Maverick

by Lisa Marie Rice

  Claire’s light blue eyes roamed over his face. “Is he gone?” she whispered.

  “Yeah.” Dan had an arm around her back, steadying her, feeling something strange against his hand. “Are you hurt anywhere? Fuckhead had a thermal imager. He could see you through the scope. My heart nearly stopped when he shot through the wall. But he—"

  Missed. Dan was about to say the fucker missed when he realized what he was feeling. Her big black down coat was ripped all across the back, stuffing and feathers coming out of the rips.

  Claire threw her arms around his neck. She was shaking so hard he tightened his grip to absorb some of that terrible trembling.

  “Shh.” He rocked her gently, back and forth, holding the miracle that was a live Claire in his arms. He brushed his lips back and forth over that goose-down soft hair, absorbing every detail of her, because another few inches and he’d be howling over a dead body.

  She snuggled more tightly against him, seeking the comfort of his body and if he could have, he’d have had her crawl right in under his skin.

  A miracle. A fucking miracle is what he was holding in his arms.

  The big puffy coat, which held her body warmth, had shown up on the thermal imager as heat. The man thought he was shooting at a plump woman, but he was only hitting a down coat. That, and the fact that she’d been lying tight in next to the baseboard and the man had had an awkward shooting angle, had saved her life.

  They clutched each other for long minutes, both desperate for comfort. Dan thought he might need it more than she did. Every time he closed his eyes, he could see Claire’s lifeless body on the inside of his lids.

  Still holding her tightly with one arm, Dan pulled out his cell and called one of his best friends.

  “Yo, Gunny. This better be good—I’m just now going off duty and I have a hot date.”

  “You can get laid another time,” Dan growled. Lieutenant Marcus Stone got laid quite enough, he could do without tonight. Abstinence for a change would do him good. “I’m on Warren Street. In a small hotel called the Kensington House. There’s a dead body in the lobby, looks like a knife attack and there’s been an attempted murder in Room 7. Victim a Ms. Day. Ms. Claire Day. She survived the attack.”

  “Whoa,” Marcus growled. “Day? Claire Day? Blondie? She’s alive?”

  Dan gritted his teeth, regretting that he’d once gotten very drunk and spilled the beans to his friend. “Get over here, stat. And bring the CSU.”

  “Yeah, buddy.” Marcus sobered up. “On my way. Don’t touch anything.”

  Dan tightened his hold. No problem. The only thing he wanted to touch was Claire.

  Fuck!

  Heston got into his car, wincing at the lancing pain in his back. Maybe a rib was broken, maybe not. The important thing was to get word to the Boss that the mission had failed.

  No one could have expected an armed man accompanying the woman. The Boss hadn’t. There hadn’t been any mention of anyone but the woman. The Boss knew that, and he wouldn’t take it out on Heston.

  It was the Boss’s gift—leadership. He was always fair and always reasonable, and that was why his men would walk into Hell for him. Heston would, damn straight. The Boss had always sent him on ops with the best intel and the finest equipment, which was more than he could say for the US Government, which had sent him out on patrol with canvas-sided vehicles and inferior body armor.

  It was the Boss, actually, who’d got the best armor possible on the private market and passed it on to him, in exchange for a little job which had cost Heston nothing except some time and effort. And on top of it, the Boss had paid him $10,000. In cash.

  Right now, Heston—whose father had never been able to hold down a job and had never had a bank account—had over a million dollars in an account offshore and owned his apartment outright. Thanks to the Boss.

  And this was the beginning. The Boss had plans, big ones, and Heston intended to be at his side when he got where he wanted to go.

  He ignored the pain as he cruised the streets, checking his six. No one followed, he made sure of that. After a quarter of an hour, he pulled into a dark side street and pulled out his cell. A one-off, prepaid, untraceable.

  Problems, he texted. The Boss was at a dinner at the Willard with big shots, people he needed for the next step. Heston hated to interrupt him, but the Boss would want to know. A discreet one-word message. And the Boss would decide whether to interrupt the dinner or not.

  Heston’s cell phone gave an incoming message trill.

  Room 415 in half an hour.

