Standing in the Shadows m&f-2

by Shannon McKenna

  Standing in the Shadows

  ( McClouds & Friends - 2 )

  Shannon Mckenna

  Ex-FBI agent Connor McCloud can never forget the day he was set up to die at the hands of trusted friend and fellow agent Ed Riggs. Hard justice and loyalty to his badge have cost Connor what he wants most - Ed's shy, studious daughter Erin. He can never have her now, but her beauty still haunts and torments his every waking hour and his most fevered erotic dreams. But now that his old enemy Kurt Novak has returned, Connor is prepared to do anything to protect the vulnerable young woman from a killer who has vowed a brutal payback . . . a killer with a predator's lethal patience.

  Standing in the Shadows

  By

  Shannon McKenna

  For Nicola

  ti amo

  Copyright © 2003 by Shannon McKenna

  Prologue

  The windowless room was dark. The only light came from banks of machines that flickered, and made soft, intermittent beeping sounds.

  The door opened. A woman entered the room and flipped on a lamp. The light revealed a man who lay upon a narrow mattress made of high-tech black latex foam. His sallow, wasted body bristled with hair-fine needles attached to wires, which fed into the machines behind him.

  The woman shut and locked the door behind herself. She was middle-aged, dressed in a white lab coat, with steel-gray hair and an imposing jaw. Her thin lips were painted a bright, cruel red.

  She removed the needles from his body with movements both brisk and delicate. She anointed her hands with oil, breathed deeply, and performed preparatory energetic exercises to stimulate the power and heat in her large, thick-fingered hands. She then proceeded to massage him expertly, front and back, from his feet to his balding scalp. She massaged his face, her brow a scowling mask, fearsomely intent.

  That done, she took several blood samples. She measured his blood pressure, his pulse. She reapplied the complex pattern of needles, made adjustments in the machines. She replenished the nourishment and medications provided by the plastic bag that dangled from the IV rack. Then she cupped his face in her hands. She kissed him on both cheeks, then on his half-open mouth.

  The kiss was prolonged and passionate. When she lifted her head, her eyes were glowing, her face flushed. Her breath was rapid, and the marks of her lipstick against his pale skin made him look as if he had been bitten.

  She flicked off the light and left him, locking the door behind her.

  Once again, the darkness was broken only by colored lights that flickered and pulsed, and soft, intermittent beeping.

  Chapter One

  The silver cell phone that lay on the passenger seat of the beige Cadillac buzzed and vibrated, like a dying fly on a dusty windowsill.

  Connor slouched lower in the driver's seat and contemplated it. Normal people were wired to grab the thing, check the number, and respond. In him, those wires were cut, that programming deleted. He stared at it, amazed at his own indifference. Or maybe amazed was too strong a word. Stupefied would be closer. Let it die. Five rings. Six. Seven. Eight. The cell phone persisted, buzzing angrily.

  It got up to fourteen, and gave up in disgust.

  He went back to staring at Tiff's current love nest through the rain that trickled over the windshield. It was a big, ugly town house that squatted across the street. The world outside the car was a blurry wash of grays and greens. Lights still on in the second-floor bedroom. Tiff was taking her time. He checked his watch. She was usually a slam-bam, twenty-minutes-at-the-most sort of girl, but she'd gone up those stairs almost forty minutes ago. A record, for her.

  Maybe it was true love.

  Connor snorted to himself, hefting the heavy camera into place and training the telephoto lens on the doorway. He wished she'd hurry. Once he'd snapped the photos her husband had paid McCloud Investigative Services to get, his duty would be done, and he could crawl back under his rock. A dark bar and a shot of single malt, someplace where the pale gray daylight could not sting his eyes. Where he could concentrate on not thinking about Erin.

  He let the camera drop with a sigh, and pulled out his tobacco and rolling papers. After he'd woken up from the coma, during the agonizing tedium of rehab, he'd gotten the bright idea of switching to hand-rolled, reasoning that if he let himself roll them only with his fucked-up hand, he'd slow down and consequently smoke less. Problem was, he got good at it real fast. By now he could roll a tight cigarette in seconds flat with either hand, without looking. So much for that pathetic attempt at self-mastery.

