The Givenchy Code (7 page)

I
couldn’t sit still. I paced the room, the gun still in one hand, as I tried to process everything that was going on. My head pounded with the beginnings of a hellacious headache, my eyes burned with unshed tears, and my feet ached and burned. I wouldn’t let myself cry, though. I had to stay sharp, because for all I knew, I was still in danger.

I sat on the edge of the couch, then bounced back up again.

I paced some more.

I opened a Diet Coke, then spit it out, too tense to swallow.

“Melanie?”

“Quiet,” I snapped. His voice was soft, calm and soothing, but I reacted as if he’d just shouted at me. I drew a breath and tried to calm down. “I just need a minute.”

He didn’t push again, and I gave him points for that.

After a few deep breaths, I tried sitting down again—this time at the little table in the tiny area that the real estate agent had called a dining room (with a straight face, no less). “Okay,” I said, managing to stay put. “Let me get this straight. You got this message with my profile attached, and you immediately raced to my apartment looking to protect me? Forgive me if I find that more than a little curious.”

I still hadn’t told him about Todd, and he hadn’t said anything. I’d locked my grief away to deal with later, and now Todd’s death was information—a cold, hard fact that, when revealed, would hopefully reflect on my Marine companion’s face. Guilt, surprise, sorrow. I didn’t know. I just needed Todd as the last piece of the puzzle. I was playing off my boyfriend’s death to hopefully save my ass, and I felt like shit doing it.

I didn’t think I had a choice.

Marine man was at the kitchen counter, popping the top on another soda. So far he hadn’t answered my question, but I wasn’t inclined to prompt. Let’s see what he fabricated.

When he turned around, his expression was hollow, guarded, as if he feared he might reveal too much. It wasn’t an expression that encouraged me to warm to him.

“A girl named Jamie Tate,” he said. “Recognize the name?”

“No. Should I?”

“I don’t know. With all this…” He trailed off, then shrugged, leaving me to guess what “all this” was. “I just thought perhaps your paths had crossed.”

“Not that I know of. I suppose she could have some classes with me, but I don’t know her.”

He nodded toward the computer. “Look her up.”

“In the game? I can’t access her profile unless we’re assigned to the same game set.” I frowned, something else occurring to me. “So how did
anyone
get my profile? I mean, surely PSW didn’t really send someone out to kill me.” I laughed, the sound more of a cackle, which is my usual unattractive nervous laughter. I figured I had reason to be nervous. “I mean, that would be taking reality shows to the extreme. Reality computer games?”

“Snuff games at that,” he said, then shook his head. “No, I don’t think PSW’s behind it. But maybe someone who works there is. Or maybe one of the players is just taking the game a little too seriously.”

“But he has my profile.”

“If he plays PSW, most likely he knows his way around computers. He could have hacked in. Or maybe he’s played against you before.”

I stifled a shiver as I tilted my head back to look at him.
“You
could have hacked in. I could have played against
you
before.”

“But I didn’t. And you haven’t.”

I stared at him, my mind mush. “What did you mean when you said your profile should have been deleted a long time ago?”

“I meant that I’ve never actually played the game. I figured the system would cull inactive profiles.”

“If you never played, why are you in the system at all?”

“A buddy of mine played all the time. Convinced me to sign up. I filled out the profile but never got around to actually playing a game. Got shipped off to Iraq instead. By the time I got back, I’d had my fill of danger and intrigue in the real world. I wasn’t really interested in killing or being killed on the Internet, too.”

“Oh.” I wasn’t sure what to say. Should I ask him about the war, about what it was like and what he was doing now? I wondered if combat had given him the hardness I saw in his eyes, or if that had been there before. And I realized I was thinking way too much about this man I barely knew. I was rattled, and my mind was bouncing all over the place, trying to process every tiny piece of information simultaneously. That’s my typical reaction to stress. I multitask. Great when the stress is caused by final exams. Not so great at the moment.

I drew a breath, determined to stay on track. “You seem like you know a bit about the game.”

He shrugged. “Like I said. My friend played a lot, so I knew the basics. And it’s no trick to go to the website and read through the FAQs.”

