Dark Hunger (11 page)

He closed his eyes, mentally willing himself back in the game. She could destroy him and his team, endanger their lives and the lives of hundreds of others.

But images of her on the news haunted him. The way she’d helped the needy the night of the bombing.

Memories of her in the shower followed along with the sight of her shivering as she ran from his house to her car the night he’d met her.

Dammit, he was thinking too much. He relied on instinct while on the job; he demanded perfection.

But now he was rethinking his plan.

What if she had sent files on him to another source?

She had talked to the local police about him. If she went missing, would they come after him? Shit.

He’d have to figure out a way around it. The unit would be his alibi.

He curled his fingers around the handle, moving his trigger finger into position, and focused. Mentally channeling his energy into the zone, he looked through the viewfinder again and found his shot.

He lived for the kill. He liked the sound of the bullet zooming through the air. The startled look in the victim’s eyes the moment they realized they’d been hit.

That death had come calling.

Good-bye, Annabelle. It’s time to die
.

Annabelle’s cell phone jangled, and she hurried to retrieve it, hoping it might be a lead on the bombings, that the man who’d sent her the text message might be trying to make contact again.

But she checked the number and saw it was her boss. She bit her lip, debating over whether to answer, but knew he’d keep hounding her until she did.

Resigned, she punched the connect button. “Hello, Roland.”

“Annabelle, why haven’t you called me?”

She sucked in a sharp breath. “I’ve been busy,” she said through gritted teeth. “In case you’ve forgotten, I’m in the middle of putting together a story about a bombing, interviewing witnesses and victims and their families.” And she hadn’t divulged the fact that the bomber had contacted
her
.

“So what is the story?” he asked. “Some homeless man set off the bomb in Savannah?”

“Apparently so,” Annabelle said. “But I think there’s more to the story, Roland. I just need more time.”

“We have to report something, Annabelle.”

“You have what I can verify so far. Warren Ames, a homeless man, was the suicide bomber in Savannah. He suffered from PTS. That’s all you can print for now.”

Roland’s agitated breath reverberated over the line. “What are you holding back?”

She sighed. “You know I’m still digging. As soon as I know, you’ll have my story. Until then, you’re going to have to trust me.”

“Then at least send me a human-interest piece or two to work with to distract the public.”

“Fine. You’ll have a couple of pieces tomorrow.”

“What about Quinton Valtrez?”

She hesitated and went to stare out the window, her nerves on edge. “I’m still working on that story. He’s not as cut-and-dried as I thought.”

“You aren’t going soft, are you?” Roland barked. “Because I can send someone else to get the story.”

Her stomach tightened and resolve set in. “I’m not going soft. But this story is complicated, and I can’t work with you breathing down my neck.”

Irritated, she hung up and dropped her forehead against the cool windowpane, confused and nervous as hell.

Was she going soft? Starting to see Quinton as some kind of hero instead of a killer?

Quinton’s fingers tightened around the gun, but his gaze caught Annabelle’s as she angled her face and stared out the window. For a moment, he wondered if she could see him.

Her eyes were luminous, innocent, wary, probing. Her face delicate but determined. Her hair flowing as she raked a hand through the glossy long strands.

Then her thoughts came to him—she was thinking about the bombing, the vultures, the homeless man, wondering how the three were connected.

And she wanted to talk to him.

Because she thought the killer had contacted her. And she suspected there was more to this than a single suicide bomber, that another person might be behind it.

That there would be more victims.

Her thoughts came again, this time as if she’d spoken directly to him.

She wasn’t going to rat him out. At least not yet. She wanted the whole picture.

How do you fit into the puzzle, Quinton Valtrez? Just who are you—a savior or a killer?

“Not a savior, sweetheart, that’s for damn sure,” he muttered.

Forcing himself to focus, he inhaled deep breaths then slid his finger away from the trigger.

Dammit, he couldn’t kill her.

He was acting impetuously, on emotion, on fear that she’d expose him instead of thinking clearly. So had Keller.

Taking her out here would draw too much suspicion.

She wasn’t a terrorist. She was a public figure. People knew who she was and where she was staying.

And what if the demon had contacted her? What if she proved to be a link to this bomber?

The smart thing to do would be to play along. Find out just what she knew. Who she might have already passed information to. Then he’d do whatever he had to do to convince her to keep quiet.

Hell, seducing her would be more effective than murder.

Smiling at that thought, he reached for his cell phone with steady fingers and punched in her number. She fidgeted but answered the phone.

“Annabelle Armstrong speaking.”

“It’s Quinton Valtrez.”

She drew a sharp breath and tightened the belt of her robe as if she sensed she was being watched.

