Deadly Little Lies (3 page)

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Authors: Jeanne Adams

BOOK: Deadly Little Lies
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OHE!!!NO!!!
He screamed the denial in his mind, as he saw them lift her, saw her fighting them.
From behind him, another man pressed the hot barrel of a weapon to Dav's head. “Come,” he ordered. “Or she dies.”
Dav straightened, hands in the air. The gunfire ceased. Dav prayed his other team was close enough, prayed Declan was alive, that he'd worn his vest. Prayed that Queller and Thompson had found a way to stop this.
A man leaned out into the street around the dirt and debris from the planters, firing at someone or something. Dav heard the squeal of tires, and the sound of crunching metal and shattering glass. People shouted incoherently and Dav heard screams as well. Someone returned fire as he was yanked forward, shoved headfirst into the car. He heard the shriek of metal on metal as bullets hit the car, but nothing slowed the Suburban's retreat as it peeled out of the wreckage of the patio and roared away.
Everything Gates had taught him, all the tactics, raced through his mind, but none of the scenarios had included Carrie.
None had included a hostage other than himself.
A serious oversight.
A heavy canvas bag dropped over his head and a sickly sweet smell filled his nose. He tried in vain to hold his breath, but a blow to his back forced a sharp inhalation.
Everything went black.
 
 
Niko rubbed his aching cheek. The blow his brother, Davros Gianikopolis, had landed thirteen years ago today, had cracked his cheekbone. On days like this one, with San Francisco's changeable weather, and with the barometric pressure dropping to herald a storm, he felt it as a bitter echo of the long-ago battle.
It throbbed; thirteen years of pain.
None of the bones he'd broken since, in jail or in his time as a mercenary in South America and Africa, had hurt as much or ached as long. He took it as a sign that this first pain was the deepest, the one that most needed redress.
It was time to take his revenge.
“Time to serve the coldest dish up to
you,
Dav, long past time,” he chuckled. None of this would have been possible when Dav's former security team was in charge. No. Only now, in the interregnum, the time between the old and new, could he strike, and strike hard.
The contacts he'd cultivated with little success had suddenly opened up when Bromley was attacked the previous year. Instead of ruining everything he'd planned, the debacle with the woman trying to kill Gates had worked to his advantage. It proved he was on the right track; it was destiny.
Those same contacts now believed him to be part of Dav's organization. It was a beautiful con and he'd profited significantly already. At last, everything was ready for the final steps.
He
was ready.
He paused long enough to send a text to his mentor, the man who'd taught him to think cold, to plan, to play the long, hard game. He'd wanted Niko to hire someone for this task, keep it impersonal, but Niko knew he had to handle it himself. Revenge should be personal. Tomorrow the world would change.
Ready to implement,
he typed.
“This time, brother,” he murmured, lowering the binoculars, but still observing every angle to be sure he was unwatched, “it will be me, taking everything
you
love.”
He called the girl, Inez, and kept her talking until he saw Dav and his protective detail round the corner toward the restaurant. He'd waited half an hour, just to be sure they weren't coming back, then dialed again. Everything was in place; it was ready and had been since Inez had gushingly told him about the date Dav had arranged with Carrie McCray. She was his inside “man” and she'd played her part to perfection.
“Hi, honey. Lock the front doors like you're getting that shipment, I'll come to the back, okay? I'll knock—” He let his voice drop to a sexy range. “I know we won't have much time, but I need to see you, to touch you.” He tucked the phone in between his shoulder and his ear as he told her what she wanted to hear, that she was beautiful, sexy, desirable.
After parking several blocks away—a lucky break in the popular neighborhood—he walked to the back of the building.
“I'm so excited. This is like clandestine stuff, you know?” she whispered over the phone.
“Uh-huh. Scary sex is great sex, babe.”
She gushed and giggled into the phone and he rolled his eyes. Women were all alike. At the edge of the building he stopped long enough to pull on the thin gloves and slip surgical booties over his shoes.
