Bulletproof (Unknown Identities #1)

by Black, Regan

  Oh, now he got it. John shook his head slowly from side to side, had to laugh. “Confidence has nothing to do with it.” He should have known. “For some reason it has to be me.” This just got better all the time. Whatever Messenger was leaving out would come back to bite John in the ass in the end.

  “Redemption, John,” he implored, dangling the bait and disregarding the accusation. “It could be yours. Finally.”

  He wanted to say no. Hell no. But he wasn’t a fool. Messenger knew which buttons to push, but there was an opportunity here that didn’t have jack to do with the sales pitch about redemption.

  “I want payment up front. Two mil, not a penny less, wired into my account. The one you emptied,” he added, “while I was in prison. Once I confirm the transfer, I begin the mission. No negotiations.” With that kind of capital he could disappear the right way.

  These bastards would never find him again.

  Messenger hesitated. He didn’t like losing the upper hand. “That’s far more than the usual compensation. And you know full well that when someone has to be sent in to tidy up a situation, you forfeit payment.”

  John wasn’t arguing the point. He shrugged. “Take it or leave it.”

  Messenger removed his cell from the interior pocket of his jacket and tapped a few keys. His attention settled on John once more. “Done.” He tucked his phone away. “As I said, she will call you.”

  The vibration in his back pocket alerted John that he had received a text confirmation of the transaction. He didn’t bother to check it. If Messenger was desperate enough to cave so easily on the terms, they needed this done now. And they needed John.

  “However, there is just one small,” Messenger held his thumb and forefinger close together “condition. One we know you can certainly handle.”

  “What condition?” The other boot was about to hit the grimy floor. Hard. Maybe he should have asked for five million.

  “If during the course of this mission circumstances change,” Messenger said, the look in his eyes empty now, like the bastard’s soul, “your orders will change accordingly.”

  Like the bonus features of a second rate movie, more of those long banished memories washed over John. “Including, of course, tidying up,” he added what the other man left off.

  “Agreeing to that condition is absolutely essential to the success of the mission.”

  No wonder he’d forked over the two mil so easily. This was no simple assignment. Whatever this Bennett woman was into, it was big, deep, and bad.

  The series of events required to ensure the crossing of John’s path with this woman’s would already be in motion. They were that certain of his cooperation.

  And they were even more certain he wouldn’t survive long enough to get the job done.

  He wondered how long it would take Amelia Bennett to realize she was totally fucked.

  Chapter Two

  Boston, Back Bay 11:01 p.m.

  Her apartment had been ransacked.

  No... no. That wasn’t right.

  Ransacked was nowhere near an apt description of the damage done. The whole place looked as if a scare-the-controversial-reporter bomb tucked into the sofa had exploded. About the only item still intact was the front door. The same door with – count them – three state-of-the-art deadbolts that were still locked when she arrived home to this chaos.

  The intruder must have had a key... or maybe he was a ghost.

  Amelia Bennett took a big, deep breath. She forced her respiration to slow, and outright refused to permit her heart to keep up the wild pounding.

  The intruder had succeeded in scaring her. Bully for him.

  She’d found the mess and called 9-1-1 as she ran out of the building. Like a stunned bystander watching the rescue efforts after a massive pile-up on the Turn Pike, she’d stood outside – in the rain – until the police arrived.

  Anger compressed her lips. The first officers on the scene had gotten a good look at Amelia Bennett scared witless. Cutting herself some slack, she had to admit that this was not just another nasty phone call or threatening letter.

  This was over the line...way over the line.

  One thing was absolutely certain...whoever did this wouldn’t get that opportunity again.

  In the last hour she’d grabbed back control. Staying calm and rational was essential. Her competition didn’t call her the stone maiden for nothing.

  Tomorrow she would have her locks changed and call in a contractor for her own personal security system.

  The mutilated and busted furniture she could deal with. It wasn’t even the end of the world that so many of her most personal belongings, photos, clothes, basically everything, were damaged beyond repair in one way or another. What really made her nuts was the idea that someone had gotten in here so easily and had the balls to leave her a message on the living room wall scrawled in blood.

  Knock, knock... you’re dead, bitch.

  According to one of the techs, who wasn’t supposed to tell Amelia anything, particularly at this point in the investigation, it was not human blood.

  That she was thankful for.

  Amelia took a mental step back. Dragged in a deep breath. She spent an enormous chunk of her paycheck each month on a Back Bay location. The building had topnotch security and was located on the best block in the area. She’d had two extra deadbolts installed when she moved in. And it hadn’t been enough to stop this.

  “How long will it take to determine if there are prints or whatever?”

  The idea that someone had come into her place and touched her stuff gave her the willies. Banished any patience she attempted to dredge up for the weary detective who’d been here for hours already. He hadn’t offered much in the way of hope for finding the culprit. She doubted any amount of time was going to change that sad fact.

  “Depends,” Detective Arnold Fincher scrubbed a hand over the salt and pepper stubble on his chin, “we’ll run everything we get through the usual databases.” He executed another of those listless shrugs. “Techs took photos. Video.” He gestured to the man and woman still picking through Amelia’s stuff. “Soon as we have something, I’ll let you know.”

