Rapture

by J. R. Ward

  A groan told her he was up on his feet, and she led the way to the door. As they passed the few other diners, she felt their eyes go to the man behind her, lingering.

  God, what it must be to go through life like that, constantly being stared at. Although...chances were good the women saw what she did. Which was nothing limited in the slightest.

  Quite the contrary.

  Out in the parking lot, Tony's car was a beater, but not in the kept-neat sense that Fi-Fi was. His ride was more like a roaming trash bin.

  "Don't mind the clutter," she said as she unlocked the Toyota.

  Getting in, she reached over and batted the The New Republics and the Newsweeks off the passenger seat. Not surprisingly, it took Matthias some time to lower himself, and when he swung his knees in, his boots crunched into the litter in the footwell, mashing Taco Bell into the golden arches, and BK Lounge into Wendy's.

  "Your friend's into fast food," he remarked.

  "And he eats quick, too."

  Hitting the gas, she barged into traffic, shoe-horning the sedan into a hatchback-size space between a cab and a NiMo truck.

  "Seat belt," he said.

  She glanced over. "Yup. You're wearing one."

  "Do you have a death wish?"

  "Seat belts don't always save lives."

  "So all these people around us are wrong?"

  "They can do what they want, and so can I."

  "What about tickets?"

  "I haven't been pulled over yet. If I do, I'll pay up."

  "When. That would be 'when.'"

  Pine Grove Cemetery was a good ten minutes away--except for the way she drove. Mels was never reckless; she was just efficient, picking routes that avoided traffic lights and the construction that was going on around the park.

  "It's up here on the right." She leaned into the wheel and looked out the windshield. "The place is beautiful, actually. There's something so peaceful about cemeteries."

  Matthias made a "meh" sound. "All that eternal rest is just an illusion."

  "Don't you believe in Heaven?"

  "I believe in Hell, I'll tell you that much."

  There was no time to follow up as they came to the front entrance. "The accident happened around here...past the main gates. Right about...little farther--here."

  As she pulled Tony's car over and went to turn off the engine, Matthias was already getting out. Walking quickly with his cane, he stopped in the middle of the road, at the stains where he'd landed. He looked left and right; then doubled back, going over to Fi-Fi's tire tracks, and the busted tree...and finally up to the ten-foot-tall fence that surrounded the cemetery.

  Talk about Gothic. Made of iron slats and topped with fleur-de-lis cappers, Pine Grove's boundary was imposing...and dangerous if you tried to scale it.

  And what do you know, as she approached, she saw blood on the top of one of the sharp points--as well as a piece of cloth. Like someone had pulled an up-and-over.

  "I'll get it," she said, jumping up and snagging what had gotten torn. "Here."

  Matthias took the remnant. "Oil cloth, and I'll bet that dried blood is mine. I have a fresh wound on my leg."

  Why hadn't he used the front gate? Then again, it would have been locked as it had been after dark.

  "Can we go inside?" he asked.

  "Right now."

  Back in the car, she took them through the entrance and went left, heading in the direction of where they assumed he'd jumped the fence. When she got to the point where they'd found the cloth, she stopped again, got out, and waited for his memory to speak up. If it did.

  As he looked around and she gave him some space, the breeze coming through the fluffy green pineboughs whistled in low notes, and sunshine warmed her shoulders...and she tried not to think about where her father was--

  Further back by some two acres, over in the middle, between the Thomas family's plot and three brothers by the name of Krensky.

  Guess she remembered.

  The last time she'd been here had been the day her father was buried. She'd been in New York City working for about half a decade at that point. He'd been so proud of his daughter in the big city, doing what she'd gone to school for. Journalism--

  "This way," Matthias said absently.

  As he strode off across the patchy spring lawn, she let go of her past and focused on his present, and together, they made good time even though his stride was uneven and he leaned on his cane for support. Every once in a while, he paused, as if recalibrating his direction, and she didn't interrupt him with questions.

