“Yeah? And I should care because?”
One of Cort’s bookends cracked a fist against the back of his head. He jerked forward, head swimming, but didn’t make a sound. He knew not to show weakness, let alone pain. Been there, done that, learned the fucking lesson.
“Pay heed, Mr. Jones. Or my men will reinforce my words with their fists.” Yerik blew smoke in his face, then tapped the ash onto the floor. He pocketed the pistol, apparently believing it no longer necessary to ensure Cort’s submission.
“I’m all ears.”
Yerik ignored his insolent tone. “You will cease your search. You will continue to tell the FBI and the royal family you have no way of locating the jewels. Do you understand me?”
If the clones hadn’t been holding him fast, he’d have stumbled backward in shock. The FBI and the Gramornia royal family had pressured him for years to return the crown jewels, and now this KGB-type creep wanted him to leave them hidden? Had he fallen down the damn rabbit hole or was there something funny in the colonel’s cigarette smoke?
Another second and it hit him. Not silly smoke, but political smoke and mirrors. Dirty smoke. Without the crown and scepter and the other trappings of royalty, would there even be a coronation? A ruthless prime minister could foment general unrest and eliminate the royals altogether. Maybe the entire democracy while he was at it.
All Cort had to do was... nothing. Yerik’s mistake was in thinking the threat of a beating would accomplish that. A fist in the gut or a broken nose and the promise of pain weren’t enough to stop him from turning his life around. “So what’s in it for me if I go along with this plot?”
Yerik clucked his tongue, a disgustingly wet sound. “Plot is such an ugly word. I prefer to think of the plan as an alternative. And you? I will allow you to live, Mr. Jones.”
“For sure I can trust you on that. Why bother? You could kill me today and your worries would be over.”
“A tempting suggestion. However, your sudden death or disappearance would lead to more investigation than the prime minister would appreciate. So you will be allowed to live. Unless you resume your search. Then I must re-examine our bargain.” He dropped the butt and ground it into the throw rug with his heel.
Cort couldn’t figure out what the catch was. Except that once the coronation date passed, probably so would he. “Say I agree. Then you walk away and leave me alone?”
“In principle. You will be watched. Closely. Trust but verify, I believe one of your presidents was fond of saying.” He held up a fist.
A signal? Cort braced himself.
In a practiced move, the two clones grasped both arms and secured his wrists with a zip tie. Clone One slugged him in the chin. Pain ripped through his head as it snapped sideways. His brain did a sickening spin. Black spots danced around the room. The other clone kicked his legs and he toppled to the floor.
“Fuck you, Colonel!” Cort spat through bloodied lips.
“One final word of advice and a warning, Mr. Jones,” Yerik said. He once again held the automatic. “I understand you and Ms. Marton are working together. From reports, it appears you’ve moved in with her. You will recover from the little reminder my assistants will administer, but would she? You will say nothing of this conversation to her or to anyone else. If you do, not you, but the lovely Ms. Marton will suffer. I assume I need not be explicit.”
A poisonous storm broke loose in Cort’s head. He exploded upward. “You fucking cowardly bastard!”
The two no-necks tackled him before he could reach Yerik. Their powerful fists rammed into his ribs, his chest, his jaw. One kicked him in the back. He welcomed the blows, each one splintering knives into a new part of his body. Oblivion would come. The suffering was temporary.
Pain cleared the mind. Pain clarified. Pain focused.
Chapter 8
As the sun was setting, Mara drove the Versa into a space behind her building. Cort was waiting for her. The surrounding buildings reached up to the sky, painting his rugged features in shadows. His raw masculinity frightened her a little. At the same time, his protective aura, as if he’d never allow harm to come to her, slid warmth into her stomach. Maintaining detachment around him took effort. She slid out and grabbed her tennis bag and tote from the back.
“Hey.” He stepped forward and took her tote. At the brush of his fingers against hers, her pulse did a little dance. “Everything all right?”