“I'm just at the back door now, babe. Come let me in,” he crooned, moving up to the receiving dock, while staying out of range of the camera. “Yeah, that's right,” he muttered in answer to some inane question she asked. He hurried up the steps, easing along the wall so the secondary video wouldn't catch the movement.
When he knocked, the door creaked open, offering just a slice of light in the shadowed area under the receiving dock's canopy.
“Hey, handsome,” Inez gushed, swinging the door wide. He saw her frown at his shoes, so he swept her into his arms, tugging the heavy door shut behind him, making sure only the back of his head and jacket were visible to the inner door camera.
“Hey, baby,” he crooned, kissing her and grabbing her ass. He boosted her up into his arms and she wrapped her legs around his waist. With her clinging to him, he moved quickly down the hall. His body reacted to her sensuality and the kisses she pressed to his neck. It was a pity he didn't have time for sex. She was young, enthusiastic, and flexible. At least screwing her had been a bonus rather than a chore, although he'd have done it, no matter what.
“Hey,” she giggled. “What took you so long? They've been gone awhile.”
“I know. Trouble parking,” he lied, swinging open the door to Carrie McCray's office with his hip. It was good to be in the cramped space, where no cameras peered. He set her on the desk, had her blouse open in a moment, her bra unhooked. She laughed, pulling his head to her for a kiss.
“You're in a hurry,” she moaned throatily, then frowned again, noting the gloves on his hands.
It really was too bad. She noticed the little things, lots of little things. It was a shame she was so smart.
He distracted her by flipping up her skirt, fondling her so that she closed her eyes and let her head fall back. He'd counted on that. It was a studied move on her part, designed to make a man feel like he was doing a good job. Every time he touched her below her waist, she did that very move with the head toss and the closed eyes. He grinned, hating that he really didn't have time for a quick fuck.
Too bad.
He eased the long, thin, sharpened palette knife out of his pocket with one hand, keeping her busy with the other.
She was so focused she didn't flinch as he slipped the knife easily between her ribs, hitting the heart in one stroke. One twist opened the wound more, ensuring the incision was lethal. It was a poetic move, he thought, to kill her with an artist's implement.
Her eyes flew open and her head jerked forward, once. To his delight, he saw the betrayal, the shock in her eyes as they dimmed in death.
How very satisfying. Even a bit ... arousing.
He let her body fall backward and to the side. The blood was oozing around the handle of the blade now and he wanted to be sure he wasn't marked by it. He switched on the desk light, looking at the gloves under the bright white light. Good, no blood, even on the gloves.
“The nice thing about hitting the heart the first time,” he told the dead girl, “is that if you do it right, and position the body correctly, the blood all pumps into the body cavity.” He remembered the first time he heard the words, delivered in a highly accented voice from his mercenary captain. “You still die,” he observed, speaking to the dead as he hooked the desk chair with his foot to pull it over, prop her feet on it so her body wouldn't fall onto the floor. “However, you don't get blood all over your killer. Bad for you, good for me.”
With a quick twist, he gathered her blouse in one hand and used it to turn her body to its side, leaving the knife in the wound like a cork. All the blood would now pool inside the body until the cops turned her onto her back.
“Lovely. Just lovely,” he said, patting her hip with both affection and care. He'd had a good time with her, but he didn't want to dislodge the weapon or mar his handiwork. “Now,” he said cheerfully, “where is your cell phone?”
He dumped her bag on the floor and took her driver's license and the lone credit card in her wallet. As an afterthought, he pocketed the hundred dollars he found there as well. Why not? If the cops thought it a robbery gone bad, all the better.
“Ah, yes, you were talking to me just before you answered the door, weren't you?” Before he retraced his steps to the back door, he turned off the camera. He moved quickly, knowing there might be an alarm on the cameras. If one shut down, it could either trigger a backup or the cops. The cops wouldn't be as much a problem as the backup camera.
Then again, he was well known to be dead already, so it wasn't that much of a problem either way.
He checked his watch. Dav and Carrie would be taken by now. It was all going as he'd planned. He grinned, knowing what awaited his idiot brother.
