Raven (Kindred #1)

by Scarlett Finn

  “Ok.”

  “Remember to take into account your mark’s movement. Don’t aim at where he is; aim at where he will be. If you’re outside, factor in wind speed and direction as well as other environmental factors.”

  “Other environmental—how do you know all of this?” she asked. Just like when they were in bed, he pressed his fingers to her cheekbone to direct her attention to where he wanted it to be, this time that was away from him and onto the gun sight.

  “Keep the gun on you at all times and reserve yourself time in a shooting range as quickly as possible.”

  “Can I take my own gun?” she asked. “Won’t I need permits and—”

  He crouched enough to rest his chin on her shoulder, but he had to realize that he was losing the battle of getting her to focus. Having a weapon would make her feel safer, but Zara didn’t want it raising questions in her life that she’d have no way to answer. “I can get you the paperwork,” he said.

  “Will it be official paperwork?” she asked.

  Twisting to try to get a glimpse of him, she got more than she bargained for when Raven glanced to the corner of his eye. In this position, their lips were almost touching and the temptation was too much to resist. Her questions and concerns faded. Being intimate with him had assuaged all of her troubles and the heated memory of what had occurred on her bed not so long ago still scented the room. Deserting the gun in his hands, she swiveled to clasp his face and kiss him again.

  He didn’t resist her tongue when she begged entrance to his mouth. Brushing her tongue along his, he closed his arms around her and she felt the imprint of the gun between her shoulder blades when he negotiated their movement to back her toward the bed. They fell onto it and as she sunk into the mattress, her head rose to give him access to her neck.

  Catching a glimpse of the gun, which was still in his hand, pressed into the bed beside her head with his finger resting across the trigger guard, she couldn’t stop staring at the firearm, which may one day save her life. His finger wasn’t on the trigger, but she didn’t know if the gun had a safety or if there was a chance it could go off at any second.

  “You interested in me or my weapon?” he asked.

  Snapping her focus around, she saw his face an inch above hers. “You’re dangerous,” she murmured, sliding her hands up his sides to his chest.

  “Yeah, I am… I’m really bad news for a woman who can’t handle trouble.”

  “I’m new to it,” she said. “But I’m learning.”

  “Learn fast,” he said and his heat became stern. “What are you gonna do if they come for you?”

  “Aim and squeeze.”

  “Atta girl,” he said and scooped a hand behind her head to bow it, giving him the ability to kiss her hairline. While his lips still rested there, he took one of her hands and guided it to the bed where he put the gun on her palm. “Close your eyes.”

  Much as she didn’t want to tear her eyes away from his, she did as he requested. His weight left her and she strained to hear where he was or what he was doing. When there was no further activity, she opened her eyes. He was gone.

  SEVEN

  On Tuesday, Zara was determined to confront Grant and get the truth. Not that she wanted to do it in an inflammatory way. All she wanted was to talk to him, to try to get him to open up about what was really going on. Then he didn’t show up.

  Grant not showing up to work was an anomaly. He called to tell her he had some important personal business to take care of and when she tried to push for details, he shut her down and said he would be back on Wednesday.

  Zara couldn’t get much more information on the device or deal from the company network, so she searched a few of the terms she’d come across online. The Internet wasn’t much use. There was no way to determine how reliable the information on the World Wide Web was. All she had to go on were a few names, and they were only first names at that.

  By the afternoon, she was tapping her pen on her shoulder and beating her foot against the side of her desk. Sucking her lips into her mouth, she dug her teeth into them and then tossed the pen onto the desk. Answers could be in Grant’s office, but she couldn’t claim to trust the man and then snoop in his private space… could she? Glancing to her left, Zara saw her purse on the floor and thought about Raven’s gun nestled in there. WWRD? What would Raven do?

  Screw it. Thrusting her hands on the desk, she pushed up to her feet and fixed her door in her sights. She had been in Grant’s office hundreds of times, many of them alone without any supervision. So when she used her fingerprint to open his door, the other assistant didn’t even look up from her work. Stepping inside, Zara let the door close and then pressed herself against it. His blinds were shut, as were the ones in her office, meaning the only way she could be seen was from outside and given their lofty position, she wasn’t concerned about onlookers.

  This felt wrong. She shouldn’t be in here for a dishonest purpose. Second-guessing herself, Zara was about to run out again, but Raven came back into her thoughts. He watched dangerous men who were watching her and he could only be doing it because he wanted to prevent them from doing anything wrong. Either that or he wanted the tech so he could wreak havoc of his own. But an evil man with nefarious motives wouldn’t know Batman’s personal address. A smile tilted her lips at his joke, the strength of his character and determination drove her forward.

  Scurrying over to Grant’s desk, she glanced around the surface, but it was clear. It always was. The three drawers to the side were where he kept his personal things. Having come this far, she wasn’t going to back out now. So sitting in her boss’ chair, she tried to open the top drawer. Yanking on it, she was thwarted. It was locked.

