Mr. Magoo was going Rambo on his ass.
James slipped behind the bar, squatted down, and pulled out a locked metal box. He transferred a handgun to his pocket but kept the razor-sharp Ka-Bar in his hand. His fingers curled around the familiar, thick grip of the knife that had been a part of him for decades.
Footsteps squeaked overhead.
Moving quietly, James crept toward the door. He caught the first whiff of smoke. Through another faint creak, he located the intruder on the steps. James timed his next move. The man moved past the door. James opened it and yanked the slimy little weasel inside by his ratty hair.
“What the fuck?” Slick was surprised all right, bested by a senior citizen.
“Who are you?” James held him by his greasy ponytail, lifting him up onto his toes. He pressed the sharp blade against Slick’s throat.
“This place is on fire, man. We gotta get outa here.” Beads of moisture trickled down Slick’s face and soaked through his shirt.
“Everybody’s got to go sometime. I’ve lived a long life. How about you?” The truth was, James didn’t fear death as much as he feared dying. And he’d much rather go out in battle than die piece by piece like Gloria.
“Come on man, let’s go outside and talk.” Slick licked his lips, eyes darting from the crackling sounds overhead to the door.
“No, I don’t think so. I asked you a question, and I suggest you answer it. Who are you? Who do you work for? Why are you looking for the woman?”
Sweat beaded on Slick’s forehead and dripped into his eyes. “Look, I got nothing personal against the bitch or her little runts. It’s just a job.”
“Who hired you?”
“I don’t know. I never meet my clients. It’s all done online now.”
Fucking Internet.
The smoke thickened. A few flames licked down from the rafters. The old structure creaked and groaned. From the intensity of the heat radiating from the fire upstairs, James thought the ceiling would collapse soon.
Slick coughed.
James had already decided Slick wasn’t leaving. He would only try again. James removed the blade from Slick’s neck. Although an effective interrogation technique, throat slitting was messy, and not at all his style.
Slick breathed a sigh of relief.
It was his last.
James pushed the long, sharp blade upward into his back, neatly puncturing the hired killer’s heart. The wound barely bled. Killing was like riding a bike. Twenty years of retirement hadn’t dulled his skills. But then, the government had trained him well.
James looked around the burning bar. There was nothing here for him now. It was time to go. He wiped his blade on Slick’s pants, then reached down and removed the dead man’s wallet and keys from his pockets—anything to delay the official identification of this Anthony Cardone.
Sirens approached. James left by the back door and climbed into Slick’s black SUV. Three blocks from the bar, he parked the truck right in front of a local chop shop. He left the windows down, the doors unlocked, and the keys inside because spray-painting “steal me” across the windshield would be a little too obvious. Within the hour, the local boys would strip it like a school of piranhas.
His small bungalow was a fifteen-minute walk away. Once there he packed a small duffel bag. Until Beth showed up last spring, he’d been holding this place, and Gloria’s memory, in a tight fist. Not really living, just existing, idly passing his remaining time on Earth. Now, anger kindled emotions he hadn’t felt in a long time. He’d missed this rush of adrenaline through his veins.
He sat on the edge of his mattress and opened his nightstand. With a sigh, he pulled out the silver saint medal he’d found under her couch. Remembering Beth’s tears the day she’d lost it, guilt pricked his conscience. He flipped it over on his palm to reveal the figure and writing on the quarter-sized disk. Saint Florian, the patron saint of firemen. Someday he’d return it to her, but for now he needed it. Weak visions were stronger if the object had personal significance. He curled his fingers around it and waited.
The vision hit him like a blow to the head. Pain. Fear. A faceless man loomed in the darkness. A knife flashed. Blood flowed, warm and wet. Terror rose in his throat and choked him. A suffocating weight held his body down. His arms were yanked over his head and pinned in the dirt. A blow to the face blurred everything.
