Perfect Assassin (7 page)

“After five.”

“I slept the day away?”

“Like a baby.”

She sat up slowly, moaning and arching her back. The crash had knocked her around good. She had a dark bruise on her chin and one the size of a grapefruit on her thigh.

“I can bring you a tray.”

“You don’t have to wait on me. Besides, I’m not hungry.”

“You have to eat.” He saw her shiver and he bent down and scooped her up into his arms, taking the green bedspread along with her.

“Wait. I’m not dressed. I can’t go out there like this.”

“It’s just you and me here. Vic’s gone.”

“Gone?”

“He was supposed to leave yesterday morning. But the plan got screwed up.”

“By me.”

“It worked out fine.”

Jacy strolled out of the bedroom and started down the hall as she snuggled close and wrapped her arms around his neck. Her womanly scent filled his nostrils. She was light as a feather. Soft and lush. He told himself not to go there. But it was damn hard not to notice how sweet-smelling she was, or how easily her body could tease his into high gear.

He carried her through the living room, where a fire raged in the stone fireplace, through a wide archway into the kitchen.

“Let me know if you’re not warm enough. I’ve got an endless supply of wood.”

“I like fireplaces. When I—”

She stopped in midsentence. And as Jacy eased her onto a chair at the table, he said, “You remember where you live?”

“…no. But the fireplace… I must have lived where there was one. It’s familiar to me.”

She was explaining too much, and she had averted her eyes. He was sure she had remembered something, but he decided to let it slide for now.

“That’s a good sign. Maybe you’ll start remembering something real soon. Your folks will be relieved when they get a call.”

“My folks?”

“There must be someone out there waiting to hear from you.”

She didn’t comment. He left her in the chair and limped to the stove. He had put together a beef stew. Nothing fancy, but he knew it would taste good. He didn’t eat anything that was tasteless unless it was a matter of life or death.

He turned around with the pot of stew, then stopped when he saw her staring at the doorway with her eyes wide. Matwau the wolf dog that had befriended him ten years ago stood sniffing the air.

The animal stalked into the kitchen in his normal arrogant fashion, his steps light and predatory, his nose catching more than the scent of the stew.

Jacy hadn’t explained to his houseguest about the animals—though Vic had said Weeko had paid her a visit yesterday scaring the hell out of her. But the coon, as unpredictable as she was, was far less intimidating than Matwau.

“He’s normally easygoing. Just don’t make any sudden moves and you’ll be fine.”

“You have an interesting family, Moon. I met your raccoon yesterday. And now a wolf?”

“He’s only part wolf. I’m not really sure what all he’s got in him. He’s a mixed breed like me.”

“Like you? Your grandmother said she was—”

“Blackfeet. So was my mother. But my father upset the genetic pool by being German and English. He was a forester for the park. That’s how he met my mother.”

“And do they live around here, too?”

“My father died not long after my mother. Koko claims he died of a broken heart.”

“I believe that’s possible. When you lose someone who means the world to you, a part of you dies with them. I know—”

Again she stopped without finishing the sentence.

“You know what?”

“That life is full of sorrow and unexpected tragedy. Look what happened to Marty. Did he have a family?”

“A father and a sister.”

“I’m sorry for them.”

The conversation lagged, and suddenly Matwau’s curiosity put him next to her chair. He sniffed, then a low growl filled the kitchen.

“Is he going to bite me?” she asked. “Am I on his menu, or can I talk him into being friends?”

“Friends, I think.”

“You think?”

“He would be taking a bite out of you by now if he didn’t like how you smell.”

“How I smell?”

Jacy smiled, not willing to admit that he liked how she smelled, too.

“Can I touch him?”

“Let him sniff your hand first. Then go ahead. Move slow.”

She did as he told her and soon Matwau had relaxed on his haunches to accept the attention. Before long, he’d dropped his big head into her lap and closed his eyes.

Jacy set the stew in the middle of the table then went back to the counter. “Coffee, tea or milk?”

“Tea.”

“Regular or flavored?”

“Green. Do you have it?”

“I do. With or without sugar?”

“Without.”

“Done.”

When Jacy finally sat across the table from her, he signaled Matwau to go lie down. The animal obeyed, but not before he’d circled the table and sniffed the stew.

Jacy dished up a plate of beef, potatoes and carrots, saying, “We need to come up with a name for you. Have any ideas?”

“It doesn’t matter, does it. Do you think I look like a Mary, or maybe Ann?”

