Dark of Night (10 page)

Tracy was extremely easy to look at, with long auburn hair and a classically beautiful face with perfect, even features and big blue eyes. Decker had seen her personnel file when Tom had first hired her, and even though she dressed younger, he knew her to be in her early thirties.

She was slightly shorter than he'd thought, with yes-there-is-a-God curves to a body that she kept trim but not overly so.

It was easy to forget, when looking at her, that there was a highly functioning
brain in that pretty head. There was a question now on her face. She was trying to keep it hidden from him, but he could see it.

“Is, uh, Tess staying with you?” she asked.

“No,” Decker said. It was nice to not have to lie while she was looking at him like that. “She's just taking some time to … You know.”

“Oh,” Tracy said, as if what he'd just said made sense, “because I'd love to see her. I thought you were, um, together. Not that that's any of my business. But you know how rumors fly. Dave's pretty much moved in with Sophia—although that's not a rumor—and you and Tess are … whatever you are.”

Decker forced himself to not react. What exactly was she digging for? And she was definitely digging. Had they come full circle back to the sexual attraction thing? He made himself shrug. “It's… complicated.”

She nodded, and the sudden compassion in her eyes was not feigned. “I bet.”

It was definitely time to go. Deck picked up the duffel and headed for the door. “I want to check that door buzzer. Make sure it's working.”

Tracy followed, carrying her now-empty laundry basket. “How's this weekend?”

“I'm sorry?”

“I'd like to visit Tess and I thought—”

Jesus, that would never work—a visit from Tracy? “I'll let her know,” Decker said, “but she's probably not …” He shook his head as he opened the door to the corridor and used words that made his
no
more definite: “She's still not up for visitors.”

“Then maybe you shouldn't tell her. Don't give her a choice,” Tracy said. “If I just dropped by … It might be good for her.”

As Decker kept the door propped open with his boot, he pressed the button for the buzzer. Nothing. Which was a relief, because it meant he hadn't been distracted beyond imagining, nor was he losing his mind. He tried to look apologetic as he turned back to Tracy, who was still inside the apartment. “I don't think that's a good idea. She's still pretty fragile.”

“All right,” she said, “then I'll send her a card. What's the address?”

“Just give it to me,” Decker said. “I'll pass it along.” He motioned for her to exit through the open door.

But she didn't budge. “Funny how I knew you were going to say that.”

He'd used both body language and word cues to end their conversation,
but it hadn't worked, so he finally went point blank. “I've got to go. Will you lock up? Get the lights and the fan?”

“Sure, but …” Tracy turned back into the living room, raising her voice so he could still hear her. “Don't forget your… whatever this is.” She came back to the door holding the bug sweeper that he'd left— damn—on the table next to the sofa.

“Thanks. Yeah. Right. I, uh, got a spark from one of the outlets in the kitchen last time I was here.” He was lying his balls off, but she was nodding.

“Oh, my God. That must've been scary.”

“Yeah,” he said as he opened the duffel's zipper just enough to slip the device inside. “I broke a glass and used the vacuum to clean it up, and … I wanted to check the grounding on the outlet and … Turns out it's fine. It must be the vacuum, so be careful if you borrow it.”

“I will,” she said, still planted solidly in the apartment.

“Take care.”

“You too.” But before he could leave, she stepped forward and caught his arm with one well-manicured hand. “Ooh, Deck, wait. Since you're going to see Tess, is it all right if I write a note for her right now?”

He made an apologetic face as he gently extracted himself from her grip. “I really need to get moving.”

“It'll only take a second. Just let me grab a paper and pen.” She was already heading back into the kitchen.

“I'll be back in the office on Thursday,” he called after her. Damnit. “Tracy, I've really got to go. You can send Tess an e-mail. Her e-mail's still the same.”

“But a note makes it so much more personal,” she said, coming back with a pad that Tess had kept near the phone. “Didn't your mother ever tell you that?”

Decker sighed as she tore the note she'd written off the pad and held it out to him. “I'm sure Tess will appreciate …” He read the words that she'd written in her round, girlish handwriting.

