Now You See It

by Cáit Donnelly

  * * *

  Brady woke up to Gemma’s frantic voice and the rapid, insistent prodding of her toe. “Brady! Brady, wake up! It’s Mike.”

  He shook his head to clear it. “I’m awake. What?”

  She held a cell to her ear. “Yes. There’s a fire on the fifth floor, Room 576. Mr. Cavanagh has been injured. Please hurry.” She pressed the off button and dialed 911, tight-lipped, her eyes huge. “Yes,” she said into the phone, “I’d like to report a fire at 716 University. There’s an injured man on the fifth floor, where the fire is. Please hurry.” She hit Off again, and scrambled from the bed, tugging on a pair of sweats and the first shirt she could grab out of the closet.

  “Mike’s hurt?”

  “Oh, God, Brady.”

  “Fire?”

  “Building security are the only ones close enough to get to him before the fire does.”

  Brady was already jamming his feet into hiking boots. He pulled the laces tight and tucked them along the sides to save time.

  “We can’t get there in time,” she said through chattering teeth.

  His arm went around her, and he gave her a quick squeeze and kissed her hair. “He’ll be all right.”

  * * *

  He raced down the five flights of stairs, careful to stay close to the wall, rushing from shadow to shadow, pausing only to listen for pursuit. It was all coming unwrapped. But then, nothing ever came to him easily. His father would have said nothing that came easily was worth more than the effort it took to acquire it. A lot he knew. Well, at least the brother’s files were toast, so if there was anything in them about him, it was gone. He’d seen the burning liquid run into the cracks between the drawers, a fire fall that even safety cabinets couldn’t block.

  In the darkness of the basement parking garage, he pulled off his ski mask and camo shirt with his uninjured arm, swore under his breath at the sudden pain when he pulled his wounded arm free. He threw the shirt and mask into a debris barrel at a small construction area he’d found earlier on his way in. He retrieved the sport coat he’d left there, and slung it over his shoulder until he could get to his car. As long as the blood didn’t drip onto the ground, he should be able to make it.

  He clenched his good hand into a fist to stop the trembling rage. Nothing was going right for him. Nothing. Not that he minded killing the brother, since he would probably have had to go, in any case. He was much too close to Gemma, too influential.

  The woman, though. He had to admit there were compensations. That had been glorious. The terror in her eyes as she understood there was no hope—was it his implacable stance or the insouciant smile he’d practiced so carefully, just in case? He laughed softly. He so looked the part he’d chosen to play tonight.

  Killing Sam Dawkins hadn’t been nearly so satisfying. He’d had no idea it would be like that—the surge of power. He hadn’t planned to kill anyone. Not that first time. No one should have been in Dawkins’s office at that time of night. Seeing Sam come through the door was a nasty shock. Threw him off his game. He’d had to improvise, and he’d gotten the information he’d come for, but not with his usual style. Then Dawkins had recognized him—he still didn’t know how. They hadn’t been that close. But it gave him no choice. None at all. Still, the whole experience had left him feeling tainted. Lesser. He’d gotten better, though. And look at him, now.

  Tonight was the best yet. And shooting was so much...more. God, the rush. The silencer had been a brilliant touch. Pfft! In that instant her eyes had gone from terrified to empty. Nothing. Amazing. He flexed his hand as he walked through a narrow open arch into the parking garage under the next building, and out the other side into a swarming after-theater crowd. His planning had been flawless, as he’d known it would be. Streets and sidewalks were jammed as people hurried to their cars and patrons spilled out of restaurants and bistros into the balmy summer night. The pain in his shoulder was building, hot and voracious. He could feel beads of sweat on his face, but around him, everyone was sweating. He blended right in. God, he was good at this.

  Two men walked up behind him as he reached his car. “Mr. Vinh would like to see you.”

  “Can’t it wait until morning?” He needed some rest, some meds. A little time to regroup and enjoy his triumph.

  The one on his left showed him the tip of a blade, and the two men led him away in silence.

  * * *

  “It’s a fucking light-bar convention,” Brady said. Red, white, blue and yellow lights flashed from fire trucks, police and aid cars in front of Mike’s building.

  The tires screeched as Brady stomped the brake. He left the car running and trotted to the nearest aid car where an EMT was clambering into the back. “Yo!” he shouted, and slammed a hand against the door.

  “We need to go, sir. Please back away.”

  “Is that Michael Cavanagh?” He could feel Mike inside, but needed a second or two more to get a better read on him.

  “Sir—”

  “Because if it is, I have his sister in the car.”

  The EMT nodded.

  “Okay. We’re right behind you.”

  Sirens wailed to life as the aid car rushed away.

  Gemma was five feet behind him.

  “Get in the car,” he said.

  She was shaking so badly she could hardly buckle in. “How bad is he?”

  Brady looked at his hand and squared it into a fist before gripping the steering wheel. “He’s alive. He hit his head, and there’s something else, I think the guy shot him. I couldn’t get it clearly from the bus door—too much overlay. But I think Mike’s all right. Or will be.”

  “Oh, my God.”

  “Hang on, Gemma. It’s four minutes to Harborview.”

