by Julie Kenner
And I have been starved. But I have the game to thank for letting me recover my soul in a bit of luxury. My reward will be even more satisfying when I complete the game, terminating the target and claiming my victory. But the initial payment is sufficient. Certainly enough to allow me to acquire supplies and enjoy a few of the finer things.
Almost without thinking, I pluck a rose from the arrangement, holding it delicately between two of my fingers. Then I slide the stem down, allowing the hook of the thorn to draw a thin line of blood up from my palm.
Once the soft petals rest inside my hand, I make a fist, thinking about my ultimate victory in this game as I claim this small bit of beauty as my own.
Silly, I know, but I shiver, experiencing a delight so physically intense that it is almost sexual in nature.
Then again, perhaps that isn’t silly. After all, what is sex but the coupling of two individuals designed to create a rush of hormones and stimulate a physical response of ecstasy? That I can create my own ecstasy is both amazing and thrilling, and only underscores my own superiority over those that I hunt.
And it is through the hunt that I will experience the most exquisite ecstasy. Physical, mental, spiritual.
And, most important, I can exact my revenge.
That pleasure, however, must wait. The game has certain rules. Having set the clock in motion by poisoning the girl, now all I can do is stand back and wait, hoping that the lovely Jenn and the industrious Agent Brady solve the qualifying clue in time. Until they do, they are not my prey.
Of course, I’m tempted to strike early. In fact, it took all my willpower to not strike when I was in the man’s bed.
But I won’t break the rules. That’s my rule: never break the rules.
But that doesn’t mean I won’t find satisfaction.
I run my finger lightly over the top of my computer, remembering the message that came only minutes before, just as I’d been filing my report. Instructions, along with an address and a photograph.
I dress carefully, then check my makeup. I dab on an extra touch of lip gloss, then brush some blush on my cheeks. Prison has made my skin so sallow.
Finished, I do a pirouette in front of the mirror.
I tuck my weapon into my purse, then head out the door.
Time to go to work.
Chapter
13
JENNIFER
A ndrew opened the door before I even knocked. “Jennifer?”
I nodded, and he pulled me inside. The place was stifling hot and I felt myself start to sweat.
He was tall and rumpled, but cute in a geeky sort of way. Behind his thick glasses, narrowed eyes peered at me. His hair spiked up in a thousand directions, probably from hours spent running his fingers through it.
“You weren’t followed?” he asked brusquely.
“I was careful,” I said. “Just like you said.”
“Good.” He turned and moved toward a seating area on the far side of the room where, I saw, a window stood open.
“Damn heater’s on the fritz. The place is an oven. Not so bad over there, though.”
I followed him through the room to the other side. And that’s really all it was. Just one big room with metal beams protruding in various places, apparently to hold up the ceiling. Chain link fencing ran down the center of the room, and cables and wires twined through it, originating from dozens of computers scattered across battered tabletops. The place had absolutely no artwork except for a dozen or so posters of Devi Taylor, the movie star, plastered around. Also one of those cardboard standup things from her last movie. Weird.
I must have stared, because he just shrugged. “I’m a fan. And it’s not like I’m trying for Better Homes & Gardens.”
“Right,” I said, a little embarrassed. “Thanks for letting me come over. I couldn’t get in touch with Brady or Mel, and I didn’t know what else to do.”
“She’s in Geneva.”
“Excuse me?”
“NSA sent her on some spur-of-the-moment training thing in Geneva. They’re incommunicado for I don’t know. Three, four days maybe.”
“And Matthew?”
“Beats me. He’s Homeland Security now. For all I know they sent him over there, too.”
“Oh.” I stood there, not sure if I was relieved or disappointed. Disappointed Mel wasn’t going to be any help to me. Relieved she was safe.
I decided that relief won out. After all, I had Andrew here to help me. “Like I said, thanks for helping me. You can help me, right?”
“I’ll try,” he said, snagging the chair closest to the window. “Tell me about the call.”
I sat on the little sofa across from him. Cooler, but still too warm for my taste. I resisted the urge to fan myself as I started to tell my story. I’d hit the high points on the phone, but I’d been a tad on the hysterical side. Calmer now, I told the story straight through.
I squirmed a bit when I got to the part about the Eddie and his teddy song, but I made my way through it. “It just doesn’t make any sense,” I said in conclusion. “If the song had said to hurry or Agent Brady might be dead, that fits. But why me? Isn’t the protector supposed to be safe? I mean, more or less?”
“That’s the way the game works, yeah.”
“Well, then what’s happening? What’s going on at ten tomorrow? Why am I the one getting a threat?”
“Dunno,” he said. “But we’ll try to figure it out.” He squinted at me. “You’re sure you didn’t give the cops your name or address, right? When you called 911?”
I stopped, looked at him sideways. “No. I swear. I already told you.”
He nodded. “Good. But I gotta say, I still wonder…” He trailed off, then waved a hand, dismissing his thought.
“What?” I demanded, alarmed.
“Nothing. Nothing.”
“Andrew…”
He exhaled. “Look, I’m glad you came to me. I really am. I can help you. And by coming to me, you’re probably helping others, too.”
