Sweat ran in rivulets down his battered face. Since his nose was too bloody to breathe through, his breath had turned ragged. Usually when he boxed, wrestled, or used a combination of karate, judo, and jujitsu in the gym, a crowd gathered to watch, but apparently, tonight, the other fighters had no stomach for the beating he was taking.
“I quit.” Zack’s opponent, Steven, raised his arms over his head as if he were under arrest.
“Afraid?” Zack taunted.
“Yeah, I’m afraid you’ll suffer brain damage for refusing to defend yourself. I’m out of here.”
“You can’t quit when you’re winning,” Zack protested past a bloody split lip.
“Damn it, Zack. If you want to be a human punching bag, find someone else to knock you out.”
Infuriated that Steven was refusing to deliver more pain, Zack struck the man in the shoulder, hopefully with enough force to make him reconsider. “Fight.”
“No more. I fell for that trick two minutes ago. It won’t work again.”
“Come on.”
“You’ve got more balls than sense. I’m done. So are you.”
“Coward,” Zack ground out, but Steven walked away, shaking his head. “All right then—” Zack spun, bouncing from foot to foot with catlike grace, like Mohammed Ali in his prime. Well, maybe a few years past his prime. He issued a challenge to the men jumping rope, pressing weights, and running on treadmills. “Which one of you ladies will take me on?”
No one met his gaze.
One of the gym’s most respected trainers entered the ring, placed a hand on his shoulder. “Zack, go hit the shower. See the doc.” He referred to the physical therapist who patched up the guys after they got dinged up.
Zack shrugged the hand off his shoulder. He didn’t want pity or sympathy. “I need a workout.”
“No, you don’t. You want punishment. You could have beaten that guy with your eyes closed. You’ve thrown exactly three punches, one every five minutes.”
Zack cursed.
“You’re a mess,” the trainer said. “I don’t know what happened on your last assignment, and I don’t care. I haven’t seen you this whacked out since your divorce five years ago.”
“But—”
“Just don’t come back until you straighten out your sorry ass.”
“Fine.” Zack held up his hands so the trainer could remove the tape that secured the gloves to his wrists. “I was just leaving.”
Zack tossed the gloves into his locker but didn’t change from his sweaty T-shirt. Like a bar-hopping drunk who knew where to go for his next drink after his favorite watering hole closed for the night, he walked two blocks down Santa Monica Boulevard and entered another gym. This operation wasn’t full of ex-cops, DEA, and FBI. The home of brawlers, bikers, and street fighters, this seedy joint didn’t offer a juice bar or bottled water. The mats reeked of vicious sweat. Dust smudged the windows around faded posters of Hoyce Gracie, Ken Shamrock, and Tito Ortiz.
Here, padded gloves were for rookies. Bare-knuckle fights were the norm. Zack tossed his gym bag onto a bench, avoided the reflection of his swelling shiner in the cracked mirror, and eyed the biggest, fittest, meanest dude he could find. “Want to go a few rounds?”
A six-foot-four-inch, bald-headed fighter with “Bryan” tattooed on one cheek eyed him and shook his head. “Mate,” he spoke with a British accent, “you look like you’ve already fought one too many blokes.”
Zack forced a lopsided grin through his split lip. “That was my warm-up.”
“Come back when you’re healthy.”
“Don’t be a wuss.”
Zack had graduated from the DEA’s special training school with off-the-chart test results in discerning relative size, balance, bodily awareness, and perception of timing and motion as well as scoring extraordinarily high in muscular reflex tests—plus a host of other tests with names that sounded like scientific gibberish—which all meant he was one tough, highly trained fighting machine—even when injured. His superiors considered him an unqualified success.
But the trainer at the last gym had known better when he’d called him a mess. Yeah, the last op had gone down real smooth. Smooth as death.
Despite all Zack’s expertise, two months ago he hadn’t moved fast enough, hadn’t sensed the danger, had trusted when he shouldn’t have . . . and for his mistake . . . an innocent bystander had died.
