Killer Assignment

by Black, Maggie K.

  Jonah’s wife had died when the children were young. Drug overdose. He had two grown children—a son, Jonah Junior, who had inexplicably left no internet trail, and a daughter named Sunny, who had taken over running much of the family business.

  Two years ago, Shields had abruptly dropped from public view. All new building projects were put on hold—including Langtry Glen. Pundits wondered if he was sick. Critics theorized he was just preparing for something big. Now the tyrant was throwing a party.

  * * *

  Katie woke up with a jolt and stared out into the blackness. The laptop lay dead on the bed from where she’d fallen asleep reading. She stretched slowly as everything that had happened came rushing back into her mind in a cacophony of disjointed images.

  The leer on Al’s face. The empty van with a roll of duct tape lying on the floor. Fear pounding in her heart as she ran for the railroad tracks. Billy knocking her down and dragging her back. Mark pulling her into his arms. Feeling safe there.

  She felt for the light switch and flicked it up. Nothing. A bolt of fear shot up her spine. Why was the power out? Had her kidnappers found her and for some reason cut the power? She took a deep breath and forced her heart to settle. No, she was going to be rational about this. Chances were the bulb had just blown and everyone was asleep. The most logical thing to do was to just go back to sleep and wait until the sun came up in the morning.

  Katie closed her eyes again, but almost immediately, Al’s face swam into her mind. She climbed out of bed. At the very least, it would help her sleep better if she went into the kitchen and made herself a cup of tea. She picked up the tea tray, slid the door back and stepped into the darkness.

  A hand clamped around her ankle.

  FOUR

  She kicked out hard at the figure crouched on the floor, nearly losing her balance and falling through the open bedroom door. Dishes tumbled off the tray, onto the carpet. He let go of her ankle and leaped to his feet. She swung. The tea tray caught him hard against the side of the head. He stumbled back.

  Dropping the tray, she sprang toward the gap of light filtering through the living room doorway. But before she’d taken a step, she felt a hand land on her shoulder.

  “Katie—” A deep voice growled her name.

  She swung her elbow back, landing it hard in his stomach. His grip tightened. Her mouth opened to scream but was instantly stifled by a strong hand clamping over her mouth. He spun her around, pinning her between the door frame and the warmth of his chest.

  “Katie. Stop.” His voice came hard and fast in her ear. “It’s okay. You’re safe.”

  Safe? But as much as her brain wanted to believe that, the adrenaline coursing through her body was hardly about to allow that. She raised her hand to strike him again, but his hand slid off her shoulder and down onto her wrist. “It’s me. Mark.” He ran the back of her fingers along the side of his face as if to prove it to her. Her body relaxed. He eased his fingers away from her mouth.

  “Mark?”

  “Yeah. Trust me. You’re okay.”

  She gently pulled her hand from his grasp. Her fingertips brushed the rough lines of his jaw. Then her hand slid onto his chest until she could feel his heart beat hard against her palm. His ragged breath brushed against her face. She shivered. He pulled her body closer into his chest, and for a moment—just one moment—she let him hold her there.

  * * *

  It had been a very long time since Mark had felt a woman touch him that way.

  Tender. Trusting.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you, Katie.” He could feel her name slipping out over his lips like a whisper. He reached out and brushed his fingers against the back of her hand. The warmth of her smooth skin tugged at feelings he’d tried so hard to push to the corners of his mind.

  Get a grip. She was frightened and looking to him for support, nothing more. Besides, trekking from one disaster zone to another wasn’t exactly the kind of life you could bring a wife into.

  She pulled away. He stood back, and he let her go.

  “What were you doing on the floor?”

  He rolled the answer around in his mind for a moment and then settled for total honestly. “I was sleeping on the couch. But it wasn’t long enough to stretch out. So I ended up lying on the floor.” Outside her door. Somehow he’d felt safer that way— knowing that nothing could get to her without going through him first.

  He’d never expected she’d put up such a fight. For a moment, he’d actually thought she was going to get away and scream the house down until Celia woke up and called the police. Then again, maybe he shouldn’t have been surprised. Her hand brushed against his. He stretched out his fingers in case she wanted to take his hand again.

  She didn’t. “I tried to turn the lights on, but nothing happened.”

  He felt for a lamp and flicked the light switch. Nothing happened. “Probably just a blown fuse. Believe me, it happens all the time in this place. Nothing to worry about. I’m sure there are candles in the kitchen.”

  She followed him across the living room, through the hallway and then into the dining room. A small trickle of light was seeping through the wide glass doors. Then she walked past him, making a beeline for the hutch. “We’ve got candles and even matches.”

  Blinking in the gloom, he stared at the complicated metal sphere as she carried it over and set it down on the dining room table. She lit a match, cradled the flame in her palm, then leaned over and lit a tiny white candle buried somewhere deep inside the structure. Then a second and a third. There must have been at least two dozen tea lights balanced precariously on the thing.