  The longest four minutes of my life, Gemma thought and jumped from the car almost before Brady brought it to a full stop at the Emergency Entrance. “Go,” he said. “I’ll find you.”

  Blind with anxiety she blundered through the sliding glass panels before they had fully opened. A hurried exchange at the desk, and Gemma found herself pacing outside brown double doors.

  Brady was five minutes behind her. “Parking was a bitch. It took less time to drive here behind the bus than it did to park and get inside.”

  “I haven’t heard anything.”

  He took her hand and kissed her knuckles. Then he pulled her close and she put her arms around him and clung.

  * * *

  “Cavanagh?”

  Gemma started up from Brady’s shoulder. “Yes?”

  The young man in green scrubs had bags under his eyes, but he smiled a bit as Gemma braced to meet him. “Mr. Cavanagh is resting. The bullet wound in his upper chest was through-and-through. He has a slight concussion. I’ve ordered a CT scan, but it’s strictly as a precaution. We’ll be moving him to ICU in a few minutes.”

  While she was asleep, two uniformed policemen had taken up positions near the double doors.

  “Can I see him?”

  The doctor smiled. “Sure. Just for a minute, though. He’s going to be out of it for a while, yet.”

  Gemma nodded and followed him down the corridor to where Mike lay flat, arms at his sides, his body invaded by tubes and wires and bathed in beeping noises from screens with graphic and digital readouts. Freckles stood out in his ashen face, and his hair was matted and bloody above a set of small butterfly bandages near his temple.

  Gemma put a trembling hand to his clammy cheek. His eyes flickered, but didn’t open. She felt his strong awareness reaching out to hers. Relief crashed into her like a warm wave, and tears followed. The tears escalated to full sobs as she groped her way into the hall where Brady was waiting.

  “He’s okay. He’s really okay. He knew I was there,” she babbled into Brady’s shoulder.

  “Yeah. He’s one of
your tougher Booger Eating Intel Weenies,” he said, brushing his thumbs under her eyes.

  She grabbed his shirt so tightly her fingers ached, but she couldn’t stop crying. All the fear and anger of the last few days ripped out of her chest and burned her throat.

  Brady laid his cheek against her hair and let her cry. As she wore down, he started slowly stroking her back until she subsided with a final shudder.

  “I need to go back inside,” she croaked, wiping her cheeks with the heels of her hands.

  “Go. I’ll call Mary Kate. She doesn’t know?”

  Gemma shook her head. “No one knows she’s in Ohio, and Mike couldn’t get to her. It only works between the two of us.”

  “Okay. Go on. I’ll call her right now.”

  He watched Gemma until the doors closed behind her. Then he took a deep breath and stepped outside before flipping open his cell phone. The phone in Ohio rang through to voice mail once, but when he redialed, an older woman answered.

  “I’m sorry to bother you so early,” Brady said, God, it’s 4:30 a.m. there, “My name’s Brady McGrath, and I need to speak to Mary Kate, please. It’s urgent.”

  The only response was the sound of the receiver hitting—a table, he supposed. Distantly, he could hear a child’s frantic crying. Then Mary Kate’s voice came, thin and stressed.

  “Brady, is Mike all right?”

  “He’s going to be. Someone broke into his office tonight, and Mike ran him off. He took a wing shot,” he said, not even wincing at the white lie, “and a crack on the head, but he’s going to be fine.

  “Timmy has been screaming about a fire. I’ve been trying to call Mike’s cell, but it goes straight to voice mail.”

  “Yeah, but the building security guy got to him in time.”

  “I’m coming back.”

  “No, you’re not. That’s the last thing he’d want. Believe me. M-K, they killed Cinda. They would have killed Mike, too, but he was alert. Look, Gemma’s in with him now, and I’ll have her call you as soon as she comes out. He’s going to be in ICU for a while. He’s got two uniformed nursemaids,” he said, grinning because he knew how pissed off Mike would be about that. “One’s even named O’Reilly. So tell Timmy his dad’s okay.”

  “I will. You’re sure?”

  “Absolutely. I’ll have Gemma call you in a little while. M-K, don’t come here. Mike needs to know you’re all right, not worry about it.”

  “Okay. Thanks, Brady.” The line went dead.

  Gemma came through the double doors and made straight toward him.

  “Mike’s on his way upstairs.” She looked so fragile he felt his heart twist in his chest. Nothing was going to touch her, he swore to himself. Nobody had better try. He pulled her close and planted a noisy kiss on her hair, then smiled and buried his lips in the tangles. Her hair smelled like spice and clover. He couldn’t help a small grin. She was going to totally freak when she realized she went out with it all snarled up.

  “I talked to Mary Kate.”

  She looked up at him.

  “I told her Mike was okay. She already knew about the fire.”

  Gemma blinked.

  “I guess it’s inherited, after all,” he added.

  “Timmy.”

  “They’re waiting to hear from you.” He looked her over carefully. She was pale, and gray smudges had bloomed under her eyes, but she seemed alert and ready to fight. Good. However long her energy lasted, he was sure they were going to need it. “You want to stay here?”

  “For a little while.”