Did you use that thing out in the hall, too?

He looked up at her in surprise, and she looked up from writing another note to shake her head at him, in obvious disgust and disappointment. She finished and tore that second sheet off the pad.

Last month Tom put me in charge of cataloging and keeping track of field equipment. I know exactly what a bug sweeper is, thank you very much.

She reached out and used her pen to tap the first note, because he hadn't answered her question.

He shook his head,
no.
He hadn't swept the hallway.

“Are you sure you have everything?” she asked. “Oh, wait. Don't leave yet. Didn't Tess want that DVD … What was it, again?”

Decker just kept shaking his head. She obviously wanted him to come back into the apartment, no doubt to ask him why he'd swept the place for bugs. But that was a discussion he absolutely did not want to have. Not now, not ever. “I'll check with her and get it next time.”

“The Philadelphia Story”
Tracy said, quickly scribbling a third note on that pad. “It's her favorite movie. Well, that and
Casablanca.
Oh, and
Moulin Rouge,
of course, although it's probably best if she stays away from movies where one of the lovers dies. At least for a little while longer.”

She tore that third sheet from her pad and thrust it at him.

Who is Tess hiding from???
she'd written.
And why are you bringing her some of Jimmy's T-shirts and underwear?

Decker looked up at her, and he saw hope mixed with the disbelief on her pretty face.

“I'm not,” he said, answering her second question half-honestly. But he knew, try as he might to hide it, that she could see the truth in his eyes—that she was right, and that Nash was still alive.

“Oh, my God,” she whispered as her eyes filled with tears. “Oh, my
God …
”

Ah, hell. Really?

Out of an entire team of highly skilled, super-elite operatives, it was Tracy, their allegedly ditzy receptionist, who'd figured it out?

As Decker watched, she tamped down her emotional response, blinked back her tears, and pushed the door open even wider. “Come inside,” she said, in a voice that didn't so much as waver. It was a command, not an invitation. “And help me look for that DVD.”

Decker folded all three notes and, hefting the duffel bag and shaking his head, went back into Tess and Nash's apartment, where Tracy closed the door, tightly, behind them both.

S
omeone was following him. Years of working for the CIA had definitely made Dave paranoid, but there was no doubt about it.

Someone
was
following him.

At this late hour of the night, the top floor of the vast hospital parking garage was deserted—except for Dave and the person who was following him—and he was glad he'd suggested Sophia wait in the lobby. Seeing her father again had been hard enough—no need to add to the misery by having to schlep to the car through the relentlessly chilly New England rain.

Still, the father-daughter reunion had gone well. Sophia had been gracious in her acceptance of the old man's tearful apologies. She'd even gone so far as to grant him forgiveness, of sorts. And her father had actually started breathing more easily. Sophia had seemed to feel some relief, too and—

Dave heard the footsteps again and glanced over his shoulder, half hoping it was Sophia's Aunt Maureen, but knowing, just from the sound of the footfalls, that it was someone much bigger than she was.

And it was, indeed, someone much bigger—than Dave even.

Male, Caucasian, mid-thirties, 250 pounds, about six-six. Gang tatts— teardrops on his face, but faded—as well as inked letters on both of his hands, between his knuckles and the first joints of his fingers. Dave wasn't close enough to read what they spelled out.

He kept moving—his rental car was just ahead in the far corner of the lot, alone save for a dark blue pickup truck right next to it. He reached into his pocket for his cell phone as he glanced back at the big man again.

Shaved head, pale eyes—it was hard to tell their color in the low-wattage fluorescent streetlights—pierced eyebrow and nose, mangina beneath his lower lip.

Leather jacket slick with rain, jeans, biker boots.

He hadn't increased his pace at Dave's double-take, but he also hadn't angled off toward the only other cluster of cars. He just kept moving, parallel to Dave now—closer to the two vehicles. It was entirely possible that the blue truck was his, and that coincidence had brought them into the parking garage at this exact same moment in time.