There, on a pedestal by the locked rear door, was her phone. Excellent. The number she'd used for him was a throwaway phone, but he took no chances. With the phone in his pocket, he used a nearby broom to reach the camera, turn its seeking eye toward the wall. A quick trip back to the office where he jumped the security disk back to just before he came in, set the camera back on and left the building locked up nice and tight. Within minutes, all evidence of him would be taped over and he would be the ghost that killed Inez.
He chuckled at his cleverness and as he walked toward his parked car, he gave the hundred to several bums, a twenty at a time. He stopped a scruffy-looking messenger and handed him the credit card.
“Hey, dude, use this for me, would you? My girlfriend stole it from me, bought a few things, then gave it back. I was about to report it stolen, but there's got to be a bunch more on it or I can't press charges on her.” Total bullshit, of course, but the kid wouldn't know that. “Go buy some gas or something. You got an hour before I report it missing.” When the boy's eyes turned sly, he knew he'd picked a winner.
The boy snatched the card and sped off. Two blocks later, Niko tossed her driver's license into the gutter. He took a last look at her picture, and smiled.
“A good picture. What a surprise,” he told her photo. “Usually look like mug shots. Or worse.”
He unlocked the car and as he drove away, he decided it really was too bad she'd been so smart.
Chapter 3
Jurgens disconnected the call, closing the cell phone with a snap of his wrist and a silent snarl. It hadn't been a pleasant conversation. Hardened as he was from years in his profession, he was irritated at the level of venom he'd sensed over his refusal. His annoyance made him more thorough about the methodical destruction of the phone. The largest piece when he was done could have been hidden under a dime.
He had turned down the contract on Davros Gianikopolis, citing both other work and a conflict of interest. He didn't go into details, wouldn't. No questions had been asked.
Frowning, he pondered the repercussions.
“My love,” Caroline said, gliding into the brightly lit room, her robe a lush flow of rose silk over her skin. “Come to bed.” She came up behind his chair and automatically began to massage his shoulders, easing the tension there with her touch alone.
He turned his face to kiss the hand that eased him so.
“I made the call,” he said, knowing she would understand.
“I see.” Her hands never stilled, though he felt the brief hesitation, understood it. “What was your decision?”
“I declined.”
Her fingers stilled, and then squeezed before resuming their relaxing strokes. “Good.”
They stayed connected there, for long silent moments, both thinking their own thoughts as Caroline continued to rub his shoulders, releasing the tension that had taken up residence there when he'd made his decision, notified the potential client. He'd done work for the man before, successfully of course. Perhaps it was that which made the client so angry. Perhaps not.
He was unsure which reaction concerned him more, the lack of respect for their previous relationship or the vicious severing of their business when he'd refused the contract. He knew people, their reactions, their reasoning. It made him good at what he did. Perhaps that was why he knew this would not end here, not with this client.
“Now what? Will you let him know? Will you tell Davros that he's targeted?”
“He knows this, I am sure,” he said dismissively, knowing it to be true, but giving her the opening to continue the discussion.
“He doesn't know about this one. You said—” She stopped and he could feel her hesitation.
“Nein.”
He stopped her kneading hands by spinning in the chair, gripping them in his own. “Do not hide your thoughts from me. We must be clear together, always,
ja
?”
She sighed and kissed him as he pulled her into his lap. She fit there with remarkable ease, something he never failed to appreciate.
“I am sentimental,” she said hesitantly. “I know he had nothing to do with our finally being together—you took care of that.” When he frowned, she saw it and added, “Yes, I know, we both played our parts. But his situation with the art fraud, the way his people dug it out, gave us a cover and an opportunity that might not have come up for several more years.” She smiled and he loved her all the more. Everything about her lit him from within.
“You want me to warn him.” He said it matter-of-factly. He knew this was what she did want. It would not be the easiest, or perhaps the wisest course, but for her, for sentiment, he would do it if she asked.
“Yes.”