That made some sense, but I still saw one gaping hole. “But if you aren’t a player, how’d you get the message about me?”

“The system sent a message to my regular email address. Told me that there was a message waiting for me in the PSW user area. I figured it was my friend, so I clicked over. The rest you know.”

I believed him. Not enough to
tell
him I believed him, though. At the moment, I wasn’t exactly trusting my judgment. “Prove it.”

“What? That I’m telling the truth? That I didn’t set you up?”

I nodded. A tense moment passed, and I was afraid he was going to say he couldn’t. Not a good answer. My scientist’s mind wanted proof. Otherwise I might believe him just because he was so damn good-looking.

“All right,” he finally said, and I stifled a sigh of relief. He pointed to the computer. “Jamie Tate, remember?”

“What about her?”

“Look her up.”

I was tempted to argue. I didn’t know the woman, and I couldn’t see what she had to do with me or Todd’s death, but the Marine’s expression was grave enough that I knew better than to argue. I took the gun and crossed back to the computer. About a minute later, I was looking at a list of hits pulled up from a search on the name Jamie Tate.

“Try that one,” he said, leaning over me to tap the screen. I clicked on the link, and an article appeared.

The article went on from there, but I didn’t want to read any more. I felt cold and hot all at the same time, and didn’t much like the feeling.

I concentrated on breathing, and when I had that under control, I turned to look at him. “What’s
your
name?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

“Stryker,” he said. “Matthew Stryker.”

“T
hey ruled you out as a suspect,” I said.

He nodded.

“They could have been wrong.”

“They weren’t.”

I just stared at him.

“If I had killed her, would I have sent you to that article?”

Maybe. Maybe not. I wasn’t sure. I cocked my head to one side and squinted at him. “Did you get money for her, too?”

From his expression, you’d think I’d kicked him in the stomach. “Yeah,” he said. “Twenty large.”

“And?”

“And she died anyway.” He practically spat the words. “So much for money well spent.”

“Dammit, Stryker. You want me to believe you? Then tell me the truth.”

“The truth? I didn’t do a damn thing for her. I thought it was some sick joke, some perverse scheme. And I guess it was. I just didn’t realize how sick until I got a second message saying that she’d been terminated. That’s when I went to find her…and found her too late.”

I closed my eyes against his pain and forced myself to focus. “The money,” I pressed.

“It’s gone. I had buddies who died in combat. They left widows. Kids.” The look he shot me was filled with remorse. “I figured they could use the money more than I could. And maybe I figured it was a tiny bit of retribution.”

I drew in a breath and nodded. His pain was palpable, and my interrogation came to a halt. I had nothing left to say.

“You asked me why I raced over here to help you, and that’s why. I
didn’t
race to help Jamie. I didn’t know. I was too late.” He closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, his entire expression seemed steely calm. Oh yeah, I trusted this guy. More than that, I was glad he was on my side.

I reached out and took his hand, finding comfort in the fact that I’d been right. His skin was calloused and rough, his large hands strong and sure. A fighter’s hands, and I needed a fighter right then. “Thank you,” I whispered. And then—damn it all—I started to cry.

He knelt in front of me, pulling me over so that I was leaning against his shoulder. I slumped off the chair and let him cradle me as I cried. I cried out of fear and frustration and grief. I cried for Todd and everything he’d lost. I cried for myself and for everything I might lose. And I cried for this man, who, for whatever reason, had shown up to help me.

I’m not sure how long I cried, long enough to reach that point where it’s not easy to stop, and where your gasps for air turn into loud, painful hiccups. When I hit that point, he backed away, then returned momentarily with a glass of water. It was a nothing gesture, but to me it seemed incredibly sweet, and the damn tears almost started up all over again.

I sipped, trying to slow my breathing and get my body back under control, feeling both grateful for his comfort and mortified that I was falling apart in front of him.

“Did Jamie play PSW?” I asked, once I was pretty sure my voice would cooperate.

“Yeah. She did.”

“Why was she killed?”

“I don’t know, but I can guess.”

“Guess,” I said.

“She wouldn’t play the game.
This
game.”

I thought of the message Todd had thrown into the trash. “What exactly do you mean?” I asked the question slowly, carefully. I was pretty sure I knew the answer. But until I heard it out loud, I could pretend it wasn’t true.

