Running Blind (13 page)

She tossed back the covers and climbed on top of him, straddling his lap and seating herself deep. As she'd expected, he instantly grew hard.

“Well, it's funny that you mentioned horses . . . because I always wanted to be a cowgirl.”

He gripped her hips and arched against her. “A cowgirl, huh?”

“Yup. Think you've got a little buck left in you, pardner?”

He laughed and pulled her down to kiss him. “That would be a big yee-haw!”

Thursday

If you find yourself in a fair fight, you didn't plan your mission properly.

—David Hackworth

21

1:45 a.m., Toronto

Depravity pulsed with the deep, pounding rhythm of the rock music blaring from dozens of speakers hidden in dark corners of the dance floor. Smoke permeated the packed space as midnight-blue strobes swept over damp, sweating bodies writhing to the primal beat, rubbing and sliding against each other, simulating sex and sin and desperation.

She'd selected this bar not only for its reputation of uninhibited decadence but also for its clientele. Gay, straight, bi, transgender, androgynous—it was open invitation. And open season for a predator.

A girl squeezed in so tightly beside her at the crowded bar that her flesh burned and her scent enticed.

“Flippin' fake ID.” The bartender tossed the ID back at the girl. “Get lost.”

She gave him the finger and spun around, hiking her elbows on the bar which was sticky with spilled booze. There she stayed, pouting, glaring through her heavily made-up eyes.

“Asshole,” she muttered loudly enough for anyone within earshot to hear. “Like this place gives two flying figs about the law.”

She was a pretty little thing—in a streetwise, chip-on-her-shoulder, hungry-for-attention sort of way. Her hair was hacked short in the back, shaved over her left ear, long over her right eye, and streaked with red, purple, and blue dye. Her very scant white halter top was nearly transparent and hugged full, high breasts. Young breasts. Soft and supple and probably tasting as good as they looked. A ring in her left nipple poked against the thin fabric, announcing to the world that she was a sexual creature. The glimpse of metal that pierced her tongue solidified the message.

Maybe it was hunting season after all. Maybe a taste of this sweet young thing would make her forget about Ray for a little while. Or maybe it would bring him nearer. He'd not only loved making love to her, he'd also loved watching her with other women.

“Buy you a drink?”

The girl turned her head, looked interested, then wary. “What do I have to do for it?”

She smiled, looked from those pretty pouty lips to the nipple ring. “Nothing you don't want to do.”

The girl glanced at her bald head. “You sick or something?”

She laughed and ran a hand over her recently shaved head. “A new look for me. Like it?”

The girl shrugged. “Doesn't matter what I like. I'll have a tequila and lime.”

An hour and four tequila shots later, they left the bar together and walked the short distance to the “no-tell motel,” where a room was waiting.

•    •    •

The girl was asleep in the middle of the ruined bed when she walked into the bathroom in the middle of the night. She'd hoped that a purely sexual, animal release would fill the hollow cause by Ray's absence. And the girl had been good. Energetic. Adventurous. But nothing erased the truth.

Fail
.

The word echoed, haunting and harsh.

Fail
.

She'd spun her story ten different ways to satisfy the Russians, and Vadar had actually bought it.

Only it would never be acceptable to
her
.

Only twice in a fifteen-year career had she failed. Both times had involved Eva Salinas and Mike Brown.

It stuck in her craw like a fish bone that Eva still lived. But the woman was not invincible. And there was time to finish what she'd started.

Meanwhile, it was amusing to think about all the others scrambling in the dark, searching desperately to find the person who would dare attack one of their own.

A bunch of bumbling, muscled-headed fools. They weren't patriots, as they no doubt thought of themselves. They were murderers. They had murdered the one person who had ever meant anything to her. The one person who had cared for and loved her.

A warm body pressed full breasts against her back. Small hands wandered over her nipples, then lower, coaxing. “Come back to bed.”

She met the girl's brown eyes in the mirror. All that need. All that energy. And suddenly, she was angry. “Get dressed, and get out.”

The girl looked shocked, then hurt. “It's the middle of the night.”

“Your point?”

That hurt look again. “Did I . . . did I do something wrong?”

“I'm done, that's all. Don't attach anything more to it. Now, go. There's money on the side table.”

Tears pooled in the girl's eyes, then spilled over. “I . . . I don't have anyplace to go.”

