deadly Pursuit

by Ann Christopher

  Was … was that it, then? Was he just going to sell her the shit? A wave of relief hit, bubbling up in an inappropriate giggle, and she choked it off because this wasn’t a done deal yet.

  But her mouth was all but dripping now, her heart racing with excitement, and she could almost feel the familiar crunch between her teeth, almost feel the rush of—

  “Oh,” he said.

  Oh? What oh?

  At the driver’s side of his car now, a disappointing ten-year-old-ish Toyota Tercel with fancy hubcaps and not at all the drug-dealer-mobile black SUV with tinted windows that she’d imagined, he snapped his fingers as though he’d just remembered something and looked over his shoulder at her.

  “I almost forgot. Did you get that information we talked about?”

  Marian’s heart stopped.

  Okay. Okay, so this was a slight setback, true, but she’d expected something like this and had her explanation ready. “Umm … No.” Stop wringing your hands, fool. It’s a dead giveaway. “It’s not that I don’t want to do it or anything, but if I get caught—”

  He backhanded her.

  One minute she was talking and he was nodding and being a good listener, and the next her head was whipping around, her ears were ringing with a throbbing pain that shot out the top of her head, and her mouth was filling with the coppery taste of blood.

  Had he … had he just hit her?

  The panic was just knotting in her belly, just starting to coalesce and grow, and the dots were connecting that, one: here was a violent black man twice her size slapping the shit out of her; and two: they were in a deserted alley where he could do anything imaginable to her and get away with it; and three: her children were here and she’d been the idiot who’d brought them; and four: how would she hide the mark that was probably blooming on her face right this second, assuming she lived to tell the story; and five:

  Did this mean he wasn’t going to sell her the shit?

  All this ran through her mind and was adding up to a whole boatload of Titanic-sized trouble steaming her way when he backhanded her again, confirming that he really had done it the first time.

  Screaming now, she tried to break and run but he was too quick and grabbed a hunk of her hair near the crown and swung her around by it until the Tercel’s trunk cut into her belly and doubled her over.

  Oh, shit. Oh, shit, shit, SHIT.

  She struggled, but trying to break free was useless and she felt those huge fingers tightening, ready to rip her scalp off at any second. Terrified sobs rose up from her tight throat.

  Jerking her head again, he spoke in her ear. “You want your kids to hear this?”

  “Please don’t hurt me,” she cried. “I have money and I—”

  Another jerk, this one accompanied by a “Shut the fuck up,” and a thrusting thigh between hers, widening her stance.

  She shut the fuck up, midsob.

  And then she started sobbing again, harder now. Not that. Please, God, not that.

  “Please.” Tamping down her hiccuping wails, she tried to talk, but the hand that wasn’t holding her hair was sliding under the front of her skirt now, exposing inch after inch of her legs to the icy air. “Please don’t do this. Please, please, please—”

  “Shut. The fuck. Up.”

  She stopped talking but kept sobbing, making a pathetic and choked mmm-mmm-mmm sound, because that one hand, the one that was the real problem, was now sliding between her and the trunk, groping between her legs with searching fingers as though there was gold to be mined. Only the thin layer of her panties protected her from his invasion and that was no protection at all.

  “Please.” Opening her mouth was a mistake because it let loose a whole big strand of spit that embarrassed the one tiny part of her that wasn’t scared.

  “Relax,” he said, still stroking. “I don’t fuck crack hos and I don’t fuck hopped-up soccer moms either. I want you to go to work today. Nod if you understand me.”

  She nodded, ignoring the resulting pain in her scalp.

  “I want you to get that information without getting caught. Feel me?”

  She nodded again.

  “And I want you to bring it to me today. Got it?”

  She nodded.

  “Don’t fuck with me,” he warned.

  Those hard fingers clamped down now, squeezing and mashing the most sensitive part of her body, hurting with a pain worse than childbirth. Her sobbing took on a higher-pitched quality but she couldn’t move at all because moving only worsened the agony.

  “Are you planning to fuck with me?”

  She frantically shook her head.

