Night of the Hawk (LS 767)

by Victoria Leigh

  "I've never met anyone named Constantine." The truth, she knew, wouldn't save her, but she couldn't help but think any reply was better than staying mute and letting him win by default.

  "Then who did you meet with who represented Constantine?"

  She gave it sincere thought, clinging to his questions as a shield against imagining what was going on in her stomach. Constantine? Well, there was Constantinople, but that was a place, not a man, and she doubted he was interested. Constantan was a nickel-and-copper alloy—she.knew that thanks to a geology/mining conference she'd put together last year—but she didn't think that would impress him either.

  She wondered how it would happen, this massive cocaine overdose that would soon be seeping into her bloodstream. The only drug course she'd taken had emphasized the effects of narcotics on addicts, not how a body would react in the death throes of unintended, unaccustomed in-gestion. Would it hurt, with convulsions racking her body and fear seizing her mind? Or would she just go to sleep, the white death of cocaine numbing her in a snowstorm of cold and peace?

  "Angela."

  She looked up and remembered she hadn't answered him. "I've never heard of Constantine, or met anyone who mentioned such a person."

  "What name did you use?"

  "The same one I always do. Angela Ferguson." She shifted against the headboard, trying to find a comfortable position for her hands and realizing her fingers were going numb. For a moment she panicked that it was the cocaine, then calmed herself when the new position brought stinging needles of recovery.

  She was still in control of herself, and that gave her a certain comfort.

  "Are you freelance or part of Constantdne's organization?"

  "Freelance." He quirked an eyebrow in interest, and she continued. "I've been working for myself six years now. Ask me what I do for a living."

  "You're not supposed to be feeding me the questions," he said mildly.

  "Yes, well, I guess technically this is your nickel," she replied, studying the harsh, tanned lines of his face and wondering what he'd feel as he disposed of her body. Frustration, perhaps, that she hadn't told him whatever secrets he was convinced she carried? Regret because, in the end, he'd realized she was telling the truth? Distaste when he had to handle a body that was still warm but quickly growing cold?

  "Okay, Angela, what do you do for a living?"

  He was humoring her, but she saw him glance at his watch and knew he wouldn't do it for long, not with the clock running. It really didn't matter, but talking was less terrifying than thinking.

  "I'm a meeting planner," she said. "I put together conferences for different organizations, doing everything from contracting facilities to collecting fees and arranging speaking commitments. It's a busy life. I wouldn't have much time for killing on the side."

  "A meeting planner." He regarded her steadily, his gaze dark and unfathomable. "Sounds like a good cover. How many teams did Constantine send after me?"

  "How would I know?" Her voice had a petulant ring to it, but Angela was past caring about the niceties. "I've been nose-deep in investment bankers for the last three days. When I so conveniently ran into you, I was unloading my gear from my car. I have an office in the building over that parking lot. Of course, by now someone has probably stolen everything. I know my computer wasn't the best, but when it's free, I suppose that doesn't matter."

  "Does Constantine still do the Condor run personally?"

  "Condor run? What's that?"

  "What he likes to call his biggest drop," he explained, even though she could see he thought he was telling her something she already knew. "Does he still like to go along for the ride?"

  "I haven't a clue." She yawned and slouched uncomfortably against the headboard. "Ask me how many investment bankers it takes to screw in a lightbulb, and I'll have an answer. By the way, what's your name? You've told me to shut up so many times, I haven't had a chance to ask."

  He hesitated, and she could almost see the mental shrug he gave before answering. "Hawksworth. Most people call me Hawk."

  "As opposed to Mr. Hawksworth? I can see why." A wave of hair fell across her eyes, and she tried to move it away with her shoulder, but couldn't. "Don't you have another name?"

  "No." He made a show of looking at his watch, then surprised her by leaning forward to brush the hair out of her eyes. "Angela, we've wasted ten minutes. When you were contracted for this job, did anyone mention the name Paul Marchand?"