“Someone’s taking the game to the streets. I don’t know how. I don’t know why. And I damn sure don’t know who. He killed her.” He half shrugged. “Or, rather, the assassin did.”

“How do you know she wouldn’t play?”

“The police found a message balled up in her trash. It was in code. They showed it to me—probably wanted to gauge my reaction in case I’d written it.”

“What did it say?”

“I didn’t know at the time. I found out later. The police investigated for a while, but the case went nowhere. And budgets being what they are, the detectives eventually turned to cases with hot leads. Since the police investigation was going nowhere, I decided to do some poking around on my own. One of the detectives in the precinct nosed around and got me a photocopy along with the interpretation.”

Once again, he held me rapt. “Exactly what do you do that you have detectives running around doing your bidding? Or is that a perk enjoyed by all ex-Marines?”

A muscle in his jaw twitched, and I really didn’t think he was going to answer me.

“Does it really matter what I do?”

Okay. That pissed me off even more than if he’d just stayed quiet. “Hell yes,” I said. “You show up in my apartment and announce that you’re there to protect me, and then you tell me that some other woman’s dead because of you—”

He winced, but I was on a roll. And, no, I didn’t feel guilty. This was my life I was dealing with.

“So yeah,” I went on. “I think I have a right to know why you think I should listen to you. I mean, other than that you served your time for God and country. Or are you still one of the few and the proud?”

“I got my discharge papers three years ago,” he said, his voice tight. “Honorable, since I’m sure you want the full résumé.”

“And now?” I hadn’t had the upper hand all day. I wasn’t about to drop it now.

“Now I’m in the private security business. Freelance work.”

I thought of the gun on the table, and the gun I assumed he’d kept hidden. “What exactly does that mean?”

He fixed me with a hard stare. “It means it’s private. And that means it’s none of your business.”

He must have read my reaction on my face, because he held up a hand, effectively stopping me from spewing a string of invectives all over him.

“It also means that I’m more than qualified to protect you. And as for Jamie Tate…” As he trailed off, a shadow crossed his eyes. I, of course, felt guilty as hell.

He shook his head like someone shaking off sleep. “Let’s just say that you can rest assured I won’t make the same mistake twice.”

A sarcastic retort flew to my lips, but I managed to hold it back with my tongue. I
did
want this man on my side. I’d be wise not to insult him. Or piss him off.

Slowly, I nodded, letting the matter drop. “All right,” I finally said. “Do you still have it? The photocopy of the message, I mean.”

“Burned it. But I read it first. You can guess what it said.” His gaze was tight on me, and I squirmed a little under the attention.

I opened my mouth to speak, realized my throat was too dry, and took a sip of water. “‘Play or Die,’” I said.

His eyes narrowed just slightly, but otherwise his expression didn’t change. “Okay, Melanie,” he said. “I think it’s your turn to fill me in on just what happened to you today.”

M
elanie didn’t answer right away, and Stryker didn’t push her. She had to take her time. Reach her own conclusions. Learn to trust him and realize that he could help her. He couldn’t help her if she didn’t trust him. Or, rather, he
could.
Hell, he intended to help the girl whether she wanted him or not.

He just hoped that she wanted his help. Working together would make this whole thing so much easier.

Now she looked up at him, her eyes sharp despite fear, and once again he got a peek at that core of strength.

“All right,” she said. “You want my story? Here it is.” And then she told him. Running into her ex-boyfriend. The note in the park. Going back to her ex’s place last night. Translating the code, then scoffing at the message. “I was pissed,” she said, “and Todd calmed me down.” Her cheeks colored a bit. “We had our problems, but in some ways we were good together, too.”

“Go on.”

She licked her lips, not meeting his eyes as she explained how she’d discovered the body, then had run straight into the killer’s arms. “I was so scared. I was sure he was going to kill me. And then I ran into you—”

“And I scared you even more.”

“Hell yes,” she said. “You’d broken into my apartment.”

He held up a hand to ward off a fresh tirade. Her being pissed at him might have calmed her fears, but neither of them had time for another dressing-down.

“You came to help,” she said, her tone even.