“Hmmm,” was all he said, shifting her to lean on his shoulder, enjoying the feel of her lithe body in his arms, on his lap. As always, she waited while he thought it through. No questions, no pleading. This was another thing he loved about her. She was clear, concise. If he asked for reasoning, she would give it, though perhaps in this case she wouldn't since she'd already admitted she was motivated by sentiment, perhaps even superstition.
His decision made, he straightened and she looked him in the eye, a connection that few others would ever make, a looking into his very soul. For that, as much as anything, he would take on the world for her, anyone and anything.
“It will be difficult. I will need to be away, you know this.”
“Ja, mein liebchen.”
She spoke the words with precision and care. She was learning German so she could greet his mother in that tongue, when they met. That trip would be in summer and he was looking forward to it. One step closer to their wedding.
“Gut,”
he praised. “I will need to think. Go on to sleep, I will come join you soon.”
Without another word, but with the warmest of looks, she stood. Bending forward, she kissed him. The connection was strong, powerful and intoxicating. It captured him and blocked out every other thought. When it ended, he felt renewed, alive.
“Make it soon.”
He watched her leave, heard her kiss the boy, even caught the faint rustle of the sheets and blankets as she got into bed.
His Caroline.
He could refuse her very little, and since his inclination ran parallel with hers, he wouldn't refuse her this.
Decision made, he began to plan. He would sell this house as soon as they left in the morning. It had been a good bolt-hole in his single days, but it was too dangerous to keep any longer. It was unlikely that anyone would trace it to him, but there were other properties. His corporation would sell it at a loss, he was sure, given the market, but no matter. The proceeds would go to fund a scholarship at a school he'd randomly chosen from a directory. Having made that call from here, he must disconnect himself from it immediately.
He fired off an e-mail to his lawyer that would set a sale in motion. Now, for research. He needed to know who else had been offered the contract on Dav, and which of them had taken the bait, for he knew this party would not have waited to hear from him before taking action.
Dav wasn't dead yet, but he soon could be. His Caroline didn't want that, so Jurgens would be sure it didn't happen.
Ever.
 
 
Dav was sick when he woke in the dark. The nausea and pounding headache reminded him of his failings the moment he returned to consciousness. Vibrations thrummed through the metal under his hip and rattled his bound hands. He heard the drone of turbines and the whistle of the wind that told him he was in a plane.
Given the metallic flooring, he was probably in a cargo hold or the back of a small plane, with the seats removed. His hands were tied behind his back, cuffed maybe, but he wasn't sure because he couldn't feel his fingers—the circulation was cut off.
It took him a minute to conquer the fear and anger that rose to choke him. His father had liked to discipline his son by shoving him into the darkest part of the cellar. Dav could still hear the door slamming behind him and his father yelling, “Grow some balls, boy. Can't stand to see any son of mine afraid of the dark.”
It hadn't been the dark that frightened him. It had been the closed-in space, the dank walls smelling of old bones and old blood. He knew people had died in that room, and died badly. More than that, it had been the roaches and rats that had sniffed at him or crawled on him, a small boy huddled by the door, praying to survive and get out.
The terror had come from knowing—believing—that he had no control over getting out. Release would come at his father's whim, or not at all.
The shudder was impossible to suppress. All these years later, the fear still haunted him. He drew a deep breath and focused on two very important details. There wouldn't be rats or roaches on a plane.
“Then eeseh enea chronon,”
he whispered to himself.
I am no longer nine years old.
Using only small movements, he shifted on the floor. Getting onto his side a bit eased the feeling of illness. He waited a heartbeat to see if anyone noticed him move or was watching him. Facedown as he was, with his head covered, he couldn't tell if he was alone or not.
Struggling to quiet his breathing, he strained to hear any other noise over the engine's roar. Bracing his aching elbows on the floor, he made another shift to the right. He was just getting his balance when the plane banked sharply and threw him over onto his side again. He nearly screamed at the pain in his arms and shoulders, but he worried more when he realized he'd landed on something soft. Something that smelled of flowers and woman.
Carrie.