Zack had held Todd as the boy’s lifeblood drained out. He’d had no answer then. He had none now. Hands sticky with blood, he’d held the kid as he’d died, felt his last shudder. Zack had paid for the best damn funeral money could buy. But nothing eased the guilt or the painful memory of those eyes staring into his, eyes that still trusted, eyes that didn’t comprehend that his death was Zack’s fault. The kid’s confused question still rang in his dreams. Two months later, blood still colored his sleep, seeping into every second of every ticking hour.
Ignoring calls from friends, family, coworkers, Zack ran day-long marathons, but he couldn’t run fast enough to escape his guilt. So finding peace had come down to this moment.
Bryan raised his brows in skepticism. “What kind of happy juice are you on?”
“The kind that will whip your ass,” Zack growled. “I’m betting I can take you in three rounds.” With a sneer of disdain calculated to prick the man’s pride, Zack tossed a C-note at Bryan’s feet, then climbed through the ropes into the ring.
“You want me. You got me.” The man removed his bling, a thick gold necklace studded with diamonds, a gold pinky ring and a watch. He peeled off his shirt, exposing more body tats—a cross on his back, a dragon on his chest, a chain around his biceps. He handed his wallet to a friend, telling him to hold the bets, then cracked his neck and closed his massive hands into fists, displaying more ink on his knuckles.
Zack hoped the guy lived up to his fire-breathing dragon tattoo. He yearned for a cleansing burn that would supplant guilt, shame, and grief. Whatever it took. He needed to forget the bullets spraying an innocent, the stench of death, the sad little grave.
And so he faced the dragon and hoped Bryan could do the job. The two men stood eye to eye, touched fists. The dragon breathed fire with a fury of pummeling blows. Zack rocked back on his heels, spat blood, and countered with a punch so slow, Bryan easily blocked and jabbed his chin.
Finally, Zack had found a worthy opponent. One with the brawn to make a dent, one with no scruples, one who wouldn’t hesitate to knock his head off. Zack danced on the balls of his toes, blocking a punch here, his defensive reaction more habit than desire to protect himself.
Bryan came in fast, hard, with the confidence of a predator. Although they were the same height, Bryan, thick-armed and muscular, outweighed Zack by fifty pounds.
Already bruised, Zack’s flesh absorbed more blows. Searing pain radiated through his gut. His legs weakened, buckled. Staggering, he held himself up on the ropes. Bryan’s fists rained in a vicious downpour of jabs. For a few priceless seconds the pain of the body supplanted the pain in his soul. Zack’s vision narrowed, a sign of the beginning of unconsciousness. Sheer determination kept him on his feet, bracing for the next blow.
Then he saw Kevin’s face, the brother he’d adored, as unexpected and vivid as if he were still alive. Once he’d thought Kevin walked on water, that he was one step higher than Spider-Man. But he’d learned Kevin was as human as everyone else, that his brother’s seemingly bottomless energy came through a needle. It had started so innocently, just a push, a little more energy, to do a little more, to be a little better. Before Kevin knew he was in danger, he was lost. He’d fought his addiction, so hard, but the lure had proven too strong, and Kevin had given in. He’d given up. Kevin shook his head at Zack. “Don’t give up like I did.”
Instinctively, Zack blocked, counterpunched, and snapped a roundhouse kick to
his opponent’s jaw. Bryan staggered. His eyes narrowed in surprise, and he grinned. “Where did that come from?”
Zack stared into Bryan’s face, recognized the surprise that mirrored his own and took his first step away from the darkness and toward the light. Kevin’s voice rang out in Zack’s head again, “Don’t give up.”
And Zack realized what he’d been doing—trying to kill his guilt at whatever cost.
Turning his back, Zack walked out of the ring.
Chapter Five
AFTER SPENDING three days with Gabby, Mandy had hugged her daughter goodbye. She’d miss her daughter during her trip to California, but Gabby was in good hands with her grandmother, especially since they’d gone off to the beach. While the last three days had been peaceful, if Mandy didn’t count rearranging her schedule, drying out the contents of her purse that had come up with her car, and dealing with her insurance company, she felt better that her family wasn’t where a stranger could find them. Thankfully, the guy who’d struck her vehicle hadn’t shown up again—not even when she’d ventured off the island to grocery shop.