Now that he knew what lay beneath the robe, no matter what she wore he’d have a permanent picture of her naked in his mind. Lush and inviting…

She rushed to the window and moved the sheers aside, searching the gardens. “Yes?”

“We need to talk.”

“I thought you didn’t want to talk to me.”

“I don’t.” He hesitated. “But since you’re still here, I figure I have to.”

She seemed to be searching the street for him. “How did you know where I was?”

“I have my sources.” He grinned, enjoying the way his tone unnerved her. Damn, he was a bastard.

But if she exposed the unit, she jeopardized dozens of lives, including innocents the team protected.

“Come to my place,” he suggested.

She shook her head, a frown marring her brow. “Too isolated.”

“Then I’ll come to your room.”

She ran a hand through her hair. “No. Someplace neutral. How about Colonial Park Cemetery?”

An odd place to meet. “All right.” He disconnected the call, then took his weapon system and went to his car to wait. He’d parked under a row of big oaks down the street a ways, but near enough to see her exit.

Moonlight streaked the asphalt, a vulture sweeping in front of her as Annabelle hurried outside. Was Quinton finally going to talk to her and tell her the truth?

Did he know more about the bombing than he’d told her? Could they possibly work together to identify the person or persons behind the bombing?

She scanned the street near her car, her nerves suddenly kicking in as she spotted a vulture perched on the roof.

Breathing in to calm herself, she hesitated several feet away and clicked the unlock button.

A second later, a loud roar rent the air, and her car exploded.

Annabelle screamed, the impact throwing her to the concrete. Her head hit the ground and she collapsed, metal and glass pelting her.

The cold wind shifted through B. J. Rutherford’s paper-thin skin and gnawed at his bones, frail bones riddled with arthritis in a body that had seen nigh on eighty years. Hunching the weathered gray coat someone had donated to the shelter around his shoulders, he hobbled through the streets of Charleston, scrounging through garbage for a crust of bread to go with his booze. His knees ached and his back throbbed as he clutched the bottle of cheap wine and took a sip. The alcohol warmed his insides and soothed the ache in his joints.

But he had to make the bottle last. He’d begged for money for two days just to buy a gallon jug of Gallo, and he hated begging in the streets. Hated the way people looked at him with pity as if he wasn’t worth spit. Just because he’d fallen on hard times a few years back.

Sorrow welled in his chest as the painful memories assaulted his feeble mind. When Haddie gave in to the cancer and left him ten years ago, he’d wanted to join her in the grave.

But God had punished him for doing bad things when he was younger by leaving him alone and making him suffer. Yes, he’d been a sinner. Had lusted for young girls. Even cheated on Haddie. But he’d tried to atone for those sins in his old age.

Reverend Narius had helped him. Had offered him redemption and he’d taken it.

Ominous gray clouds floated across the moon, robbing any light, and the stench of garbage and urine filled his nose as he neared the shelter. Oddly, the smells welcomed him as if he was home. He stumbled to the grassy area behind the shelter and dug a spot to bury his bottle.

One day soon B.J. would join Haddie in death. Then he’d feel no more pain, and he’d never be cold again.

A man with eyebrows so thick and black they looked like bird feathers stood in the shadows of the entryway, wearing a long black duster. His eyes were close together, narrowed and beady in his oddly shaped face, the top of his head bald with a long black ponytail trailing down his back.

B.J. frowned. Who was this guy? He didn’t look homeless, not with that gold watch on his arm.

“What do you want, mister?”

The man smiled, revealing a row of jagged teeth, then pressed a feathered hand to B.J.’s temple. B.J. tried to jerk back, but sharp talons sank into his skull and unbearable pain splintered through his head. Shaking with the force of it, he sank to the ground and screamed in terror.

“Please, I’ll do whatever you want. Just stop the pain.”

The shadow laughed in answer.

Laughter bubbled from the Death Angel’s throat and echoed around him as he literally fried the man’s mind, stealing his thoughts and his dreams, turning his brain into a blank slate to accept the commands that he would issue.

With a sweep of his wings, he sailed outside into the dark evening, leaving the old man to rest until his body woke from the trauma. Then the man would do as he commanded because Satan owned him.

More deaths for the Angel tonight. More lost souls for the Soul Collectors to offer Zion.

More bodies to be cleaned of flesh.

He soared upward and perched on a phone line, then licked his talons, his hunger mounting as his eyes zeroed in on the Charleston market.

Tomorrow night, another big one. Midnight.

It was many hours away. But he could wait.

The feast would be worth it.

Quinton’s heart pounded as he jumped from his Land Rover and ran toward Annabelle. The few people on the street screamed and raced away in panic as smoke and the scent of burning metal and rubber clogged the air.