When she looked up at him, she gasped. A greenish bruise surrounded one eye. Scrapes and scabbed-over cuts marred his jaw. “What in the world happened to you?”
He hoisted a shoulder in a show of nonchalance but winced at the movement. “Nothing serious. Got in the way of a load of falling lumber.”
“And I’m the tooth fairy, but if that’s your story, I won’t pry.”
“Thanks.” That was all. He didn’t elaborate but his expression was as grim as death. Even so, an appreciative gaze slid over her legs.
A little fizz jazzed her pulse higher. She should’ve changed from her shorts and sneaks after her sets.
“You can have an ice pack once we’re inside.” Fighting? An explosion of temper? Maybe she’d been mistaken about his tight control on emotions. Another reason not to trust him. She’d have to control her own better where he was concerned. “Your boss okay with you taking off?”
“No problem. I have the next workshop session off. Boss said he’ll need me after that. I’ll work out something if I need to.”
The strained optimism in his voice plucked at her chest. As an assistant instructor, Cort couldn’t make much money, yet he was putting his livelihood in jeopardy to prove he was no longer a thief. “You can stay here again. I mean, if you want. Hotels in D.C. and the suburbs are pricey.” Dammit, she didn’t want to make him think she was coming on to him or offering charity. But if he’d been fighting, maybe her offer was a stupid move.
To her surprise he grinned, actually looking relieved. “Thanks. I’ll take you up on that offer. I’ve been paid for a couple commissions so I’m okay, but who knows what expenses we’ll have from here on out.”
“Commissions?”
“Working at the school’s not my only job. I build furniture on commission. Desks, chairs, tables. I delivered a set of chairs on my way here.” He pushed open the building’s back door and stood aside for her. Pride in his work shoved aside the shuttered pain she usually saw in his eyes.
Custom-made furniture could cost the earth. He wasn’t living hand-to-mouth. Never assume. Suddenly she felt small. Without intending to, she’d belittled him.
“If you’d rather stay elsewhere, I’d understand. My sofa’s not exactly orthopedic.” She’d noticed him stretching his back after the last night he’d slept on it.
“No, I’m good. My back kinda got used to the um, unusual contours of that mattress.”
She laughed, reassured, as they entered the building.
She mentally rehearsed her new security code before inserting her key in the apartment door lock. “You’re carrying my research results in that tote—in my tablet and printouts for you. What I think we need to do is begin with the suspects who live in the D.C. area.”
“I’m guessing if you found anything to exonerate your dad, you’d have said so.”
The gentle support in his voice buoyed her. “You got that right. I did find his notes about meetings with Leon in jail.” She didn’t feel right saying “your dad” when Cort didn’t call him Dad. Calling him the Jeweler seemed confrontational, so she’d settled on Leon.
“The same notes the FBI thought incriminated him?”
She nodded, fumbling with the key ring. “Dad apparently liked Leon. He mentioned his gregarious nature and his use of entertaining stories to detour an interrogation. From his choice of words, I believe Dad was leading him on, befriending him in hopes he’d be persuaded to reveal his big secret—the crown jewels’ hiding place.”
“Sounds reasonable, but it doesn’t help your cause.” He jerked a nod at the b
riefcase in his hand. “Your notes tell you if Leon’s old partner is still around here?”
“Dante Falco lives in College Park.” Maybe this was her opening to broach her other issue. Her pulse jittered at the thought of quizzing Cort about his criminal past but she wanted—needed to know everything. Maybe he would also tell her about his busted face—and ribs, judging from the stiff way he moved.
“You doubt Leon’s usual partner has a ring piece.”
She turned the key in the deadbolt. “That and—” The motion met no resistance. Ice scraped her spine. Her heart rate stumbled. “Oh my God! The door’s unlocked.”
Cort edged her to one side. He turned the knob and pushed the door inward. When he emitted a low whistle, she had to see.