Earlier this morning, Dana had picked Mandy up at her condo but insisted on stopping at the office to say goodbye to her mother, Catherine, before heading for the airport. Mandy didn’t mind. She wanted to pick up her mail and a few files to read during the six-hour plane ride to the other coast.
Dana parked her Jaguar behind the office building of Catherine Taylor and Associates, in a space marked by a sign with her name on it. Mandy exited the car to see three girls and Lisa Slocum, their paralegal, sitting at a picnic table under hundred-year-old oak trees draped with Spanish moss that towered over the office building. Lisa gestured for Mandy and Dana to join them, her dark-brown eyes bright, her hands busy with the collage they were all making.
Dana shooed Mandy toward the girls and Lisa. “Go say hello. I’ll pick up your stuff and meet you back here.”
“Thanks.” Mandy put her sunglasses on and headed over to join the group. Lisa used her free time to work with foster kids. Apparently she’d grown up in the system, and she enjoyed encouraging other girls to get a college education.
“Girls, say hello to Ms. Mandy,” Lisa suggested. Dressed in a soft gray skirt and white shirt, Lisa looked young enough to be the girls’ big sister. Except Lisa appeared well dressed and confident, her nails manicured, her perfect makeup setting off her flawless skin while the three girls wore clean but ill-fitting clothes, clearly hand-me-downs.
One girl sucked her thumb, but the other two offered shy hellos. Mandy knew children from broken homes often lacked social skills and understood that Lisa played a critical part in their lives. She admired her for taking the time to give back.
“Hey, Mandy.” Lisa held up a picture of a pink computer she’d just cut out of a magazine. “Think this qualifies as a design essential?”
“Only if you pair it with a matching phone,” Mandy said.
A girl with blond pigtails glanced between them. Then she took her thumb out of her mouth and pointed to a magazine page of sleek cell phone covers, one with bright pink stars. “How about this?”
“Sweetie, I think that’s perfect.” Lisa patted the girl on the back, and Mandy watched the child flinch, as if unaccustomed to affection.
“That’s just what I had in mind,” Mandy added.
The girl smiled shyly. Mandy smiled back.
“You all keep working while I talk to Ms. Mandy, okay?” Lisa told them.
The two women walked to the parking lot, far enough away so the kids couldn’t overhear. No longer shaded by the oaks, Lisa squinted in the bright sunlight. She frowned at the traffic flowing by, glanced at the kids and cleared her throat. Mandy expected Lisa to ask her about a case, or for advice with one of the children’s legal problems. Maybe even an adoption. Lisa was always trying to find a real family for her kids and Mandy’s hopes rose. If Lisa needed her help, she’d make time in her schedule, even if she had to cut back on sleep.
Although a paralegal, Lisa intended to go to law school if her scholarship came through. Meanwhile, when they could, Dana and Mandy helped when legal issues cropped up with Lisa’s foster children.
“Have the police found the guy who knocked you off the bridge?” Lisa asked, surprising Mandy at the subject of conversation.
Mandy shook her head. “The vehicle was stolen and wiped clean of prints. I don’t think they even have any leads to follow.”
“Have you gone through your cases? Maybe a picture in the file will jog your memory.”
“I tried. Nothing rang a bell.”
Lisa shivered in the hot sunlight. She took Mandy’s hands in both of hers and stared hard into her eyes. “You be careful. I have a bad feeling about this.”
Dana walked out of the back of the office building, holding Mandy’s mail and files. “We need to get going. There’s no telling how long it’ll take us to get through airport security.”
Mandy gave Lisa a quick hug. “I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me. You go take care of your girls, okay?”
Lisa nodded, her voice low and serious. “Watch your back.”