  He rolled the cigarette on autopilot, eyes trained on the town house, and wondered idly who had called. Only three people had the number: his friend Seth, and his two brothers, Sean and Davy. Seth for sure had better things to do on a Saturday afternoon than call him. The guy was neck-deep in honeymoon bliss with Raine. Probably writhing in bed right now, engaged in sex acts that were still against the law somewhere in the southern states. Lucky bastard.

  Connor's mouth twisted in self-disgust. Seth had suffered, too, from all the shit that had come down in the past few months. He was a good guy, and a true friend, if a difficult one. He deserved the happiness he'd found with Raine. It was unworthy of Connor to be envious, but Jesus. Watching those two, glowing like neon, joined at the hip, sucking on each other's faces, well… it didn't help.

  Connor wrenched his mind away from that dead-end track and stared at the cell phone. Couldn't be Seth. He checked his watch. His younger brother Sean was at the dojo at this hour, teaching an afternoon kickboxing class. That left his older brother, Davy.

  Boredom tricked him into picking up the cell phone to check the number, and as if the goddamn thing had been lying in wait for him, it buzzed right in his hand, making him jump and curse. Telepathic bastard. Davy's instincts and timing were legendary.

  He gave in and pushed the talk button with a grunt of disgust. "What?"

  "Nick called." Davy's deep voice was brusque and businesslike.

  "So?"

  "What do you mean, so? The guy's your friend. You need your friends, Con. You worked with him for years, and he—"

  "I'm not working with him," Connor said flatly. "I'm not working with any of them now."

  Davy made an inarticulate, frustrated sound. "I know I promised not to give out this number, but it was a mistake. Call him, or I'll—"

  "Don't do it," Connor warned.

  "Don't make me," Davy said.

  "So I'll throw the phone into the nearest Dumpster," Connor said, his voice casual. "I don't give a flying fuck."

  He could almost hear his older brother's teeth grinding. "You know, your attitude sucks," Davy said.

  "Stop trying to shove me around, and it won't bother you so much," Connor suggested.

  Davy treated him to a long pause, calculated to make Connor feel guilty and flustered. It didn't work. He just waited right back.

  "He wants to talk to you," Davy finally said. His voice was carefully neutral. "Says it's important."

  The light in the town house bedroom went off. Connor lifted the camera to the ready. "Don't even want to know," he said.

  Davy grunted in disgust. "Got Tiff's latest adventure on film yet?"

  "Any minute now. She's just finishing up."

  "Got plans after?"

  Connor hesitated. "Uh…"

  "I've got steaks in the fridge," Davy wheedled. "And a case of Anchor Steam."

  "I'm not really hungry."

  "I know. You haven't been hungry for the past year and a half. That's why you've lost twenty-five goddamn pounds. Get the pictures, and then get your ass over here. You need to eat."

  Connor sighed. His brother knew how useless his blustering orders were, but he re
fused to get a clue. His stubborn skull was harder than concrete. "Hey, Davy. It's not that I don't like your cooking—"

  "Nick's got some news that might interest you about Novak."

  Connor shot bolt upright in his seat, the heavy camera bouncing painfully off his scarred leg. "Novak? What about Novak?"

  "That's it. That's all he said."

  "That filthy fuck is rotting in a maximum security prison cell. What news could there possibly be about him?"

  "Guess you better call and find out, huh? Then hightail it over here. I'll mix up the marinade. Later, bro."

  Connor stared at the phone in his band, too rattled to be annoyed at Davy's casual bullying. His hand was shaking. Whoa. He wouldn't have thought there was still that much adrenaline left in the tank.

  Kurt Novak, who had set in motion a chain of events that effectively ruined Connor's life. Or so he saw it on his self-pitying days, which were happening way too often lately. Kurt Novak, who had murdered Connor's partner, Jesse. Who was responsible for the coma, the scars, the limp. Who had blackmailed and corrupted Connor's colleague Ed Riggs.