“I was assigned to help.”

“Why kill Jamie and not kill me?” she asked.

“Don’t know. Different assassin, maybe.”

She cringed. “Nice to know it’s so easy to round up assassins to pick off innocent grad students.”

“Put an ad in
Soldier of Fortune
and you’d be surprised who’ll come running.”

“The Most Dangerous Game,”
she said. “I watched that movie once. Didn’t like it much.” She met his eyes, and he was impressed by the spark of humor he saw beneath the fear. “I can’t say I like the concept any more today.”

“Me either.”

She frowned. “It could be the same killer, though. Maybe the police have a lead. Maybe they can find him. Track him down.”

“No go,” he said. “I checked. The case has gone completely cold.”

“I think I’ve just heated things up.”

“That you have. Are you going to call the police?”

Her forehead creased, and from her expression, you’d think he’d asked her if she’d like a nice glass of gasoline on ice. “I think you missed a few rules in your review,” she said.

He shook his head, not following. “So tell me.”

“It’s what the messenger meant,” she said. “Now that I know what the game is, his warning makes perfect sense.” She took a deep breath, and he saw that her hands were shaking. She clasped them together, her fingers so tightly twined her knuckles turned white. “There are authorities in the game—cops, FBI, whatever. And you can ask them for help if you want, and if you do, you might even jump a level or two. But there’s a price. Any target who calls in an authority for help loses their protector. Get it?”

He got it, all right. She called in the cops, and the assassin would pick him off. Or try to, anyway.

“Don’t even think it,” she said.

He met her eyes, careful to keep his expression bland. “Think what?”

“I’m not calling the cops. For one thing, he told me not to, and I’m beginning to think that’s an order I should follow. Mostly, though, I’m not about to hang you out there like that.”

“I know how to watch my back.” Not entirely true. He was good, but even he couldn’t stop a sniper’s bullet if he didn’t know when or where it was coming from.

“Maybe,” she said, “but I couldn’t stand the guilt. Todd’s already dead. It’s not my fault, I know that. But I don’t want your blood on my hands, too.”

She rushed on before he could get a word in. “If he kills you too, I’m on my own.” Her eyes flashed with dark humor. “And if I’m stuck playing this game, I’d just as soon have company, you know?”

“I know.” He took her hand, gently squeezing her fingers. “I’m sticking to you like glue, Melanie.”

She managed a smile. “Call me Mel.”

He nodded, then swung an arm around her shoulder and pulled her close, half expecting her to tug away, insisting on her own personal space. She didn’t. Instead, she leaned against him, the soft sound of her breathing marking time in the otherwise silent apartment. He wanted to whisper comforting words, to tell her it would all be okay and that they’d get through this nightmare. But he couldn’t. Melanie already knew the score, and he wasn’t about to lie to her. Comfort, yes. But lie? Never.

They sat that way for a while before she spoke again, so softly that he had to strain to hear her. “I don’t think Todd even played PSW. Why did they have to go and kill him?”

“I don’t know.”

A tear trickled down her cheek, and Stryker steeled himself against the urge to wipe it away. “I said I wasn’t going to play. Todd even crumpled the note and we threw it away, just like Jamie Tate did. So why is she dead and I’m still alive?”

“Maybe he didn’t have any fun with Jamie.”

She pulled out of his embrace then and turned to face him, her brow furrowed in concentration. “What do you mean?”

“The chase,” he said. “That’s got to be why he signed on. That and the money.” How the killer knew Melanie wasn’t going to play remained a question Stryker coudn’t yet answer.

“So he killed her and then realized that it was all over. With me, he thought he’d try a little persuasion?”

“It’s only a guess.”

“We need that message.” She closed her eyes, then sighed deeply before adding, “There was more to it. Nonsense stuff. The next clue, I guess.”

“So we go get it,” he said.

“Todd’s place.” Her voice was flat, leaving no doubt that she didn’t want to go back to that apartment.

He took her hand, surprised when she didn’t jerk it away. “I know you don’t want to, but we don’t have a choice.”

“I know. Like the note said—‘Play or Die.’” She met his eyes, hers cold and full of determination. “Looks like I’m going to play.”