She didn’t look like either. At a loss for words for what might be the first time in his life, Jacy said, sinking his fork into the meaty stew, “I think you look like you need to eat. A stiff wind could blow you over.”

The stew was good, but the remark he’d made about her being a lightweight had frankly pissed her off. It was like saying she was shapeless and too skinny.

She didn’t know why she cared, or why it should matter what he thought, but the remark had dampened her spirits. Not that they weren’t already low—she hurt all over, had lost her father’s gun and was stuck in a cabin with a stranger she felt oddly attracted to.

Her mother had been thin, but not her Aunt Nadja. Her aunt was bold and beautiful. Strong and confident. A real woman. When she’d met her aunt months ago she had secretly hoped as she got a little older she would grow into a few more curves and larger breasts.

What had happened to Nadja that day on Glass Mountain? Pris had often wondered about that. Had her aunt been there when her mother had died? Otto hadn’t mentioned Nadja when he’d delivered the news about her mother. And when she’d asked, he’d said he didn’t know. He just handed her a letter from her father, relaying the ugly details. Telling her that Bjorn Odell had killed her mother and that he’d been captured by the opposition. That he needed her to become his replacement, now more than ever.

He’d called on her loyalty to family and the cause, and she had felt both honored and trapped at the same time. She had wanted to do the right thing—
would
do the right thing. Her family had been taken from her. The right thing was to avenge them.

Replacing him had demanded she become an assassin, and with it came the hideous task of killing people. She had thought she could do it, but it was altogether different from shooting holes in a paper target.

But as Otto had said, government assassins were expected to make sacrifices. They had a job to do.

I think you need to eat. A stiff wind could blow you over.

“I’m small,” Pris whispered, “but I’m strong in body and mind. You have no idea how strong.”

“Did you say something?”

“No, nothing.”

“I’ll be in the kitchen cleaning up.”

She didn’t answer. After supper he had carried her to the couch near the stone fireplace. Pris drew the blanket up around her where she sat, wishing that earlier in the day she had struggled into a pair of jeans. But she’d been so weak and sore, all she had wanted to do was sleep.

She watched Matwau enter the living room. He stalked to the couch and boldly climbed up and settled beside her. She let him sniff her hand, then stroked his head. She closed her eyes, and suddenly she was drifting off to sleep again. She had no idea how long she slept until she got the overwhelming feeling that she was being watched. When she opened her eyes, Moon was sitting in a chair a few feet away.

“Vic says I need to change the bandage on your leg morning and night. We should do it before you go back to bed.”

“I can change the bandage myself.”

“But you don’t need to because I’m here. I was the one Vic left the instructions with.”

“It can’t be that hard to change a bandage,” she said, still angry with him over his comment about her size.

He stood and reached for the blanket wrapped around her. She grabbed it back, startling Matwau, and he came awake with a sudden growl.

“Don’t ever move fast around wild animals.”

“I’m not ready to leave the couch. And when I am, I’ll change the bandage. It’s my leg. And I’ll get myself back to bed, too.”

“Like I said, you don’t need to. Did I say something wrong? Offend you?”

“You didn’t,” Pris insisted. “That would mean I care what you think of me, and I don’t. I’ll carry my own skinny ass to the bathroom, and anywhere else I need to go, thank you.”

“Skinny ass?”

“Forget it. I appreciate the shelter and food, but you know nothing about me. Let’s just keep it that way.”

She had tried to insult him, to back him off, but it hadn’t worked. Instead of backing away, he stood his ground, a small smile parting his lips. He motioned for Matwau to get off the couch, then quickly scooped her up along with the blanket before she could push his hands away.

In his strong arms once more, pressed against his chest, she endured being carried back down the hall. To keep her balance she was forced to wrap her arms around his neck.

“Billy was going to come by to talk to you tonight. We had set it up for seven. He must have gotten held up. Maybe he’ll show tomorrow.”

And maybe he won’t, Prisca silently hoped, but she didn’t voice her thoughts. She was still angry with Moon, and so she let that hurt color her words.

“Does my weight bother your
weak
leg?”

“No, why would it?”

“Vic said you had a bad accident, and now you’re…what would be a good word? Disabled.”

“What else did Vic say?”

He had stopped in the darkened hall, the soft living-room light backlighting him in a warm glow. She saw that her comment must have struck a nerve. His jaw was tight, his dark eyes narrowed.

Good. Let him see how it felt to be fit into a mold and labeled.

