Fallen Angels 01 - Covet (39 page)

A laptop the size of an old-school VHS tape.

He took the thing out and let Dog have a sniff-spection of it.

Evidently, there was an approval, because Dog gave it a nudge and curled up with a yawn.

Jim opened up the screen and hit the power button. Windows Vista loaded, and what do you know, when he went into the start menu and called up the Outlook that had been installed, he had an account. And his password was the same as his old one.

In the in-box, he found a welcome e-mail from Outlook Express, which he ignored, and two from a blank sender.

“God, Dog, every time I try to get out, they keep pulling me back in,”

he said, not even attempting an impersonation of Al Pacino.

Jim opened the first e-mail and went right to its attachment—which turned out to be an Adobe file of...a personnel report that was a good fifteen pages long.

The picture in the upper left-hand corner was of a hard-ass Jim knew, and the details included the guy's last-known address, his vital stats, his clearances, his honors, and his deficiencies. As Jim scanned and absorbed the intel, he was mindful of the time clock in the lower portion of the screen. It had started at five minutes, and quickly was down to two, and when the three digits separated by a colon read 0:00, the attachment was cyberdust, as if it had never existed. The same outcome occurred, only immediately, if he tried to forward, print out, or save the file.

Matthias was sharp like that.

So thank fuck for photographic memory.

As for the report itself? On the surface, it appeared as if there were nothing out of the ordinary; it was just your garden-variety rundown on a black-ops guy who was like the e-file—nothing but ether until he disappeared entirely. Except then there were the telltale three letters at the end next to the word

STATUS.

MIA.

Ah, so that was the assignment. In the military branch Jim had been in, there was no such thing as MIA. There was AD, OR, or PB: active duty, on reserve, or pine box—the last being a term of art used unofficially, of course. Jim was OR—which meant that technically he was liable to be called back in at any moment and had to go or the letters DEAD were going to appear next to his status. And the truth was, he'd had to blackmail Matthias the fucker to even get into the reserves—although given what he had on the guy, he should have been able to stay there. If he hadn't had to resell his soul.

Well...the assignment was clear-cut: Matthias wanted this man killed.

Jim quickly rescanned the report until he was certain he could close his eyes and read the text and see the picture on the backs of his eyelids. Then he watched the clock zero out and the thing disappear.

He opened the second e-mail. Another e-file to crack and another ticker in the bottom corner that was triggered when he did. This time he just had a picture of the guy, only now the face was battered, with a split in the forehead that had let loose a tidal wave of blood. He wasn't a victim, though. Hisknuckles were wrapped for fighting and there was red chicken wire behind his head and shoulders.

The image the solider was a scan of a flyer for an underground mixed-martial-arts fighting group. Area code was 617. Boston.

The name the soldier was going by was both cheesy as fuck and pretty goddamn accurate, assuming he hadn't changed: Fist. His real one was Isaac Rothe.

This file lasted only a hundred and eighty seconds, and Jim hung out, staring at that face. He'd seen it a number of times, on some occasions right beside him while they worked together.

Dog nuzzled his way into Jim's lap and curled up, putting his face on the keyboard.

Yup, Matthias wanted the guy dead because Isaac had bolted from the fold—so it was a standard job and standard rules applied. Which meant if Jim didn't do it, someone else would—and the chaser would be that Jim woke up dead in the morning, too.

Pretty damned simple.

Jim ran his hand down Dog's flank and worried about who would feed and care for the little guy if something bad happened. Shit, it was weird to have something to live for...but Jim just couldn't deal with the idea of the animal lost and alone, hungry and scared again.

Lotta cruel motherfuckers in the world who couldn't care less about a scruffy ugly-ass dog with a limp.

And yet the idea of killing Isaac was repugnant. God knew Jim had wanted out of the service bad, so he couldn't blame the guy for leaving: A life that was led in the gray borderlands between right and wrong, legal and illegal, was a hard one.

If only the idiot had had the sense not to do anything with a public presence, even an underground one.

