Icy Control (9 page)

Laughing, breathless, she pulled away. Her heart hammered a hard tattoo. Knowing now that the acrobatic and somewhat uncomfortable sport of car sex was truly on the table, Sally decided she needed to pretend to be the mature adult for once. She unlocked her door and opened it a crack.

“We’re on a mission,” she reminded him. “We should at least pretend to be professional.”

“Absolutely, madam,” Rob teased her.

She threw him a naughty look then climbed out of the car. Her heart skipped happily, lighter than she could ever recall before. Her world was perfect. She had her painting, she was helping on an important case and she had her love and personal hero, Bobby, right here by her side, in her bed and always in her life. Nothing could possibly get better than this.

Rob met her on the sidewalk and beeped the car locked. Sally took his hand in hers, twined their fingers together and set off down the street, leading them to her friend’s house.

* * * *

Victoria Parker was not anything like he’d thought. Rob rarely let himself have preconceived notions—far too often they would make him overlook something while he searched for what he expected. He’d learned ages ago to keep an open mind and observe everything, making his deductions and analyzing what was truly there and not what he thought or wanted things to be.

While he had not consciously made perceptions about Vicky, the five foot two, extremely cuddly, middle-aged woman who answered the door was not even close. Her pale blonde hair was professionally cut into a wispy cap around her head and her blue eyes sparkled with barely suppressed humor as she opened the door.

“Sally, what a pleasant surprise. I wasn’t expecting you, dear, was I?”

Rob found himself tilting to the side, peering into the house and looking for Victoria, half of the opinion this woman couldn’t possibly be the shady restorer and forger he searched for.

“No, Vicky, this is rather a sudden stop. This is Rob. Can we come in, please?”

Sally’s words snapped him back to attention, embarrassed he could be so careless as to not see what was before his very eyes. “Of course,” the blonde fluttered, clearly baffled but happy and seemingly used to that state of mind.

“Madam.” Rob nodded in polite greeting as he entered after Sally. He found himself slouching. More than a foot taller than Vicky, he didn’t want her to feel crowded or loomed over.

“Please, both of you, sit. Can I get you some tea? Maybe some toast or a light snack?” Vicky waved a hand toward the couch and the two brightly patterned chairs that flanked it.

The parlor was filled with framed paintings taking up most of the three walls. A grandfather clock ticked in the corner and a large set of bay windows looked out onto the street, sheer curtains protecting their privacy. The chair nearest the electric heater had a small table set up next to it, a basket of embroidery, a stack of paperback novels and small sketch pad all vying for space. The notebook was well used, the earlier pages dog-eared and some creased, though they were turned over so a fresh sheet was ready with a few pencils, presumably for when inspiration struck.

That chair clearly was her usual spot, closest to the heater and turned so she could easily glance out of the large windows onto the street when it suited her.

“I’m fine thanks,” Sally replied as she glanced to Rob.

He shook his head. “Nothing for me, thank you,” he murmured. He placed his leather folder on the small table to one side.

Sally had already taken a seat on the couch and so he sat next to her, leaving her regular chair clear for Vicky.

Vicky perched on the edge of the cushion, clasped her hands together and seemed to gather her courage. “Am I in trouble?” Vicky asked bluntly.

Rob tried to shift back on the couch, letting Sally take the lead but also to make himself appear less threatening. The over-stuffed cushions seemed to suck him in deeper. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to extract himself with a crowbar when the time came for them to leave.

“Oh, no,” Sally rushed to reassure her friend. “Not at all. Actually Rob and I are here to ask for your help. I recognized your work, a touch up of a Cezanne you must have done a few years ago. It was in the National Gallery.”

“Hmm. Yes, I remember that piece. It was genuine, or I certainly believe so. I only needed to work on a few areas, nothing too taxing at all.” Vicky’s shoulders visibly relaxed. She seemed to realize they weren’t they there to drag her in to jail in chains. “I touched up the sky and some of the background, I believe. I remember I had awful trouble trying to get the various greens of the grass just right. Even though it was a small section, it took me most of a week to complete. Is there a problem?”