  The outbuilding they eventually came up to fit in with all the headstones and tombs, its stone construction echoing the architecture of the entryway gatehouse and the stanchions that regularly marked sections of the wrought fencing.

  "I was naked," he said. "I came here and I broke in, and I got--"

  He pulled on the door and it creaked as it opened. Inside, he went to the rear wall and matched the torn fabric to some oilskin overalls in the back.

  Naked? she wondered. "Where were your clothes?"

  He shrugged. "I only know I was here last night."

  Outside once again, he started off in the direction they'd been going in, and now things went zigzag--whether it was from keeping the trail or trying to find it, she didn't know and didn't ask. Going along, they passed endless headstones, as well as groundsmen mowing and weeding, and other visitors to the dead.

  Finally, after they were nearly a half mile from where they'd left the car, he stopped. "Here. This is...Yeah, it started here. I'm sure of it."

  The headstone he focused on stood over one of the fresher graves--and on top of the semiloose soil that had been recently put over the coffin, sure enough, there was the imprint of a body, as if someone his size had lain there in the fetal position.

  "This is where it started." He leaned on his cane and got down on his haunches. Fingering the dirt, he whispered, "Here."

  "James Heron," she said, reading the simple inscription on the grave marker. "Do you know him?"

  Matthias looked around the cemetery. "Yeah."

  "In what context."

  "I have to go." He got to his feet and stepped away from her. "Thanks."

  She frowned. "What are you talking about?"

  "You have to leave, now--"

  "You're in no condition to walk back to town. And good luck finding a cab."

  "Please, you need to go."

  "Tell me why and I'll think about it."

  With a sudden surge, the man stalked up on her, getting close...oh, so close. Catching her breath, Mels had to force her feet to stay put...and it was a shock to realize it was because they wanted her body to finish what he'd started.

  All it would take would be one step forward, and they'd be chest to chest, hip to hip.

  Not the brightest idea considering that the predator in him seemed to have come out. But she didn't want to be sensible.

  She wanted him.

  But that was not going to be part of the plan.

  Tilting her chin up, she said, "If you think this simmering aggression thing is persuasive, you're wrong. And I'm waiting for an explanation."

  He leaned in, the shift at his hips making her keenly aware of how much taller than her he was. How much stronger, even with the injuries. How much his eyes burned even through her sunglasses.

  In a low, dangerous voice, he said, "Because you're going to die if you don't get away from me."

  Undisclosed location,

  Washington, D.C.

  "This is your target."

  The photo that landed faceup on the glossy table found its way over to the operative by virtue of momentum.

  The face was instantantly familiar. But who in XOps didn't know the man.

  The operative looked up at his superior. "What's the location?"

  "Caldwell, New York."

  The address was given over verbally, as would any other instructions. And he would not keep the photograph. And this room, in an absolu
tely unremarkable building in the nation's capital, recorded none of this. No trail. Ever.

  "Obviously, he is considered armed and extremely dangerous."

  Damn straight the guy was. Always had been--but laurels were nothing that lasted, and there was no "former" in XOps. There was "active duty" and "dead."

  And he was going to be responsible for the "dead," in this case.

  "The usual rules apply," he was told.

  Of course they did: He was going in alone, was solely responsible for the mission, and if he was compromised, he should pray for death--or make it happen himself. All of this was well-known to the small cadre of operatives who had been handpicked by the devil himself....

  Matthias. The one who had led them for the last ten years. The cunning chess player, the manipulative mastermind, the violent sociopath who set the tone for them all.

  For a moment, it was strange to be taking orders from someone else--but given who the target was....

  XOps needed to keep going, however, and his current superior had come up fast through the ranks, clearly positioning himself as the heir to the throne. Which explained what he was doing now. Loose strings were unacceptable.

  "Anything else I need to be aware of?"

  "Just don't fuck it up. You have twenty-four hours."

