by Jeanne Adams
“Predatory?”
“Exactly. I wanted to give you time. We were both busy with our lives, you dated some,” he said, remembering when he’d come back to the States, intending to court her, only to find that she was already seeing someone.
“Yes, I dated some.” She smiled. “So did you. I seem to remember a photograph of you on the French Riviera. A model, wasn’t it?” She grinned at him.
“Ah, ma chère—” He put on the excessive French accent to amuse, and succeeded. “She meant nothing to me, nothing.”
“I’m wounded, Dav. Just wounded that you would prefer a blonde.” Her attempt to seem pathetic was totally spoiled by the giggle that escaped to delight him.
“So why, my wounded darling,” he continued, only half joking now, “did you turn me down when I did ask? I gave up on the Riviera, you know.” He held up three fingers as he’d seen Gates do. “Scout’s honor.”
“Right.” She was still giggling when the waiter set down their orders, offered to refill their glasses.
It wasn’t until the young man stepped away, toward the street-side planters to retrieve the water pitcher, that Dav noticed the street noises, and the sound of cars passing. He didn’t think anything of it. The sound of an engine gunning down the street didn’t bother him either. He was too busy waiting for Carrie to tell him why she’d turned him down.
“It seemed like I was always turning to you for help.” She gestured and he followed the graceful movement of her hand. “I guess I wanted to be in a place where I didn’t need help before I accepted a date.”
“Hmm, I guess that makes some sense.” He smiled at her, adding, “In a convoluted sort of way.”
A commotion inside the restaurant caught his eye, and he saw Declan, the young redheaded member of his security team, struggling to get through the crowded interior. Dav could see the man’s mouth working, shouting, though Dav heard nothing.
He knew what it meant, however.
“Carrie, come with me,” he said, standing up and letting the chair fall behind him. “There’s something wrong.” He tugged her from her seat, pulled her around the small table, and toward the restaurant—toward Declan and the others. Declan’s reaction meant an attack of some kind was imminent.
A powerful black Suburban burst through the pots, trees and railings surrounding the patio, sending the young waiter flying. Blood spattered over Dav’s face, into his eyes, distracting him for one crucial moment. That moment gave the huge vehicle time to come to a stop.
As the Suburban’s doors opened, Declan burst out of the restaurant, screaming, “Dav, hit the deck!”
Dav obeyed instantly, and dragged Carrie down to the ground so he could cover her with his body. Declan whipped out a weapon and took aim. Shots flew from the car behind them and Dav saw Declan stagger, then a second round of ammunition spun him round, sent him careening into the restaurant’s glass walls. Already fractured, the glass gave way and fell with a terrific crash of sound.
Carrie screamed as she saw Declan fall, and screamed again as more bullets flew. Two more of his men burst onto the patio. Georgiade got off several shots, but he and Queller were driven back by the rapid spate of return fire.
Dav yelled, started to help her up, make a run for it, but the sound was cut short. He was jerked upward, away from her. He began to fight, driving an elbow into his attacker, hearing a grunt of pain.
Carrie! He must protect Carrie. It was all he could think.
A black-clad man grabbed Carrie around the waist, hauling her up, dragging her toward the Suburban.
OHE!!!NO!!! He screamed the denial in his mind, as he saw them lift her, saw her fighting them.
From behind him, another man pressed the hot barrel of a weapon to Dav’s head. “Come,” he ordered. “Or she dies.”
Dav straightened, hands in the air. The gunfire ceased. Dav prayed his other team was close enough, prayed Declan was alive, that he’d worn his vest. Prayed that Queller and Thompson had found a way to stop this.
A man leaned out into the street around the dirt and debris from the planters, firing at someone or something. Dav heard the squeal of tires, and the sound of crunching metal and shattering glass. People shouted incoherently and Dav heard screams as well. Someone returned fire as he was yanked forward, shoved headfirst into the car. He heard the shriek of metal on metal as bullets hit the car, but nothing slowed the Suburban’s retreat as it peeled out of the wreckage of the patio and roared away.
Everything Gates had taught him, all the tactics, raced through his mind, but none of the scenarios had included Carrie.
None had included a hostage other than himself.
A serious oversight.
A heavy canvas bag dropped over his head and a sickly sweet smell filled his nose. He tried in vain to hold his breath, but a blow to his back forced a sharp inhalation.
Everything went black.
Niko rubbed his aching cheek. The blow his brother, Davros Gianikopolis, had landed thirteen years ago today, had cracked his cheekbone. On days like this one, with San Francisco’s changeable weather, and with the barometric pressure dropping to herald a storm, he felt it as a bitter echo of the long-ago battle.
It throbbed; thirteen years of pain.
None of the bones he’d broken since, in jail or in his time as a mercenary in South America and Africa, had hurt as much or ached as long. He took it as a sign that this first pain was the deepest, the one that most needed redress.
It was time to take his revenge.
“Time to serve the coldest dish up to you, Dav, long past time,” he chuckled. None of this would have been possible when Dav’s former security team was in charge. No. Only now, in the interregnum, the time between the old and new, could he strike, and strike hard.