“Not to do with you or your restoration,” Sally insisted. “But we need to know who hired you to undertake the work. It’s terribly important, I promise, or we wouldn’t be here.”

At that moment, Rob glanced outside the window. A tall, lanky man walked past for the second time. Rob’s instincts stirred. This was a fairly quiet street. Only three cars had passed in the last ten minutes. Dusk was gathering, but there was still plenty of brightness left in the sky—the street lights hadn’t turned themselves on yet. In fifteen or twenty minutes, though, when Rob gauged he and Sally would be leaving, it would be properly twilight, near dark.

Years of training kept him aware of his surroundings and thinking ahead. He loathed the word paranoid, but with Sally accompanying him, he was naturally inclined to be over-cautious. Frowning thoughtfully, he became more alert and watched for that lanky man. Positive they hadn’t been followed, he wondered if he should have scanned his vehicle before leaving the office. Their enemies wouldn’t need to tail them if there was a tracking device on his bloody car.

Rob cursed himself for not thinking about it earlier.

Definitely falling into paranoid city, my man,
he chided himself.
The poor sod is probably lost or circling the block on his daily constitutional. No need to go off the deep end just yet.

Despite his mental pep talk, Rob wished he were handier with a gun. Back at HQ he’d surreptitiously slipped a tiny clutch piece—a .25 caliber side arm El had bullied him into practicing with—into his leather folder from his desk drawer. El was the shooter in their partnership. Not only was she far more accurate with the weapon than he, but she was easily the more comfortable with it, too.

Rob preferred to think or talk his way out of problems. Of course there were exceptions and he reluctantly practiced with his small piece for those times when he faced someone who was more inclined to shoot first and speak after. That was not a common problem he faced, though.

“…I’m truly sorry, Sally.”

Rob had only been listening to the conversation with half an ear. When Sally nudged him discreetly, he shifted his focus away from the window and street outside and more fully on the women.

“I understand you’re not comfortable divulging your sources, madam,” Rob said without missing a beat in the conversation. “But this isn’t an idle inquiry from curiosity or nosiness. That piece was crucial in the attack on the Gallery the other day. I’m working for a firm investigating those responsible and it’s come to our attention this particular piece has been altered sometime in the past. Not your work, let me assure you, but other information has been added with great care. It’s vital we track down those who did this and work out its importance.”

“Oh.” Vicky managed to look both mollified and intrigued. “Well, I might be able to contact them, pass along your details and request they contact you. I‘m sure you can understand in such a small industry as mine, privacy and one’s reputation can be the difference between getting work and starving.”

“Of course,” Rob said soothingly. “Would it make a difference if I left the room? You could discuss matters privately with Sally—who I know is a friend of yours. It might be easier for you as she isn’t associated with more official lines, like myself?”

“Well I…I wouldn’t want you to think… I mean…” Vicky clearly floundered.

Rob smiled gently as he worked his way out of the clutches of the sofa.

He stood and turned to pick up his things, but his eye was caught once again by that same man walking out front of the house.

Once he barely registered. Twice and it was noticeable. Three times and a warning sounded in his brain.

“Miss Parker”—Rob turned sideways to point at the man down the street as he waved at someone and rounded the corner—“is that a neighbor of yours, perhaps? It’s the third time I’ve—”

The sound of tires squealing on the asphalt outside cut his words off. It only took three of his long strides to cross the room, twitch the sheer curtain to the side and peer out. A low slung, new model black saloon had turned onto the street, going so fast around the bend it was practically on two wheels. Rob saw both the front and back windows scroll down—all the glass in the car heavily tinted like in some B grade gangster movie.

“Sal! Vicky! Get down, now!” he roared, but most of his words were cut off by the metallic, rapid shot fire of automatic weapons. Rob leaped across the room, his instincts screaming to protect the women. In the back of his mind though, all was calm and still. Thoughts ticked by in quick snaps, his brain clear despite the panic that simmered under the surface.

Away from the window. We’ll be protected by the wall. Maybe behind the furniture.

