by Tara Janzen
“That was no burglary.” And she wasn’t a fool.
“No, it wasn’t.” The admission was harsh. “But we have to keep moving. Do you understand?”
At her nod, he started back down the street.
Yes, she understood. She understood he hadn’t been nearly as surprised by what had happened as she had been. She understood there were more men behind them, somewhere, looking for them.
The thought was terrifying.
“If you want to talk about something else, that’s fine,” he said, lightening his hold on her a fraction of a degree, but only the barest fraction. He was holding on to her like her life depended on it—and without a doubt, after what she’d seen, it did. “I know you like to talk when you’re upset.”
Upset? Sweet Jesus. Her stomach was in a knot so tight she was about ready to throw up, and her nerves were shredded right down to the wires. But sure, she could talk about something else. She needed to talk about something else, anything else—and he knew it. Damn him. He wouldn’t have forgotten any of her stupid weaknesses, especially the extra-stupid talk-or-meltdown response that seemed to kick in whenever she got shot at, or whenever someone snuck up behind her with a gun, ready to . . . to . . .
“I’ve got a show tonight in Denver,” she blurted out.
“That’s great, Nikki,” he said, moving quickly, keeping her by his side. “I want to hear all about it, whatever you can think of, every detail.”
Good, because that’s what he was going to get whether he wanted it or not.
JUAN Conseco looked at the dead bodies of his assassins, both of them slaughtered like helpless lambs. His jaw tightened. They had been two of his best, Hernando Sanchez and Javier Mancos, men who had done his bidding, killed for him for many years. Both had been at the height of their skills, and el asesino fantasma had broken them like matchsticks.
He turned away in disgust.
“Peter Chronopolous,” he said under his breath, hating the name, hating the man even more. The bastard gringo was making a laughingstock of him.
He remembered the brother, J.T. Chronopolous. He had been held last summer with another U.S. soldier at the rebel camp of the National Revolutionary Forces in northern Colombia. The NRF leader at the time had been as close to a business associate as Juan allowed. Juan had supplied the NRF with weapons, the best money could buy, and the comandante had let his soldiers be used as the Conseco family’s front line when necessary, quelling peasants who wanted too many pesos for their coca leaves, clearing airstrips in the jungle, protecting the cocaine processing labs in the north, and killing or kidnapping politicians who got in the way—the last in the name of the NRF, which left Juan with fewer crimes under his own name and more room to move, especially with the government.
Yes, he remembered the ghost killer’s brother. He’d even seen him and the other man, Creed Rivera, the one with the long hair. He could have saved them both, or had them both killed instantly, but instead had suggested to the NRF that one should die a noteworthy death, with photographs for the media. Let the world know not to come to Colombia, and let the other soldier live to take back the tale. The Norteamericanos cannot always have it their way, he’d said. They must pay sometimes, pay with violent blood. He was sick of the United States’ interference in Colombia, sick of their mercenary soldiers, sick of the foreign oil companies, and sick of a drug policy that allowed foreign planes to destroy his crops.
It had been a petty revenge to have J.T. Chronopolous crucified and butchered. Juan took his real revenge every day, supplying the United States with enough cocaine to make himself one of South America’s richest men. He wasn’t a cocaine baron. He was a king, and every man, woman, and child who used his product was his subject, whether they were a citizen of the U.S.A. or not. They were his. He owned them all. If his new partnership with the Afghan warlord worked out, his hold on America would be even greater. Damn the United States government. The people were speaking, and they spoke with his white powder up their noses—the fools.
Against all that, the ghost killer was no more than a minor irritation, but a damned persistent one. El asesino fantasma had become a hero to Juan’s enemies. He’d made a name for himself at the Conseco family’s expense, at Juan’s expense, and for that he would die. There was no help for it, and no chance of reprieve. No one mocked Juan Conseco’s rule; no one killed Juan’s family members and lived. If one man got away with it, others might try. Then no one he loved would be safe, and his empire would crumble.