  "The Western Bankers Forum contracted me, and if Paul Marchand was part of the group, I never met him." There had been a Paul Marshall, but Angela doubted he had anything to do with assassinations. With the half bottle of Scotch he put away each day of the conference, she imagined he was too indiscreet to survive long in the killing field.

  Not that her qualifications were any better, but this was a case of the mind believing what the eye saw, and she had picked up that damned gun.

  Her stomach gurgled, and the reminder of what was down there brought fresh tears to her eyes despite her best efforts to hold them back. It was just that there was so much left undone, little things she would have taken care of if she'd had some warning, not just the twenty minutes he —Hawk, she made herself use his name—gave her. Twenty minutes of answering questions she didn't understand, with her hands tied so she couldn't even scratch her nose. If she'd had cancer or some other disease, she could have at least left her life in order. There were business obligations to cancel, her mother to call—if she could catch up with her. The last Angela had heard, she was somewhere between Singapore and Shanghai, with no firm destination in mind.

  There were friends, too, people who wouldn't even miss her for a couple of weeks because everyone knew she'd booked a vacation—alone, mind you—in the Bahamas. She'd been looking forward to it for months, frivolously indulging in business-class tickets and first-class accommodations.

  "Angela? We're running out of time."

  She focused on him.

  "What about my plants, Hawk? I've had the philoden-dron on the coffee table since high school. I wouldn't want it to go to just anyone." She thought she saw a nerve jerk in his jaw as he clenched it, and chalked it up to frustration. Even in the doom-and-danger world he seemed to inhabit, there must be a point when people talked to save themselves. He must be getting impatient because she hadn't reached her personal breaking point, and even, she thought, a little worried she'd leave it for too late and die anyway.

  Angela had had the advantage of knowing all along that her death would be the end result. Even if she'd had the answers, especially if she'd had the answers, this man, this Hawk wouldn't have any reason to let her live.

  "Is the Condor run still scheduled for next Thursday?" he asked.

  "You tell me."

  "Are they using the Sea Charmer?"

  "What is that?"

  "Constantine's yacht. Dammit, Angela, you've got five minutes before that thing in your stomach begins to dissolve." He thrust his fingers through his hair, the overhead light glancing off the sun-bleached streaks in the otherwise dark brown thickness. "I was there last month, Angela. I watched as Constantine's best off-loaded enough coke to satisfy the habits of most of the West Coast. But I didn't see Constantine. I need to know if he'll be there Thursday."

  "I don't know!" She surged to her knees and straightened her shoulders in a posture of defiance, which was all she could manage under the circumstances. "I've never heard of Constantine or the Sea Charmer or any Condor run. I'm not a killer and I wasn't in that damned garage for any reasons that have anything even remotely to do with you."

  "You are a killer and you have to know if he'll be at the drop!" Surging up beside her, he curled his fingers around her arms and shook her hard. "I know Constantine. He wouldn't send anyone after me that he didn't trust completely. Constantine surrounds himself with people like you. He wouldn't dream of making the run without his shield. If you're going to be there, so will he."

  Angela felt as though her head wa
s going to snap right off her neck, but that didn't worry her near as much as the thing in her stomach.

  He stopped shaking her but kept his grip on her arms, his gaze intense. "Tell me, Angela. Tell me now and I'll give you the Ipecac before it's too late."

  She took a deep breath and gathered her composure, its familiar presence now a final shroud of dignity. "It was too late the second you made me swallow it. I don't know anything, Hawk. Nothing."

  The intensity left his expression, and he softened his hold on her. "Then that's that, isn't it?"

  So much for an epitaph, she thought, and wondered how much longer she had before the cocaine began to destroy her. Sliding backward, she slumped against the headboard, mindless of the ache in her wrists.

  Almost as an afterthought, she asked, "So why is it so important? You seem to know where and when. Why do you care if this man Constantine is there or not?"

  He looked at her with deeply hooded eyes. "Because if he isn't there, he won't die."

