by Dana Marton
Murph wanted to punch something. It wasn’t really betrayal—she didn’t owe him allegiance—yet he felt the rejection burn through him. He was damaged. He wasn’t good enough anymore. Why would she want to trust her life to him?
He needed to walk away for a minute, needed to swallow the bitter taste of disappointment that bubbled up his throat. He checked the gun in the back of his waistband. “I’m going to walk around the house. You stay in here.”
She pressed her lips together. “I’m sorry, Murph.”
He armed the security system. “It’s all right,” he said without glancing back as he strode outside.
He stopped on the front stoop, filling his lungs with cold air as he looked around, as if surveying what needed to be done, in case anyone was watching.
The sky had turned winter gray, dark snow clouds hiding the sun. The temperatures had dipped since the day before, but at least the wind wasn’t blowing. He headed around the house, went into the garage from the back and got his shovel out. Shoveling the driveway and the walkway to the front door would give him long enough to check out the neighbors and the street.
He would have to keep her safe until the FBI got here, a couple of hours. He was determined to do that, at least.
He was striding back up front with the shovel when he saw a shadow move in the window next door. Wendy White. Was she watching him? Was she Asael’s lover? Was she hoping that Murph would leave?
The window she was standing behind faced Kate’s bedroom. Had Wendy been spying on Kate all along?
Except Kate wouldn’t be sleeping there tonight.
Murph pushed the shovel into snow, and as he heaved the frozen slush to the side, he caught sight of Wendy shifting something long and slim and straight in her hands.
The brief glimpse he caught wasn’t enough to tell whether it was a broom handle or the barrel of a rifle.
Oh, hell. He reached for his gun, but she disappeared from sight the next second.
Wendy White. She had no criminal record, but there was her odd visit with a plate of cookies the night before, the way she'd talked and talked, then the strange business with the music. Something was off there. She set off his cop instincts.
He glanced at his watch. According to Kate, Wendy went over to the diner for lunch every day around this time. He dropped his shovel, ducked between the bushes that separated the two properties and came out on the other side, pulled his pocketknife and ducked behind Wendy’s old station wagon.
He had her license plate off in a second and kicked it into the snow bank that edged her driveway, then hurried back and picked up the shoveling where he’d left off. No more than ten minutes passed before Wendy walked from her house to her car then took off with a cheerful wave at him.
Murph dialed Harper at the station. “I've got a favor to ask. I need someone to pick up Wendy White for driving without a license plate. She’s my new neighbor. She’s heading to the Main Street Diner right now.” He rattled off the make and model of her car and the exact color, forest green. “I need you to find a way to keep her a while. Suspicion of being under the influence, refusing to cooperate with police, whatever you can make fly.”
Silence stretched on the other end, then, “Want to tell me what this is about?”
“I think Kate might be in serious danger.” He glanced toward his house, everything quiet.
“From your new neighbor?”
“Possibly. I’d appreciate it if you could run her prints.”
“And then you’re going to tell me what the hell is going on?”
“As soon as I can.” Murph hung up and ducked back between the bushes, went around Wendy’s house, checking the backdoor and the windows—everything locked.
He walked to the back door of her garage, careful to keep under the eaves where there was no snow so he wouldn’t leave tell-tale footprints. This door was locked, too, but it was old and lifting the lock and wiggling it a little did the trick. Murph stepped inside and scanned the cavernous space.
She didn’t have much. She hadn’t been living here long, hadn’t had a chance yet to fill the garage to the rafters, just a few moving boxes lined up against the wall.
He cut straight to the door that lead to the house and picked the lock with his pocket knife. He hadn't seen a sign up front that advertised a security company. Murph pushed the door open and hoped for the best.
* * *
Kate packed her single suitcase then decided to make a lasagna for Murph’s freezer for when she was gone. She had some time before the FBI would get here and she needed to do something to keep busy, or she’d go nuts before Agent Cirelli could take her into protective custody.
Putting herself under Cirelli's protection wasn’t the perfect solution, but maybe it was the best choice she had. Kate popped a square of emergency chocolate into her mouth—marshmallow almond medley. She might have been good at running, but she couldn’t count on being lucky forever. Asael was going to find her sooner or later. Murph had his own problems. It wasn’t fair to draw him into hers.
She made the lasagna, stuck it into the oven, then began cleaning up. Murph shouldn't have to straighten up after her. She leaned into the fridge to drop some tomatoes she hadn’t used back into the vegetable bin. She was straightening when a hand snaked around from behind her to seal her mouth. At the same time, the man yanked her gun from the back of her waistband and tossed it into the living room.
“You get a point for being prepared,” a faintly familiar voice whispered close to her ear, “but lose a point for turning your back. You’re not doing too well so far, Kate.”
“Fred?”
“Call me Mordocai.”
Fear hit her like a freight train. She froze, couldn’t think of a damn thing, not a single move Murph had shown her.
She whimpered.
“Stay quiet.” He dragged her with him as he retreated, each step powerful and sure, no sign of his arthritic limp now.
Then the adrenaline rush hit her finally, and Kate tore at the hands that held her captive. “No!” The single word she screamed against his fingers came through barely audible.