  “Because if you fuck with me, I’m going to show up at your house on Grand Vista Avenue—”

  Oh, Jesus. Oh, Lord Jesus, he knew where she lived? “—and I’m going to break down the door and I’m going to fuck you. And then I’m going to blow your brains out against your nice walls—”

  The images were all right there, flashing before her eyes. She saw this monster on her quiet street, contaminating it. She saw him storming into her house with the gun he surely had. She felt, pressing against her ass, the unforgiving weapon he’d use against her before he killed her—

  “—and I’m going to look around for a few more brains to blow out. Are we on the same page here, bitch?”

  She nodded.

  Done with her at last, he let her go with a final thrust that had her forehead banging against the trunk with a loud and cold thunk that unleashed stars before her eyes.

  Bewildered by this sudden freedom, she edged away from his car and turned to see him sauntering to the driver’s side with a smirking face and tented jeans.

  “You better get going.” Holding his left arm up, he tapped his watch. “Tick-tock. You don’t want to be late for work, do you?”

  Desperation fueling her fear, she pivoted, ran to her SUV and hurled herself into the driver’s side. Slamming and locking the door—locking, heh, right, like that would keep the monster out if he wanted to come in—she twisted at the waist to look at the kids, who were both okay but kicking their feet, growing restless.

  Bethany took one look at her face and started crying. Veronica looked at Bethany, grabbed Bethany’s pacifier and stuck it in Bethany’s mouth.

  Bethany stopped crying and Veronica returned to her Cheerios.

  Marian continued to sob.

  She was pulling out of the alley when a terrible thought hit her, one more to add to her growing list of terrible thoughts.

  Jesus, God, how was she going to get through this nightmare?

  Jerome hadn’t sold her the shit.

  Chapter 20

  “Coffee?”

  Dexter Brady watched Kareem go to the coffeepot over on the wet bar and fill several mugs. They were in the corner of Kareem’s spectacular vaulted living room, which was in Kareem’s spectacular house, which sat on a couple of well-manicured and spectacular acres. It really was amazing what the owner of a few auto-customizing shops could do with a few extra bucks. To hear Kareem tell it, all this was the legitimate result of his legal endeavors.

  Sure. And Dexter had three twelve-inch dicks.

  “This isn’t a social call,” Dexter told him.

  A hint of amusement flickered across Kareem’s face. “Just being polite.”

  A polite sociopath. Wasn’t that nice?

  Dexter eyeballed Kareem’s attorney, Jacob Radcliffe, who sat on the buttery brown leather sofa. Mercenary bastard. Beside Dexter sat Assistant U.S. Attorney Jayne Morrison, because there were procedures to follow and she had to be involved in this little stop-by-and-say-hello questioning. Having it here at Kareem’s house was just for fun because, hey, the coffee downtown was nowhere near as delicious as the shit Kareem served.

  They all waited, tense and silent.

  Finally, after much stirring and adding of sugar and cream, Kareem sauntered back to the sofa and sat. Checked the fall of the razor-sharp crease in his slacks, crossed his legs, sipped, and waited wit
h that poorly hidden glimmer of excitement in his eyes.

  Kareem liked the hunt. Oh, yes. He preferred to be the hunter, true, but he didn’t mind being the hunted every now and then, just for kicks. Distributing drugs and playing cat and mouse games were mother’s milk to Kareem here. They got his juices flowing and made him tick. They completed Kareem.

  And Dexter was going to take him down if it was the last thing he ever did.

  “What do you want, Brady?” Radcliffe clutched his own mug and had the nerve to look annoyed. “My client doesn’t have much time and you already questioned him.”

  “He came to see how many kilos he could spot lying around in plain sight,” Kareem interjected before Dexter could answer. “Isn’t that right, Dex?”

  The roar of his rising blood pressure flooded Dexter’s ears and he felt the heat under his skin, the fury. “Good guess, but no. I’m actually here to tell you the good news.”

  Kareem opened his mouth wide in an exaggerated yawn and added a stretch. “Don’t keep us in suspense. Did your agents raid a crack house this morning? Get a gram or two off the streets and make the world a safer place?”

