The Archangel Agenda: An Evangeline Heart Thriller
Page 15
“This is for you.” He held up the necklace and she smiled.
“That’s so nice, Jeremy. Thank you.”
He nodded and stood, giving her a kiss on the cheek. “I love you, Mom.”
She looked up and smiled at him. “I love you, too.”
Clay knew he’d fudged Christmas by a week to his mom, but the thing about Alzheimer’s was that she’d never remember. Just like she couldn’t remember he was a professional thief, or that his brother and father were dead. If Clay agreed to the newest heist offer that had arrived in his email this morning, he’d likely be in the UK over the holidays.
Thing was, Clay knew he’d need help with this one, and he always worked alone—until recently.
As he left his mom and walked outside of the building, snowflakes swirled across the sidewalk where he hailed a cab. Clay slid into the backseat just as his phone buzzed. Pulling it out, he recognized Lina’s number and read her text.
Hoping for new details. Going to L to see R.
Interesting. He’d just been thinking about her.
Clay and Lina had first crossed paths during a heist when they’d been after the same religious relic—for completely different reasons. Clay had been after a large payday, but she’d wanted the relic known as Solomon’s ring—which was a ring with a unique stone in it—to open one of the back gates to Hell (apparently there are a few entrances into the devil’s den) and retrieve her fiancé’s soul in order to ascend him to where he was supposed to be living out a blissful eternity.
They’d since teamed up on a wild scavenger hunt for the other relics. It sounded crazy, but Clay had been forced to become a believer in Lina’s quest when the Archangel Metatron paid a visit to the two of them at his place while they downed some brews and talked “shop.” Long story short: the golden gilded angel wings, the fact that the “guy” could make time, people, everything stop and freeze in midair and a few other magic tricks that even the best magicians in Vegas couldn’t pull off—all of it had made Clay a believer.
Metatron had seemed to have a huge influence on the team he’d put together to save the soul of Griffin (the fiancé’s). It included Clay, Lina’s mentor Malcolm, and Ralph, an old guy who was a collector of all things ancient and religious. Ralph was a cool dude who lived in Chelsea, London, and now Lina was on her way to see him. Clay let this sink in for a minute. Had she found something new on her journey? Was Metatron sending her back over to meet with Ralph? Quite curious. So, Lina was headed to the other side of the pond, and the heist he’d been propositioned with was also located in London. Hmmm. Was it as simplistic as mere serendipity? He would need help with this job.
“Where to, sir?” The cab driver broke his train of thought.
“Uh, yeah. Sorry.” He tucked his phone back into his pocket and gave the driver his address. He didn’t know how to take Lina’s text. Was that an invitation? And if not, why was she telling him what she was doing? That woman was fierce and unapologetic and damn sure didn’t need anyone’s permission or approval for anything. Frankly, she scared the hell out of him.
But … she was also beautiful, intelligent, funny, and a tad crazy, which he kind of liked. He didn’t care for overboard crazy, but a tad crazy was a good thing.
Her intimidating profession as a trained assassin kept him from putting the moves on too hard, though. Not to mention that she’d lost the love of her life only a few short months ago.
Thankfully they hadn’t met on one of her kills, but only when she’d tried her hand—horribly unsuccessfully—at breaking into his business. Which left him wondering why she’d told him that she was going to London.
Maybe Christmas was a lonely time for her, too. With both parents dead along with her fiancé, and her mentor Malcolm on assignment, she’d be alone—just like he would.
Lina
I flexed my fingers around the hilt of my knife. When I’d taken the assignment, I’d forgotten how damn cold it was in Wales. And now that I was on my third hour in the dark outside Mik Bartholomew’s home, I was seriously itching for a kill in Belize next. Though I’d probably better be careful what I wished for, considering that I was likely going to be taking an upcoming trip to Hell. By then I’d be begging for this frigid air.
My gaze constantly scanned the modest house and simple landscaping from my hiding spot behind the row of hedges that bordered Bartholomew’s detached garage on the edge of his backyard. I shook my head. This guy was something else. He’d been one of the leaders in a sex-trafficking and child-pornography ring. I was certain he was responsible for thousands of abductions and sales of children, all for the profit of grotesque and heinous individuals.
I could taste the bitterness in my mouth for the creep. He’d been one of the sidearms for the South Asian kingpin I’d taken out a few months back—the same guy whose crew turned around and murdered Griffin in retaliation, and I planned to take them out one by one.
I wiggled my toes and slowed my breath, concentrating on keeping my heart rate even and pumping warm blood to my extremities. I shouldn’t have to wait much longer.