She laughed. “You say that like you think I'd give a shit. Life's a bitch.”

“But—”

“Go!”

The girl backed away as if she'd been hit, eyes wide and scared.

“Now you've got the picture. I'm not a nice person.”

The girl scrambled for her clothes and jerked them on. “Asshole.”

“You got that right. Go home to Mommy and Daddy. You're never going to survive on these streets.”

Long after the girl was gone and forgotten, she lay in bed, the light on beside her, one of her specially loaded cartridges in her hand. Absently studying it. Pleased by its perfection.

The plan had been perfect, yet it had failed.

It could be perfect again
,
Ray whispered.

He was right. After all, the bastards didn't even know what was happening. Didn't know why they were targets, let alone who was targeting them.

And while she was lying here, an idea took shape. An idea that grew in appeal.

Perhaps the failed attempt to kill Eva Salinas Brown
could
actually bring a better outcome, as she'd told Vadar. Better for them to wonder who was going to kill them. To wonder if dear Eva was safe or if she must always be kept under lock and key.

The thought brought a tight smile. Perhaps she should up the game. Tempt them with a little clue, then watch them stumble all over themselves trying to solve the puzzle.

That would make the outcome even sweeter. Embarrass the “elite” warriors by making even bigger fools of them, dangling an unmistakable clue in front of their bumbling noses, then laughing at
their
failure.

After all, where was the challenge in total anonymity? Where was the sense of satisfaction in knowing the enemy was at a disadvantage, operating with two hands tied behind their back?

She warmed to the idea. Maybe, in the interest of fair play, they should be allowed another small clue. Give them the opportunity to try to figure out who was after them, so they would know who the
true
elite warrior was—just before they died.

The idea held much appeal. They'd see who was the failure then.

It was time to fuck with their minds. If nothing else, it would be amusing.

Oh, to be a fly on the wall when they opened up the special-delivery package she'd mail first thing in the morning.

And oh, to have a bird's-eye view when Vadar and his team attacked the Air Force compound. She'd told them that the weekend would be the best time to strike, and it was already Thursday. Which meant Vadar had to act soon—or the window of opportunity would slam shut.

22

Mike glared at his team as they arrived in the ITAP briefing room. They clearly hadn't expected that he'd be waiting for them at 6:45 a.m. Or that he would have already studied the notes on the whiteboard.

“Playing cards? Designer bullets?”

Waldrop dropped his pen and disappeared under the table to retrieve it. Santos was suddenly preoccupied with his belt buckle. Carlyle appeared mesmerized by his mug of coffee.

Only Taggart met his eyes, no doubt figuring he'd get a pass because of his injuries.

When no one responded, Mike jabbed a finger at the whiteboard, where Coop had diagrammed each step of the case as it had developed.

“Three one-eyed jack playing cards, clearly marked with our names.” Now even Taggart wouldn't look at him. Maybe because he was nearly yelling. “One queen of hearts with Eva's name crossed out. Four matching designer bullets. And no one thought this information would be of interest to me?”

Taggart finally stepped up to the plate. “The general consensus was that you had enough to deal with and didn't need the burden of this additional information. How's Eva doing, by the way?” Taggart asked in an obvious attempt to sidetrack him. “And why aren't you at the hospital?”

“Eva is holding her own,” Mike said stiffly. “And I'm not at the hospital because I'm here, where I clearly wasn't expected.”

If someone lit a match, the room would explode in a powder keg of tension. He dragged a hand over his jaw and settled himself down.

“Coop made the call, right?”

Everyone avoided his eyes again, a sure sign that he was correct. No one was going to rat on Coop.

And Mike got why Coop had decided to withhold the information. He'd correctly assumed that if Mike had known that this psychopath had targeted the three of them and Eva, it wouldn't have been productive. But he was still pissed.

That was his
wife
who'd almost died. That was his
wife
suffering in that hospital bed and facing a long and difficult rehab. And that was his
life
the sick sonof­abitch had tried to take away from him.

“Do not ever withhold information from me again.” He narrowed his gaze around the room, pausing at each man until he was certain his message was received loud and clear.

Then he moved on; there was no value in beating a dead horse. “Tell me where you're going with this, and make it clear and fast. I've got to get back to the hospital.”