  CHAPTER 8

  Claire clutched at Dan as he rocked her in his arms. He was whispering something in her ear, something reassuring, but she couldn’t hear him over her thundering heartbeat. She thought her heart would beat its way right out of her chest. Oh, God. Oh, God.

  She shook. It was like a year ago, only worse, because she could remember this, remember the terror of feeling bullets catch on her coat as she tried to press herself into the ground, make herself invisible. She’d had an instinct that to get up and run would make her more of a target so she’d simply lay there, still, waiting for a bullet to smash into her.

  Dan had simply rushed into the room. It was the bravest thing she’d ever seen. He hadn’t hesitated, not one second, in facing an armed man.

  Claire tightened her arms around his neck. She was sure she was choking him but until he complained, she wasn’t going to let go.

  Dan somehow absorbed some of her shock and terror, somehow made her wild trembling slow down. Finally, finally, she was able to draw in a deep breath. It felt like she hadn’t breathed in centuries. She gasped.

  “That’s right. Breathe in, breathe out, that’s a good girl. I know you’re scared, but it’s okay now. He’s gone and he’s not coming back.” The deep voice was murmuring in her ear, words she could barely understand, though she understood the tone. It represented strength and safety.

  Dan loosened one arm around her and made a call on his cell. Her scattered brain could barely understand what he said, but she clung to his steady voice.

  His arm went back around her, mouth close to her ear. “Police are on their way. Do you understand me, honey?”

  It took a second to penetrate, but then Claire nodded shakily against his neck.

  “We’re going to have to make a statement to the police when they arrive. The clearer our statement, the more quickly they can catch him.”

  He waited and she nodded again, throat too dry to talk.

  Her breathing slowed, deepened. She loosened her hold on his neck, drew away.

  Claire tilted her face up to his. They stared at each other. Dan was looking grim, mouth tight, nostrils flared and pale.

  “Who—" All she produced was air. Claire coughed to loosen her throat and tried again. “Who was he?”

  The blind panic was subsiding, she felt steadier.

  “I don’t know who he was,” Dan said, his low rough voice frustrated, “but we’ll goddamn find out.”

  “Did you get a look at him?” To Claire, he was a faceless monster on the other side of a wall. “Could you identify him in a line-up?”

  Dan’s jaws clenched. “Yeah, I got a look at him, but he was about average everything. Average height, weight, average skin color.”

  Claire tried a shaky smile. “That’s a new one. Average skin color? What’s that?”

  He shrugged. “White with light tan. Dark hair. Brown eyes. Lighter than mine.”

  “Half the world’s population has brown eyes. I wonder—" She stopped, listened. The faint wail of sirens, coming closer.

  Dan dropped his arms. “I’ll go out on the front porch. Signal them.”

  “I’m coming with you,” Claire said hastily. No way was he leaving her alone in here.

  One piercing look at her, top to bottom, and he held out his hand. Okay, he’d probably seen what a wuss she was, how she’d had a flashback panic attack, but she didn’t care. She just knew that being next to him, ho
lding his hand, made her feel better.

  Out on the hotel’s porch, they watched as two police cars pulled up and killed their sirens. A white van braked right behind them. Three uniformed officers and a tall man in a suit got out of the cars and several techs spilled out of the white van.

  The man in civilian clothes attracted the eye. Tall, broad, steel-gray eyes, whitewall haircut, ramrod straight. The detective.

  And a former Marine, she’d bet money on it.

  The detective clapped Dan on the back and they walked back into the lobby. Three young techs rushed by them carrying heavy cases.

  “Claire, this is Detective Marcus Stone. Marcus, Claire Day.”

  “Blondie,” the Detective said.

  “Marcus…” Dan growled.

  Claire looked at the detective, confused. “Do I know you?”

  He bit his jaw, looked at Dan, then coughed into his fist. “No, ma’am,” he said gently. “But Dan has told me all about that day in Laka. It was a terrible thing.”

  “It was, yes, Detective.” Claire jumped at a sudden flash. It was just the tech taking photos. Of the dead body. “Sorry,” she murmured weakly.