  Dexter forced a smile but his face was burning now, so hot with anger he was surprised his flesh didn’t peel off in curled strips. “You remember that shooting in Seattle we talked about? One of our special agents was killed?”

  “You consider that good news?” Kareem asked.

  Dexter ignored that. “Couple things I forgot to mention before in all the excitement.” He paused so Kareem could sweat it out a little. “Jackson Parker was involved in that shooting. You remember your old friend Jack, don’t you? He ran the undercover op on you that led to the whole”—Dexter waved a hand—“money-laundering thing. This ringing a bell?”

  There was no amusement in Kareem’s face now, and the boredom also seemed to have evaporated. Was this a crack in Kareem Gregory’s legendary control?

  “Get to the point,” Kareem said.

  “Oh, don’t worry about your boy Jack. Another agent was killed but Jack is fine.” Dexter let just a hint of smugness creep into his voice now and, for good measure and knowing it would kill Kareem, allowed himself a tiny satisfied smile. “He’s alive and well and well-protected. Anxious to testify and put you back behind bars where you belong.”

  Kareem blinked.

  “Jayne.” Jacob Radcliffe interjected, no doubt trying to prove his worth. “Is there some reason my client needs to be subjected to this silly cat and mouse game in his own house on the day before—”

  Jayne showed complete disinterest at this whining. “Special Agent Brady has some questions. As a courtesy to your client, we’re asking them here rather than dragging him down to the office. If you don’t like it, we’re happy to drag …”

  Radcliffe lapsed into an impotent silence.

  “Well.” Kareem stood like he wanted to wrap things up and move on to the important part of his day. “Thanks for the news flash. If that’s all—”

  “That’s not all,” Dexter told him.

  He thought of the dead agents, the waste and the wide path of destruction this one man had carved throughout his sorry, too-long life. Then he thought of what a pleasure—what an orgasmic, ball-busting, out-of-body experience pleasure—it would be to put this man behind bars or, better yet, in his grave, where he belonged.

  Dexter leaned in so he could see every flash of emotion on this bitch’s face, every pore and every bead of salty sweat. Kareem stilled as though he knew something terrible was coming and wanted to brace for it.

  “Here’s the good news, which we kept out of the press. The shooter was killed.”

  Kareem’s eyes widened a fraction. Just a hair, but it was enough.

  This was why they’d withheld the information this long. Dexter wanted another bite at the apple. He wanted to see Kareem’s eyes dilate with fear and he wanted to see it in the house Kareem could lose if he wasn’t careful. He wanted to get this slippery motherfucker and he planned to keep nipping at his heels until he did.

  “And guess what she—yeah, it was a she; what a surprise, huh?—left in her car?”

  Kareem didn’t bite.

  “Her weapons. Isn’t that great? A whole bunch of them, too.” Dexter counted off on his fingers. “A rifle with a scope, a silencer. Oh, and we recovered a nine-millimeter. And guess what kind of pistol Ray Wolfe and his wife were killed with? What—no guess? I’ll tell you anyway: it was a nine-millimeter. Small world, huh?”

  Kareem stilled, his face frozen into stone.

  “Your time here is up, Brady.”

  Radcliffe stood like he was the bouncer or some shit, but Dexter didn’t budge. He was here to see Kareem’s reaction to this news and by God he was going to see it.

  “Don’t worry, Jakie, I’m almost done.” Dexter waved a hand and kept his gaze on Kareem, whose skin was slowly turning ashen. “So we thought we’d run a ballistics test or two on the gun and see if it’s the same one. And if it is—and I think it is—we’ll have a connection between the contract killing of one federal agent and the accidental killing of a second agent. And then—and here’s the really good news I want you to know, Kareem—all we’ll need is one tiny connection to whoever hired the killer and we’ll have the basis for all kinds of new charges. Meaty stuff, too. Murder, conspiracy … much more exciting stuff than money laundering. Carries longer prison sentences. I thought you’d want to be the first to know.”

  How do you like that, Kareem?

  The brother didn’t like it at all. For one brief second it was all naked on his face:

  Shock, rage and, yes, fear.