Furniture, books and DVDs on shelves, and plants were turned over and tossed around. “Like a tornado went through.”
A grim look on his face, Cort gripped her shoulders, stopping her from entering. “I once saw a cabin where a black bear got trapped inside. Tore the place apart looking for food and an exit. That was destruction. This was a search.”
No need to hold her back. She was frozen in place and a fist squeezed her chest. But the protection of his arms kept her from shattering into pieces. “F-for the ring p-piece they think I have?” Damn, did she have to sound so shaky?
“Or for what we know.” He opened his phone. “This time we call the cops.” His tone brooked no discussion.
***
Uniform cops responded to the 911 call within fifteen minutes. The two officers quickly cleared the apartment. One took pictures and dusted for fingerprints around the alarm keypad, the locks, and the computer desk. The other asked questions and took notes. Because violence wasn’t involved, they, not a detective, would handle the case. Just as well, as far as Cort was concerned. The fewer cops the better. Even these two made him nervous, as if he’d committed the crime. He doubted they’d find much.
Mara’s hands and shoulders shook as she surveyed the mess. The ring piece was safe because he carried it. And her hard-copy notes and tablet were safe, in her tote, which she’d kept with her. The only items missing turned out to be her laptop and the desktop computer CPU. The only loss that threw her was the disabling of her new security system.
About that, the note-taking cop clicked his tongue. “Burglars are savvy these days. Illegal code-breaking devices are available on the Web. These guys came prepared. Odd they took the computers and not the rest of the components. Or the game consoles.”
Sniffing back tears, Mara indicated the mess in her living room. “Maybe they didn’t see them. Or they wanted money or jewelry instead. Who knows?”
Yes. Cort mentally pumped a fist at how smoothly she’d handled the cops’ questions so they thought they were dealing with ordinary burglars. But he figured these creeps were after the ring and any info about the treasure they could find, paper or in computers. Who was the question. The rat bastard colonel who’d had him thumped? Or one of Leon’s accomplices, greedy for the jewels?
As soon as the uniforms left, Mara slapped a hand over her mouth. “Frak!” She raced to the bathroom and he heard the sounds of her losing lunch.
Seeing her so affected tied a knot in Cort’s gut. This was worse than the thug’s attack. He raised his hand to knock on the bathroom door. His fist hovered an inch from the wood. Hell, he had no idea what to do if she opened up. What did you do with a sick person? He backed away.
A memory brushed his mind—his mom pressing a damp cloth to his forehead. He’d been eleven, sick with the flu. She rubbed his back and eased his fever with the cloth as he hugged the porcelain god and heaved his guts.
Banishing the throat-tightening memory, he strode to the kitchen and dug around in drawers until he found dishcloths. He ran cold water on one, wrung it out to an inch of its life, and returned to his post. A gentle tap on the door should be enough. “Mara, you all right?”
“Better.” The door opened slowly. “Just, it got to me. I don’t throw up when a mugger holds a knife to my throat, but I do because one touches my private things. A violation. Stupid.”
“Not stupid. Seems like it’s piling up on you.”
She was mopping her face with, yes, dammit, a washcloth.
Shit. Now what should he do?
Before he could hide his offering behind him, she said, “Thanks. This one’s dried out.”
He let out the breath he’d been holding and handed over his cloth. When she gave him a tremulous smile, he felt like a hero. Idiot. She looked whiter than her computer printouts. He knew what he’d do for himself under the circumstances. A shot of something alcoholic.
But she’d already started on the mess, scooping dirt back into the plant pots. He helped her right the living-room furniture, and then they started on the shelves.
He handed her a stack of DVDs and reached for the next items, game consoles on their backs like overturned turtles. “I don’t think these are broken. Wii, iPod, Wired, computer with two monitors—you’re a geek all the way.”
She folded her arms and glared, dark eyes flashing with life finally. “Be grateful I am or we wouldn’t have all the data on our suspects.”