  The operative reached out a gloved hand and brought the photograph closer. Staring at the face, he thought that if someone had told him the changes that were going to happen in the last two years, he'd have been convinced they'd lost their damn mind.

  Yet here he was, looking at the supremely powerful man in the photograph who now had a death warrant hanging over his head: If the operative failed to kill him, the organization would send someone else. And another. And another. Until the job was done.

  And, knowing the target, it might take a couple of tries.

  His superior picked up the photograph and went for a door that only looked normal. In reality, it was bullet-, fire-, bomb-, and soundproof. As were the walls, ceiling, and floor.

  After a retinal scan, the panel opened and then closed, leaving the operative alone to consider his options, which was SOP: Once an assignment had been given over, the methods of execution were up to the delegatee. The brass cared only about the ends.

  Caldwell, New York, was merely an hour away by plane, but better to drive. There was no telling the resources his target had, and aircraft could be tracked easier than unmarkeds.

  As he left, the fact that he might well be going to his own death was irrelevant--and that was part of the reason he had been chosen from all the other soldiers and civilians who "applied" to get into XOps. Careful psychological and physical screening was conducted over years, not months or weeks, before you were tapped on the shoulder. Then again, the job required an unusual combination of urgency and disassociation, logic and freethinking, mental and physical discipline.

  As well as the simple enjoyment of killing other human beings.

  At the end of the day, playing Grim Reaper was fun to him, and this was the only legally sanctioned way to do it. Even the canniest serial killers got caught after a while. Working in this capacity for the U.S. government?

  His only rate limiter was his ability to stay alive.

  Matthias had had to let Mels go.

  There hadn't been any other choice. Standing in that cemetery with her, staring across Jim Heron's grave, it had been very clear to him that they were separated by life and death--and she was on the vital side.

  He wanted to keep her there.

  After they'd argued for a while, she'd left him, walking off with a quick efficiency he approved of. In the wake of her departure, he'd stayed by Heron's final resting place for as long as he estimated it would take her to return to her friend's car--and sure enough, when he eventually returned to the cemetery's front gates, the Toyota trash bin was gone.

  Turned out she'd been right about the lack of taxis, but there'd been a bus stop not too far away, and though he'd had to wait a while, he had managed to get himself back downtown.

  Better this way. Clean break--at least physically. Mentally, he had a feeling it wasn't going to be quite so cut and dry.

  Although there was still a part of her with him in the concrete sense: the sunglasses. She hadn't demanded their return, and he'd forgotten they were on his face.

  And covering up his bad eye was going to help in situations like this....

  Matthias entered the Starbucks on Fifteenth Street, and cased the place behind the Ray-Bans. The lunch crush had come and gone, and the three o'clock snoozers had yet to crowd in to solve their late-afternoon sags. Only a couple of customers nursing lattes, and a pair of baristas on the far side of the counter.

  He picked the one who had the piercings all over her puss, and spiky navy-and-pink hair that looked like it hadn't gotten over the shock of those needle assaults.

  Either that or the shit was pissed off at the not-from-nature dye job.

  As he approached, she looked up with a counting-down-the-clock expression, but that changed into something else. Something he was used to.

  Speculation of the female variety.

  He had chosen wisely.

  "Hi," she said as she searched his face...and then what she could see of his cane and his black windbreaker.

  Matthias smiled at her, as if he were momentarily taken with her, too. "Ah, yeah, listen, I was supposed to meet a friend here, and he hasn't shown. I went to call him on my cell phone and realized I've left the damn thing at home. Can I use your landline?"

  She glanced over at her comrade-in-lattes. The guy was lounging against the back where the coffee machines were, arms crossed over his thin chest, chin down, as if he were taking a breather standing up.

  "Yeah. Okay. Come over here."

  Matthias tracked her on the customer side of the counter, exaggerating his limp. "I'll have to call information first, because he was in my contacts. But don't worry, it's just local. I can't believe I forgot my phone."