It would be a frozen day in hell before Juan allowed such a disaster to come to pass.
“Drago,” he called to his uncle, his right-hand man. “What have you found?”
He’d seen Drago pick something up off the kitchen table. One of the chairs had been overturned when they’d arrived, and his men were currently overturning, upending, and ripping through everything else in the house.
“A woman was here,” his uncle answered, handing him a blue-edged piece of paper. “The ghost killer had a woman with him last night. There’s lipstick on the cup on the table.”
Drago had the eyes of a hawk, and the instincts of an inquisitor. Nothing got by Tío Drago.
“And this?” Juan asked, lifting the paper.
“It’s a flyer for an art show tonight in Denver, Colorado. The woman must have been looking at it while she drank her tea.”
Juan looked at the flyer. The photograph was of a beautiful young woman with short dark hair in a very short dress standing next to a large painting of an angel. The woman’s name was Nicole Alana McKinney, and she was having a show tonight in the United States. Time, date, place—all the information was printed on the flyer, along with a Web address and a short blurb from a Denver newspaper proclaiming her a rising star in the art world.
“Look the artist up on the Internet, check her Web site,” he told Drago, handing the paper back to him. “Maybe the woman here tonight is a friend of this Nicole Alana McKinney.”
He walked over to the patio door and looked out on the courtyard. His men had gone through the house and yard and torn them apart, but they’d found no one, not anyone alive anyway. Juan, Drago, and the four soldiers had been waiting in two cars on the street, watching the front of the house, while Sanchez and Mancos had slipped inside. Peter Chronopolous could only have escaped out the back. Juan’s men were already in the alley, tracking him down.
They had the bastard on the run.
Him and the woman, Juan realized, his gaze falling on a set of pink suitcases stacked next to each other in the courtyard. The woman drinking the tea must have still been in the house when Sanchez and Mancos had entered.
He looked back over his shoulder, to the kitchen table and the teacup, to the overturned chair, then to where the bodies lay.
She’d been in the middle of the slaughter. She’d seen it all.
A thin smile curved his lips. The ghost killer couldn’t have liked that, having his woman be in such danger, having her watch him murder two men.
“Drago,” he called, and his uncle came to his side. He gestured toward the suitcases. “He’s got the woman with him, and I want her.”
Drago was already on his way across the courtyard. He knelt by the suitcases.
A few seconds is all they had left. Staying longer only put them in danger of running into the Panamanian police. El asesino’s shots would have been heard all through the neighborhood. His soldiers were already gone and, with a phone call, could be picked up anywhere in the city.
“Bring them,” he said, turning on his heel. “We must leave now.”
To his surprise, when Drago caught up with him, his uncle was empty-handed.
“Tío?” It wasn’t like Drago to disobey an order, ever.
“We don’t need them,” Drago said, handing Juan the poster again. “It’s her, the artist. She’s the one on the run with the ghost killer. Her initials and a small angel like the one on the flyer are stamped into the leather, N.A.M. with a small c under the M. Takin
g the luggage will only warn el asesino that we are on her trail. Even if they get away, she’ll be here tonight.” He tapped the flyer.
And wherever they found the girl, they would find Peter Chronopolous, or rather he would find them. Juan would make certain of it.
“Perfecto,” he said, his thin smile broadening into a full-fledged grin. Drago was right. Taking the luggage would be a mistake. It would put the ghost killer on his guard and make the woman more difficult to kidnap—and suddenly, having the woman was very important to him. It opened up whole new worlds of possibilities. That she was a well-known artist would only make his revenge and her death sweeter, and Peter Chronopolous would witness it all before he died, a fitting punishment for his crimes against the Conseco family and a clear warning to everyone else: The strike of the fer-de-lance was lethal and indiscriminate. Put yourself in its path, and everyone in your life became its prey.
Everyone.