Judging a man from his appearance was neither nice nor PC, but before Dave could comment on the weather
—hell of a night for a trip to the hospital,
at which point the big man would proudly announce that his wife had just had a baby girl, their first child—he heard the unmistakable metal swish of a switchblade knife being unsheathed.

He looked again, and sure enough, the dim light glinted off a nasty-looking blade held with a distinctly non-amateurish grip in the behemoth's extra-large hand.

Running for his car was not an option— knife-guy was planted neatly between it and Dave.

So Dave stopped, too. He stood there, in the rain, and said, “Are you sure you want to do this?” as he took out his cell phone and dialed 9-1-1. “Because I've already had a difficult day—after a bitch of a week—and this is not going to make it any better.”

The big man smiled, exposing a gold tooth, like he was some kind of villain from a James Bond movie.

“Seriously,” Dave said, “I know I don't look like much, but I'm former CIA. Plus, I just called for help and … Yes,” he said into the phone to the emergency operator. “David Malkoff, formerly with the CIA? I'm on the top floor of the Fruit Street garage at Mass General, with a thug with a knife. Police backup would be nice—ASAP.” He closed and pocketed his phone, then directly addressed the man. “If you start running now, I won't come after you.”

The man's response was to feint forward, then swipe from the left,
which sent Dave dancing back, untouched, landing in a defensive crouch as he put it into plain language even an ogre such as this one could understand. “Don't fuck with me.”

Another swipe, and Dave timed it, turning and throwing his entire body into a roundhouse kick that knocked the knife from the fellow's colossal hand. It clattered and skittered across the tarmac as Dave scrambled—not very gracefully but so what, there were no judges here giving them points—to put himself between the giant man and the blade.

And yet the goliath was still between Davy and his rental car, which sucked since he'd left his slingshot back in San Diego. And then it sucked even more, when the last little bit of him that wasn't yet wet got soaked as the skies opened up and the rain came down even harder.

Cssshhhht.
The sound was almost hidden by the rush of the falling rain.

“Oh, come
on”
Dave said, as he saw that, yes, his attacker
had
opened another switchblade. “This is where you run away.”

The man finally spoke. “Not yet.”

“It should be obvious that I'm not giving up my wallet,” Dave pointed out.

“I don't want you to,” the man said, his voice a lilting Irish brogue, a surprisingly musical tenor for such a monster. “Come, man, defend yourself.” He smiled, revealing another flash of that tooth. “Or not.”

He rushed Dave then, and it was like facing down a freight train that was barreling down a mountain. There was no point in trying to pick up that other knife—Irish's arms were much longer.

But a charge of this sort had no finesse, so Dave stood his ground until the last split second, waiting to see, from the way Irish tensed his wide shoulders, which way that knife was going to go. And again, Dave kicked into it, and
again
it went sailing, but then Irish crashed into him, which wasn't as painful as it would have been had the knife been in the man's hand, but was still quite the body slam.

They hit the ground with Dave already bringing his elbow up, hard, into Irish's ugly-ass face. He heard the crunch of a broken nose even as the bigger man wrapped one huge arm around him, pinning him, too, with a leg like a tree trunk, keeping him from rolling and scrambling away.

It was then, even as Dave scraped and ground the heel of his shoe down the front of Irish's leg, even as he went for the bastard's eyes, that he
felt the piercing cold in his side. Cold and hot at the same time, and he froze for a split second, knowing his mistake had been in letting the big man get too close.

“A man who carries two probably carries three,” Irish breathed in Dave's ear, then drew his third blade out. “Give my best to Santucci.”

Santucci? Who the fuck was that?

But Jesus, now it hurt.

It wasn't cold, it wasn't hot, it was just brain-explodingly painful, and Dave knew he had to move or he was going to get sliced to shreds, so he hammered back again with his elbow as he grabbed for the monster's balls, but the man rolled, pulling his lower body away, which freed up Dave's legs, so he kicked and he scrambled and he bit and he flailed, and he turned his head and saw the crazy glint of light reflecting off that first switchblade knife that he'd knocked out of Irish's hand.

Dave reached for it, rolled toward it, his fingers closing around the handle even as he pushed himself to his hands and knees.