  Who on earth designed these things? What was the point of a lighting fixture where the first light was destined to burn out by the time you made it all the way around to lighting the last one?

  If only he hadn’t left his own flashlight in the truck.

  He yanked open a drawer and started rooting around for a flashlight.

  Her hand gently flitted from one candle to another. “This is beautiful.” Little glowing flames flickered in her eyes. “I had been thinking of looking for a flashlight, but when you mentioned candles...”

  He slammed the drawer shut again and rubbed his hand over his hair. Had he really mentioned candles? He was certain he’d been thinking about flashlights. At least he hoped he’d been. But somehow being around her kept making the wires between his brain and his mouth short-circuit. He sat down across from her and looked out the sliding glass doors into the blackness beyond.

  Silence spread out between them, punctuated only by the sound of light rain rustling in the trees outside. Katie’s fingers brushed over the edges of the candles, spinning them gently to one side and then the other. “A couple of months ago, this writer from a rival publication was abducted and attacked by her ex-boyfriend. She fought him off and escaped.” She bit her lip slowly. “It was all over the news. Ethan stuck her picture up on the wall and berated us all for not being more like her...whatever he thought that meant. But, to be honest, some of us were almost jealous of her. You know...for being a hero. Surviving. I’m realizing now I should’ve been praying for her.”

  She shrugged, and her slim shoulders looked lost in a flowing shirt at least three sizes too big. Somewhere, deep inside his chest, Mark could feel himself wanting to just gather her into his arms.

  “I know I escaped, but...”

  “But you still don’t feel totally safe?”

  One of the candles flickered and died. She scanned his face—like he was a piece of equipment sitting on the workbench.

  He cleared his throat. “In case I haven’t said it, I am really sorry about what happened tonight.” He might not be able to take away the memory of what had happened, but he could at least try to soften it a little by letting her know she wasn’t alone. “I’ve been
there. I know it’s not exactly the same thing, but my partner, Nick, and I were threatened at knifepoint by a taxi driver in Somalia last year.” Had Nick told Jenny? Probably. Another reason why she’d have second thoughts about the wedding. “The guy drove us around for a bit, took all of our stuff and then eventually let us go. But it was pretty scary there for a while. Then afterward...I had all these crazy thoughts running through my mind. What if I had picked a different taxi? What if I’d been wearing something different? Or acted differently? What if...” His voice trailed off, and she nodded.

  “It’s one of the risks you run traveling to the kind of places I do,” he added. “Once in Nairobi, people actually broke into our hotel room and ransacked it while we pretended to be asleep.”

  “You didn’t try to stop them?”

  “They had guns, and our stuff wasn’t worth all that much. I wasn’t going to risk my life and theirs by fighting them for something I could replace. I’ll risk my life for another life but not for my wallet or suitcase. You remember what I said about novices and guns? They get cocky but don’t have the necessary skills to handle a weapon safely, let alone hit what they’re aiming at. Especially if they’re big ones, like an AK-47. Although, for the record, AKs always pull up and to the right, by the way, so if someone waves one in your face drop down and to the left.”

  A tiny laugh escaped from the corner of her lips, sending shadows dancing down the lines of her neck.

  “Seriously though,” he added, “it can get pretty hairy out there at times, so we’ve developed a few little tricks and things to help minimize the risk. Like a moisturizer that has the added benefit of loosening adhesives like duct tape. It’s made of eucalyptus oil. I use it all the time actually because eucalyptus is also a natural insect repellant. We even added a sunscreen to it.”

  A soft light was twinkling in her eyes again. He felt his heart lift.

  “How did you get into this kind of work?”

  Mark opened his mouth. Then he shut it again. He’d never been asked that question before. “I was actually taking engineering in college,” he said, “when one Sunday in church, one of the guys who works for me now—Nick Abrams—got up and gave this talk about a missions trip he was going on to help install toilets for a charity in Belize. He was in college, studying to be an electrician. I was looking at the pictures up on the screen and realized there were some simple things they could do to really improve on the design. So I went up to him afterward, and he put me in touch with the charity.”

  A second candle flickered and died. He reached across the table for the matchbox. It was empty. “We ended up going together. I had a knack for designing. He was great at building things. We went on three more trips together that year. Six the second. Eighteen the third. We started calling ourselves TRUST. Until one day we looked at each other, and asked, why not do this full-time?”

  He took a deep breath and looked down at his hands. He’d never actually told anyone this. “That really upset my father. He wanted me to come work for him, and he’s not the kind of man who’s good at taking no for an answer, especially from his son. But then my grandmother died and left me a little bit of money. Enough to offer Nick a small salary and give TRUST a head start. I wanted to tell Dad in person. Man to man. He started yelling. Called me foolish. Told me I was ruining my life and that he was ashamed of fathering a son who’d do something so financially irresponsible. I said I was ashamed to be the son of a man who cared about nothing but money.” He ran his hand over the back of his neck. “We both said some pretty horrible things. I knew I needed to apologize. I just told myself it was best to wait until everyone had calmed down. Somehow I never got around to calling. That was three years ago.”