Five minutes later, he was up to speed. They'd ruled out any of the restaurant employees and customers as having any involvement, directly or indirectly. All the alphabet agencies, including Interpol, had turned their energy toward terrorist links, including the La Línea cartel. The team had a solid lead on Barry Hill and were hoping to haul him in for questioning within twenty-four hours.

Still, Mike had questions. “How'd he find us? How'd he know we were going to be there Monday morning?”

“We're stumped on that one.” Carlyle looked embattled with frustration. “We're the only ones who know about those breakfast meetings. The commo stays between us. B.J. mined all the SIM cards on our old phones—nothing.”

“What about the traffic cams? How did he manage to shut them all off simultaneously?”

Santos said, “By paying off a city employee named Maxwell Robbins, as far as we can figure.”

“So we've got a possible witness? Someone who could ID our shooter?” For the first time, Mike felt a glimmer of excitement.

“Unfortunately, no. Robbins hadn't shown up for work since Monday. One of his coworkers stopped by to check on him yesterday and found him dead. Apparent overdose.”

“Apparent?”

Santos leaned back in his chair. “One of the detectives working the sniper case just happened to get called in on the Robbins case. He put it together that Robbins worked in the traffic division—specifically, traffic cams. So now the ME's looking at the death as a possible homicide.”

“We need to talk to Robbins's coworkers,” Mike said. “Find out if he has a girlfriend.”

“Already on it, boss.” Waldrop rose to fill his coffee cup. “No one who worked with him saw anything amiss. No significant other. Parents live on the West Coast. Dead end there, too.”

“So what you're saying is, we're running blind,” Mike concluded.

The killer shared a history with them. It was someone they'd hurt financially, in global status, or personally—­because those cards and the bullets seemed damn personal to him.

“We're missing something. Something obvious,” he said, more to himself than to his men.

He turned back and studied the board. Studied the reports on the designer bullets. “Who's checking the database on known pros?”

“I am,” Carlyle said. “Haven't found a known assassin with an MO that uses these particular loads.”

“Keep looking,” Mike said, then headed out the door.

It wasn't until he got to the hospital and found his brother Ty and Ty's wife, Jess, in Eva's room that his dark mood lifted.

“Look what the wind blew in.” Eva, looking pale and exhausted, smiled from the bed.

Mike walked to Eva's side, leaned down, and kissed her good morning. After he assured himself that she was okay, he turned to his kid brother. “Damn, if you aren't a sight for sore eyes.” He'd told Ty that he didn't have to come, that Eva was doing well. But man, was he glad to see him.

Ty grinned at him. “Coldest winter in Minnesota's history. We're more than happy to get away for a while. Although it's none too toasty here, either.”

Mike wrapped Ty in a big bear hug, not knowing until he held the solid bulk of his brother in his arms how much he'd needed someone to hold on to. He hadn't let down his guard for one second during Eva's life-and-death battle, and suddenly, he felt the weight of her suffering, of almost losing her, like a cargo plane on his shoulders. “Glad you're here, bro,” he whispered, and damn, he had to fight tears.

Ty hugged him harder. “Try to keep me away.”

Mike pulled himself together and pulled back from Ty, who also knew about the fear of losing the woman he loved. And who also knew about fighting for the people he loved.

“You okay?” Ty asked softly.

“I am now.” Mike turned to Jess. “You get prettier every time I see you.”

“And you're just as big a flirt as you ever were.” She grinned and returned Mike's embrace.

“Thanks for coming, sis. Who's watching the store?”

“Don't worry, it's covered. Kabetogama isn't exactly a hotbed of activity this time of year.”

Jess had taken over running her parents' general store at the northern Minnesota lake several years ago. Now that she and Ty were married, Ty spent his time between Minnesota and Florida, where his air-cargo business was located.

“The folks are on their way,” Ty said.

“They don't have to do that,” Mike protested, but he was grateful they were coming to shore him up and lighten his load. “How long are you here?” he asked when Eva had closed her eyes and slipped back to sleep.

“As long as you need us, bud. As long as you need us,” Ty repeated in a tone that said he understood what Mike had been going through.

Mike looked into eyes that were the same color as his, into a face that, but for the age difference, could have been his. And the dam that he'd piled all of his fears, anger, and frustration behind finally broke. Overcome with relief that he no longer had to do this alone, he let the tears fall.