“I asked what did he tell you?”

“That your leg injury required surgery and physical therapy. I saw the wheelchair, and the picture in your bedroom yesterday. Is that how it happened? Were you in a motorcycle accident?”

“Why would you think that?”

“I don’t know.”

He was staring at her—at her mouth, and so she stared back at his. She didn’t want to like him, especially not after he’d pointed out her flaw that she was too thin and shapeless. He probably liked big breasts, too.

“I used to ride that bike years ago.”

“Who is the other man in the picture?”

“My brother, Tate. We joined up together. You’ll probably meet him one of these days.”

“Joined up?”

“With the Hell’s Angels.”

Prisca frowned. “I don’t know what that means.”

He was looking at her as if she was crazy. “You’re serious?”

It was obvious that whatever the Hell’s Angels were, they were notable enough to cross the ocean. But she’d lived in Austria all her life, and she knew nothing about angels who rode motorcycles.

Still, she could see that she had made a mistake in the admission. She scrambled for an excuse. Said, “Do you think it might have to do with my memory loss?”

“Maybe.”

“So are you going to tell me what a Hell’s Angel does?”

“It would bore you.”

Nothing about this man could possibly be boring, Prisca decided. The private admission made her even more uncomfortable and angry with herself. She wanted to stay mad at him, to do whatever she needed to do to keep her distance. But as she looked at his lips once more, she suddenly wondered what it would be like to be kissed by this man. By a Hell’s Angel.

Chapter 6

M
oon’s log house was a mixture of different worlds and cultures. There were Native American pictures on the walls and colorful woven rugs on the floors, and yet each room had unusual objects, sculptures and furnishings from other parts of the world.

Pris wondered about that. Had he been to all those places?

At supper she had even noticed a large bookshelf in the kitchen with a cookbook collection that touched on ethnic cooking reaching from Greece to China, Germany and dozens of other places.

It was all so different, and yet oddly comforting. Especially the mountains that surrounded this quiet place in the middle of nowhere.

The weather and the mountains made her feel safe, which made no sense at all. She was far away from home, and there was no place that would ever make her feel as safe and comfortable as Austria. At least that’s what she’d always believed.

Still she loved sitting close to this massive fireplace and hearing the wood crackling as it filled the room with its cozy warmth.

The house was simple, and yet a work of art. Vic had told her that Moon had built it. That he had laid every stone in the fireplace and crafted every cupboard and door.

The couch was soft brown leather, and there were two stuffed chairs. One looked old and in need of repairs, the other was a half-circle shape upholstered in a European tapestry displaying the Eiffel Tower.

The smell of burning wood had her inhaling deeply as she snuggled on the couch. It was the middle of the night, but she hadn’t been able to sleep after Moon had changed her bandage and carried her into her room. She’d tried, but she simply had too many thoughts floating around in her head. Too many worries.

And then there was the memory of Moon carefully changing her bandage. His head bent close as he’d tended to her leg with his big hands, his hands as soothing as his wood fire.

But there was more on her mind, too. She worried about how quickly she would recover from her injuries, about the man named Billy, and what kind of questions he would ask when he came to discuss the airplane crash. How well she would do with her answers.

Then there was Otto. Was he looking for her?

And how was her father’s health? Did he know she was off the job? Was he angry?

She felt terrible about losing his gun in the plane crash. It was the only thing she had of his, and now it was lost forever.

It was time to rethink her strategy, she supposed. And that’s what she would focus on in the next few weeks as she recovered. She would replan her revenge on her mother’s killer, and find the man who had aided Bjorn Odell.

Odell needed to die, and he would, but for now she would concentrate on the controller who had put Bjorn Odell on Glass Mountain. Jacy Madox was as guilty as anyone for her mother’s death, and he needed to pay with his life for what he’d taken from her, and she would make sure he did.

“What are you doing out here?”

Pris gasped in surprise, then turned to see Moon standing behind the couch in a pair of worn jeans, his chest bare. She hadn’t heard a single noise.

“Did I wake you? If I did, I’m sorry. I—”

“You’re not supposed to be putting a lot of weight on that leg. A short trip to the bathroom, a few steps here and there, but—”

“It’s fine. I was careful not to put too much weight on it. After all, how could I? I’m so light a stiff wind would blow me over.”

“Is something wrong?”

“I couldn’t sleep. That’s all.”

“Do you want something? A pain pill or maybe tea?”

