by Rachel Caine
"Meaning what, exactly? You know something I don't?"
"I know many things you don't, zolotaya. Many, many things. For instance, I know that you will get another red envelope tomorrow."
She said nothing to that. He might very well know it to be true.
"I also know that tomorrow, the Cross Society has arranged that someone close to you will die. Possibly you do not care that your new friend—her name is Jasmine, yes? — suffers an accident, but I know you well enough to know that you do care about your own survival. I have seen in the past how hard you will fight for it."
"How do you know what's going to happen tomorrow?"
He shrugged. "How does any of this become known? They tell me. Simms tells them, or they calculate it on their little machines. I don't know which it is and I don't want to know. The process is unimportant. What is important is that their information is rarely wrong."
"And they sent you to tell me this."
He didn't answer.
"They didn't send you. You came on your own." She felt something curdle in the pit of her stomach, "What's going on?"
"A very large game. A game of the world, and men trying to control it. Villains and heroes, but my love, which are you? Do you know?" He shook his head. "You stop a killer here, abet a killer there. It's no different than the game you hated before. Don't you see?"
"We stopped a child killer not long ago. We stopped a pair of potential mass murderers today. I wouldn't say we're not doing good."
"Yes, of course. There should be statues in the square in your honor. But you have no idea how small your victories are, or how many killers the Society decides not to stop, for its own purposes. Once you play God, how do you decide where to halt? Who to kill? Who to allow to live?" He gave another shrug, this one more heartfelt. "This is why I go where I am told, and where I am paid. It is easier than trying to be moral and upright." In his own way, Gregory Ivanovich was pouring out his heart. Lucia sat very still, listening, watching him, not quite believing the experience. His hand had, after all, been on plenty of triggers; he'd seen more than enough cruelty and blind stupidity in his life. He'd been lauded, and betrayed, often enough to be realistic and cynical about both.
He'd stood in the dark and hurt her for money, once upon a time. And then he'd cut her bonds and whispered in her ear, "Run for your life," and fired over her head…
"What are you trying to tell me?" she asked. Her voice, despite her best efforts, wouldn't stay steady.
"I have told you. Unless you take steps to prevent it, someone close to you will be killed tomorrow. And sooner or later, it will be your turn. You are a Lead, they tell you, and yes, there is importance to what you do, or do not do. But not only importance. Power. And power corrupts what it touches."
"I don't—"
"You and your partner, Jasmine. You become one of the key points on which events turn. And you can't be controlled. They are learning this. It is not a lesson they like."
The sick feeling in her stomach grew worse. "And if we can't be controlled…"
"This is about power. Power requires control." Gregory put his hands flat on the arms of his chair and settled down in it more comfortably. His eyes fell half-shut, and his smile—she remembered it. Remembered that rare expression of approval.
"The Cross Society wants us dead? But the Society put Jazz and me together in the first place! We never would have met if—"
"My beloved, you're not that stupid. They put you together for a reason. Now they want to take you apart for a reason. You're just tools to them. And given our similar histories, I'm surprised that you didn't consider that from the beginning."
She was silent, staring at him. Aware of a lot of things, suddenly—of the fever still burning inside of her, a heavy feeling in her lungs, the carefully hidden trail behind the FedEx that had delivered something deadly to her offices. It could have been Eidolon, trying to throw suspicion on the Cross Society. It could just as easily have been the Cross Society using a double-blind. They hadn't sent it through Borden. Maybe Borden was still too valuable to them. Maybe James Borden, with his heart lost to Jazz Callender, wasn't going to play their game anymore, especially if it turned deadly for his friends.
Any of it could be true.
Or none of it.
"So," she said after a quiet moment, "what do I do?"
He shrugged. "I leave that to you. But were I you, and did I care anything for your friend—which I do not, you might note—I would be sure to stay alert during the morning hours of tomorrow. Events would conspire, as they say."
"Tomorrow morning. It's that specific."
"I imagine it's more specific than that, my love, but that is what I heard. Or, more accurately, overheard."
"So you're telling me you came here to warn me out of the kindness of your heart. For old times' sake."