  “The police are going to be all over you.”

  “And you need to be where they can’t find you.”

  He grimaced. “Yeah. Not yet. There’s some stuff I need to take care of first thing tomorrow. Today. I was planning to wake up early and get ready, but I might as well just work through.”

  Brady gave her one more quick kiss. God, she felt good. Smelled wonderful. Tasted like heaven. He wanted to stay there, near her, but didn’t dare. “See you later. I’ll call.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Is everything all right, sir?”

  He smiled just enough to throw her off. Reassure her. Keep it together just a few more seconds—just long enough to get into his office. “No calls, Trina.”

  “Yes, sir.” So young, so enthusiastic. The admiration in her eyes told him she’d be available, if he wanted her. Right now sex was the last thing on his mind. Well, he made a wry grimace, obviously that wasn’t true, or the idea would never have come to him. Still, he hadn’t expected his arm to hurt even more the day after. Somewhere in his desk he had some oxycontin —he fumbled at the rear of a side drawer until he found the amber plastic prescription bottle. He tried to hold the bottle steady with his injured hand, but when he twisted the top, the pain drove the air from his lungs and he bit down on a shout. He had to use his teeth to get the container open, and his good hand was shaking as he poured two tablets out onto the pristine desktop. As he stood behind his desk, waiting for the medication to kick in, he caught sight of his reflection in the glass doors of a bookcase and shuddered. He looked like Michelangelo’s Lost Soul. He had to pull himself together.

  It was all coming apart. Everything. It should all have been so easy.

  Who’d have imagined Ned was clever enough to hide the information where he couldn’t find it? Worse, he wasn’t even certain there actually was anything there to find. Realistically, that scribbled InfoPath in the coffee pot lid could have been anything.

  He hadn’t believed the threats were serious. A week ago, when he’d found out Ned was dead, he’d been sure he could straighten up any loose ends in just a day or two. But everything he’d tried to do had only made things worse. It was all slipping out of his hands. Vinh Li had made absolutely clear he wanted the materials Ned had threatened him with. All of them. It hadn’t been enough to say he had destroyed them, trashed the machine beyond recovery—even to offer Vinh the overwritten hard drive.

  Vinh had made sure he knew the consequences if he failed. He was carrying some very painful reminders, inflicted by two of the most terrifying men he’d ever met. Two medium-sized Asian guys you’d pass on the street without a thought. Last night they had stripped him, tied him up, paying no attention to his bleeding shoulder, the bastards, and peeled three two-inch wide strips of skin off his torso with no more compunction or compassion than if they’d been pulling the legs off a cockroach. The whole thing took place in total, expressionless silence, except for his cries of pain. And when it was over, Vinh’s message, delivered in terse, straightforward words that left no room for questions. He’d never felt so dehumanized, so deeply, thoroughly terrified, so utterly helpless. The wounds were agonizing.

  He unlocked the bottom drawer of his desk and took a quick count of the syringes that lay capped in a small cardboard box. Only two left. Not enough. He needed a lot more drugs if he was going to get through today unscathed. He grimaced. He’d bet most people didn’t know local applications of morphine worked almost as well as lidocaine. One of the advantages of having friends in low places.

  Reconstructive surgery could repair the damage—assuming, of course, he lived long enough for the flayed areas to heal. And that would be a slow, hideously painful process, because the strips were too wide to suture, and would have to be kept open until the new flesh grew in. They’d simply peeled his body like a grape, or a tomato, one stripe down the side beneath each arm and one across his stomach at the belt line. They’d made sure their work would be covered by his clothes. The lesson, he was informed, was for
him, not for the world to see. He and Ned had been in this together, and Ned’s mess was his to clean up. And if he couldn’t clean it up, and fast, he was a dead man.

  He shuddered. The crime scene photos from Mendelson’s cabin had left no doubts about his employers’ sincerity.

  Ned had hidden something in that safety deposit box he’d thought was so super top secret. No way to get at the box. But no reason to think anyone else even knew about it. He wouldn’t have known about it himself if he hadn’t seen Ned go into a strange bank a few months back, and followed him inside.

  Damned fool. He might have been smart to keep a record, but he was terminally stupid to let me know he’d done it. How much did he tell them before he died? I’m guessing he told them everything in that clever, shallow little mind—everything he knew, or guessed, or had ever even thought about. I would have. And that means he did.

  And Gemma. How much did she know? There had to be a way to find out. Ned said she “had the goods” on him. But what did that mean, exactly? She wasn’t acting like someone who knew all the truth.

  He touched his shoulder tentatively. It still hurt like hell. Lucky shot—lucky for him. Another inch in almost any direction and the bullet would have hit something vital instead of just punching through. He checked his reflection again. He’d kept the bandaging to a minimum, and he was pretty sure nothing showed. Trina hadn’t seemed to notice.

  He tried reaching for a notepad, caught his breath as the pain seared him. Shit! He still had loose ends to take care of, but Gemma and that bastard McGrath had both dropped off the face of the fucking planet. Together? He’d bet on it. He couldn’t wait to get his hands on that smug, macho son of a bitch. McGrath had a lot to answer for.