  Angela focused all of her concentration on his answer, because she felt, somehow, that knowing why she was dying would be miles better than not. "And if he is?"

  "Then my death won't be for nothing. I intend on taking him with me." Without dropping his gaze, he picked up the bottle of Ipecac and opened it. Before she knew what he was about, he turned it upside down and poured the contents out onto the floor.

  She swallowed in surprise, in shock, as the last chance she had of living made a brown mess on the cheap gray carpet.

  FOUR

  Gold bits sparkled and danced against green as her eyes became a mesmerizing burn of fury and disbelief. Hawk watched without blinking, almost without breathing, as the woman who called herself Angela Ferguson whipped herself into a virtual thunderhead of wrath.

  He waited patiently for the explosion, knowing it had to happen just as he'd known she wouldn't break easily. The first fifteen minutes had been a time for fencing, for theatrics. Now the real work could begin. She would know, of course, that the next five were the critical ones. After that, she wouldn't be able to vomit up the disintegrating capsule without at least part of the cocaine entering her system. The old finger-down-the-throat method wasn't as efficient as Ipecac, but she'd know it was still an option. Even if she couldn't get rid of everything in her stomach, she could force up enough to make a life-or-death difference.

  Five minutes. He would give her one to get past her anger. He was careful to check the seconds on his watch because every one counted.

  "You're killing me so your own death will mean something?" The air fairly vibrated with her rage, but Hawk ignored it.

  He looked at his watch and began again. "Will Con-stantine be at the beach? Is he worried ГП come after him, or does he think I'm going to keep my head down until he forgets about me? Is Marchand using his people in the DEA to help track me?" He didn't ask her again about the date of the run because time was running out and he already had the answer to that one, bought and paid for that same morning from a middle-ranked distributor he'd cultivated during the first stages of his infiltration into Constantine's organization. He'd only asked Angela as a truth check against those things he didn't know.

  She straightened an already ramrod posture and took several deep, shaky breaths. "We've gone over this already. I don't—"

  His anger got the better of him. Kneeling on the bed with his hands fisted into the mattress on either side of her hips and his face right up against hers, he kept his response clear and precise.

  "You are out of time, Angela. The only way that cocaine is coming out of you is in the next three and a half minutes and only then if you vomit real hard. I'll untie you and let you give it a try as soon as you answer every single question."

  Her outraged glare slipped into something softer, a look of bewilderment and—he blinked, but it was still there when he looked again—humor. She was laughing at him. "I can't seem to get anything right tonight. Do you have any idea how hard it was not to get sick on the drive here?"

  He checked his watch again because he didn't want her to see how he reacted to her laughter. "Three minutes, Angela. Tell me about Constantine."

  All humor was gone as she composed herself before answering. "For the last time, Hawk. You've got the wrong woman."

  "You'll die."

  "And so, it seems, will you. Not tonight, perhaps, but I can see that you know you won't be far behind me." Her voice was low, husky from strain, a siren's song that pulled at his senses at a moment when he couldn't afford to be distracted.

  Almost against his will, his hands lifted to thread into the fall of hair at her nape, his fingers tangling in the heavy silk until he cupped her head in his palms. "Tell me, Angela. It doesn't have to end this way."

  "This isn't my game plan, Hawk. It's yours, and I didn't even have the advantage of knowing the rules. That's not fair, you know." She yawned, a tiny cat yawn that seemed to puzzle her until she focused on him and remembered. "Is this how it happens, then? I go to sleep and never wake up?"

  Her eyelids began to drift closed, and he forced them open with his thumbs. Her pupils were even and dilated until he moved his head, then they shrank against the bright ceiling light. She blinked as he removed his thumbs and shook her head, a tiny moue of disappointment on her lips.

  "I thought I had another three minutes. You lied." Her eyes slipped closed again, and she sighed, easing the weight of her head into his hands.

  He shook her. "Angela, this won't work. Pretending to sleep won't save you."