  Picking a lock was beyond her expertise and if she tried to jimmy it, there would be evidence of what she’d done. It might have served her better to ask Raven for some secret spy equipment rather than a gun.

  Ready to give up, she sat back in the chair and squeezed her lips to the side. Some people liked to have a spare key in case of emergency and a guy like Grant—who didn’t carry much on his person when he came in and out—had to have a key stashed somewhere in the room.

  Running her fingers under the edge of the desk, she splayed her palms and reached further. But there was nothing to be found. Falling from the chair onto her knees, she began to search the underside of the desk, but still didn’t find anything.

  Crawling over to the unit behind his desk, she checked edges and used the furniture to clamber up onto her feet. Checking under knick-knacks and inside books, she was frustrated again.

  “If I was a key, where would I be?” she whispered to herself while scanning the room.

  There wasn’t much furniture and the door had no frame, so those places were out. Pinning the conference table in her sights, she grabbed the back of his chair to push it out of her way then stopped. The chair. Secreting a key somewhere around the conference table or anywhere else in the room would present the opportunity for a visitor to find it. But the one place a visitor would never need to touch was his chair.

  Crouching, she felt along the back and beneath the arms. Just under the front right corner of the seat, she felt a lump. Ducking further, she discovered a rectangle of plastic that served as a pouch for a shiny, silver key. Pulling it out, she almost squealed, but saved her triumph for after she found what she was looking for.

  Having already been in here a while, time was running short, she could be discovered at any minute, and if Grant called while she was in here the jig could be up. Climbing into the seat, she put the key in the lock and unlocked the drawers. Tugging it forward, it glided on its runners, granting her access. The top drawer was stationery. Gum. A pager. A Post-it pad and nothing else. Pulling the top sheet of the Post-it pad off, she kept it stuck to her thumb and closed the drawer to move onto the second drawer.

  There she found a couple of contracts. A book of addresses, which were probably all on the computer. A calculator. An iPod. Some more
stationery items. Scotch tape. Labels. Nothing. Onto drawer three. This was where he kept files, thus making it the toughest drawer to search. Her intimate knowledge of the company let her dismiss most of the documents with haste. Walking her fingers through them, she was about to give up hope when she got to the last file. This wasn’t like the others. It was in a black folder with a red label.

  Most CI files weren’t in black folders and a red label usually meant the file was from the Research and Development Department. The number on the label intrigued her as well. “Zero, zero seven, nine, three.” She had never seen such a small number. None of the R&D files she had come across in her time here came with a number beginning with zero.

  Opening the file, the first page seemed to be a floor plan, though she didn’t recognize it and the only writing on the page was in the bottom corner. “Project Game Time,” she read.

  There was no way she could read all of the information in this fat file. Flipping to the last page, she discovered why the file number was so low. “A patent application,” she murmured, scanning the document. “1974… forty years, but—”A knock on the door made her stuff the folder into its suspension file.

  Shuffling the other files back to cover it, she closed the drawer and locked it. The knock came again, but she was having trouble returning the key to its slot under the seat. “One second,” she said, sliding off the chair to stick the key in its hiding place.

  After doing that, she dashed across to the door and paused to look at her empty hands. She had no reason to be in here, and coming out empty handed might look odd.

  “What is it?” Zara called out and spun around to seek out any reason for why she might be in here.

  “Mr. McCormack is on the phone,” the other assistant called through the door.

  Zara squeezed her eyes closed. As odd as it was to exit without any purpose, it was odder that she was calling through the office door instead of just opening it, so she sprang around to reach the door. Pulling it open, she slipped around it, past the assistant and began to move to her own office.

  “Thanks,” she said. “Put him through.”

  Grant didn’t ask her where she’d been or what she’d been doing. But that didn’t prevent anxious sweat from seeping out of her pores, though that could’ve been a reaction of guilt rather than fear. Whatever it was, she didn’t like working without a safety net. Her attention moved to her purse again. Zara had never thought she’d be the type of person to consider a weapon a safety net, but she did feel better that it was there, just in case.

  Every time she heard the elevator, her eyes pinged up. It was Wednesday and Grant hadn’t come in yet. So far, there had been no call from him to explain his absence. But she wasn’t his superior—he didn’t have a superior—so he could do whatever the hell he liked. The company kept on going without him. He’d done a good job of running it since his mentor Frank Mitchell died last year, so he didn’t need to be here every minute, though he usually was.

  After lunch, she was losing hope of seeing him. When the elevator pinged again, she glanced up with little expectation only to be confronted by the sight of Grant coming out of it with one of the female vice-presidents. Zara had never been so grateful for having a glass-fronted office. Grant’s blinds were always closed when he wasn’t in there. Now that he was back, the blinds would be opened and she would get her chance to talk to him.

  That chance came much later on after he’d seen every vice-president who was on the premises that day. She was called in and out of the office for various administrative reasons. But it was as the outer office assistant was putting on her coat and venturing into the cold night, that Zara got her chance to talk to the CEO alone.

  Grant was working with his office door open. She watched the outer assistant disappear behind the elevator doors, and then she turned around and tapped a knuckle on his door. He glanced up.