He dragged her toward the back door.
“Where are you taking me?” she tried to ask, the sounds she was making unintelligible, but somehow he made them out.
“Somewhere private. We’re going to have a little fun and a nice little chat. I have a couple of hours before my flight.”
The broom leaned against the wall. She tried to grab for it, but as he thrust her forward in front of him, somehow she managed to kick it over. Oh, God.
Okay, okay. What did Murph say?
Elbow to the stomach, head up, break the bastard’s nose.
She steadied herself for a second then did just as they’d practiced.
Mordocai’s hands slipped on her. She went down, grabbed the broom, jammed the handle into his groin. As they struggled, he somehow got between her and the back door, so when she broke free at last she ran toward the front of the house, but not before catching a glimpse of his nasty-looking gun, complete with a silencer.
Murph was out in the driveway. All she had to do was reach the front door. Or the gun in the kitchen drawer.
She didn’t reach either. Mordocai plowed into her and knocked her face first onto the hardwood floor at the bottom of the stairs.
She struggled to her back, then brought her knee up as hard as she could. She caught him in the jaw. He swore and loosened his grip on her long enough for her to slip away and dash up the stairs.
Into the upstairs bathroom. Lock the door. She tore the window open, and shouted blindly into the night. “Murph!”
But he wasn’t in the driveway. His shovel lay abandoned in a snow bank.
Her heart slammed against her chest.
Was he hurt? Had Mordocai killed him?
He was a different person from Fred, different voice, different mannerism. The realization that the Fred she’d liked was just an act slammed into her. A good act and, apparently
, a lot of makeup. Mordocai looked at least ten years younger, like Fred’s younger, evil brother.
Bang! The door rattled and creaked as he threw his weight against it, making her jump. Her heart slammed hard inside her chest.
She shrank into the farthest corner, grabbing the crowbar placed strategically under the sink, wishing she had a gun in there with her.
Bang! The door was old, the wood dry, the top hinge loosening already. She had seconds.
She glanced at the window, then at the laundry chute. She went with the rabbit hole. Here we go, Alice.
Down she slid, hoping she could get out of the house, reach the waiting Mustang Murph had left for her. She couldn't bear thinking that something bad had happened to him. She thumped to the ground inside the laundry room, tore the door open, but Mordocai was already there, waiting for her with a terrifying, cold smile on his almost-Fred face. She swung the crowbar, but he knocked her hand aside then pinned her against the wall.
He grabbed her neck, then he squeezed and squeezed until her world went black.
* * *
Murph searched through his new neighbor’s house in his socks. He’d left his boots in the garage, didn’t want to give himself away by dragging mud inside.
He checked the large laundry room, the metal cabinet that stood as tall as he was, bolted to the wall. His gaze dropped to the heavy-duty lock. Gun cabinet? This could be where she kept the rifle he might or might not have seen from outside. He had no way of opening the door, so he walked into the kitchen. No guns in sight there, but she had plenty of large knives.
The furniture was sparse, low end, the kind a person wouldn’t mind leaving behind if they had to light out in a hurry. Everything was miss-matched as if she’d furnished the house from the flea market that operated at the old county airport every Sunday. A picture on the wall caught his eye, Wendy and two men, one who looked a few years older—boyfriend?—and a younger guy, in his early twenties, who could have been their son.
She seemed to be living here alone. Murph hadn’t seen anyone but her around the house since he’d come home. Kate hadn’t mentioned anyone else either. So where was Wendy’s family? Or maybe the picture was a fake, a decoy. Maybe she was a stone cold assassin, and the photo and the frilly curtains were just her cover.
He hurried to the bedroom, found a portable safe in the bottom of the closet. He tried the lock but opening it went beyond the powers of his pocket knife.
What was she hiding in there? Information on Kate? More weapons? He pushed the safe aside but found nothing save a plastic storage container filled with local maps.
As he straightened, he could hear the engine of a car outside. Maybe Wendy decided to bring her lunch home today. Harper must have missed her. Murph swore under his breath.
He ran back to the laundry room, turned the lock and pulled the door closed behind him, jumped into his boots and cut through the garage, locked the door behind him there, too, then waited, pressed against the siding.
He didn’t want her catching him cutting across the strip of bushes between their yards. But she wasn’t walking to the front door. The garage door rolled up, creaking. She was pulling the car in.
He inched up to look in through the window, squinted.
Wrong car.
A black BMW M5—a car way out of place in his neighborhood. He waited until the driver got out. As the man turned, Murph caught him in profile—young, preoccupied with his phone, he matched the younger man’s photo on Wendy’s family picture inside.
Murph ducked before he could be spotted, then ran toward his backyard, keeping down below window level, darted through the bushes and kept in the cover of Wendy’s shed until he reached the back of his own garage.
He went around, down the driveway and picked up his shovel, starting to work again, watching the neighbor’s windows from the corner of his eye. He wanted to see if he could catch another glimpse of the guy, if he could figure out a way the man might be part of a planned hit.
If Wendy was Asael’s lover, the young guy could be Asael’s son. Was the older guy on their family photo Asael?