He laughed. Not a chuckle this time, a full-throated bray of amusement. "Oh!" he gasped, when he got some control again. "Oh, zolotaya, you never fail to amaze me. You know what zolotaya means, yes?"
"Gold."
"In Russia, wealth is endearment, and you, my zolotaya, are beyond measure. I've always wondered if you would marry me someday. Would you?"
"No."
"As I thought. I am bereft." He stood up, and she got to her feet as well. The important thing with Gregory, as with all beautiful wild animals, was to never take your eyes off him. "Will you let me tell you one last thing?"
"I don't see how I can stop you."
"I don't think they want you dead yet, although I think soon they will. No, I think they want you frightened, and alone, so that you will do what they say. I don't think they understand what a silly hope this is."
"They don't know me," she said.
For just a moment, there was something other than the wolf in those beautiful eyes. "That is entirely their loss," he said, and the comic-opera Russian was gone. "Take care. I've done as much as I can for you without inconveniencing my own plans."
That was as much truth as she could ever hope to expect. She inclined her head slightly. He bowed his a fraction less.
And then he left.
She sank down on the couch, not bothering to lock the door after him—there didn't seem much point—and thought about things one more time.
Sometime in the middle of it, unexpectedly and without drama, her body simply decided that it had had quite enough of the stress, and sent her into a deep and dreamless sleep. She didn't know how long it lasted—not long enough for morning to arrive, at any rate—and she woke to the insistent electronic tones of a ringing phone.
It was Manny.
The anthrax culture was positive, and Jazz was on her way over.
Lucia was dressed when Jazz arrived, and was putting her hair up in a ponytail to keep it out of her face. It was a practical habit she'd developed over the years, a sort of ritual for going into battle. And she knew it was a battle now, whether that was likely to be obvious or not. She had just put on her shoulder holster when the bell rang.
"No way," Jazz said flatly when Lucia opened the door. "You've got to be fucking kidding. You think you're actually going somewhere, other than to the hospital? Manny called, didn't he? You were supposed to pack a bag."
"Sit. I have things to tell you."
Jazz didn't, but Lucia wasn't in any mood to wait for compliance. She started with the red envelope on the counter— Simms's creepy note of gratitude—and saw a flash of genuine irritation come over Jazz's face. Of course. She's the one who pulled the trigger. Why would he thank me?
But when comment came, it wasn't about the details. "I got one, too," Jazz said. "Courier brought it. You wouldn't believe the full-out paranoid lockdown that went into effect when Manny saw the van drive up."
Lucia could only imagine, and shook her head in wonder.
Jazz was still frowning at her. "Look, that doesn't explain you being out of bed and ready to rumble, okay? If there's any work that needs to be done, I'm doing it. Not you. You're
flat on your back for the duration, getting good IV antibiotics. Doctor's orders."
"Not yet. I've got things to tell you—"
"Sit. Down."
Lucia put up her hands and sat. And truthfully, she hadn't slept well, or woken up that way, either. She still felt hot and sore, but at least the tickle in the back of her throat had died to a memory, and her lungs seemed clear. Surely she'd be worse, if this was going to go badly.
"Jazz," she said. Her partner brushed shag-cut blond hair back from her eyes and bustled around the kitchen, bitching about overpriced, overcomplicated appliances. Her black T-shirt was tucked in and clung to her curves; whether Jazz recognized it or not, she had a gorgeous, elegant line to her. Broad shoulders, curving hips, a not inconsiderable bustline. More than that, she just looked…strong. Strong and—now that she'd abandoned the ill-fitting men's flannel shirts and baggy jeans—female, without being in the least feminine.
"This thing's broken," Jazz said mutinously, staring at the high-tech coffeemaker. Jazz preferred one-button models. Lucia was reasonably certain that hers could navigate a spacecraft to Mars, if adequately programmed.
"No, it isn't," she said. "It's just temperamental. Jazz, I need you to listen to me for a minute."
Her partner paused in the act of spooning grounds into the filter. "Yeah?"
"Something happened last night."