  “I’m going to have to ask you to look at the body, see if you recognize him. I’m sorry.”

  Claire breathed in and out. She could do this. She could.

  Dan’s arm tightened around her waist. Oh God, her legs were back to rubber. It was entirely possible that Dan’s arm was the only thing holding her up. Though her head swam and it was hard to breathe, she stiffened her knees. Claire clung fiercely to consciousness. Don’t faint don’t faint don’t faint…

  “Yes, um, all right.”

  They walked back around the counter and into the back room. The door had been propped open and Claire simply stared. She jolted as another bright white light went off.

  “Steady,” Dan whispered.

  A couple of techs were dusting for prints. A middle-aged man who had been crouching by the body rose. He had obscured her view but now she saw the body clearly. Saw the olive skin now a dusty pale color. Open, staring eyes. Blue lips. And bright blood all along the once snowy-white shirt and on the tan carpeting.

  A handsome young man, someone’s son, maybe someone’s husband, and now he was dead.

  “Do you recognize him?” The Detective’s voice was gentle, but he expected an answer. Claire had to help, not hinder. Someone had murdered this young man and she had to do everything in her power to help find that man and bring him to justice.

  “Yes.” She was pleased to note that her voice was steadier. “He was the clerk on duty. This morning and at lunch time there was a woman at the front desk. Her name was Amy.” She looked down sadly at the blood-flecked brass plaque. “His name was Roger. I have no idea what his last name was.”

  “Yeah, it’s him,” Dan confirmed. “He was at the front desk when we left earlier this evening.”

  “Okay.” The detective looked at Dan. “Anywhere we can sit down?”

  “Yeah, over here.” Dan led them to the little living room suite in the corner of the lobby. The detective sat down heavily in an armchair, pulling out a notebook and clicking a pen. Dan steered her to the small sofa across from the coffee table, a mere millisecond before Claire’s knees would have given out completely.

  The tech was taking so many photos in the back room it looked like strobe lights. A sudden image of the dead boy’s face floated right in front of her eyes. Still, white, cold as ice, blue tongue protruding slightly from blue lips. White shirtfront red with blood…

  Dan’s voice came from faraway, as if he were in another country. He was calling her name, but she couldn’t turn her head to him. If she turned her head, the world would spin, spin completely away.

  A strong hand clasped the back of her neck and pushed her head down to her knees and a distant voice told her to breathe in.

  She pulled in a deep breath. Out, the voice said after a second or two, and she blew out the breath.

  In and out, in and out. She opened her eyes and stared at her knees. No spots. She swallowed. No bile. She lifted her head slightly. No spinning.

  Claire sat up again, cautiously. Yes, her stomach stayed where it should be, mid-torso, not sliding up her gullet.

  “Sorry,” she gasped. “I, um, it, um.”

  Dan stood up abruptly and disappeared down the corridor. Claire couldn’t muster the energy to wonder where he’d gone, she was too busy keeping her stomach where it belonged.

  “No problem, ma’am,” the detective said.

  Claire tried on a smile for size. “I’m sorry about being such a wuss.” She drew a deep breath, hoping to shatter the iron band around her chest. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

  “Adrenalin dump.” A faint smile creased the detective’s hard face, crinkling his eyes. Another non-metrosexual who didn’t moisturize. “Perfectly normal, ma’am. Blondie. Dan and I have both been real shaky after a firefight.”

  “Is that true?” Claire turned to watch Dan as he crossed the lobby. He’d shot at someone not half an hour ago and he looked perfectly fine. Grim, but fine. His hands certainly weren’t shaking as he held a small bottle of ice-cold water out to her.

  Claire took it eagerly and downed three quarters of the icy water in a couple of long gulps, and that overheated feeling that precedes throwing up started to subside.

  Dan nodded. “Yeah. Hands shake, spots in front of your eyes, you want to vomit. Classics.” She met his dark eyes. He might not be feeling the symptoms, but he knew. He knew and he understood.

  The detective coughed, a little I’m here too reminder. “I’ve got Dan’s vitals, can I have yours?”

  Claire pulled a blank. Vitals? Was that, like, internal organs? That queasy feeling came back as a loud rushing sound filled her head.