“Whoa, don’t freak on me. I think it’s sexy as hell.” When she looked uncertain whether he was hitting on her—he was—he decided to lighten up. “But Frak?”
She wagged her head, a pretty blush returning some color to her honey-toned cheeks. “Swear word from Battlestar Galactica. I like it better than the f-bomb.”
His laughter deepened her blush and she jabbed him in the biceps with a small fist.
“Mara, the f-bomb’s the mildest curse I heard in prison. You won’t damage my ears with it. Or with frak.”
The bedroom was worse, drawers of clothing dumped, the computer desk a total loss. It would keep, she told him. He sent her to rest on the sofa. Downed a shot of brandy and poured two for her.
“I don’t need this,” she said, even as she accepted the glass. She stared at the amber liquid with no life in her eyes. She didn’t argue. Not like her. Her lack of resistance wound his gut tighter. “You should eat something. Sit there and I’ll see what I can do.”
Her fridge held an array of food but the only ingredients he could make a meal with quickly were bagels and an omelet. Eggs should be okay on a queasy stomach. Probably.
He glanced at her as he cooked. Eyes closed. In the lotus position on the sofa, her breasts rising and falling with deep breathing. Maybe yoga would calm her. Seeing her stretching that lithe body and arching her back sure wasn’t calming him. She was tough and vulnerable, smart and beautiful, and he wanted her bad. More than that he wanted to be with her. He liked just talking to her. But they were so wrong for each other it was laughable. The cynical loner and the trusting geek. All that brought them under the same roof was their mutual goal. That’s what he needed to concentrate on. Not getting Mara naked.
He flipped the omelet, catching it with the pan. Hadn’t forgotten how. That part-time work after release as a short-order cook had paid off in some skills even if the job had paid squat.
After dumping in grated asiago and chopped vegetables, he folded over the eggs. “Omelet’s ready.” He headed to the table armed with silverware and a tub of cream cheese.
“I’m okay now.” She pushed off the sofa and came toward him. “The eggs look wonderful. But I don’t think I can eat.”
Okay? No way. He wanted to bundle her off to Maine. “You look shell-shocked. You need to eat.”
She shook her head. Lifted his hand and pressed his knuckles to her cheek.
He wanted her to keep his hand there forever against that soft, warm skin. Heat flared briefly in her eyes before she banked it. Just as well.
“Thank you for being so thoughtful,” she said, regret in her voice. Or in his mind. “But I’m going to bed now.”
So he consumed the entire omelet and two bagels and shoved the sofa-bed against the door. He stretched out there—alone.
***
He exited the crowded Metro car at the Crystal City Station with a throng of late-afternoon commuters. Another mob waited on the platform to enter the cars, headed south on the Blue Line and home for the evening.
A lanky teenager with enough piercings to sink a boat slunk by him, plugged into an iPod and a cell phone. Body spray of the kind supposed to attract females trailed in his wake. Cort stifled a gag reflex as the car door whooshed closed behind him. The train rumbled to a start and whisked away.
The public transport ride threw him back to his year of college at GW. He’d grown up in major cities in Europe and the States so subways were nothing new to him. As a student living on his own for the first time, he’d been enthralled with exploring and with the night life, but he’d known even then urban life wasn’t for him long term.
No matter what happened with the Gramornia loot, not the life he wanted. No crowded commute for him. Give him trees and quiet and work with his hands.
He stood facing the Metro System map so he could study stragglers in the scratched Plexiglas reflection. Prison had taught him how to watch his back. The warm temperature meant no coats to cover pistols tucked in waistbands. He froze to attention when a middle-aged man in a Redskins cap stepped aside to unfold a map. When the guy moved toward the exit, he exhaled. A trio of women stopped for one of the group to dig something out of her bag. Gradually the crowd dispersed. Nobody paid him any mind.
Ring of Truth (Devlin Security Force Book 2) Page 7