“But…?” I prompted.
“But nothing. It’s fine. I was just wondering—what with Mel working at the NSA and me working with Mel—I was just wondering if maybe I’m…well, if maybe I’m considered an authority, too.”
“Oh, shit,” I said. “I didn’t think. I didn’t know.” I stood up, mortified and ready to go—where I didn’t know. He made pushing motions with his hands, gesturing me to sit back down.
“No, no. It’s okay.”
“Is it? What happens if I call in the cops, anyway?”
“The rules change,” he said. “Call in the cops, and suddenly the protector is fair game, just like the target.”
“Oh.” Considering I was the protector in this particular game, I didn’t much like that scenario. “Well, then.”
And right then, someone pounded hard at the front door.
I screamed.
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Andrew said, hopping to his feet. “It’s just my dinner.”
My hand was over my mouth, and I nodded. I was wiped. Ripped apart from the inside. And even though Andrew had said it was okay—that he wanted to help me—I still felt completely alone.
Andrew came back with a plastic bag and a Styrofoam cup. He sat them on the table, then started pulling out containers of Chinese food. “Want some?”
I shook my head.
“Up to you.” He sat back in the chair and took a long drag of the soda through the straw.
“So what do we do now?” I asked. “Find Agent Brady, right? And then what?”
“Then, I think the best thing would be to—shit!”
The soda tumbled to the ground, and his free hand went up to slap at his neck.
“Oh, shit. Oh, God. Get it out. Jesus, Jenn! Get it the fuck out of me!”
I jumped to my feet, but I didn’t know what he was talking about. Then he shifted, the hand moved, and I saw it. A dart, the metal end stuck deep in his neck, and blood trailing from the wound.
I was
beside him in seconds, but his eyes were already rolling back in his head.
“Tired,” he whispered, as I yanked the thing out. “The window. God, the open window.”
I should have been worried that there was a dart out there with my name on it, but all I could think about was making sure Andy was okay. I raced across the room to the kitchen area, hoping I’d see a phone. I did, then called 911. I stayed on long enough to make sure the dispatcher understood that someone had been shot and to confirm the address. Then I hung up and went back to Andy.
This time, I was more cautious, staying below the windowsill until I reached him. Then I grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him out of range.
He moaned, and I said a silent prayer.
“Tranq,” he whispered. “Get out. Before they get here. Find Brady. No more cops. Dart probably meant…for you…”
He was struggling for words now, and I had to lean close just to hear him. “No choice, Jenn…Play…the game…”
And then he was gone.
I heard a whimper and realized it was coming from me. I leaned over, listening to his chest, relieved to hear the slow but steady pulse of his heart.
And then, in the distance, I heard something else.
Sirens.
I stood up, my legs shaky as I glanced back at Andy. I hesitated only a second before grabbing my tote.
Then I ran.
Chapter
14
JENNIFER
A gent Brady lived on the Upper East Side on 77th near John Jay Park, and that meant a thirty-minute taxi ride from Andy’s place. I spent the first ten minutes calming myself down, then the next ten trying to think. As much as I didn’t want it to be true, I knew that I was on the run now. And that meant I needed cash. The truth may not have sunk in before, but after watching Andy get shot, it totally had. This game was for real. And I needed all the resources I could get.
I leaned forward, told the driver to take a detour, then sat back until we reached my bank. During the short ride, I pulled out my cell phone to call the hospital, then realized I didn’t know which one Andy was at.
But surely he was okay. I’d got the dart out, and his heart was beating—and strongly—when I left. He had to be fine. He had to be, because I wasn’t willing to believe anything else.
The cab pulled up in front of the bank, and I paid, then got out, telling the driver to wait. Then I went in and flashed my ID at the nearest teller. And that, despite everything, was actually kind of fun. A girl only has so many times in her life when she can withdraw twenty grand in cash.
Blood money, maybe, but that didn’t change the fact that I totally intended to spend it. I watch television. I know not to use my credit cards. The bad guys can always find you if you use a credit card. You use cash if you want to disappear. And that’s exactly what I wanted to do at the moment.
As soon as the girl returned with my money, I headed to the ladies’ room. I stuffed two grand into my wallet, another three into my laptop case, then put the rest of it into my jeans’ pocket, my bra, and my tennis shoes. The cash (especially the shoe cash) would end up rumpled and stinky, but that wasn’t something I intended to worry about.
And then, once I was loaded down with cash in much the same way a scarecrow is stuffed with straw, I hurried back out to my cab. While the driver whisked me through the streets of Manhattan, all the while mumbling into the hands-free set on his cell phone, I tried to locate Andy again, finally succeeding on the third try. Since I knew that hospitals hardly gave any information out these days, I pretended to be his sister. “I know you’re not allowed to release information,” I said. “But it’ll take me a few hours to get there. Can you just tell me if he’s going to be okay?”
I heard the hesitation, and when the nurse spoke, her words were soft, like someone who knows they’re breaking a rule. “The prognosis is quite good. He’s in observation, and they anticipate he’ll be discharged in the morning.”