The contacts he’d cultivated with little success had suddenly opened up when Bromley was attacked the previous year. Instead of ruining everything he’d planned, the debacle with the woman trying to kill Gates had worked to his advantage. It proved he was on the right track; it was destiny.
Those same contacts now believed him to be part of Dav’s organization. It was a beautiful con and he’d profited significantly already. At last, everything was ready for the final steps.
He was ready.
He paused long enough to send a text to his mentor, the man who’d taught him to think cold, to plan, to play the long, hard game. He’d wanted Niko to hire someone for this task, keep it impersonal, but Niko knew he had to handle it himself. Revenge should be personal. Tomorrow the world would change.
Ready to implement, he typed.
“This time, brother,” he murmured, lowering the binoculars, but still observing every angle to be sure he was unwatched, “it will be me, taking everything you love.”
He called the girl, Inez, and kept her talking until he saw Dav and his protective detail round the corner toward the restaurant. He’d waited half an hour, just to be sure they weren’t coming back, then dialed again. Everything was in place; it was ready and had been since Inez had gushingly told him about the date Dav had arranged with Carrie McCray. She was his inside “man” and she’d played her part to perfection.
“Hi, honey. Lock the front doors like you’re getting that shipment, I’ll come to the back, okay? I’ll knock—” He let his voice drop to a sexy range. “I know we won’t have much time, but I need to see you, to touch you.” He tucked the phone in between his shoulder and his ear as he told her what she wanted to hear, that she was beautiful, sexy, desirable.
After parking several blocks away—a lucky break in the popular neighborhood—he walked to the back of the building.
“I’m so excited. This is like clandestine stuff, you know?” she whispered over the phone.
“Uh-huh. Scary sex is great sex, babe.”
She gushed and giggled into the phone and he rolled his eyes. Women were all alike. At the edge of the building he stopped long enough to pull on the thin gloves and slip surgical booties over his shoes.
“I’m just at the back door now, babe. Come let me in,” he crooned, moving up to the receiving dock, while staying out of range of the camera. “Yeah, that’s right,” he muttered in answer to some inane question she asked. He hurried up the steps, easing along the wall so the secondary video wouldn’t catch the movement.
When he knocked, the door creaked open, offering just a slice of light in the shadowed area under the receiving dock’s canopy.
“Hey, handsome,” Inez gushed, swinging the door wide. He saw her frown at his shoes, so he swept her into his arms, tugging the heavy door shut behind him, making sure only the back of his head and jacket were visible to the inner door camera.
“Hey, baby,” he crooned, kissing her and grabbing her ass. He boosted her up into his arms and she wrapped her legs around his waist. With her clinging to him, he moved quickly down the hall. His body reacted to her sensuality and the kisses she pressed to his neck. It was a pity he didn’t have time for sex. She was young, enthusiastic, and flexible. At least screwing her had been a bonus rather than a chore, although he’d have done it, no matter what.
“Hey,” she giggled. “What took you so long? They’ve been gone awhile.”
“I know. Trouble parking,” he lied, swinging open the door to Carrie McCray’s office with his hip. It was good to be in the cramped space, where no cameras peered. He set her on the desk, had her blouse open in a moment, her bra unhooked. She laughed, pulling his head to her for a kiss.
“You’re in a hurry,” she moaned throatily, then frowned again, noting the gloves on his hands.
It really was too bad. She noticed the little things, lots of little things. It was a shame she was so smart.
He distracted her by flipping up her skirt, fondling her so that she closed her eyes and let her head fall back. He’d counted on that. It was a studied move on her part, designed to make a man feel like he was doing a good job. Every time he touched her below her waist, she did that very move with the head toss and the closed eyes. He grinned, hating that he really didn’t have time for a quick fuck.
Too bad.
He eased the long, thin, sharpened palette knife out of his pocket with one hand, keeping her busy with the other.
She was so focused she didn’t flinch as he slipped the knife easily between her ribs, hitting the heart in one stroke. One twist opened the wound more, ensuring the incision was lethal. It was a poetic move, he thought, to kill her with an artist’s implement.
Her eyes flew open and her head jerked forward, once. To his delight, he saw the betrayal, the shock in her eyes as they dimmed in death.
How very satisfying. Even a bit ... arousing.
He let her body fall backward and to the side. The blood was oozing around the handle of the blade now and he wanted to be sure he wasn’t marked by it. He switched on the desk light, looking at the gloves under the bright white light. Good, no blood, even on the gloves.
“The nice thing about hitting the heart the first time,” he told the dead girl, “is that if you do it right, and position the body correctly, the blood all pumps into the body cavity.” He remembered the first time he heard the words, delivered in a highly accented voice from his mercenary captain. “You still die,” he observed, speaking to the dead as he hooked the desk chair with his foot to pull it over, prop her feet on it so her body wouldn’t fall onto the floor. “However, you don’t get blood all over your killer. Bad for you, good for me.”
With a quick twist, he gathered her blouse in one hand and used it to turn her body to its side, leaving the knife in the wound like a cork. All the blood would now pool inside the body until the cops turned her onto her back.
