by Mary Stone
But Bull was right. It was too vague. The message could just mean he was cheating on his wife on that night, and he’d coded it in case she discovered his book. Garofalo seemed like the type.
“Yep. I hope it turns out to mean something helpful.”
She thanked him and hung up.
Bull looked at her. “You want to go anyway?”
“Yeah.”
“Let’s do it, then.”
She couldn’t hide her surprise. “Just like that? On a hunch?”
He shrugged. “It’s not like we have anything better to do. Besides, you smell nicer than the last guy I went on a stakeout with.”
Winter looked at him for a moment. He had a smidge of nacho cheese stuck to his cheek.
“You’re an interesting man, Bull.”
19
Heidi listened to the message and grimaced.
They’d already figured out the location. The FBI agent she’d picked for her case was a little too good.
Oh, well. She was still a step ahead. They didn’t know yet that she knew that they knew. Knowledge was power.
Ryan sat across from her, his face stony. He’d been significantly less charming since she’d threatened his Jamaican lover. In her opinion, he should be grateful that she hadn’t capped his ass after the little seduction stunt he’d pulled.
“What is it?” he asked, but he sounded distinctly uninterested.
“It looks like the FBI are on to our next job already.”
“Are we going to cancel it, then?”
She didn’t miss the faint flicker of hope that chased across his face. She enjoyed squashing it.
“Sorry, love, but they only know where, not when. I think,” she added with a thoughtful look, “that I hope our two agents show up tomorrow night. I’m going to be ready for them.”
Winter’s cell phone rang that evening as she was getting ready for bed. She checked the caller ID, expecting Gramma Beth. She and Grandpa Jack were spending some time in Florida before they all met up for Christmas.
At least, she hoped this thing would be wrapped in time for Christmas.
But the number was Aiden’s.
She picked up fast.
“What’s wrong?” she demanded as she tucked her wet toothbrush back into its case.
He laughed, a low chuckle. “Nothing. Does something have to be wrong for me to call you?”
“Yeah, pretty much.” She turned off the bathroom light and sat down on the bed, pulling the covers over her legs. “We’re not exactly phone buddies these days.”
But back when she was fourteen and needed someone to talk to, she’d thought of him that way. He’d always answered when she called.
“Fine.” He sighed, the sound drawn out and pitiful. “I’m bored. I may have given you a hard time, but it’s quiet over here without you barging into my apartment, bringing food.”
Winter relaxed a little and settled back against the pillows, muting her TV. “How are you feeling?” she asked. “Doing your PT like a good boy?”
“Yeah.” The word was little more than a growl. “I’m getting there. The therapist is a sadist, though. I swear she enjoys my pain. She feeds off of it.”
“She just wants you back on your feet, so you’ll be out of her hair, and she won’t have to deal with you anymore.”
It was crazy, how easy they fell into the smooth back-and-forth that had characterized their early relationship, Winter thought. Aiden had been there for her more times than she could count. She’d been able to call him any time in the years following her parents’ murder. She could talk to him about things that she hadn’t felt comfortable bringing up with her grandparents, mostly related to the case.
But sometimes their conversations had ranged far. He was an interesting conversationalist, and she’d appreciated his distractions back then. The least she could do was distract him now.
“You’re bored,” she repeated. “What do you want me to do about it, all the way up here in my fancy hotel room?”
“I was thinking we could talk about work.”
“You’re sick, Aiden. Addicted. You need help.”
He chuckled. “Maybe. I did some profile work on the suspects.”
“Yeah? Anything you can tell us at this point would be helpful.”
“You need to be careful,” he warned. “Not that you wouldn’t be anyway, but there’s a good chance you’re dealing with a very smart, very focused sociopath.”
A smile played on her lips. “I know Sun is difficult, but I don’t know that I’d go that far.”
“Winter…”
“Right. A sociopath. Do you think we’re on the right track with Ryan O’Connelly?”
“I do. I’ve read everything I could find about him, which hasn’t been a lot, but what you guys have theorized appears to be consistent. He seems like a decent guy, despite being a felon multiple times over. It’s the woman you have to worry about.”
“Is this unusual? Having a woman mastermind something like this?”
He paused, and she could almost hear the gears moving in his head. “Women can be just as vicious as men, as I’m sure you’re aware. But no, I don’t think our suspect is a run-of-the-mill woman. Most of the actions she’s taken have come off cold and calculated. Logical and mostly emotionless. The level of detail shows a lot of forethought. My guess is that she’s young, maybe in her thirties. She works in a man’s world—probably IT or dev, based on the type of work she’s done with hacking the security systems and bank software. She’s got a chip on her shoulder from being overlooked in favor of her male colleagues. In fact, she’s got something on O’Connelly, some kind of hold or leverage, and is very much enjoying being in the power position. But I’d say, too, that there’s something deeper with her.”
“You’re thinking about the Covington killing.”