I sagged back against the seat, a little giddy with relief. A ridiculous emotion, I suppose, since I was exactly where I was before. Andrew might be fine (thank goodness) but I was still alone. And ten tomorrow was coming as fast as ever.
A few minutes later, the cab pulled up in front of Agent Brady’s place, a completely refurbished and totally stunning pre-war building, complete with art deco masonry and the original mullioned windows. I stared at it and decided that FBI agents made a better living than struggling divas marking time working as singing waitresses. Which, again, probably comes as no great surprise, but I like to tally these things up. So far, I’ve got to say that in the relative NYC hierarchy, I’m pretty low on the pole. The notable exceptions being homeless people and busboys. (That’s not entirely true. On any given night I earn pretty good tips. Sometimes, though, you just have to bitch about the status quo.)
An elegant porte cochere fronted the building, under which stood a white-gloved doorman. Inside, undoubtedly, I’d find a concierge. And unless I was seriously mistaken, there were elevators in that building. I felt a little tinge of jealousy. My flat was a sixth-floor walk-up, and I considered myself lucky to find a building I could afford that had the basic necessities like, oh, walls. I figured a bathroom was a plus. Doormen and concierge service were out of the question.
I paid the driver, then got out. I took a quick look around, scoping out the neighborhood for bad guys lurking in the bushes. I didn’t see any lurkers, so I headed into the building, nodding politely as the doorman, bedecked in a dark green suit with military-style piping, opened the door for me. I marched across the gleaming marble floor to the concierge desk, where a dark-haired man (this one in a blue blazer) held up a finger, signaling for me to wait while he finished a phone conversation.
So I waited. I shifted my weight from foot to foot, drummed my finger on the desk, and did everything short of writing “S.O.S.” in lipstick on my forehead to try and get him to hurry up. No luck.
When he finally did hang up the phone, though, he was all smiles and attention. “May I help you?”
“Yes, thank you. I’m here to see Devlin Brady.”
He asked my name, I gave it, and then he picked up a nearby phone and dialed three digits. I expected him to say something into the phone, but he didn’t. Instead, he just hung it up and looked at me. “Is Agent Brady expecting you?”
Okay, that wasn’t in the script I had running through my head. “I called and told him I was on my way over.” True. But what I didn’t mention was that Agent Brady may not have gotten the message.
“I’m sorry, but there’s no answer now.”
“Oh.” I’d known that was a possibility—I mean, the man hadn’t answered his phone—but the scenario I’d concocted had him coming home. Or screening calls. Or something. “So, do you know where he is?” Maybe I’d get lucky.
“No, ma’am.”
“Oh.” I thought for a while. “Maybe he’s in the gym? You guys have a health center, right? Could you check?” He just stared at me, so I added, “It’s really important that I talk to him.”
Another long stare, probably as he tried to decide if I was a jilted lover, come to seek revenge.
“Really,” I insisted. “It’s about one of his cases. Tell him it’s about PSW.” I had no idea if that would move Agent Brady to action or not. But it was the best shot I had. Not that it made any difference if we couldn’t actually get the guy on the phone.
“About what?”
“PSW,” I repeated. “You know. The computer game?”
He raised an eyebrow.
“Just tell him,” I begged.
The concierge eyed me up and down with a frown (I tried not to take it personally). Then he apparently came to a decision. Unfortunately, I wasn’t informed of what that decision was, so when he picked up the phone again, I didn’t know if he was once again trying to call Agent Brady, or if he was calling security to have me booted out.
It turned out he was calling Marissa (whoever she was). “Is Agent Brady up t
here?” He listened to the response, then looked at me, shaking his head slightly. “I’m sorry, miss, he’s not in the gym.”
I exhaled, torn between frustration and fear. What if he was in there rotting? I had to at least know. If Agent Brady was gone—or dead—then my last ally was gone. And since alone wasn’t an option I wanted to contemplate, I leaned up against the concierge desk, doing my best to look desperate. Which, under the circumstances, wasn’t too hard.
“Could I just head up?” I asked, aiming my best ingénue smile at him. “It’s really important that I see him, and he’s probably just asleep. I’ll pound on the door, and he’ll let me in and everything will be just fine. Please?”
“Lady, I’m sorry.”
So much for the ingénue role. “His regular phone, then. Have you called his regular phone?”
He nailed me with a squinty-eyed stare. “Have you?”
“As a matter of fact, I have. No answer. But that was at least a half hour ago. Can you try again?”
Surprisingly, he didn’t argue, just dialed the number, then left a curt, “Please call the front desk” message. After he hung up, I stared at the phone for a full minute. Surely Devlin would call.
He didn’t.
I cursed, then considered sneaking upstairs. I had Devlin’s profile, so I knew he lived in 12A. And there had to be a back door to this place. Some sort of service entrance. Probably even a service elevator. So all I had to do was get past the doorman and the concierge…and the locked doors and the security cameras.
Okay, so maybe that wasn’t the best plan, but I was getting desperate enough to try anything.
I was just about to tell the concierge that I was heading to the corner to get a Diet Coke (a total fabrication since what I really wanted to do was scope out the rear-entrance potential), when a messenger trotted in, his bike helmet still on his head and his pouch slung crossways over his chest.