Then again, they would have found him eventually. They always did— The twin sounds of Harley engines pulling up to the garage brought both his and Dog's heads around, and Dog immediately started wagging his tail as those growls silenced down below. As boots came up the stairs, the animal leaped off the bed and headed for the door. The knock was loud and it struck only once.

Dog paddled at the door, his excitement making him appear even scruffier than usual, and before the poor thing expired from ecstasy, Jim got up and walked over.

As he opened the door, he met Adrian's cool eyes. “What do you want?” “We need to talk.”

Jim crossed his arms over his chest as Eddie knelt down and showed love to Dog. Given the way the animal reacted, it was hard to believe the bikers were playing on Devina's team, but just because they weren't pally-pally with her didn't mean they were legit: All Jim had to do was think of the shadows he hadn't seen and the confusion in Chuck the foreman's voice when he'd been asked about the pair.

Made a guy wonder just what the fuck was standing on his doorstep.

“You two are liars,” Jim said. “So that makes talking kind of pointless, doesn't it.” As Dog rolled over onto his back so Eddie could do some serious belly rubbing, Adrian shrugged. “We're angels, not saints. What do you want from us.”

“So you do know those four English whack jobs?”

“Yeah, we do.” Adrian glanced pointedly at the refrigerator. “Listen, this is going to be a long conversation. You mind beering us?”

“Do you exist?”

“Beer. Then talk.”

As Eddie got to his feet with Dog in his heavy arms, Jim held up his palm. “Why did you lie.” Adrian glanced over at his roommate; then looked back. “I didn't know whether you could handle shit.”

“And what's changed your mind.”

“The fact that you figured out what Devina is and you didn't bolt. You believed what you saw on that pavement on the hospital.”

“Or didn't see, as was the case.”

Jim stared at the two of them, thinking that clearly they'd been following him—and maybe Devina had sensed them instead of him in the parking lot of the hospital.

“No,” Adrian said, “we masked you so she didn't see you. That's what she was picking up on when she looked around. There are advantages to her thinking you're on your own and you're clueless.”

“You guys read minds, too?”

“And I'm full aware of how much you don't like me at this moment.”

“Can't be a new thing for you,” Jim said, wondering if he was ever going to work with people who weren't assholes. “So...you two are here to help me.”

“Yup. Just like Devina's going to have people helping her.”

“I don't like liars. I have too much experience with them.”

“Won't happen again.” Adrian ran a hand through his ridiculously gorgeous hair. “Look, this isn't easy on us.... To be honest, I had my doubts from the beginning that bringing you on was a good idea, but that's my damage. Bottom line is, you're here and that's that, so either we work together or she has a serious advantage.”

Well, hell...that logic was pretty damn unassailable.

“I kicked all the Corona the other night so I only got Bud,” Jim said after a moment. “In cans.”

“And that's just what an angel has a craving for,” Adrian shot back.

Eddie nodded. “Sounds good to me.”

Jim stepped to the side and opened the door farther. “Are you alive?”

Adrian shrugged as they came inside. “Hard to answer that. But I know I like beer and sex, how 'bout that.”

“What is Dog?”

Eddie answered that one: “Consider him a friend. A very good friend.”

The animal...or whatever he was...gave a shy wag like he understood every word, and was worried he'd offended, and Jim felt compelled to lean in and give his chin a little scratch. “Guess I don't need to get him vaccinated, do I?”

“Nope.”

“What's with the limp?”

“It's the way he is.” Eddie's big palm smoothed over the dog's rough fur. “It just is.”

As he and Dog sat on the bed and Adrian wandered around, Jim took his headfuck over to the refrigerator, grabbed three Buds, and dealt the cans out like cards. A trio of cracks and hisses cut through the room and then there was a collective
ahhhh.

“How much do you know about me?” Jim asked.

“Everything.” Adrian looked around and focused on Jim's twin piles of clean and dirty. “Guess you don't believe in dresser drawers, do you.” Jim glanced down at his clothes. “Nope.”

“Ironic, really.”

“Why?”

“You'll see.” Adrian went over and sat down at the table. Tipping the shoe box full of chess pieces toward him, he glanced inside. “So what do you want to know. About her, us, anything.” Jim took another drag on his Bud and thought it all over. “Only one thing matters to me,” he said. “Can she be killed?” Both of the angels went still. And slowly shook their heads.