FROM MANDY and Dana’s table on the flowery terrace of the Ocean View Café, Mandy gazed at the hot pinks and oranges of the Pacific sunset. While she eagerly anticipated dinner and the exotic Mediterranean cuisine that Dana had said she’d enjoyed in this restaurant during college, Mandy put off making a decision between tabouli or herb pizza. As far as Mandy was concerned, no food could compete with the spectacular display Mother Nature provided as the glowing sun sizzled down into the sea. Mandy had always had an affinity for the water. Manhattan Beach, with the deep sapphire of the serene ocean, the salt tang of the gentle California breeze, and the swooping gulls, fed her inner peace and soothed the ragged edges of her unnerving week.
“I’m glad I came out here,” Mandy admitted to Dana. While she’d spent quality time with Gabby over the past few days, she hadn’t been able to relax. She’d been jumpy and suspicious of strangers. Yet, no one had bothered her. Now the trip was giving her a chance to put her harrowing week behind her.
“This is where Sam took me on our first date,” Dana’s tone was mellow, full of good memories. In the soft glow of the sunset, she appeared younger than her thirty years and wistful. “I knew the night Sam and I met that we’d be happy together.”
“You were right.”
Dana had what Mandy wanted. A best friend, a lover, a husband all wrapped in one. She had a man who came home every night, who understood her work, who supported her dreams. Dana and Sam’s relationship reminded Mandy that marriage could work, that it was possible to find the right man.
“I wish we could have a baby.” Dana sipped her wine.
“You will.” The irony that Mandy’s one night with failed protection had resulted in Gabrielle while Dana and Sam couldn’t get pregnant after two years of trying saddened Mandy. And made her feel guilty for keeping Gabby’s father a secret. A niece wasn’t a child of her own, and Mandy couldn’t imagine Dana loving Gabby any more, but it was a secret between them, one that grew heavier as Dana fulfilled her longings for her own child by buying Gabrielle expensive baby toys and clothing.
“I’m considering adoption.”
“If that’s what you want, go for it. You and Sam can afford to adopt as many children as you like.”
“Sam says we should give it more time. In truth, he’s spending so much energy on business that I’m not sure how good a father he’ll be.” Dana sipped her wine. “But my biological clock is running out.”
“You’re only thirty, and maybe once Sam has a child, he’ll make room in his life.”
Dana rolled her eyes. “He’s consumed with not just his law practice but his real estate ventures. It’s hard to make time for everything, and I want four kids.” Dana’s tone revealed a hunger she usually repre
ssed. Her five-bedroom home must seem empty—even with a husband and their pets.
Apparently, not even Sam was perfect. Still, Dana was lucky to have him and Mandy tried to keep the conversation upbeat. “With adoption, maybe you can find siblings.”
“Yes. That’s why I don’t understand why Sam is so reluctant to—”
Dana’s cell phone rang. So did Mandy’s. They exchanged a long look of alarm. Back east, it was just after 11 P.M. Too late for business.
Gabrielle.
Fingers shaking, Mandy dug into her purse for her phone. Dana did the same.
Dana retrieved her phone first and checked caller ID. “It’s Catherine.” She flicked it open and answered, “Hi, Mom.”
Mandy’s phone revealed that Sylvia Jacobson, the firm’s senior secretary, was on the line. She couldn’t recall Sylvia ever calling during the evening, and her anxiety heightened. Had her attacker found out where she’d sent her family? At the thought, her throat tightened. Sylvia was down-to-earth and sensible. She would never have called at this time unless there was some kind of emergency.
Mandy’s pulse kicked in—even as she fought back her fears. “Hello.”
“Have you heard?” Sylvia’s voice practically hummed with excitement, not disaster.
“What happened? Tell me.”
“Are you sitting down?”
Across the table, Dana’s eyebrows rose, and she broke into a wide smile and laughed, her tone bubbly. “You’re certain?”
Mandy answered Sylvia’s question. “I’m sitting beside the ocean and drinking wine with Dana.”
“Perfect.” Sylvia had lived in Florida for thirty years but the rare times when she got excited, her New York accent returned. Tonight she spoke in a Bronx dialect as thick as if she’d never left the Big Apple. “This is the best news ever. We won the Powerball jackpot.”
Kiss Me Deadly Page 4