  Novak, who had almost gotten his vicious, filthy claws into Erin, Ed's daughter. Her incredibly narrow escape had given him nightmares for months. Oh, yeah. If there was one magic word on earth that could jolt him awake and make him give a shit, it was Novak.

  Erin. He rubbed his face and tried not to think of the last time he'd seen Erin's beautiful face, but the image was burned indelibly into his mind. She'd been wrapped in a blanket in the back of the patrol car. Dazed with shock. Her eyes had been huge with horror and betrayal.

  He had put that look in her eyes.

  He gritted his teeth against the twisting ache of helpless anger that went along with that memory, and the explosion of sensual images. They made him feel guilty and sick, but they wouldn't leave him alone. Every detail his brain had recorded about Erin was erotically charged, right down to the way her dark hair swirled into an elfin, downward-pointing whorl at the nape of her neck when she pulled it up. The way she had of looking at the world with those big, thoughtful eyes. Self-possessed and quiet, drawing her own mysterious conclusions. Making him ache and burn to know what she was thinking.

  And then bam, her shy, sweet smile flashing out unexpectedly. Like a bolt of lightning that melted down his brain.

  A flash of movement caught his eye, and he yanked the camera up to the ready. Tiff had already scuttled halfway down the steps before he got in a series of rapid-fire shots. She shot a furtive glance to the right, then to the left, dark hair swishing over her beige raincoat. The guy followed her down the steps. Tall, fortyish, balding. Neither of them looked particularly relaxed or fulfilled. The guy tried to kiss her. Tiff turned away so the kiss landed on her ear. He got it all on film.

  Tiff got into her car. It roared to life, and she pulled away, faster than she needed to on the rainy, deserted street. The guy stared after her, bewildered. Clueless bastard. He had no idea what a snake pit he was sliding into. Nobody ever did, until it was too late.

  Connor let the camera drop. The guy climbed his steps and went back inside, shoulders slumped. Those pictures ought to be enough for Phil Kurtz, Tiff's scheming dickhead of a husband. Ironically, Phil was cheating on Tiff, too. He just wanted to make sure that Tiff wouldn't be able to screw him over in the inevitable acrimonious divorce.

  It made him nauseous. Not that he cared who Tiff Kurtz was sleeping with. She could boff a whole platoon of balding suits if she wanted. Phil was such a whiny, vindictive prick, he almost didn't blame her, and yet, he did. He couldn't help it. She should leave Phil. Make it clean, honest. Start a new life. A real life.

  Hah. Like he had any right to judge. He tried to laugh at himself, but the laugh petered out with no breath to bear it up. He couldn't stomach the betrayal. Lying and sneaking, slinking around in the shadows like a bad dog trying to get away with something. It pressed down on his chest, suffocating him. Or maybe that was just the effect of all the unfiltered cigarettes he was sucking on.

  It was his own fault for letting Davy talk him into helping out with the detective agency. He hadn't been able to face going back to his old job after what happened last fall, but he should've known better. After putting a colleague behind bars for setting you up to die, well, following cheating spouses around wasn't exactly therapeutic. Davy must figure that Tiff was just the kind of stultifying no-brainer that even his washed-up little brother would have a hard time fucking up.

  Oh, man. The pity party was getting ugly. He clenched his teeth and tried to adjust his attitude by sheer brute force. Davy unloaded Tiff and her ilk onto him because he was bored with them, and who could blame him. And if Connor couldn't take it, he should shut up and get another job. Security guard, maybe. Night shift, so he wouldn't have to interact with anybody. Maybe he could be a janitor in some huge industrial facility. Shove a push broom down miles of deserted corridors night after night. Oh, yeah. That ought to cheer him right up.

  It wasn't like he was hurting for money. His house was paid for. The investments Davy had forced him to make had done fine. His car was a vintage '67 Caddy that would not die. He didn't care about expensive clothes. He didn't date. Once he'd acquired the stereo and video system that he liked, he hardly knew what to spend the interest dividends on. With what he had socked away, he could probably scrape by even if he never worked again.

  God, what a bleak prospect. Forty-odd years more of scraping along, doing nothing, meaning nothing to anyone. It made him shudder.