Considering what he'd been arrested for and the way things were going, Vin couldn't believe what was showing on the screen of his cell phone as the ringer went off.

As he accepted the call, he muted the local news and held on hard.

“Marie-Terese?”

There was a pause. “Hi.”

Swiveling around in his desk chair, he looked out over Caldwell and found it hard to comprehend that mere nights ago, he'd stared at the view with such a sense of domination. Now he felt like his life was totally out of control and he was fighting to stay where he was instead of being king of the mountain.

Never one to beat around the bush, he said, “Have you heard the news? About me?”

“Yes. But you were with me late last night, when it happened. I know you didn't do it.”

Relief rolled through him—although only about that particular part of the shit storm. “And the other attack, in the alley?”

“I'm on the way to the Iron Mask now. The police want to talk to me.”

“Can I see you,” he blurted with a desperation that would have shocked him under normal circumstances.

“Yes.”

Vin was surprised by the quick answer, but sure as shit not going to argue with it. “I'm at home over in the Commodore, so I can meet you anywhere, anytime.”

“I'll come to you as soon as I'm done with the CPD.”

“I'm on the twenty-eighth floor. I'll tell the doorman to expect you.”

“I'm not sure how long I'm going to be, but I can text you when I'm on my way.” Vin shifted his eyes over to the left, imagining her however many blocks west and south of where he was. “Marie-Terese...”

“Yes?”

He thought of her and her son...thought of the kind of people she'd managed to get away from— thus far. Her ex could easily reach out from prison, maybe already had: even if those attacks weren't tied to her, or were being done by someone else, she still needed to keep the lowest profile she could.

“Don't try to protect me.”

“Vin—”

“I'll explain more when you get here,” he said gruffly. “But let's just say I know how much you have to lose if your face gets into the media channels.” Silence. Then: “How.”

He could tell by the tightness in her voice that she didn't appreciate the look-see into her background. “Jim, my friend...he has connections. I didn't ask him to do it, by the way, but he told me what he found.”

Long pause. The kind that made him wish to hell he'd waited to drop that little bomb until she was in front of him. But then she exhaled.

“It's kind of a relief, actually. That you know.”

“It goes without saying that I'll tell no one.”

“I trust you.”

“Good, because I would never do anything to hurt you.” Now it was Vin's turn to get quiet. “God, Marie-Terese...”

There was the slight squeak of brakes. “I'm just at the club now. We'll talk in a little bit.”

“Don't protect me. Please.”

“See you soon—”

“Stay quiet. Don't get yourself involved with the shit that's on my tail.

For your son's sake and yours. It's not worth the risk.”

He stopped himself right there. No way he was going into the whole truth about Devina—partially because he didn't understand it fully himself, and mostly because he hated the idea of Marie-Terese thinking he was crazy.

“It's not right.” Her voice broke. “What she's accusing you of. It's not—”

“I know. Just believe me when I say I'm going to take care of it. I'm going to handle this.”

“Vin—”

“You know I'm right. See you in a bit.” As they ended the call, he prayed she would go with the reasoning—and figured, given the conflict in her voice, that the math was adding up correctly in her mind.

This was good.

Instead of heading downtown to try to find that psychic he'd gone to for help when he was seventeen—which was what he'd intended to do—Vin spent the next hour in the living room, cleaning up pieces of glass and busted leather books and putting the couches and chairs back together. He even got out the vacuum and tried to resuscitate the carpet, making some inroads with the shards and absolutely none with the liquor stains. He had his phone with him the whole time, and when the text came through that Marie-Terese was on her way, he rolled the Dyson into the closet and jogged upstairs to change into a clean silk shirt.

He was almost on the way out of the bedroom when it dawned on him that he was still in the pans' and boxers he'd had on in jail.

Right. Back to the well.

Second trip out into the hall and he had on a sharp-ass pair of black slacks and some black boxer briefs. Changed his socks, too. Shoes were the same Bally loafers he'd been wearing for the past week. Her timing was perfect.