His hand opened. The pendant dropped to the wood floor. The sunlight pouring through the window burned his eyes. Squinting hard, James used a handkerchief to pick up the pendant. He stuffed both into his pocket.
He hadn’t survived twenty years in Special Forces—and worse—on luck and skill alone, but his gift had some definite drawbacks. It had been a real bitch knowing ahead of time which of his men weren’t going to survive the mission.
The details of the dream were still vague, and he didn’t know how much time he had. Whether his dream described an event that was a few days or weeks ahead was hard to say, but as the time drew closer, his visions tended to gain clarity and intensity. When they rolled through his head in high definition, Beth was in imminent danger. Given the power of the one he’d just had, he’d better get moving.
He gathered his things. After a detour to his kitchen for a bottle of ibuprofen and water, he slid into his sedan.
Beth and the kids were four hundred miles away with a man no one would ever connect with him. Hell, he hadn’t seen Dan O’Malley in over thirty years. But he had no doubt O’Malley would do as he’d asked. O’Malley owed him, big time, and for Beth, James would collect. As Gloria’s niece, she was almost family.
Or would have been if he’d married her aunt. But enemies were a natural by-product in his former profession. And how could he have married a woman when he couldn’t even tell her his real name? Ironically, it was the fact that he wasn’t actually related to Beth by blood or marriage that had made their relationship hard for anyone to trace—and his house the perfect hiding spot. He’d lost Gloria to a faceless disease he hadn’t been able to fight. But with a little luck, he could save Beth.
James mentally kicked himself. Beth had refused to tell him why she needed to stay with him. Or why she needed to use a fake last name. But he could’ve, should’ve found out what she was running from when she had shown up at his door with her two kids in tow. Only after the visions started last month did he discover that her situation was more complicated than a nasty, high-publicity divorce.
She’d had no contact with that politician dickwad she’d up and married, and from things that had slipped out of the kids’ mouths, James knew her ex was to blame. Unlike cancer, a dirty politician was a flesh-and-blood foe. Beth had been Gloria’s favorite niece, and Beth and her kids had brought joy back to his life over the past ten months, something he hadn’t thought was possible. James was going to fix this for her.
James stopped at the bank to peruse the contents of his safe-deposit box, removed several neat stacks of cash, and stowed them in his duffel. He shuffled through several driver’s licenses, all bearing his picture, like playing cards. After choosing one, he selected the accompanying Social Security card and passport. He also transferred a small felt pouch to the duffel bag. James liked his investments to be portable, durable, and untraceable.
When he emerged into the painfully bright sunshine, James Dieter no longer existed. Hello, James Miller.
Time to find out how many skeletons Dickwad had in his closet.
CHAPTER FIVE
Amelia Bentley eased her car into the space in front of the ladies’ room entrance, within the weak yellow circle of light generated by the fixture above the door. Darkness encroached from the surrounding woods. The streetlight in the corner of the weedy asphalt rectangle was out.
She stared at the surrounding forest. A shiver of unease snaked up her spine, and despite the warm, humid air, goose bumps rippled up her arms.
In hindsight, the super-sized Diet Coke she’d purchased at the last rest stop in Maryland hadn’t been a good ide
a. Amelia contemplated her options. Her bladder was strained to bursting, but her parents’ house was another half hour away. She squeezed her thighs together. She definitely couldn’t hold it that long.
She scanned the empty lot. What she wouldn’t give for a family of six to pull up beside her right now.
Her parents were nuts. Moving to the Poconos at their age. Why hadn’t they retired to Florida like everybody else? Then she could spend her vacations with the big mouse or on a sun-drenched beach like a normal person.
With a deep breath she reached for the armrest and unlocked the car. Her belly tightened as she stepped out onto the cracked blacktop and glanced around one more time.
The lot was still empty.
She hurried into the squat brick building. Florescent light glared off dirty yellow walls and cobwebs hung in the cinder-block corners, but the facilities worked. Amelia washed her hands and dried them on the leg of her jeans because the towel dispenser was empty. On her way out she glanced in the broken mirror over the sink and automatically brushed her hands over her hair.
