Final Prophecy 05 - Blood Spells (46 page)

You can’t help everyone,
she reminded herself. But she stayed put and checked out the setup as her pulse kicked up a notch.

The stone patio was surrounded by a high vine-covered fence, and the overhead latticework was decorated with a gazillion fairy lights that failed to disguise the fact that the hotel was smack in the middle of a bunch of other hotels. There was only the one door, which didn’t make sense. Crowds like this always had an exit strategy. Unless she’d misread them? She didn’t think so.

She should walk away. Call Fallon. Let the pros handle things.

Instead, glad that she’d gone with her first instinct and stopped at a local pawnshop to buy a piece on her way to the hotel, she stepped out of the shadows and into the light.

Within seconds, every one of them had marked her—their eyes flicked to her, then to one another, and there was a subtle shift in the room as some jackets got twitched aside and other bodies got out of the line of fire. But they didn’t draw down. Disciplined or cocky? She didn’t know.

She held out her empty hands as her pulse up-shifted another gear. “I’m not looking for trouble. I was invited.” Sort of.

A pretty blond-and-blue off on one side glanced at the big brown-haired man beside her, and said, “We didn’t invite you.” Okay. Bride and groom weren’t the prospective clients. Didn’t look like newlyweds either. Renewing vows, maybe? Or was this whole thing a setup? She didn’t know, but she wasn’t moving away from that door.

“I invited her,” said a big guy on the other side of the room. When he spoke, the others gave way a little, telling her that he was the boss of this outfit. He was built like a bouncer, and had shoulder-length hair and a jawline beard that made her think of a Renaissance fair. And he was vaguely familiar, but not from her present life.

Oh, shit.
Again, her new self said to run. Again, she stayed put. “Do I know you?”

He gave her a once-over with brilliant blue eyes. “Where’s all the leather?”

She was wearing glossy silver-toed boots, trim black pants, and a subtly studded blazer. “Dog’s TV show turned it into a cliché.” Which was too bad. She had liked her old working outfit. “I’ve still got the thigh-high boots if you’re interested.”

“He’s not.” A smaller blond-and-blue moved up to his side and shot her a look.

Reese knew that look. Fallon had hit her with it often enough. “You’re a cop.”

The ID eased her nerves a degree. Granted, there were cops who crossed the line, but fewer than the TV made it seem. More, she wasn’t getting the “bad guy” vibe off this crew, and although her instincts weren’t infallible, they had a pretty good record. So who were these guys? A task force working the wrong side of the border? If so, why did they need her? And why not go through channels?

Unless they had, and Fallon had told them to fuck off. That, she could believe.

The cop nodded. “And you’re the bounty hunter.”

The others relaxed a smidge and the bride’s mouth went round in surprise. Reese stayed focused on the big guy in charge. “I used to be a bounty hunter. Now I’m strictly private.” She paused. “You’ll have to help me out here. Where do I know you from?”

“Three years ago, in a burned-out warehouse in Chicago.”

“Three—” She broke off as her stomach knotted on a sharp stab. Keeping the poker face that had saved her life more times than she wanted to count, she nodded and breathed past the pain. “Right. Strike. I remember.”

Would’ve been better if she could forget. She still had nightmares where she was back in that warehouse shell, breathing stale smoke as she crept up on the two men, one dangerous, one an unknown who had a gangsta name but wore normal duds and showed up in a rented minivan. With the other, more deadly hunters closing in faster than she had anticipated—a warning that she had already wasted too much time trying to eavesdrop on the meeting—she had nailed the dangerous one from behind with her souped-up Taser and had her two quasi bodyguards drag his ass back to lockup. Not letting herself think about what she had just done, she had chased the other guy—this guy—back to his rental, labeling him harmless.

Okay,
she thought, forcing herself away from the past,
I was wrong about the harmless part.
Because her instincts told her that the man facing her now was dangerous in his own right. Either he’d changed, or he’d been playing her before.

What the hell was going on here? And why did it have to be
that
grab?

Doesn’t matter,
she told herself. That part of her life was over.
Not going back there.
Shifting the small black carryall she had looped over one shoulder, she cleared the way to get at the .38 she had tucked at the small of her back. “I don’t do find-and-grabs anymore.”

Strike’s eyes didn’t waver. “All we need you to do is locate him. We’ll take care of the rest.”

She should turn him down. Hell, she shouldn’t have come out here in the first place. She was just starting to hit her stride back in Denver, and this crew had “questionable” written all over them, with too many things not lining up. But it was the questionability that had her sticking. She knew what it felt like to be lost. Now she tracked down the lost and reunited them with their friends and family . . . or if they were better off lost, she helped them stay that way permanently.

“Tell me about the target,” she said.

“It’s the same guy you bagged out from under me that day in the warehouse: Snake Mendez.”

He said something else, but she couldn’t hear him over the roaring that suddenly filled her head as her heartbeat revved.
Mendez. Oh, Christ.
She had to lock her knees to keep from sagging as it all tried to come rushing back—memories, pain, betrayal.

Keep breathing.
She couldn’t go there again. Not now, when she was just starting to put her shit back together.

More, there were too many questions. How much did this guy know? Who was he working for? Why the wedding charade?

Let Fallon handle that. You get your ass out of here.
Clinging to her poker face, she retreated a step toward the doorway. “Mendez is dead.” She practically choked on the words. “Last year in Chicago. The Varrio Warlocks got him.” Although his parole officer had sworn he’d been playing it straight, he had died as he had lived: trying to run the world one city block at a time.
Got to get out of here.

“Wait.” Strike took a step in her direction. “Don’t go.”

“You don’t need me to find a dead man.” Another step back put her in the doorway.

“He’s alive.”

She froze, going cold and numb. “Bullshit.” The word was little more than a whisper, poker face or not. “The VWs claimed the kill.”

“They lied. Dez has been working with us in New Mex for the past year, but he took off on his own two days ago. We want you to track him down.”

“He . . .” She trailed off as the numbness grew teeth and bit in.

Dez.
The nickname had been reserved for the inner circle. Which meant . . . Baby Jesus, she didn’t know what it meant, except that this guy had inside knowledge, and he—and his crew—reminded her of Dez. They were all big, gorgeous, glossy. They could almost be . . . Oh, shit. Related.
Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.
Suddenly her heart was trying to hammer its way out of her chest and she couldn’t catch her breath.

Those were just stories. Fairy tales. Not real. Never real.

Right?

Strike crossed the room, stopping an arm’s length away. “I’ve seen you work, and my PI says you’re still the best. I’ll pay all expenses and triple your normal rate, no bullshit, no questions. Just find him for us and report back.” He stuck out his hand. “Deal?”

She took his hand, but instead of shaking, she gave a yank so his sleeve rode up. On his inner wrist, he wore five glyph markings done in stark black. She stared at them as panic slashed through her—it was all too much.

Mendez wasn’t alive. The stories weren’t real.

And she shouldn’t have come.

She dropped his hand and backed up another step so she could see the mural of Chichén Itzá in her peripheral vision. “I . . . can’t help you. I’m sorry.”

Then she did something she had done only a few other times in her life.

She turned and ran like hell.