  “Thank you, Detective. I would appreciate that.” As she suspected, his answer told her absolutely nothing.

  At her current rate of frustration she, in all probability, would lose her mind if she waited for Fincher to get back to her. Unfortunately, there was little else she could do.

  Fincher closed his notepad and stuffed it into his suit coat pocket with a shake of his head. “The really bizarre part is that whoever did this, assuming it wasn’t one of your neighbors, didn’t show up on the security camera at either of the building entrances. The super scanned the video. It’s one of those high-tech systems that only records when there’s movement so he was able to search through the whole fifteen hours in about that many minutes.”

  Amelia didn’t know the names of all her neighbors and it was remotely possible that someone who lived in the building had decided to show how he or she really felt about her.

  But, she surveyed the chaos, this felt more sinister. More personal. Not to mention the stunning lack of any breaking and entering.

  “The usual crowd left this morning, same as you,” Fincher said, dragging her from the disturbing thoughts. “Residents drifted home from work, some later than others. But there wasn’t a one the super couldn’t identify.” He offered Amelia a sad attempt at a reassuring smile. “But don’t worry, Miss Bennett. We’ll get to the bottom –”

  Shouting in the corridor outside her apartment hauled Amelia’s and the detective’s attention to the door. Someone was demanding to see her... wait... she listened to the next round of yelling. She knew that voice.

  Fincher squared his shoulders and strode with renewed authority in that direction. “What in blazes is –?”

  “It’s my boss.” Amelia would recognize his voice anywhere. From the sound of it, he was in uber-pissed-off mode.

 
; This whole ugly mess was about to get worse.

  A whole lot worse.

  Deep-shit worse, considering she hadn’t called her boss immediately after notifying the police. Amelia snatched the hair clasp from the strap of her purse, which she’d dropped to the floor upon seeing her belongings destroyed, and clipped her rain-soaked hair out of the way. She resisted the urge to roll up her sleeves in preparation for battle, though a battle it would surely be.

  While Detective Fincher explained to the officer outside her door that it was okay for Bernard Kessler to enter the crime scene, Amelia steeled for the eruption that would follow his assessment of the situation.

  “Holy hell,” Bernie muttered as he surveyed her living room.

  Barely as tall as Amelia, her boss trudged past the detective and right into the middle of the disarray. Houndstooth coat pushed to the sides and hands planted at the waistband of his wrinkled trousers, the same ones he’d been wearing at eight this morning, he shook his head at the extent of the destruction.

  After an endless moment of deliberation his shock and disbelief landed on Amelia. “This has gone far enough.”

  Here we go. “You don’t know that this,” Amelia gestured at her ruined belongings, “has anything to do with the story.”

  Astonishment claimed Bernie’s face.

  It was a shot in the dark but she’d had to try. Clearly he wasn’t buying that theory.

  “Really. Think it through.” She grabbed onto the bravado that attempted to escape once more and turned to Fincher. “Just because I haven’t found anything missing yet, doesn’t mean it wasn’t a robbery attempt, right?”

  Maybe someone wanted her Godiva and failed to find her hidden stash. And there was the Absolut. People paid good money for the stuff’s priceless stupor-enhancing quality. Usually she would grieve the potential loss of the chocolate first and foremost, but lately she’d reached for the vodka a little more often.

  “Right?” she prompted Fincher when he stood there looking from her to Bernie and back again with that same noncommittal expression he’d had pasted on his face since he arrived.

  Fincher shrugged, something else he’d been doing each time she asked him a question. “I suppose anything’s possible.” He turned his palms up. “I can’t give you an official answer yet.”

  Amelia nodded appreciatively as if he’d provided an invaluable insight. He didn’t know jackshit anymore than she did. Theories, speculation – that was all anyone had at the moment, but rehashing the unknown would buy her some time. She kept her attention fixed firmly on the detective, hoping he’d add something beneficial to her predicament.

  She would pretty much have to be in a coma not to feel Bernie’s furious glare burning into her profile.

  “I guess the freak that ripped your place apart left you that message just for fun?” Her boss’s voice echoed several octaves higher than usual. He waved magnanimously to the bloodied wall.

  “There could be –” she started to explain.

  “Conference.” He snarled the word, cutting her off.

  Amelia rolled her eyes and heaved a dead-tired breath. “Would you excuse us, please?” she said to the detective. Being polite wasn’t exactly on her mind just now, but the exchange dragged out the inevitable for ten or fifteen more seconds.

  “No problem. But,” he held up his gloved hands and turned them back and forth to ensure both she and Bernie paid attention, “don’t touch anything.”

  “Of course.” Amelia backed toward her front door. “We’ll just step outside.”

  Once out the door, Bernie strode to the end of the corridor, she followed, putting some distance between them and the officer stationed at the door. Her boss turned sharply and glared at her. “This fixation of yours is over. I’m taking you off the story. Don’t even try changing my mind.”

  Fixation? Why didn’t he just say what was on his mind? Amelia folded her arms over her chest to isolate the quaking that had started down deep and went for broke. “Fine. I’ll leave my resignation on your desk tomorrow when I clear out my cubicle.”