He cruised down the interstate. Although he’d taken the last one only a week ago, the urge tugged at him. He usually waited several weeks between engagements to ensure he didn’t get sloppy. Carelessness invited suspicion. But his last date hadn’t satisfied him. She’d been too easy. She’d caved almost immediately, before he’d even gotten warmed up. That was the problem with preying on whores and the homeless. In a way they were already broken.
And so the hunt was on tonight. He’d thrown a dart at his wall map of the tri-state area and so here he was, searching for prey.
Women were his addiction, their screams his drug of choice.
He was determined to find a new playmate tonight. But this time, he was going to change the game again. No more whores. Maybe upping the stakes would put some excitement back into his hobby, restore that high he’d been missing lately.
He glanced down at the speedometer. He’d never gotten a ticket and didn’t intend to start now. He wasn’t worried about the police. Then again, he saw no need to draw their attention.
The orange low fuel indicator glared at him. He should have taken care of that earlier in the day.
It would serve him right if he spent tonight alone. He deserved to be punished for this lapse. If tonight’s dart toss didn’t yield a target, so be it.
Despite his frustration, he grinned. Let the cops figure out that pattern.
He credited his success to this random method of selecting the location for his hunts. In addition to confusing the authorities, this technique introduced an element of chance to the game. Although he wasn’t a gambling man, it had added to his amusement. For a while.
Unfortunately, boredom had edged in on his game again.
It was time to bump up his game from Wheel of Fortune to Jeopardy.
He took the next exit and pulled into a gas station. Choosing the pump farthest from the kiosk, he paid in cash. Although he didn’t see any other customers around, he kept his baseball cap pulled down to shadow his face. The pimple-faced attendant in the booth was watching a small portable television and didn’t even look at him when he accepted the money.
He briefly considered turning around and going home. Tonight’s oversight could be a sign he wasn’t ready yet. Perhaps he should regroup and plan the next hunt more carefully. Mistakes could get him caught, and he enjoyed his “dates” far too much to give up the game. After all, he hadn’t found the ideal woman yet. That perfect blend of courage and beauty still eluded him.
Still undecided, he drove toward the access road that led back to the interstate. A short distance ahead, a sole pair of taillights disappeared to the right, following a sign for the restrooms. He slowed as he reached the same spot and followed, flipping off his headlights as he left the highway.
Maybe his luck had changed.
Across the lot a woman emerged from her car and entered the small brick building that housed the bathrooms. She was small and had long dark hair.
Perfect. Everyone knew blonds were stupid and redheads were bad-tempered. But brunettes were natural and wholesome. He supposed he’d never lost his adolescent fixation on Mary Ann from Gilligan’s Island. She’d been pure and sweet, with just the right amount of spunk.
Just the kind of woman who would be a pleasure to break.
He squinted into the darkness. The energy in her movements suggested she was young, and his predatory instincts went on alert.
He carefully scanned the surroundings. Thick foliage surrounded the rest area and blocked even the moonlight. The men’s room was on one side of the building, the ladies’ entrance was on the other, and the back of the brick structure was completely shadowed.
Excellent. A thrill tripped up his spine.
Lady Luck had returned him to her good graces.
He parked a few spots away and quickly formulated a plan. After removing a small metal bar from his glove compartment and slipping it into his pants’ pocket, he stepped out of his car. He walked casually toward the door, but instead of going inside, he ducked around the building and waited patiently in the darkness behind the ladies’ room door.
She emerged from the doorway. He grabbed her smoothly around the throat. Covering her mouth with his free hand, he dragged her backward into the darkness. She struggled, striking him in the shins with her sneaker-clad feet. In the darkness of the trees, he released his hold on her neck, palmed the metal bar, and immediately brought it down on her head.
Her pathetic struggle ceased instantly, and her small body collapsed.