  Connor fished the unsmoked cigarette out of his coat pocket. Everything got dirty and stained, everything broke down, everything had a price. It was time to accept reality and stop sulking. He had to get his life back. Some kind of life.

  He'd liked his life once. He'd spent nine years as an agent in the undercover FBI task force that his partner Jesse had dubbed "The Cave," and he'd been good at feeling his way into the parts he played. He'd seen his share of ugly stuff, and yeah, he'd been haunted by some of it, but he'd also known the bone-deep satisfaction that came from doing what he was born to do. He'd loved being in the middle of everything, wired to a taut web of interconnected threads; touch one, and the whole fabric rippled and hummed. Senses buzzing, brain working overtime, churning out connections, deductions, conclusions. He'd loved it. And he'd loved trying to make a difference.

  But now the threads were ripped. He was numb and isolated, in free fall. What good would it do to hear about Novak? He couldn't help. His web was cut. He had nothing to offer. What would be the point?

  He lit the cigarette and groped around in his mind for Nick's number. It popped up instantly, blinking on the screen inside his mind. Photographic memory was a McCloud family trait. Sometimes it was useful, sometimes it was just a dumb parlor trick. Sometimes it was a curse. It kept things eternally fresh in his brain that he would prefer to forget. Like that white linen halter top that Erin had worn at the Riggs family Fourth of July picnic, for instance. Six goddamn years ago, and the memory was as sharp as broken glass. She'd been braless that day, so it was by far the best view he'd ever gotten of her beautiful tits. High and soft and tenderly pointed, bouncing every time she moved. Dark, taut nipples pressed hard against the thin fabric. He'd been amazed that Barbara, her mother, had allowed it. Particularly after Barbara had caught him staring. Her eyes had turned to ice.

  Barbara was no fool. She hadn't wanted her innocent young daughter hooking up with a cop. Look how it had turned out for her.

  He knew better than to try to shove memories away. It just made them stronger, until they were huge and muscular, taking over his whole mind. Like the image of Erin's dark, haunted eyes behind the patrol car window. Full of the terrible knowledge of betrayal.

  He sucked smoke into his lungs and stared at the cell phone with unfriendly eyes. He'd thrown away the old one after what happened last fall. If he used this one to call Nick, then Nick would have the new number. Not good. He liked being unreachable. It suited his mood. />
  He closed his eyes, recalling last Christmas, when Davy and Sean had given him the damn thing. It was from Seth's hoard of gizmos, which meant that it had a bunch of high-tech bells and whistles, some useful, some not. He'd leafed through Seth's sheaf of explanatory paperwork, putting on a show of interest so as not to hurt everybody's feelings. He vaguely remembered a function that blocked the incoming number from the display. He flipped through the pages in his mind, found the sequence. Keyed it in, dialed.

  His stomach knotted painfully as it rang.

  "Nick Ward," his ex-colleague answered.

  "It's Connor."

  "No shit." Nick's voice was stone cold. "Had a good sulk, Con?"

  He'd known this was going to be bad. "Can we skip this part, Nick? I'm not in the mood."

  "I don't care about your goddamn mood. I'm not the one who sold you out. I don't appreciate being punished for what Riggs did to you."

  "I'm not punishing you," Connor said defensively.

  "No? So what have you been doing for the last six months, asshole?"

  Connor slumped lower in his seat. "I've been kind of out of it lately. You'd be stupid if you took it personally."

  Nick let out an unsatisfied grunt.

  Connor waited. "So?"

  "So what?"

  Nick's tone set his teeth on edge. "Davy said you had some news for me," he said. "About Novak."

  "Oh. That." Nick was enjoying himself now, the snotty bastard. "I thought that might get your attention. Novak's broken out of prison."

  Adrenaline blasted through him. "What the fuck? When? How?"

  "Three nights ago. Him, and two of his goons, Georg Luksch and Martin Olivier. Very slick, well planned, well financed. Help from the outside, probably the inside, too. Nobody got killed, amazingly enough. Daddy Novak must've been behind it. You can do a lot with billions of dollars. They're already back in Europe. Novak and Luksch have been spotted in France."