  Dan finally broke the long silence. “Claire Day,” he said.

  Oh my God. Get a grip on yourself. “Oh! Sorry. Claire Lorena Day, born in Boston, September 15th, 1990. Currently residing at 427 Laurel Lane, Safety Harbour, Florida.” She watched the detective bend his head over the notebook, his crewcut so extreme she could see scalp. It wasn’t quite the high and tight of active duty, but it was the closest you could get to a military cut in civilian life.

  Luckily, he didn’t ask her what someone from Florida was doing in Washington DC, because on a wild goose chase would have had to have been her answer.

  “So… what went down?”

  Dan nodded at her. She should go first. Okay. “We went out to dinner, Dan and I. He drove me back here, where I’m staying. We walked into the lobby together and the lobby was deserted.”

  “Is that normal?”

  Claire shook her head. “I have no idea, I’ve never stayed here before. I found it on the internet. As I said, the, um, dead man was on duty when we left at seven, so I assumed he was the night duty guy. He said he’d see me later, so I imagined that the front desk was always manned. When it isn’t, they usually tell guests that they have to be in by a certain hour.”

  Detective Stone nodded. “So then what?”

  “I was reaching to grab my key when Dan pushed me to the floor and jumped on top of me.”

  Stone’s gaze tracked to Dan and he raised his eyebrows.

  “Blood,” Dan said shortly. “Enough for it not to be a paper cut. Someone had been seriously hurt.”

  “Yes.” Claire nodded. “Dan walked around the desk in a crouch, opened the door to the back office and saw—" A dead body. A murdered young man. “Roger. And a lot of blood.”

  Stone frowned at Dan. “You didn’t call it in right then and there?”

  “I was going to, but first I had to see if there was any immediate danger. And there was. Fucker was waiting in Claire’s room.” His jaw muscles worked violently. “We went down the corridor, checking rooms. He had the light on in Claire’s room, and he made a slight sound. He was trashing the room, ripping the upholstery and the curtains.”

  Claire nodded. “Dan had me crouch by t
he side of the door, then kicked it open. And then all hell broke loose. I fell to the ground.”

  “Saved your life.” The words sounded harsh, bitten out. Dan met Stone’s gaze. “He had an AR-7 with a thermal scope and he aimed directly at Claire, through the wall. He had an armed man—me— shooting at him and he didn’t shoot back. He wanted Claire. She’s alive because he had a bad angle from where he was shooting and because she had on this big down coat, muffled her thermal profile. But he caught the coat. Show him, honey.”

  Claire tried to turn, but couldn’t break Dan’s grip. “You’ll have to let me go.” Dan’s arm dropped reluctantly and Claire slid her coat off and held it up for the detective to see. It was the first time she’d seen it, too. Long slashes in the back of her coat, edges singed where the bullet burned. Where a man had thought he was firing into living flesh.

  She shuddered, then frowned. “An AR-7. That’s a rifle. Why on earth would a burglar bring a rifle with him? Besides the question of why a burglar would be armed at all.”

  “You know your weapons, ma’am.” Stone gave a wintry smile. “AR-7s have their uses. For certain… purposes.”

  “Murder,” Dan said harshly. “That’s its main use. It’s a classic hitman’s rifle. Lightweight, the barrel and the action fold up into the stock. He had a briefcase, one of those Halliburton deals. An AR-7 would have fit easily into it. The guy came loaded for bear. Actually, he came loaded for Claire.” He huffed out a breath of anger and clenched his fists. His eyes met Stone’s. “Fucker wanted Claire, no question.”

  “You worked for DIA,” Stone said to her, making it sound odd. Not an accusation, just a possible explanation for a hitman in Room 7.

  “No, no!” This was crazy. “No one could possibly want to kill me. I am—was an analyst. Analysts write reports, we’re not operators, not in any way. No DIA analyst has ever been killed in the line of duty.” A number of them had drunk themselves to death, but that was another story. “And any information I might have had is a year out-of-date. This is a fast-moving world. No one’s going to come after a lowly analyst whose intel is old. Trust me on this.”