“No.”

“Warm milk?”

Pris wrinkled up her nose. “No.”

“That’s how I feel about it, too. Never could get a glass of milk down without a chocolate chip cookie. Cold or warm.”

He went to the fire and opened the glass doors. Hunkering low, balancing on the balls of his bare feet, he tossed another log on the hot coals.

“You warm enough?” He turned to look at her.

“Yes.”

She had changed out of his shirt and was wearing a blue nightgown she had packed in her bag. It was more like a long T-shirt, but it covered her better than his shirt.

“Where is Matwau?” she asked.

“Outside. He likes to go out at night. Run around, and see…”

“His girlfriend?”

He smiled at that. “I guess you could call her that.

“Well, as long as you’re up, I’ve got some work to do in my office. If you need anything give a holler.”

“What kind of work do you do?”

“Computer research.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know anything about computers.”

“That you remember.”

“That I remember,” she amended.

He left her sitting on the couch and walked back down the hall. She watched him go, saw that he went past her room to the closed door at the end of the hall. She shoved herself up, curious.

The pain in her leg slowed her progress, but she made it down the hall and peeked inside his office. The room was state-of-the-art, with not one computer, but four. And there were other electronic gadgets, too. Things she couldn’t name, nor begin to understand.

She backed away before he saw her. But as she slowly made her way back to the couch, she wondered how a man like Moon had learned to operate all that fancy high-tech equipment.

Otto knew he was off his mark the minute he squeezed the trigger on the VSS Silent Sniper. Number three on the list went down, but it wasn’t a clean shot.

Sonofabitch.

He pulled the gun from his shoulder and swore again. Then just as quickly he pulled the rifle back up and looked through the high-powered scope. The good news was his target had stayed down, and it didn’t look like he was going to get back up.

A sigh of relief had him stepping back from the window on the tenth floor of the apartment complex. He disassembled his rifle, noting he was breathing heavily. Now he understood why Miss Pris had been so quiet after a kill.

He had thought she was a novice to the world of killing, and not the kind of person who would relish hurting anyone. But now he realized it was more than that. Making perfect shots was stressful, exhausting work.

Still, she had to be aware of her gift. No one except Holic could put a bullet on target every time. He’d just proven that and he was no novice.

Without a doubt, even with more practice, he would never be as good as Miss Pris. She had Holic’s hands.

He would admit he had gotten an adrenalin rush pulling the trigger. Holic had once said it was as euphoric as good sex.

He’d killed before, only it had involved short distances with a handgun at close range. And there had been a few times when he’d used his bare hands.

He didn’t see himself as a violent man, only a man who could follow instructions. His father Jakob had taught him that. Loyalty was everything. Loyalty and honor, and to take pride in doing the job as well as possible.

The man lying in the street ten floors below would argue with how well he’d done the job—Trikoff was still in the process of dying.

The kill had been less than perfect. But he would do better next time.

He had to.

Otto finished disassembling the rifle and slipped each piece into the proper slot in the black leather case. He had a week to get to Germany to make the next hit. If he was able to stay on schedule and knock off the next target, Holic would never have to know that his daughter had disappeared, or that the mission was in jeopardy.

If Holic knew that Otto had lost his daughter, how would he kill him? Otto supposed it really didn’t matter how.

Dead was dead.

Merrick opened the file that had been placed on his desk an hour ago. He studied the report, sifted through the data and found the medical report. Cause of death, a single bullet. Entry, right cheek.

If this was the work of Holic’s replacement, he had missed his mark. He checked the kill-file he had, and found the victim’s name. Trikoff was on the scrambled list. Number thirty-two. But as Holic had said, they didn’t own the master copy, so they would be forever two steps behind his replacement. That is if they didn’t agree to play his game.

But how could they be sure the hit had been made by Holic’s replacement? Had he simply had a bad day or did this mean something else?

He called Pierce and relayed the information. It would take his agent to Poland to investigate, but even then…Dammit, they were never going to catch this sonofabitch if they didn’t get a break soon.

The only chance they had was if they met Holic’s demands. And even then, that wouldn’t guarantee that the killing would stop. Holic was about as trustworthy as a D.C. weatherman this time of year. It was snowing again and the damn forecast had predicted above normal temps and sunshine.

Once again Merrick found himself taking an unscheduled flight to Onyxx’s top-secret maximum-security prison north of Washington. The flight took forty minutes to reach Clume, and then he was moving through a number of security stations, nodding to serious-faced armed guards wearing crisp black uniforms.