  The stare-down dragged on for another five seconds or so.

  He didn’t budge.

  That was the one ace she had up her sleeve. And he wasn’t throwing down his cards. Not good. She shifted her weight from side to side twice before halting the visible show of weakness. Gotta be stronger than this, girl.

  More of those trauma-filled seconds ticked off. She held her breath. If he didn’t give in...

  “I’m serious, Bennett,” he ordered, the inflexible tone bending just a fraction.

  “So am I.” Don’t let him see you sweat. Don’t back down. Deep in her bones Amelia understood that this story was too important.

  Rather than risk him seeing her falter, she moved past him to the window and stared out at the steady drizzle beyond the streaked glass. She couldn’t look him in the eye when he got like this. Never mind the shaky nerves of her current state.

  You’re fearless, Amelia. Remember that.

  The dreary night added the perfect layer of disturbing ambiance to the occasion. She latched onto that distraction with both hands. The weather had everyone talking. It was insane. A solid week of rain. The temperature hovered at the forty-degree mark, well above normal. And the seven-day outlook called for more of the same.

  She, for one, would be prowling for the Prozac if that forecast didn’t change soon.

  Bernie moved up beside her. “You’ve managed to piss off the conservatives,” his voice was noticeably calmer now, but still a wee bit overbearing, “and the liberals. Even the independents are raising hell. It’s a week until Christmas, the world wants a miracle, Bennett. If they believe Senator Larimore is it with his new global data security plan, why not let them have it? The political pundits will figure it out eventually.”

  “But then the story will be over and Average Joe America will be screwed.”

  “But,” Bernie offered, “there will always be another story.”

  But not like this one. “Provided reporters are allowed to keep reporting.”

  In the last three weeks, two of her contacts had gone missing. Only one body had been found, which hopefully meant the other guy was out there somewhere. She needed to find him. To get to the truth before it was too late.

  And if the guy was dead, she needed to find a new source.

  She wanted this story.

  An annoying wisp of damp hair managed to slip loose and she tucked it behind her ear. Since he obviously didn’t plan to relent, Amelia adopted another strategy. “What about circulation?”

  Bernie grunted. “That’s a low blow even for you.”

  “The paper’s circulation is higher than it’s been for the past two years,” she reminded him.

  He was well aware of that cold, hard fact. The past couple of years had been particularly difficult for independently owned media outlets. The Torch barely stayed in the black and a significant part of the reason was Amelia’s controversial story lines. She knew it and so did Bernie. She wasn’t bragging, just stating the facts.

  He leaned against the opposite side of the window, ensuring she couldn’t ignore eye contact any longer. “We’ve worked together since you were a snot-nosed kid kicking academic ass at Boston College. I am not about to let the lust for a story go this far.” He hitched a thumb toward her apartment. “It’s not worth the risk to your life.”

  Easy for him to say. He wasn’t the one out there beating the bushes to drum up interesting leads that would pump up circulation.

  The Torch was as important to her as it was to him. Almost, anyway. The paper had been in his family for six generations. But that legacy didn’t make him right at the moment.

  “It’s not the end of the world, Bernie.” She had insurance. She could replace most of her things. “The stuff doesn’t matter. The story matters.” Her work was her life. She didn’t want to dwell on the idea of what that said about her, but it was true.

  Frustration and no small dash
of fire renewed in her boss’s brown eyes. She usually liked his eyes. Big, chocolate brown, just like that cuddly old Labrador she had adored as a kid. Except there was nothing cuddly about Bernie’s disposition at the moment.

  “The letters, the calls. Most of which,” he continued before she could get a word in, “contain threats to your person if not your life. Now this.” He sighed, the sound resigned. “It’s enough, Amelia.”

  Amelia. Uh-oh. The whole father-figure thing had reared its overbearing head.

  “All good stories that strike the universal emotions carry risk, Bernie. I can take care of myself.” It annoyed the crap out of her when he let his overprotective side show. She could do this... she did it every day!

  “So you say, but this,” he shook his head, “this threat is different. Whoever tore apart your place knows where you live. Has been watching you. What if he’d waited for you to come home?”

  “If... if... if,” she argued. “I could get hit by a bus crossing the street.” The man was acutely overreacting.

  “If you jump in front of the bus,” he contended, folding his arms across his chest, “you increase your odds of being hit.”

  She straightened to her full height, squared her shoulders. “I’m not stopping.” She might as well end this futile debate now. She went toe-to-toe with him, “I’m going to get to the bottom of this cover-up whether I write the story for you or for someone else.”

  His eyebrows reared up his forehead. “I try to protect you and this is the grief I get?” He gave her his back and started to pace.

  Damn. She’d pushed a little too hard with that one. She’d just offended, ticked off, and wounded her oldest and dearest friend. Truth was, Bernie was the closest thing she’d ever had to a father and she played the part of disobedient offspring a little too often.

  No wonder he was the only friend she had... the only person in this world she trusted.

  Bernie muttered furiously under his breath with every step he took.

  Amelia dropped her head back. What the hell did she do now? Why didn’t he just give it up and save them both a lot of energy? He always trusted her instincts and they had served them both well.