  Silence filled the space between them again, and somehow he was thankful for it. He was almost relieved she hadn’t jumped in with platitudes or said something stupid like, “But he’s your father!” or “Don’t you miss him?”

  Of course he was and of course he did. It still felt like a punch in the gut every time he saw his father’s name on his phone. But loving someone wasn’t always the same as knowing how to get along with them.

  Her fingers brushed across his. Just for a moment. He looked up. Her eyes hadn’t left his face. “And you invent things?” Her tone was gentle. Like someone who was used to asking questions and knowing when someone wanted to change the subject. He was grateful.

  “I do. Although mostly I improve on things other people have designed, figuring out how to make them more cost effectively and efficiently. Lately, I’ve been working on a portable radio broadcast studio and transmitter. It’s intended to help get emergency information out after major disasters any time the traditional modes of communication are down. Could be a real game changer in global disaster response.”

  To his surprise, she frowned. “I miss having what you have.”

  “What?”

  She picked up the matchbox and rolled it around in her fingers. “Well, you love your job, don’t you? I used to love mine, too. When I first got the job at Impact News it was amazing. I got to visit all sorts of cool places and write about how they were making a difference in the community. But then my current editor, Ethan, was hired, and all he cares about is making money.” She sighed. “I hate some of the stories he assigns.”

  “Then why don’t you quit?”

  Something flashed across her eyes. Was it anger? No, it looked more like frustration. He’d obviously hit a nerve.

  “I have bills to pay, and there aren’t a lot of good jobs going around. It’s not like I can afford to take a leap of faith and trust everything is going to be all right.” She tossed her hair out around her shoulders. For a moment, Mark could feel the scent of her perfume rise in the air around him. His eyes traced down the folds of her sleeves as she crossed her arms across her chest. She wasn’t so much slender as lithe—he realized—and strong, like a threatened animal on the edge of flight.

  “Besides, I have a plan. In three months’ time, Ethan’s going to get dragged before the board of directors to explain why the newspaper has been performing so miserably. When they do, I’ll be ready.” She took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I haven’t really told anybody this before. But ever since January, I’ve been secretly creating my own sample version of what the publication could be like.”

  “I’m not sure I understand.”

  Katie stood up and walked around behind her chair, grabbing the back with both hands. “You build prototypes, right? Well, have you ever had to make a prototype of something just to prove to someone that it was possible?”

  He nodded. All the time. In fact, it could be highly frustrating to know he had a brilliant idea in his head but had to actually build it before anyone would believe him. If he could find the words to just describe for people what he could see inside his mind, he’d be far more productive.

  Katie let go of the chair and leaned back against the sliding glass door. “When I discovered my editor was kind of on probation, I told my old boss that I was ready to march into the company boardroom and tell them that, as editor, I could create a far better paper. He said, ‘Don’t. Until you can prove it.’ It’s not like the board—which includes Ethan’s aunt, by the way—was about to take my word for it. So, I started writing every article Ethan assigned me twice—the fluff way he wanted for the paper and my own hard-hitting, investigative version. He sends me to cover Free Donut Day in High Park, and I write a story about the city promoting refined sugar when we’re facing a child obesity crisis. He tells me to write about his friend’s new clothing line, and I uncover the garments were created with sweatshop labor.”

  He whistled. “And what are you doing with these stories?”

  “Saving them until the time is right. My own private story arsenal to create my own prototype of the newspaper.”

  Wow. The dedication that must take was impressive. �
�Your boss doesn’t know?”

  She shook her head. “No, but a couple of colleagues do. I do the job I’m paid to do first and then write the others on evenings and weekends.” Her shoulders rose and fell. “I don’t take time off, really. I have about three years’ worth of vacation days saved up at this point anyway. It’s like working two full-time jobs.”

  He knew that feeling. TRUST was a round-the-clock lifestyle. He’d lost count of the number of times he’d sat down at his workbench, intending to finish just one more circuit before packing it in for the day, only to look up and see the morning sun creeping through the window. “But at least I know every prototype I make has the potential of changing someone’s life,” he said. “It’s not like I’m creating them and just hiding them away in a drawer.”

  Her arms folded tightly across her chest. “I’m not hiding anything. I’m building a portfolio. My contract states I can’t pitch to other publications, and I’m not about to trust my stories to a self-absorbed junkie like Ethan.” Another candle flickered and died. The ice in her voice was so sharp that he nearly flinched.

  “I didn’t mean it that way.” His voice dropped to the soothing tone he found usually helped smooth over misunderstandings when he was on building sites. “I just happen to know something about what it’s like to live with a workaholic.” He’d intended to sound reassuring, like he was looking for common ground. But judging by the way her eyebrow arched, it had come across as anything but.

  “I’m not a workaholic,” she said. “I believe in what I do. I’m dedicated to it. And I’m just doing what it takes to survive in the real world.”