“I am,” Aiden replied darkly. “I did some digging on Covington too. He was broke. Lost his money in some shady investments. I don’t know how he was still managing to stay at The Phoenix long-term, like he was. It was just a matter of time until he was found out, couldn’t pay, and got kicked to the curb. Unfortunately for him, it didn’t happen soon enough.”
“You think maybe suspect number two didn’t know that? That she was angry when she found out that he was broke and took it out on him?”
“That’s what I think. There was no cold calculation in the way he was slaughtered. And the blood everywhere…the footprints in the hall. She was out of control. Berserk.”
That was how it had seemed to Winter too. She was glad to have her opinion backed up.
“What do you think about the location?” she asked. “I’ve got a solid feeling about it, and Bull is just going along with whatever I do, but do you think they’ll hit in California or NYC next?”
She could hear the clink of ice in a glass over the line. “I’m not a fortune teller,” Aiden answered after a moment. “It could go either way. Be careful, though.”
“You be careful. Only one of those, you hear? Alcohol doesn’t mix with your medication.”
“What alcohol?”
“Don’t bullshit me. That very nice, eighteen-year-old Glenlivet you’re drinking right now. That’s what alcohol.”
“Yes, mom,” Aiden said, amusement thick in his voice.
Winter decided against telling Aiden about their stakeout at the depot the following night. It was good to get his input, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that he was wrestling with the need to interfere. The last thing she needed was for him to show up brandishing his cane, being his weirdly protective self.
Not that he would. He’d send someone. Still, it was unnecessary.
“Anything else you want to share?” It was almost like he could read her mind.
“Nope,” she answered blithely. “I think you’re caught up. Maybe I’ll have more to update you on tomorrow.”
“All right. How’s it going with Sun?”
She snorted.
“That good?”
“If I tell you, I’ll need to go find some whiskey.”
20
Mike Garofalo was just patting a final coat of hair gel into place when the doorbell rang. He pulled back his top lip to make sure none of the spinach frittata he’d had for lunch still lingered in his teeth.
All clear. He spritzed on some cologne as the doorbell rang again.
Wouldn’t do to keep Molly waiting, but he wasn’t running to the door for the woman, either. She was early—unusual for her.
Normally, she spent a shit-ton of time on her makeup, and right now, it wasn’t quite six. But he’d told her he had a surprise for her and warned her that it was so sparkly that the bling might hurt her eyes. He patted the box in his pocket that held a diamond tennis bracelet and smiled in satisfaction. She’d been thrilled. Promised in that husky voice to be on time for a change, and to bring sunglasses.
She must be impatient.
He opened the door, already grinning, but it wasn’t Molly on the front steps.
“Hi,” said a sweet-looking blonde with a killer rack. “Are you Mike Garofalo?”
“Yeah, honey. That’s me.” His tone was cocky. Life was good. He had a hot date tonight and planned to score with the voluptuous Molly St. Clair. Now, he was faced with another gorgeous woman. “What can I do for you?”
“Can I come in for a second?” she asked. “A mutual friend said that I might be able to help you with something.”
Hell, maybe she and Molly could both help him with something. “Sure thing, honey. Come in where it’s warm.”
She was taller than he’d realized, he noticed as he moved back to let her in. “Thanks,” she said. Her voice was soft and low. Suggestive, he thought. “It’s cold out there.”
Boy, it was. Deliberately, he let his eyes drop to her cleavage, where her nipples poked at the thin cotton shirt underneath her open jacket.
As he did, he missed the hard look that came into her eyes. She pulled out a pistol, fitted with a silencer.
“What the hell?” He took a stumbling step back. “Who are you?”
The sweet-looking blonde didn’t bother to answer. She just squeezed the trigger with calm, steady hands, firing off two rounds to his chest at near point-blank range. The last thing he heard was a high, thin squeal of terror—Molly had arrived.
The two shots that came next, he didn’t hear at all.
21
Winter might smell better than Bull’s last stakeout partner, but he didn’t smell better than hers. Grimacing, she rolled down her window a bit to let in a stream of frigid air when he let out another smothered belch.
“Sorry,” he said, not sounding very sorry. He thumped his fist on his chest. “Heartburn.”
“Not a problem,” Winter replied, her tone wry as she stared at the empty parking lot through the windshield. It was 6:52, and Winter’s body thrummed with nervous tension. If something was going to happen, it would be soon.
Bull seemed unconcerned as he played Angry Birds on his phone, whooping or cursing with each advance or set back.
The gate on the fence rattled as it slid open. “Incoming,” Winter muttered.
Bull shut the phone off and sat up straighter, half-turning in his seat to watch a vehicle come in. And just like that, he went from buffoon to experienced agent in the blink of the eye.
“Armored truck. Imagine seeing one of those around here.”
The truck pulled around and backed up to one of the loading docks. They watched as two people got out and went in. They were uniformed and didn’t look out of the ordinary. No alarms sounded. Still, they watched.
A few minutes later, one of them came back out, pulled something out of the truck before disappearing back into the building. The man didn’t appear to be in a hurry.
“Looks like one of those old-fashioned metal lunchboxes,” Bull noted. “You see how he was carrying it, by the handle at the top. Probably on a break.”