Pressing his nose against her neck, he inhaled the scent of fear. His groin swelled at her pungency.
Unconscious, she was heavier than she appeared, but then they always were. Dead weight, he thought with amusement. He carried her quickly around to the passenger side of his car and set her in the reclined seat, pulling the seat belt across her lap. He arranged her to look as if she were sleeping. Luck was still on his side, and the lot remained deserted as he closed the passenger door and walked around to the driver’s side of the car, whistling. Once inside, he opened the glove box to retrieve the syringe he’d already filled. With a stab, he plunged the needle through her jeans into the large muscle of her thigh. She’d be out for hours.
The entire episode had taken less than a minute. Before fastening his safety belt, he fanned her beautiful hair around her face. She was lovely, and he was going to thoroughly enjoy their time together.
He steered the car toward the highway that would take them back home to Westbury.
CHAPTER SIX
Jack opened his eyes as the wall-mounted control panel emitted a half dozen low-toned beeps. In the dark bedroom, bright green lights blinked in unison with the sounds.
Someone was disengaging the alarm system.
He awakened in an instant, conditioned by years of interrupted sleep.
He glanced at his digital clock. Four thirty was a little early for anyone to be up and about, which suggested his early riser had an illicit activity on this morning’s agenda. The only other people who knew the code were Mrs. Harris and Beth. Jack doubted Mrs. Harris was moving around this early. And even if she were suffering from a bout of insomnia, she wouldn’t be going out. She’d make herself a cup of tea and watch reruns of CSI On Demand. Beth had been here less than a week and had avoided solo contact with him whenever possible. He had no idea what she would do if she woke in the middle of the night.
Nevertheless, he needed to know. He slipped into a pair of gym shorts. Leaving his crutch by his bedside, he fastened his knee brace and hobbled barefoot into the hall. Pausing, he listened for any sound of movement. All his senses kicked into high alert as he heard the back door squeak open then close with a soft click.
Had Beth let someone in or gone out? Or had someone broken into the house? The estate’s ancient alarm system wouldn’t be that difficult for a professional to disarm.
Just in case, Jack detoured to his nightstand to retrie
ve his gun from its locked box and then returned to the doorway. The hair on his neck stood on end as he twisted his upper body around the doorframe.
The kitchen was empty.
The refrigerator hummed as he limped through the dark room to the window, keeping his body out of sight. He peered through the glass. The moon cast the yard in an ethereal glow, illuminating Beth’s white-robed figure on the path near the pool.
She was alone.
He exhaled in relief. Jack snagged one of Danny’s old rubber-tipped canes from the umbrella stand by the door. Adrenaline pumped through his veins like water through a fire hose as he stepped outside and followed her.
From the shadow of the house, he watched her enter the pool enclosure and slip out of her robe in the dark. Silvery moonlight bathed her slender limbs. Jack’s groin tightened. Tossing the cover onto a patio table, she walked down the steps into the water and began to swim slow, steady laps. Jack eased through the wrought-iron gate and lowered his body into a chair facing the pool. Putting on the safety, he set his gun on a side table.
A bullfrog croaked from the direction of the lake, but his ears honed in on the sound of Beth sliding through the water. The surface glistened with a trail of reflected moonlight as her body cut through the black water in a smooth freestyle. Even though he knew she wasn’t naked—he’d seen the outline of a dark-colored tank suit—it was still erotic as hell.
He had a really good imagination, which had no problem peeling the suit from her wet body. In his mind she begged him to touch her. Jack shifted his weight to ease the pressure in his groin. Pain shot through his knee, bringing reality back with a vengeance.
He sucked in a deep breath and let it out slowly. Sweat trickled down his bare back, and his leg ached from the earlier adrenaline rush and the exertion of getting out here. He was going to have to chill if he was really going to retire. Obviously Beth didn’t have any criminal intentions this morning. But really, who the hell went swimming outside before the sun came up?
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