  “Are you busy?” she asked.

  “I’m always busy,” he said, holding a hand toward his guest chair. “You know that. You’re the one who runs around picking up after me.”

  Her smile didn’t reach her eyes, but she tiptoed in to approach his desk. “I was thinking about this product, the one that you’re trying to sell in secret.”

  “Private,” Grant said. “Isn’t that a better word?”

  “Private, yes, of course,” she said and although she went to the guest chair, she didn’t sit in it. “I can be of more use to you if I know more about it. I can pull together a marketing presentation and—”

  “Conscientious, it was one of the first things I noticed about you,” he said, stretching a superior smile across his face before taking a breath. “Your ability to take initiative and complete any task without complaint. You’re a problem solver, Zara, and that’s a valuable quality for an employee to have. It’s rarer than you might think.”

  “Thank you,” she said, unsure if flattery was his attempt to divert her attention from what she’d asked.

  “Fortunately, that’s not required in this case. I’ve been working with this product for almost a year. I know it inside and out. And my clients and I are past the hard sell. Now it’s just a negotiation on price and utilization.”

  “I don’t—”she frowned and shook her head.

  Grant held up his hand to silence her. “Don’t worry about it, Zara… I don’t want you worrying about it.”

  Lowering his hands to the desk, he linked his fingers together and his brow came down. Without any further smile or civility in his expression, Grant was intent on getting the seriousness of his point across. “I just wanted to offer. To be helpful.”

  “Your first concern should always be for yourself,” he said and she couldn’t recall a time in which his tone had been this foreboding. “Remember to help yourself before you help others. These negotiations are precarious and with men who are extremely serious. We cannot risk offending any of them.”

  “I would never—”

  “Don’t venture into unguarded waters,” he said. “This deal is not about money. It’s about ideology and doing what my father and Frank failed to do.”

  “I was—”

  “If I were you I’d keep my nose clean,” he said. “I will deal with these men because they are men who have a low tolerance for curious women.”

  From the glass in his eyes and the lack of energy from his form, she recognized those words for what they were: a threat. Grant had just threatened her. It didn’t seem to be a friendly warning. He told her the waters were unguarded. Was that a hint that he did not intend to ensure her safety?

  Backing away, she eventually turned and made a beeline for her own office. Grabbing her purse from the floor, she held it to her chest and stared at the wall separating her office from Grant’s. Being closer to her weapon made her feel a bit better. But she was beginning to understand that Grant was not the virtuous man she had assumed him to be.

  EIGHT

  Trying to make sense of the data laid out on her home-office desk was giving her a headache. So Zara removed her reading glasses and turned off the lamp, resigned to putting her investigation to bed for the night. While moving through the living room, she glanced at the candles on the windowsill and considered lighting them to beckon him. But Raven was no easier to decipher than what she’d left on her desk.

  She took a shower and then lay down on her bed in the dark. The options before her weren’t particularly attractive. She could quit her job and pretend that she had never heard of Grant McCormack, Raven, Sutcliffe, Kahlil, and the rest of them. But if there was a chance that these men were planning something nefarious, she would never forgive herself if people lost their lives while she turned a blind eye.

  Going to the cops was another option, but she had no evidence to present to them. The only firsthand information she had was an off-handed comment made to her on the phone, and she didn’t have concrete proof of that either. She didn’t even know what this damn product was, meaning she couldn’t tell authorities what to look
for.

  Spreading her arms the width of the bed, she steadied her breathing. All she could do was try to obtain more information. Except she’d tried to approach Grant and every time he stonewalled her. Grant wasn’t interested in her input, he was in league with the terrorists and happy about it.

  Raven was an option. She could confess all to him and pray that he didn’t take the information and bolt. She still didn’t know quite how he fit into this scenario or whose side he was on. People always said that serial killers looked like everyone else. Maybe the same was true for terrorists. They didn’t walk around wearing a button declaring their intent and they could probably be charming… not that Raven could be accused of that.

  “What did I tell you?”

  Recognizing the ease of his now familiar tone, Zara rolled her head to the side in time to see the floor lamp illuminate. Raven was seated in the corner chair as she’d anticipated he would be. Closing her eyes, she returned her head to its original position.

  “Naughty,” Raven said. “I said you were a naughty girl, didn’t I?”

  “What do you want?” she grumbled.

  “Haven’t decided yet,” he murmured. His husky voice made her shiver, even with the heat of the shower still clinging to her skin, but the mental exertions of the day left her too drained to think about seduction.

  “I’m not in a sexy mood. Can you come back tomorrow?”

  “Busy tomorrow.”

  “How long have you been sitting there?” she asked, rolling her head and peeking at him out of one eye.

  “Long time,” he said. “You should probably turn on the lights when you’re walking into your bedroom naked.”

  Rocking onto her side, she supported her head with a hand under her hair. “This may come as a surprise to you, Rave. But other men don’t sneak into my bedroom to skulk in the dark.”

  “I prefer to think of it as loitering with intent,” he said.