  She blinked in slow motion, regarding him from behind thick, dark lashes. "Guess you miscalculated, Hawk. The poison is working, and I can't work up enough energy to argue with you anymore." She yawned widely, and when her eyes focused on him again, they were bright with tears. "I only wanted to help, you know. That's why I picked up the gun. I saw everything, and thought that if I could get rid of the gun, he wouldn't have a way to hurt you."

  Her head became heavier in his hands, and he realized all that was holding her upright was his touch. Gently, so that he wouldn't hurt her anymore, he shifted her weight into the crook of his arm and settled her head against his shoulder.

  He watched her face as she struggled to keep her eyes open . . . and failed. Once, twice, then three times, and her eyelashes rested without moving on her cheeks. A single tear tracked down her face, and he caught it with his finger before it reached her lips.

  Lifting his finger to his mouth, he tasted the salt of her silent anguish and knew he'd crossed the line between civilized man and his barbarian antecedents. In his self-righteous quest for revenge, he'd caused incalculable harm to an innocent human being.

  Angela was no more an assassin than Mrs. Avery was. She hadn't deserved any of what had happened to her in the past few hours. He should have known no one could act that frightened without being utterly terrified, but her smart mouth had thrown him off. That, and the defenses he'd erected against the seductive pull she exerted on his senses. If his libido hadn't reacted so violently to her allure, he might have looked at her more closely, examined her words, and, perhaps, even listened to what she was saying.

  The assassin he'd imagined her to be would know a cocaine overdose was a violent, ugly death. Tremors and convulsions would have been a convincing act, not this gentle slide into unconsciousness.

  Cursing himself for being a fool, and an ignorant one at that, he bent his head to her breast and listened to the strong, even beat of her heart. Reassured, he laid her carefully on her side, dug a knife out of his sports bag, and used it on the silk binding her wrists. When he was done and could see the raw welts caused by his enormous error, he swore again.

  A series of soft, senseless moans escaped her lips as he dabbed disinfectant on the wounds and bandaged them with gauze he'd found under the bathroom sink. Remembering the way her head had hit the garage floor, he felt her scalp for bumps and was relieved not to find any. When he was done and had packed everything back into the sports bag, he carefully lifted h
er into his arms.

  There was no question that he had to take her with him. He would have preferred explaining to her why it was necessary, but her sleep was deep and sound. The combination of stress, fear, and exhaustion had taken its toll, and he knew she'd sleep until her body told her it was prepared to face the world again.

  Taking care with her this time as he maneuvered through the narrow hall, he wished she'd stayed awake long enough to realize she wasn't going to die.

  A couple of tablespoons of flour wouldn't kill anyone.

  Hawk put her on the backseat of the Jeep, then returned to the house for a pillow and his sports bag. Gathering her long hair in one fist, he tucked the pillow beneath her head, then arranged her hair so that it wouldn't fall over her face or pull on her scalp if she moved. After fastening the center seat belt around her waist, he covered her up to her chin with the blanket. Her knees were bent and the end seat belt jutted against her shoulder, but it was the best he could do. He shut the door and got behind the wheel before the temptation to haul her into his arms and hold her until she awakened got the better of him.

  It was all he really wanted to do, for now. Hold her. Stroke her hair and tell her how sorry he was that he'd frightened her so, and how very brave she'd been. He wanted to luxuriate in the feel of her soft, sweet curves as he held her, to imagine a world in which she would come to him willingly, with a smile on her lips and her gold-and-green eyes alive with laughter and need.

  He wanted to hold her—now, because there wasn't a chance she'd let him get that close once she awakened and realized the downside to being alive was that neither he nor the nightmare had gone away.

  He turned the key in the ignition, then opened the garage door with the electronic box and backed out. Ten minutes later, they were on the interstate heading north to the Benicia-Martinez Bridge. Hawk's plan was to head up through Vallejo on the other side of Benicia and keep going until he was deep in the hills of Napa Valley, California's fertile valley of wine and high-ticket tourism. There was a place he could go there, a place where, for a price, Angela would be safe.