His mind rapped out thoughts and directions, the loud staccato of the gunfire receding into the background as his whole intent focused on getting Sally and Vicky to safety.

It was only as he barreled across the room, his arms spread, his body moving forward in a classic tackle pose, that he registered the bullets were coming through the walls. The windows shattered, glass spraying everywhere and raining down over him, but he’d expected that the instant he’d heard the snap of bullets.

But if the projectiles made it through the front facade of the house itself, they were armor piercing rounds and far more deadly than he’d expected.

“Down!” he bellowed.

Debris flew everywhere and Rob was forced to hunch his shoulders and duck his head to protect his face. He hauled Sally up from the couch, using his much larger body as a shield between her and the bullets. Easily lifting her weight with one arm, Rob knew that adrenaline lent him far more strength than he usually had. Rob grabbed Vicky and dragged her with him behind the couch. He groaned as a searing pain burned across his arm. The fire had nothing to do with lifting Vicky. It was a different agony all together.

Rob cast a fleeting glance at his arm, not surprised in the least to see blood staining his shirt dark red and spreading quickly.

“Son of a bitch,” he said.

Hurling both women together down onto the floor, delicacy be damned, he quickly followed them. Without a single thought, he covered their bodies with his.

The entire attack could barely have lasted more than thirty seconds.

It felt like a lifetime.

An eerie stillness filled the air as the bullets stopped. Rob strained his ears, praying the occupants of the car wouldn’t come in to finish the job. His sodding gun was still on the table by the couch, safely stowed away and far out of reach. It could have been on the moon for all the good it would do him right now.

The car engine revved, tires squealed for the second time and they peeled away.

Both women gasped for breath beneath him, but Rob waited a few more seconds, listening intently to be certain the coast was clear. More than one agent in the past had been shot by a lingering enemy, waiting for their prey to think they were safe and stick their head out to survey the damage.

No one knew he and Sally were here. They hadn’t filed a report, hadn’t checked with anyone. This had to be a hit on Vicky. Someone, it appeared, was tying up loose ends. He needed to get Vicky and Sally safely stowed away and before a crowd gathered to notice them and comment on the strange visitors who were with Victoria Parker when her house was shot up to shit.

Heart hammering, he knelt onto his knees, remaining behind the couch still but removing his weight from the ladies.

“Sal, Vicky, I need you both to be ready to run the instant I say so.”

He reached out around the side of the couch so he could grab his folder and jerk it to him, cursing again as papers fell out of it and scattered everywhere on the floor. Digging his gun out with one hand, Rob shoved what papers he could back in with his other. Wincing as the papers were crumpled and crushed, he decided that speed was more important than keeping the documents pristine. He gathered everything he could manage in a few short seconds then zipped it up. Shoving it under his free arm, he tried to assess the situation as calmly as he could manage.

“Right,” he panted.

His arm was painfully raw and sweat beaded his brow, but he had bigger problems to deal with. Feeling optimistic—no one had entered the decimated house—he hoped their attackers had all left in the car. He’d recognize the man from the street, and with his arm turning to agony now, Rob knew he’d not resist shooting if he needed to.

“Sal, Vicky…what, what’s happened?”

Rob’s focus changed from planning escape to panic.

Sally sobbed as she leaned over Vicky, the woman struggling to speak.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Sally repeated.

Vicky clearly was agitated, trying to move and lifting her head up. She remained splayed on the floor where he’d left her, her neck and chest saturated with dark red.

Sally’s hands were covered in blood, the viscous fluid sticking to her jeans, her shirt and smeared over her skin as she struggled to stem the flow seeping from Vicky’s neck wound.

“Shit. Shit,” he said. Dropping his folder to the floor, he placed the gun in reach nearby. He knelt down and lifted Sally’s hands.

“Sally, are you hit?” he snapped out, wincing as more blood bubbled out of Vicky. Since his shirt was already ripped, he tore off the bottom half of his sleeve, rolled it into a tightly packed ball and pressed it to Vicky’s neck, exerting as much pressure as he dared.