CHAPTER
6
Denver, Colorado
SKEETER KNEW SOMEONE was at Toussi’s back door before they knocked. It was just a feeling, but those feelings usually turned out to be true, with “usually” running about ninety-eight percent in her favor. Some people thought her ESP was spooky, like her parents, and some people thought it was cool, like Superman and everybody else at 738 Steele Street, the headquarters for SDF and where she lived.
“We’ve got company,” she said, setting aside a screwdriver and looking up at Travis where he was working on the gallery’s catwalk. He was finishing up the rigging on the ropes for the triptych they’d suspended in the middle of the room. Each painting was twelve feet high, four feet wide, and totally awesome. The angel’s body took up the whole middle piece. His wings were on either side, broken and torn, and he was descending, falling straight to hell, feathers flying, plummeting through a maelstrom—a dark angel. It was still Travis, but this time Nikki had really outdone herself. The movement in the painting was almost tangible, the fall truly frightening. The whole piece pulled at Skeeter, made her want to grab on to the angel and hold him up, or catch him, or do something, anything, to save him.
It was disturbing and involving, both awful to witness and wonderful to behold, and she loved it, the way she loved the new work Nikki was doing with the wildest angels anyone had ever seen. Travis had already hung two of those paintings.
“Not again.” She heard him mutter.
“What do you mean, again?”
He levered himself up to look over the iron railing. “The back door hasn’t stopped swinging all night long. Are you sure you heard something? I didn’t hear anything.”
“They haven’t knocked yet.”
“Then how do you . . . oh, right.” Travis was firmly in the “spooky is cool” camp. “Wait a minute. I’ll be right down.”
“Don’t bother,” she said, heading for the back door. “I’ll get it. It’s fine.”
“Do you know who it is?” She heard him crossing the catwalk above her.
“No,” she admitted. “But the vibe is mellow, nervous but mellow.”
“Nervous doesn’t work for me,” he said, reaching the stairs and starting down. “Not at three o’clock in the morning.”
Normally, nervous didn’t work for her, either, but this vibe was different. She reached the door just as the knock came. It wasn’t much of a knock, and if she hadn’t actually “felt” it first, she wasn’t at all sure she would have heard it over the music she and Travis were playing.
She slid off the chain lock, turned the dead bolt key, and opened the door to the alley. A light snow was falling. The alley and the streets were dusted white, the whole city turning cold and silvery.
Skeeter knew an urchin when she saw one because she’d been one—dirty, hungry, small, confused, and cold. That’s what happened to kids whose parents fell through the cracks. They ended up homeless on the street and knocking on doors in the middle of the night.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hey,” the boy answered. He had a coat, but his nose and cheeks were red, and he wasn’t wearing a hat or gloves. He looked about twelve. “This is the art place, right?”
“Sure is,” she said, stepping aside. “Come on in.” Skeeter had a rule—anyone under five feet tall who didn’t weigh more than a pile of puppies was not considered a threat, at least not initially.
“No, I . . . hey, I know who you are,” the boy said, a big grin coming over his face. “You’re SB-three-oh-three.”
Skeeter immediately revised her description: dirty, hungry, small, and cold—but definitely not confused. Of course, she was pretty easy to recognize, with a platinum ponytail down to her butt, Chinese tattoos running down her arm, and her signature ball cap, mirrored aviator sunglasses, and all-around black-leather-and-chain-mail style. She knew it was a Goth cliché, but she also knew she made it look good—damn good.
“That’s right. SB-three-oh-three. Who are you?” If she could keep him talking, maybe she could talk him inside.
“Kondo.” He had shaggy dark hair, dark eyes, and a freckled nose. “I’ve seen your hit-ups around town. They’re pretty cool.” Puffs of vapor came out of his mouth with every word. He had to be freezing, but Skeeter knew better than to try to force him into anything.
“Thanks. Are you sure you don’t want to come in? It’s kind of cold tonight.” Laid back. Playing it cool. That was SB303. The new Skeeter wanted to grab him by the front of his coat and haul him inside. As for the hit-ups he liked, she’d given up writing her name all over the city when Superman had taken her in, but a lot of her graffiti was still on the streets, proclaiming her the vandalism queen of Denver. She even had a few “pieces” out there, as in “masterpieces,” works of graffiti art that went beyond throwing up a name.