“Lovely. Just lovely,” he said, patting her hip with both affection and care. He’d had a good time with her, but he didn’t want to dislodge the weapon or mar his handiwork. “Now,” he said cheerfully, “where is your cell phone?”
He dumped her bag on the floor and took her driver’s license and the lone credit card in her wallet. As an afterthought, he pocketed the hundred dollars he found there as well. Why not? If the cops thought it a robbery gone bad, all the better.
“Ah, yes, you were talking to me just before you answered the door, weren’t you?” Before he retraced his steps to the back door, he turned off the camera. He moved quickly, knowing there might be an alarm on the cameras. If one shut down, it could either trigger a backup or the cops. The cops wouldn’t be as much a problem as the backup camera.
Then again, he was well known to be dead already, so it wasn’t that much of a problem either way.
He checked his watch. Dav and Carrie would be taken by now. It was all going as he’d planned. He grinned, knowing what awaited his idiot brother.
There, on a pedestal by the locked rear door, was her phone. Excellent. The number she’d used for him was a throwaway phone, but he took no chances. With the phone in his pocket, he used a nearby broom to reach the camera, turn its seeking eye toward the wall. A quick trip back to the office where he jumped the security disk back to just before he came in, set the camera back on and left the building locked up nice and tight. Within minutes, all evidence of him would be taped over and he would be the ghost that killed Inez.
He chuckled at his cleverness and as he walked toward his parked car, he gave the hundred to several bums, a twenty at a time. He stopped a scruffy-looking messenger and handed him the credit card.
“Hey, dude, use this for me, would you? My girlfriend stole it from me, bought a few things, then gave it back. I was about to report it stolen, but there’s got to be a bunch more on it or I can’t press charges on her.” Total bullshit, of course, but the kid wouldn’t know that. “Go buy some gas or something. You got an hour before I report it missing.” When the boy’s eyes turned sly, he knew he’d picked a winner.
The boy snatched the card and sped off. Two blocks later, Niko tossed her driver’s license into the gutter. He took a last look at her picture, and smiled.
“A good picture. What a surprise,” he told her photo. “Usually look like mug shots. Or worse.”
He unlocked the car and as he drove away, he decided it really was too bad she’d been so smart.
Chapter 3
Jurgens disconnected the call, closing the cell phone with a snap of his wrist and a silent snarl. It hadn’t been a pleasant conversation. Hardened as he was from years in his profession, he was irritated at the level of venom he’d sensed over his refusal. His annoyance made him more thorough about the methodical destruction of the phone. The largest piece when he was done could have been hidden under a dime.
He had turned down the contract on Davros Gianikopolis, citing both other work and a conflict of interest. He didn’t go into details, wouldn’t. No questions had been asked.
Frowning, he pondered the repercussions.
“My love,” Caroline said, gliding into the brightly lit room, her robe a lush flow of rose silk over her skin. “Come to bed.” She came up behind his chair and automatically began to massage his shoulders, easing the tension there with her touch alone.
He turned his face to kiss the hand that eased him so.
“I made the call,” he said, knowing she would understand.
“I see.” Her hands never stilled, though he felt the brief hesitation, understood it. “What was your decision?”
“I declined.”
Her fingers stilled, and then squeezed before resuming their relaxing strokes. “Good.”
They stayed connected there, for long silent moments, both thinking their own thoughts as Caroline continued to rub his shoulders, releasing the tension that had taken up residence there when he’d made his decision, notified the potential client. He’d done work for the man before, successfully of course. Perhaps it was that which made the client so angry. Perhaps not.
He was unsure which reaction concerned him more, the lack of respect for their previous relationship or the vicious severing of their business when he’d refused the contract. He knew peo
ple, their reactions, their reasoning. It made him good at what he did. Perhaps that was why he knew this would not end here, not with this client.
“Now what? Will you let him know? Will you tell Davros that he’s targeted?”
“He knows this, I am sure,” he said dismissively, knowing it to be true, but giving her the opening to continue the discussion.
“He doesn’t know about this one. You said—” She stopped and he could feel her hesitation.
“Nein.” He stopped her kneading hands by spinning in the chair, gripping them in his own. “Do not hide your thoughts from me. We must be clear together, always, ja?”
She sighed and kissed him as he pulled her into his lap. She fit there with remarkable ease, something he never failed to appreciate.
“I am sentimental,” she said hesitantly. “I know he had nothing to do with our finally being together—you took care of that.” When he frowned, she saw it and added, “Yes, I know, we both played our parts. But his situation with the art fraud, the way his people dug it out, gave us a cover and an opportunity that might not have come up for several more years.” She smiled and he loved her all the more. Everything about her lit him from within.
“You want me to warn him.” He said it matter-of-factly. He knew this was what she did want. It would not be the easiest, or perhaps the wisest course, but for her, for sentiment, he would do it if she asked.
“Yes.”
“Hmmm,” was all he said, shifting her to lean on his shoulder, enjoying the feel of her lithe body in his arms, on his lap. As always, she waited while he thought it through. No questions, no pleading. This was another thing he loved about her. She was clear, concise. If he asked for reasoning, she would give it, though perhaps in this case she wouldn’t since she’d already admitted she was motivated by sentiment, perhaps even superstition.