"McCarthy brought you home." Jazz snapped the filter basket shut and punched buttons. Nothing happened. She slapped the coffeemaker with an open palm, frowning. Lucia sighed, got up and pressed the right button. The machine began a soft chuffing. "Yeah, I know. You can skip the details."
"No. No, Ben—didn't stay. He just saw me home. Something else happened."
"What?"
"I had an unexpected visitor."
That drew Jazz's total attention. "Here? I mean, I know it's not Manny's Fortress of Solitude, but it's got ambassadorial security. Who?"
How could she explain it, exactly? "It was someone I once knew. His name is Gregory Valentin Ivanovich—"
"I remember the name. You saw it in the files about the Cross Society."
Lucia blinked. "What?"
"The first day we were in Borden's office, and you jimmied the lock on his file drawer. Ivanovich's name was on a list of people employed by the Cross Society. You said he was somebody you recognized."
She barely remembered it. Jazz, it seemed, had a rare gift for memory. "Gregory came to warn me that the Cross Society means to set us up. Set you up, I mean. This morning."
Jazz took it with a shocking lack of surprise, and a shrug. "I don't doubt it," she muttered, and came to sit next to Lucia. "I'm not exactly a good little soldier. I mean, come on. Wouldn't they rather have people who follow orders, in something this complicated? You start knowing too much—"
"You start questioning the right and wrong of things. Like we've already done."
"Like Borden does, too." Jazz frowned at the coffee-maker, which didn't really deserve it, since it was doing its job. "That's why you're strapped? Because you think our buddies at the red envelope factory are out to get me?"
"Yes."
"L., I've been assuming that from the very beginning," she said. "Makes no difference if one of your oh-so-mysterious ex-boyfriends shows up to point a spotlight at it."
Lucia smiled wearily. "The only difference is that he was very precise about it being this morning."
"You trust this guy?"
She considered that very carefully. "In certain specifics, yes. And I think he was telling me the truth as he knew it."
Jazz raised her eyebrows. "Huh. That sounds not very convincing." She looked toward the coffeemaker, which had started filling the carafe. "That thing have a sensor so you can take the pot out and it won't pee all over the burner?"
"Yes."
"Figures." Jazz filled two cups and put the carafe back in place. The machine continued its puffing, hissing work. She carried the cups over and handed Lucia one. "Listen to me, okay? I don't care what kind of doomful signs of the apocalypse are on the horizon. You're going into the hospital and you're going to rest. End of story. Now go take off the gun and pack your bag. Consider me forewarned. You know for damn sure I'm always forearmed."
Lucia eyed the time. It was going on 9:00 a.m. now, and Gregory had been quite specific. Morning. Assuming he had been truthful, and that came down to her instincts.
"I'll stay with you until noon," she said. "No negotiations, chica. I mean it. I'm not letting you run around un-chaperoned. Three hours won't make any difference. They can strap me to the bed and give me whatever they want this afternoon."
"Lucia…"
Jazz, she saw, was close to exasperation. Lucia reached across and captured her hand. Jazz's fingers were slack with surprise.
"You shot someone yesterday," Lucia said. "The second man in a few weeks."
Jazz's eyes flew up to meet hers. "What the hell does that have to do with anything?"
"Is that why you're mother-henning me?"
"No, dammit, I'm mother-henning you because you need it! Because you—you did the same thing for me. Remember?"
She did. She remembered Jazz, white around the lips, barely able to move after surgery to remove a bullet, determined to try to go about the business of her life.
She stared at Jazz for long seconds, and then said, "My life is my own, Jazz. As is yours. But please, let me do this one thing before I give up control. All right?"
Jazz swallowed, looked away and nodded. "We keep it to a minimum, then. Far as I'm concerned, we don't do anything that puts either one of us in danger. We can hang out here and watch TV until noon—"
The telephone rang. Jazz's eyes went dark and shadowed, and she grabbed it before Lucia could reach for it. "Yeah," she snapped. Her body language shifted, from resistant to cautiously open. "For me? You're sure? Okay. I'll be right down."