He wanted to leap up, pull her up with him, but it was impossible. Instead, he struggled to calm his racing heart and mind enough to feel or hear if she was alive. She'd made no sound when he crashed into her, so he feared the worst.
He held his breath and scooted closer, ignoring his aching arms. “Carrie?” he whispered, the bag over his head muffling his voice. “Carrie?”
Leaning toward her, he searched for some sign of life.
In a lightning shift from deathly stillness to action, she burst upward, her elbow pressed into his neck. Her skin was warm. She was alive.
Before he could do more than appreciate the fact, she shifted her weight with a grunt, and knocked him back, pinning him to the floor. Once again, his shoulders and elbows were racked with pain.
“Touch me and I will kill you,” she hissed even as she wobbled above him. Shaky as she was, her arm stayed tight on his windpipe.
“It's Dav,” he wheezed as her elbow pressed harder. “Carrie, it's Dav.”
“Dav?” The pressure eased off and he drew in a lungful of musty air, still catching a faint whiff of the darkly sweet scent of the drug they'd used to knock him out. “Dav, it's you? Are you okay?”
As she clutched at his jacket, he felt the shaking in her arms, the tremble in her body. “No, but I'm alive, and thank God you are too,” he said with heartfelt relief as her shaking hands raced over him. He could tell she was bound as well, since her hands moved together, tugging at his shirt and his lapels. More than anything, he wanted to crush her to him, hold her tightly, feel her life. “I'm okay.” He said it over and over until she began to relax and stop running her hands frantically up and down his chest.
Then he added wryly, “But when we get out of this, Gates is going to kill me.” He felt her stiffen, then felt a tremor rock her body. “Carrie, are you okay?”
“Believe it or not, I'm laughing,” she said, and her voice quivered. “Although that doesn't seem appropriate. If we get out of this, Gates will probably want to kill me too.”
“Oh, Carrie,” Dav said, his heart sinking. “I am so sorry.”
“Hush, Dav,” she said, her voice firm and sharp now. “We're here. We'll figure it out. What is it they say? While there's life, there's hope.”
Please God, let her be right
.
First things first—they had to figure out where they were and where they were going. “Can you see?” he asked.
“Oh, say can you see?” she sang softly, then giggled again, her voice returning to the wavery tremolo it had held before. “I think I'm still drugged up. That was far funnier than it should have been.”
He grinned, even as he worried for her. In spite of everything she was magnificent. “Yes, it was.”
She sobered a bit and added, “It's a plane, it's dark. No one else is back here with us.”
“Good, that's good.” He shifted, trying to make sense of it all. Unfortunately, that brought him in more intimate contact with her body, driving anything practical out of his head for a moment. “I wish I could see.” He felt his heart rate leap as she moved against him. The race of his blood made his bound hands throb.
“You're too pretty to have a bag over your head,” she snickered. “Oh, Lord,” she half moaned. “I'm sorry. Don't listen to me. I'm just drugged enough to say stuff and just sober enough to realize I'm being stupid.”
Well, at least she thought he was pretty. That was something to take to the grave with him. “It's all right,” he said, smiling at the thought of her talking without censor. “Can you use your hands? Can you feel anything around us?”
“Yes, I think so. Can you lift up?” she asked, then hummed another tune. He heard her faintly singing words. Something that sounded like “up, up and away...”
Dav struggled to a sitting position, and both felt and heard her rustling around behind him. The bag lifted off his head with a rush, and he could hardly believe it, since he still couldn't see. The fresher air, however, was like sweet wine and he drew in the cold, fuel-tinged air with gratitude.
They were in a cargo plane, as he'd guessed, but it was smaller than he'd thought it would be. There were empty crates and bins strapped down to the grooved floor and walls, their gaping sides showing up as darker squares or rectangles in the gloom.
“How long have we been here? Do you have any idea?” he asked, scanning the space for any telltale markings or anything that could help them. Knowledge was power. In any dangerous situation, you had to assess the weapons available, some of which might be data. Of all the possible kidnap scenarios they'd run, figured out how Dav could survive, nothing had been like this.

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