“Nah. I just gotta give you something,” the boy said, digging in his coat pocket until he came up with an envelope. He held it out. “This is for Robin Rulz. Okay?”
“Uh . . . okay.” Skeeter looked down at it, her eyebrows arching up toward her hairline. Then she saw the return address and her eyebrows went even further. An envelope for Robin Rulz? From the Castle Import Rug Company? Ho-lee crap.
“They said to drop it off at Tootsie’s on Seventeenth,” Kondo continued. “So anyway, here it is.”
Reluctant as hell, and way against her better judgment, Skeeter reached out and took the envelope from his hand.
“Thanks,” the boy said, already backing away from the door. “This is so cool. SB-three-oh-three.” Then he was off and running, gone almost before the condensation of his breath had a chance to dissipate.
“SB-three-oh-three?” Travis asked behind her.
At the corner, another small form darted across the alley to join Kondo.
“Skeeter Bang, area code three-oh-three,” she said, watching the two kids disappear, still not believing what had just happened, or what she was holding. “I tagged this town about a thousand times. I think I’m still on the cops’ top-ten list.”
When the boy turned the corner onto the street, she closed the door and turned to face Travis.
“We’ve got a problem,” she said, lifting the envelope. Oh, brother, did they have a problem.
“You better believe it,” he said. “That’s the fifth envelope to show up tonight, and I don’t know anybody named Robin Rulz. How about you?”
“Five?” Her eyebrows rose even further. “Four other people have shown up here tonight with envelopes for Robin?”
“Four other kids,” he said.
Cripes. The Castle Rats knew Robin Rulz was back in town and living at Toussi’s. Or Tootsie’s, if you were only twelve and freezing your butt off. How in the heck had she gotten so out of the loop? Steele Street was less than half a mile away. This was her neighborhood, her part of town, and she hadn’t known.
“Besides the weather all week, that’s one of the reasons I got so far behind with the show,” he said. “I’ve been answering the door all night long.”
“Why didn’t
Jane answer the door?” And pick up her own damn messages, Skeeter wondered. This was unbelievable. Five Castle Rats swarming the gallery.
“She fell asleep about eight o’clock,” Travis said, glancing back at the girl—and Skeeter would swear he blushed. “I think she had a long day.”
Skeeter had to work to hold back a snort.
“Yeah,” she said, “and probably a long night last night. Look, Travis, I—” She stopped in mid-sentence, her whole thought process waylaid by a tsunami-size wave of sudden alertness coming from the other side of the gallery.
She leaned to one side, slanting her gaze over Travis’s shoulder, and ran smack dab into a pair of pale green eyes staring back at her, focused, intense . . . disturbingly feral.
Holy cripes.
Jane was awake.
CHAPTER
7
Panama City, Panama
KID WASN’T DRUNK.
He wished like hell that he was, but he wasn’t.
“. . . didn’t believe it at first. It really was the most amazing thing, honest to God, for a twenty-year-old fiber artist to be given a commission by the San Diego Tourist Board,” Nikki said. “I mean a real commission, money, an exhibition, even a full-color poster. A poster, for crying out loud—the whole schmear. Did you know the Gay and Lesbian Alliance of Tulsa also commissioned one of his pieces?”
No. Kid hadn’t known. But after a half hour of sitting in Rueben’s office above the Parrot Bar, listening nonstop to “Nikki talks about Rocky,” it was about the only thing he didn’t know about her “no, not really” fiancé.
Geezus. Even the word gave him heartburn. It pissed him off, royally, but man, he had no high ground left in this relationship. Not a foot of it, not until he could get her out of here and safe.
He’d asked for this, though, practically begged for it when they’d been on the street, given her carte blanche, anything to keep her from melting down, and she’d been close, damn close—but that didn’t mean he had to like the subject matter that was holding her together.