Five minutes went by with no more activity. Bull picked his phone back up and went back to his virtual flinging of colorful, pissed off avians. Winter stayed alert, her senses humming with a warning she didn’t quite understand.
“Someone’s coming out,” she said after another few minutes had gone by.
A tall figure in a navy uniform was headed their way, hands in the pockets of his jacket, shoulders huddled against the cold winter air. He moved at a normal pace and went to the passenger window.
Winter tensed, her hand going for her weapon just as pain seared across her eyes, exploding in her head.
“I’m going to roll down the window,” Bull said, drawing his own weapon. His voice was tight with barely suppressed unease. “Just a little, though.”
“Don’t…” Winter ground out, her entire body gripped in pain, her vision turning red. “It’s—”
He ignored her, rolling down his window a good four inches as the person came up to the side of the car. The bill of the man’s cap shaded his face in the brightly lit parking lot.
“Can I help you?” Bull called out.
“No, I’m just dropping something off.” It was a woman, and Winter felt something warm spray from her nose. The result of The Preacher’s touch still cursing her life. Revealing itself at the worst possible time.
Through the haze of red and pain, Winter could do nothing but watch the woman push a small object through the gap in the window.
Before Winter could react, Bull was yelling. “What the fu—?”
A small silver canister came to rest in his lap, some kind of gas or vapor already pouring out of it. He tried to pick it up, but as Winter watched, his hands move slowly. Too slowly. Bull’s head lolled forward, and his hands fell to his lap, fingers spasming.
Winter tried to hold her breath, fumbled for the door handle, but her eyes were burning, and her hands didn’t want to move the way they were supposed to.
In what felt like only a moment in time, her chest grew tight. It spread, and she started to choke. Whatever it was worked fast. Her movements felt sluggish, and she tried to fight it.
But it was too late. With one gasp of air, she went under.
Winter became aware of a beeping sound first. It was too quiet to be an alarm clock, but it was just as persistent. Then, her stomach roiled and cramped.
She rolled over to her side, feeling like she was about to throw up. Gravity was working overtime. Her body felt like it was made out of lead. She cracked her eyes open, breathing in slow and deep to calm her stomach. The nausea subsided, but her head ached as if she’d been hit with a sledgehammer.
She pushed against the floor, trying to get herself up, but her arms were too weak to support her. The light in the room was dim, but it still hurt her eyes as she fought against her weighted lids to get them open.
Finally, she made her way to her hands and knees, her hair hanging in a loose curtain around her face. Her braid had come undone. Everything smelled weird. Metallic, almost. Sinking back on her knees as strength started to seep back into her limbs, she looked around. She was in an office with cinderblock walls. There were no windows, either in the walls or the door.
Computer monitors sat on a desk against one wall. The screens were split, divided into sections, but her eyes wouldn’t focus. She couldn’t make out what was on them.
Memory came back in a trickle. She had been at the armored car depot. In the parking lot. The woman. The canister. Bull.
He was lying a few feet away, completely still. The gas had apparently not worn off for him yet.
Painfully, she crawled toward him. Her stomach lurched in time with the pounding in her head. She tried to call out. Her voice was scratchy sounding, wavering in a way that sounded weak to her own ears.
“Bull.”
He was on his side, facing the metal door like he’d been dropped there, just inside the room.
She grabbed hold of his shoulder and pulled with as much strength as she could. He flopped, more than rolled, onto his back.
His face was waxy-loo
king, his eyes half-open.
“Bull,” she whispered, feeling for a pulse. There was none.
The effects of the gas started to dissipate faster as adrenaline pumped through her body, but she was still weak as she lifted his chin back and desperately listened for any hint of air, her fingers still on his non-existent pulse.
“No…”
For the second time in less than a week, she did CPR. This time, though, she already knew it wouldn’t be successful.
She tried. She kept going until her arms trembled like overcooked pasta, and she just physically couldn’t do chest compressions anymore. She kept trying to breathe for him, but his lips were cold against hers.
Her throat tightened. It wasn’t any good. She had no idea how long she’d been out. He may have stopped breathing ten minutes before. It could have been an hour.
What she did know for certain was that his skin was cold to the touch.
He was gone.
22
Winter shoved back her grief and guilt and crawled to the desk. Grabbing it, she struggled to her feet.
She was in a security office. The computer monitors showed split screens, divided into camera views. The depot was still, with no movement. There were bodies scattered around, like discarded dolls. On one screen, she saw the scene from her vision. A pile of uniformed employees.
But they might not be dead. She was alive.
She couldn’t be the only survivor.
She tried the doorknob first, but it was locked.
There was a phone on the desk with an intercom, but the line was out. The display read “server offline,” and it was the source of the beeping. Movement on one screen caught her attention. It was two of the armored truck employees, or at least two people wearing their uniforms. As she watched, they pulled cases from a cart and loaded them into the back of a waiting truck.
Unlike normal employees, they wore gas masks.
Her phone was gone, so she couldn’t call anyone. Her weapon was gone.