The hair at my nape stiffened and I tensed, lowering myself a few inches. I’d staked out his place and habits for the last three nights. He had no family to speak of—he was a sick and disturbed loner who played in his playground with a handful of other sickos. He was always on the computer, or traveling wherever the girls were easily found and easily abused.
I kept myself in the shadows and watched and waited, knowing he’d be headed my way before long. I was in his “playroom,” built off his garage. It was where he studied photographs of children from toddlers to teens. But his studying of anything, his exploitation of anyone, was about to come to an end.
The front door of his house slammed shut. Bartholomew belched loudly and scratched himself, then lumbered down the steps and toward the garage that connected to his special room behind me.
Where I’d planned to finish my job.
He paused and glared at the overhead bulb that I’d unscrewed, then shrugged and pushed through the door. “Ah, bloody hell,” he mumbled.
I slipped in behind him before he could try to flip on the interior light, knowing two burned-out bulbs would make him suspicious and I’d lose my advantage.
I drew my blade across his throat.
The bastard outweighed me by at least a hundred and a half. I’d taken out bigger guys before, but preferred not to have to wrestle them if I could help it.
He grabbed at my hands, but they lost their grip on the slippery blood rushing out of his body. I put my knee in the middle of his back and pushed, shoving us apart and sending him crashing against the hood of his Jaguar.
“Nice car,” I said to its dying owner as he gurgled a reply and tried to look at me while falling to the greasy, stained concrete. I grabbed one of his work rags and wiped my knife and the back of my hand where I’d been splattered, listening closely for anything out of place beyond the walls.
I slid my clean knife back into my calf holster and my phone rang. “Christ.” I fumbled around in my pocket. I shook my head and answered Clay’s call. “Hey.”
“Got your message. When are you headed over to the land of Cockney? Fish and chips, a little Indian food, maybe?”
“Here already.” I wasn’t amused by his banter as I eased the door shut with my boot and kept watch through the dingy window. “I’m kind of in the middle of something.”
“Are you working? Right now? Jesus, Lina. Really?”
“I just clocked out.” Mik Bartholomew gurgled, then fell silent.
“Uh, okay. I won’t keep you. I’ll be on that side of the pond tomorrow.”
I frowned and leaned closer to the window as a pair of headlights went by. The car didn’t slow but I needed to get out of there. “Okay. Great. Listen, any way I can call you back?”
“Yeah, but don’t forget. I may need your help on this one.”
My eyes widened and I straightened. He
was a hell of a thief and I couldn’t think of a single situation in which he’d need my help. “Okay. I’ll call back.” I snapped my old-school phone shut and jammed it in my pocket, double-checked Mik’s vitals, and slipped out of the garage.
I was halfway down the alley before I realized I was whistling “Silent Night.”
Read more here: www.michelescott.com/the-judas-relic/
About the Author
Michele Scott is the author of over three dozen books. She writes mysteries as well as gritty thrillers that will have you looking over your shoulder. Her books have been on the New York Times, USA Today, Wall Street Journal, and Amazon bestseller lists. She also writes thrillers under the pen name A.K. Alexander. The author lives in San Francisco, California with her family and their many animals. To find out more about the author, please visit her web site at www.michelescott.com.
Books by the Author
Wine Lover’s Mysteries
Murder Uncorked
Murder by the Glass
Silenced by Syrah
A Vintage Murder
Corked by Cabernet
A Toast to Murder
Dog Gone Dog
A Perfectly Purloined Pinot
A Killer Margarita
A Wine Lover’s Mystery Cookbook
Michaela Bancroft Mysteries
Saddled with Trouble
Death Reins In
Tacked to Death
The Michaela Bancroft Trilogy
Evie Preston Mysteries
The Dead Celeb
Flight 12: An Evie Preston Mystery
Vivienne Taylor Mysteries
Silent Harmony
Dark Harmony
Perfect Harmony
Evangeline Heart Adventures
The Archangel Agenda
The Judas Relic
The God Game
Michele Scott Stand-alone books
Happy Hour
The Clover Siblings and the Evil of Desmal
Books by AK Alexander (pen name for Michele Scott)
Holly Jennings Thrillers
Daddy’s Home
Blood & Roses
The Preference
Deadly Affairs
Stand-alone Thrillers by AK Alexander
Covert Reich
The Cartel
Mommy, May I?
Books Co-Authored with JR Rain
Hear No Evil
See No Evil
Flight 12: A PSI Thriller
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