Maybe murder was the family business. Maybe Wendy was ready to make her move on Kate and called in her son to help. Okay, the theory was a stretch. Assassins tended to be solitary. They didn’t normally hunt in a family unit. Yet Interpol intelligence said Asael had pulled an odd job or two with his lover.
Murph swore under his breath, wishing he’d snapped a photo of that family picture with his cell phone so he could show it to Kate. Maybe he’d get another chance to get in there. Maybe the son was only here to drop something off and would leave in a few minutes.
Murph kept shoveling snow. The physical exertion helped him think. The cold kept his head clear. And it was easier not to be around Kate. She’d be safe in the Witness Protection Program. He wanted a good life for her. But he had trouble processing the idea that he’d never see her again.
On the other hand, if Wendy was Asael's lover, if she could be taken out then Asael could be tracked through her, and Kate would be free. He was definitely going to investigate that angle once she left. He was going back to the neighbor's house, this time with tools to open that gun cabinet and the safe. The FBI should be here for her soon—
Oh, hell. He threw the shovel down and strode toward the house. If they only had an hour or two left together, was he really going to waste it sulking out in the driveway?
As he reached the end of the brick walkway, a sharp series of beeps went off inside the house. Smoke detector. He dashed forward. Banged on the door, even as he was reaching for his keys. “Kate!”
He unlocked the door, burst in, reached for the keypad to disable the security alarm and found it already disabled.
Smoke poured out of the oven. He pulled his gun as he hurried to turn it off. “Kate?”
No response came.
He ran to the bedroom. “Are you in there?” He shoved the door open.
The room stood empty, her abandoned suitcase on the middle of the bed. Her Kevlar vest was hanging in the closet.
* * *
Mordocai smiled as he drove in the gray winter afternoon. He’d have some playtime with Kate, then before he got on the plane to Montreal, he would mail her head in a cooler box to Hong Kong, to Asael.
The package would please Asael, but also establish Mordocai as a professional on the same level. He didn’t like the current inequality in their relationship. Every once in a while, love required a larger than life gesture, something big, something memorable.
So the gift would be a theatrical gesture. So sue him. He’d grown up in the theater. Not on the stage. They'd said he wasn’t handsome or talented enough for that. He’d done makeup, created sets, dealt with everything that was mechanical, taught himself every aspect of the art, every backstage job. He would have done anything to stay near those red velvet curtains.
He’d met Asael in the theatre. A young Adonis, with all that firm, sinuous flesh. Asael had been born to the stage—brilliant, full of defiance and anger and darkness. Violence shimmered oh, so tantalizingly close to the surface—another layer of excitement. His presence filled the stage, seduced the audience. Mordocai became his admirer first, then they became lovers.
When a pissant administrator tried to cause trouble for Asael, they took care of the idiot together. Went to his house, had a chat with him. His body had never been recovered.
Then Asael disappeared from New York, and Mordocai had grieved for him for years. Until the prodigy popped up again, needing a complete transformation for a job. He had left the theatre by then, found another line of work that satisfied his dark appetites more fully than fake blades and fake blood on the stage.
At first, Mordocai used his make-up talent to help then, eventually, Asael let him assist with bigger tasks. And now Mordocai would be the one to finish the witness bitch. He was out of the shadows at last. He was the main character, in the spotlight in the middle of the stage where he belonged.
He w
anted his police sketch next to Asael’s on the FBI’s Most Wanted list. They were a couple. They should be together there. Asael shouldn't get all the glory just because he was a few years younger and had more kills.
Asael needed to understand that they were equals. In all the world, nobody measured up to him but Mordocai. Asael needed to understand that they belonged to each other, that his young fluff pieces on the side would no longer be tolerated.
Mordocai gripped the wheel. He would not be replaced in Asael’s bed.
They were perfect for each other, alike in so many ways, although Asael preferred a quick job, while Mordocai liked to play if given the opportunity. He liked the rush of power.
He stepped on the gas and drove around a tractor trailer, careful not to swerve too sharply, mindful of Kate Bridges in the trunk. He wanted to inflict and enjoy, in person, any banging up that happened to her.
Chapter Eleven
Murph tore through the house, desperately searching for some clue that would tell him who’d taken Kate and where they’d gone.
He scanned a couple of muddy footprints on the floor, a smattering of blood on the bottom stair. Not enough for the injury to have been fatal. He had every reason to believe that Kate had been alive when she’d been taken.
Alive but unarmed. He found her gun half under the couch in the living room.
Footprints in the snow out back led across the neighbor’s yard and to the street. He ran as he followed them. Looked like, at one point, another car had parked behind the Mustang. Murph stared at the tracks for a second, the snow too slushy to take a good picture of the tire marks for comparison with the tire tread database.
Frustration punched through him.
Had Wendy doubled back, come to his house while he’d been inside hers?
He dialed Harper. “You got Wendy White?”
“Yeah. Her car insurance expired. I can hold her until she fills out the paperwork and pays her fines, but not much longer.”
If Wendy didn’t take Kate, who did? “Patch me through to the Captain.”
“Kate’s been kidnapped,” he rushed to say as soon as Bing picked up.