When Merrick reached Holic’s cell, he had to look twice to recognize the assassin. Holic’s legendary long black hair was gone. All of it. He’d had his head shaved.

“What brought on the new look?” He asked as he entered the cell and let the iron door slide back into place.

Holic looked over his shoulder. He had been staring out the narrow window that gave him a view of the prison exercise grounds.

“Maybe I’m afraid of bugs,” he retorted. “I can’t seem to get clean enough in here.”

“I’ll speak to the warden.”

“Who you should be speaking to are your superiors. You want to end the killing, right?”

“Your deal was a hard sell. My superiors pointed out that a man with no conscience can’t be trusted.”

Holic shrugged. “It’s your call.”

“I’ve presented your deal, that’s the best I can do.”

“So then why are you here, Merrick? Another killing, perhaps?”

“Yes. Trikoff in Poland.”

“And you’re here to beg me to stop the next one from happening. Sorry, but my hands—” he held them out “—are useless in this matter.”

He turned completely around and leaned against the gray wall. Crossing his arms over his chest, he let his bandaged hands dangle.

“Your replacement was off his mark yesterday,” Merrick began, curious as to what kind of reaction the news would arrest.

Holic uncrossed his arms and straightened away from the wall, but he didn’t seem upset. “Are you saying the target is still alive?”

“No. I’m saying it was a dirty shot, and that Trikoff died on his way to the hospital. The first two victims took one shot. Right temple. Either your man was up late drinking the night before, or he’s losing his touch.”

The news didn’t seem upsetting to Holic.

“Some shots are difficult,” Merrick prompted. “After all, you’re the master. No one could duplicate your style indefinitely.”

“Perfection replaced perfection three months ago. My replacement would never take a dirty shot. I’d say you have another problem on your hands, Merrick.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning my replacement didn’t make that shot? A renegade assassin perhaps. Or maybe Trikoff pissed off the wrong associate. His MO was selling out those closest to him. If Onyxx is any good at what they do, you must have known that.”

Jacy hung up the phone after agreeing to Merrick’s request. He had just been informed that another agent had fallen. This one in Poland.

Merrick had been brief, relaying their dilemma. Holic had suggested the bogus kill-file had been systematically rearranged. Merrick wanted him to see if there was an order to it, and if so, if he could decode it.

For the past seven years he’d done extensive analysis work in the field for Onyxx. His expertise—decoding, and strike-force management.

Merrick had called it his gift.

So, if Holic had switched the kill-file in an orderly manner then Jacy would discover what it was. Maybe not in time to save the next target on the list, but he would give it his best shot.

In a way he was back working for Onyxx, unofficially that is. But this was something that didn’t require a hundred percent from his body. As his houseguest had reminded him, he was disabled.

He had just set down the phone when she called out to him. Jacy jumped up and quickly entered the hall to find her slumped on the floor against the wall.

“What the hell happened?”

“I thought I could make it to the bedroom on my own, but I don’t think I can.”

He bent down and lifted her into his arms. “Dammit, could you ever just do what I say?”

She sucked in her breath and looked up at him. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to bother you.”

“Bother me next time, okay? If you split open those stitches I’m taking you to a hospital.”

The warning seemed to surprise her. “No!”

“Then next time you feel adventurous, rethink it.”

“
Da.
I will.”

She was staring at his mouth again, and the distraction pulled him off course. So beautiful, he thought. So damn perfect.

She bent her head and rested it on his shoulder. Her cheek brushed his. In that moment he forgot himself and he turned his head to the side and touched her pretty nose with a gentle kiss.

Her heart was pounding, and so was his. She raised her head, her eyes bright.

“Sorry,” he said, “that was…uncalled for. Don’t get worried. I…” Her smile stopped him from explaining further. “It’s late,” he said. “You should be in bed.”

She laid her head on his shoulder again, but this time, Jacy was bent on getting her to her room and out of his arms.

As he stepped into the room, she suddenly asked, “How old are you?”

“Why?”

“I was just curious.”

“Too old to be taking advantage of a young girl with no memory and a lame leg.” He stopped next to the bed. Looked at her. “How old are you?”

She opened her mouth to speak, then hesitated. “I don’t know. But I know I’m not a girl.”

He laid her down on the bed and pulled the bedding to her chin. “Go to sleep.”

“You look twenty-five. Am I right?”

“No. Go to sleep.”