  The unmistakable light of truth: Kareem had, in fact, hired the killer.

  The hard edge of Kareem’s determination to do whatever he had to do to stay free.

  And then Kareem blinked, and all that raw emotion disappeared, leaving only a beleaguered businessman being harassed by an overzealous fed.

  Kareem shrugged, looking politely puzzled. “I’m not sure why you’re telling me all this, but I do appreciate the personal attention. If you’re finished—?”

  “Actually, I think I will have that coffee now. Thanks.”

  Ignoring Kareem’s hand, which was outstretched toward the foyer, Dexter strode to the wet bar, poured some coffee and sipped appreciatively. That drug money sure could buy the best. He put the cup down with regret and headed for the door with Jayne on his heels. He’d just passed Kareem and Radcliffe, noting their stupefied expressions with satisfaction, when the one thing that could ruin his triumphant moment happened:

  Kira Gregory appeared.

  There was no click-click warning of approaching high heels, no door slam or “Honey, I’m home,” to tell him to play it cool. All he knew was that one second she wasn’t there and the next she was, hurrying around one of the billion corners in this McMansion.

  Shit.

  Hadn’t he scheduled this meeting at a time when she was supposed to be at class? Hadn’t he and Jayne waited outside in his parked car until Kira drove off before they approached the house?

  What the fuck was she doing here?

  After nearly plowing each other down, they both pulled up short. Since Dexter was the one with his back to Kareem, he gave her a sharp warning look and saw in her bright clever eyes that she was already right there with him, pulling her story together.

  “Special Agent Brady.” Cool as a frozen cucumber, she gave him a look he imagined she’d use on a puddle of vomit on her floor. “What are you doing in my house?”

  They’d officially met before, of course. On that unforgettable night nearly two years ago when they arrested Kareem.

  “He was just leaving, baby.” Kareem sauntered across the room, his speculative gaze evenly divided between Dexter and Kira. “What’re you doing back here?”

  “Forgot my book.” She pointed to a ten-pound textbook on the kitchen table.

  When he got to his wife’s side, Kareem wrapped his hand around her back, settled it on th
e curve of her ass and reeled her in for a kiss. On the lips. As though he hadn’t seen her in five years.

  Dexter watched because he’d been forced into the designated audience role whether he wanted to be there or not, and tried to pretend he didn’t hear the sudden angry rush of blood in his ears or feel every nerve in his body stretch to near invisibility.

  Then they pulled apart and Kira smiled up in her husband’s face, visibly melting the man on the spot. And Dexter kept his features neutral and wondered how the face of an angel could hide a soul that treacherous.

  “You haven’t seen Brady since the last time he was here, have you, baby?” Kareem asked, paranoid down to the last electron in the last atom in his body.

  And Kira, without blinking, looked bewildered and said, “No.”

  Dexter suddenly felt a million years old, as though he was just a day or two away from disintegrating into a pile of dust and then blowing away with the breeze. For the first time in his life, he thought that maybe he wasn’t cut out for this work. For the first time in his life, he didn’t want to do this work.

  “I’ve taken enough of your time,” he said.

  He thought he was talking to Kareem, but his gaze was drawn to Kira. To her defiance, her flushed skin, and those unfathomable eyes that hid more secrets than a password-protected computer at the CIA.

  “A pleasure seeing you,” he told her, adding, because he seemed to need the reminder, “Mrs. Gregory.”

  She didn’t meet his gaze.

  Chapter 21

  Kerry Randolph got there first, a little early.

  He had a bad feeling about this meeting with the boss, but bad feelings and Kareem Gregory went together, like peanut butter and jelly or guns and drugs. If you saw one, you expected the other. Kareem had summoned Kerry here, to “the place,” an isolated field at the end of an isolated dirt road that branched off a two-lane highway thirty miles north of Cincinnati and, like clockwork, Kerry’s gut started churning with a whole bellyful of bad feelings.

  What did Kareem want now?

  Another loyalty pledge? The simple pleasure of terrifying his men for no good reason? Someone to hold his dick while he peed and his tissue while he blew his nose?