  "Happens to everyone." She was all flustered, those eyes of hers flipping up to him and shifting away like he was too bright to look at for long. "I've got to dial for you, though. You can't come back here."

  "No problem." When she passed the receiver over the partition, he gripped it and smiled slowly. "Thanks."

  Even more fluster. To the point where she had to take two tries to get through to information.

  Matthias casually turned away and made like he was checking the entrance for his "friend" as a recorded voice hit him with, "City and state, please."

  "In Caldwell, New York." Pause. Wait for the human to come on. "Yeah, the number of James Heron."

  As he held on for the number, the girl picked up a dishcloth and ran it over the counter, all casual. She was listening, though, those brows with the hoops down low.

  "H-E-R-O-N," Matthias spelled out. "Like the bird. First name James."

  For fuck's sake, how many ways could you spell the damn--

  411 came back on the line: "I'm sorry, but I don't have anyone by that last name in Caldwell. Is there another name you'd like to search?"

  Well, shit. But somehow it didn't surprise him. Too easy. Not safe enough.

  "No, thanks." Matthias pivoted back to the waitress, returning the receiver. "Out of luck. Unlisted."

  "Did you say 'Heron'?" the girl asked as she went to hang up. "You mean that guy who died?"

  Matthias narrowed his eyes--not that she could tell, thanks to the Ray-Bans. "Kinda. My friend's his brother, actually. They lived together. Phone was under Jim's name. Like I said, my buddy and I were going to meet up here and, you know, talk about it all. It's so hard losing someone like that, and I've been worried about what it's doing to his head."

  "Oh, my God, it was too sad." The girl shifted the dishrag back and forth in her hands. "My uncle worked with him--happened to be there when he was electrocuted at the site. And then to think he got shot, like, days later. I mean, how does that happen? I'm so sorry."

  "You
r uncle knew Jim?"

  "He's the head of human resources for the construction company he worked for."

  Matthias took a deep breath, like he was choking up. "Jim was an awesome guy--we were in the war together." He knocked the head of his cane into the partition. "You know how it is."

  Four...three...two...one...

  "Look, why don't I call my uncle for you. Maybe he has the number. Hold on."

  The girl slipped out of the partition, paused, and then nodded, like she was on a mission for good, and determined to Do the Right Thing.

  As Matthias waited for her to come back, he listened for his conscience to speak up at the manipulation.

  When nothing came, he was disturbed by how easy it was. Like the act of lying was so familiar and insignificant, it didn't register any more than the blink of the eyes did.

  The barista returned about five minutes later with a number written in a girlie script that belied all the I'm-a-hard-ass piercing stuff. "I'll dial it for you."

  Back behind the counter, she handed him the receiver again, and he listened to the beeping as she pushed the buttons.

  Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring--

  No voicemail. No answer.

  He gave her back the receiver. "No one's home."

  Then again, what other response was there: Wake up on the guy's grave, and he expected Heron to be answering a call? Long reach from six feet under to AT&T.

  "Maybe he's on his way?"

  "Maybe." Matthias stared at the girl for a moment. "Thank you so much. I really mean that."

  "You want some coffee as you wait?"

  "I'd better go do a drive-by on the house. People react to tragedy in...funny ways."

  She nodded gravely. "I'm really sorry."

  And she was. A perfect stranger was honestly sorry for whatever he was going through.

  He immediately thought of Mels, who'd also been so willing to help him.

  Nice people. Good people. And his faulty memory said he didn't belong in their company.

  "Thank you," he said gruffly before limping out.

  The forty-caliber handgun in Jim's right palm weighed thirty-two ounces, with ten bullets in the mag and one in the pipe.

  He kept the weapon down at his side, by his thigh, as he walked out of the garage. After the mess in the shower, Adrian had left to go get some air and some food, taking his Harley and not his helmet. Dog was safely upstairs, resting on the bed in a patch of sunlight. Jim was on guard duty.