She hung up and looked at Lucia, who frowned. "Down for what?"
"Delivery. FedEx, for me."
"Let's consider the last FedEx I opened, shall we? Carefully."
"It's like the lotto. Can't win if you don't play." Jazz grabbed her jacket and swung it on to hide her shoulder holster. "You stay here. I'll be right back. No fair having ninja fights while I'm gone or anything."
Jazz was gone before she could protest. Lucia, resigned, went to the intercom and buzzed the security desk. "Mr. Tarrant? My friend is on the way down. I want extra attention while she's coming and going, all right? There could be trouble."
"Yes, ma'am," he said. "We'll keep a close eye."
That was all she could do to protect Jazz at the moment. She pulled out a small carry bag and stuffed in sweatpants, underwear, tank tops, comfortable soft things that wouldn't bother her if—as she anticipated—the doctors did indeed tie her down for the duration. The bathroom necessities went into the side pockets, and after a second she put in the collapsible combat baton that Jazz had given her as a partnership gift, and professional-strength pepper spray. She'd have to surrender the offensive weaponry, but…
She heard the front door open and close, and made her way back that direction. Jazz was standing there, frowning.
"You're not gonna like it." Jazz held up the FedEx envelope and removed a red envelope with the air of an actress about to announce an award.
"You've got to be kidding me."
"Yeah, I wish I was. But I checked it out with your little light thingie." Jazz handed it over. "It's to both of us."
It read, IMPERATIVE YOU GO IMMEDIATELY TO THE RAPHAEL WHEN YOU RECEIVE THIS MESSAGE. TAKE MS. GARZA.
"So much for our plan to stay put," Jazz said. "Didn't you stash Susannah Davis there?"
"Yes. But there's no need for us to go. Omar's with her."
They exchanged silent stares, and Jazz nodded. "Call him."
She dialed Omar's cell number. It rang to voice mail. She hung up and dialed the hotel's main desk and was put through to the room.
No answer.
S
he didn't have to say anything. Jazz's face was grim with understanding.
"You think—" Lucia began.
“I’ in trying not to." Jazz looked down at the paper Lucia was still holding. "I can get Ben to go with me."
"No. If anybody goes with you, it's me. I told you, Ivanovich said there was an explicit threat." Lucia got up, retrieved the UV light and ran it over the message. It was signed, again, by Max Simms. "Simms sent this, not Laskins. You tell me, does he want you alive or dead?"
"Who the hell knows what that creepy guy wants? Look, you're not going. And if you're not going and I'm not going, what are we going to do? Hide here like a couple of rabbits?" Jazz looked fierce, in fighting mode. Razor-edged and glittering with menace. "I don't hide."
There was a strange joy in it. And it was catching, driving back the sickness and leaving purpose in its place. "You're right." Lucia checked her purse for its usual load of lethal supplies. "Both of us go. You can put me in intensive care at noon."
Jazz looked wary. "You're not going to let me stop you, are you?"
"Laughable. Would you let me stop you?"
Jazz's jaw worked, chewing words, and then she spat them out, rapid-fire. "Fine. You so much as flutter an eyelid, I'm calling an ambulance, and you get carted out like a little old lady who slipped in the shower." That was Jazz's way of expressing affection.
"I'm fine. Quit staring like you expect me to fall over and froth at the mouth. I'm not contagious, and I feel all right. I'm not impaired." The gnawing headache hardly counted. The heavy tickle in her lungs could be nothing more than suggestion, she told herself. "As I recall, I let you go along on our first case together when you still had a bullet wound. So please, let's not discuss fitness."
"Lucia!" Jazz grabbed her by the shoulders. Lucia instinctively brought her forearms straight up and knocked the grip loose, which startled them both. "Damn. I'm not trying to beat you down, you know."
"I know. It's been—an odd couple of days. I'm sorry."
"You're entitled." Jazz stepped back, but she hadn't lost the frown. Her hands were fisted at her sides now. "Look, this is serious. We could be walking into anything. I need you sharp. You could walk into a bullet the second you open the door. You really ready for that?"