In the Dark (21 page)

"Fine," she said. "I was on my way to the bathroom." She'd actually awakened from a disturbing dream in which someone was chasing her. Getting up to shake it off, she'd nearly stepped on Luther, not expecting him to sacrifice his comfort that way. She'd lingered over him, concerned and touched.

"You shouldn't sneak up on me," he said. His voice, gruff with sleep, was especially appealing.

"No kidding."

His hands lingered.

Hannah swallowed hard. She reached deep inside for the strength to move away. "Go sleep in your bed, Luther. It's not good for your shoulder to sleep on the floor."

"I can't leave you by the window," he countered, a note of frustration in his voice.

She glanced at the large pane, which offered a view of a moonlit yard and the roof of the neighbor's house. An uneasy chill cooled her bare shoulders as she recalled her dream. "I'll sleep in your bed with you, Luther," she offered, "but only to sleep."

"That's fine," he said.

She snatched up her pillow and blanket and watched him come painstakingly to his feet. How long, she wondered, would she be able to resist him? Whether she was good for him or not, she ached for the fulfillment she'd found in his arms. She'd never shared anything like that with any man. Most likely, she never would.

With his linens in his arms, Luther led the way down the abbreviated hall to one of the rancher's three bedrooms, still devoid of furniture.

Hannah stopped at the bathroom. Flipping on the light, she pulled a toothbrush from her overnight kit and blinked in the mirror.
What do you want?
she asked herself.

Her reflection gave no answer.

A minute later, she felt her way to the bedroom. She'd seen the room at dusk, stark with four bare walls and a king-sized bed. Luther's clothes had been piled in neat stacks in his closet. Thanks to her grandmother, he now enjoyed a solid oak dresser and a matching bed stand, impossible to see for the shade at his window. Hannah shuffled forward.

"I'm on the far side," Luther said, having taken the side nearest to the window. "I'd have left on a light for you but I don't have one"

"That's okay." He'd pulled the comforter and sheet down. Hannah shimmied out of her jeans and slipped into the cool cocoon, taking care to keep well away from him.

Still, there wasn't a spot on her body that didn't tingle with awareness.

"Good night," Luther murmured.

"Night." She lay still for a long, long time. Just knowing Luther's powerful maleness was right beside her made her nipples stiffen and her crotch grow damp.

"Tell me about your godfather."

The unexpected request made her frown. Obviously Luther's thoughts weren't as single-minded as hers were. "Why?" she asked.

"He seems like a really nice guy."

"He is," she agreed, recalling the months after her parent’s death when Uncle Caleb had been the rock beneath her. "I owe him a lot"

"I guess you've always known him?"

"He and my father were best friends. He loved my mother, too, which is probably the reason that he never married."

"Oh, really?"

"He was devastated when their plane went down. We all were."

Luther turned his head in her direction. She could sense his compassion. "Why did he talk you out of staying in the CIA?" he asked gently.

Hannah swallowed down the lump rising in her throat. "Like I said, he was devastated when my parents died— I mean, truly devastated. He was so sure that if I went overseas, I'd be killed on my first assignment. He told me Kevin needed me to stay close by, and he begged me to take a desk job. Problem was, in order to get a desk job in the CIA, I would have had to wait six months for my request to be processed. Or I could work right away for Uncle Caleb, who made an opening for me. So I promised him three years, no more no less, and I took the job."

"I'll have to thank him one day" Luther said.

"For what?"

"If he hadn't talked you into sticking around, Jaguar would probably be headed to jail. And I never would have met you."

If meeting her was that special to him, Hannah thought with a tug of sorrow, why had he made a point of saying they were incompatible?

"What are you looking for, Luther?" She went out on a limb to ask. Maybe there was some way to satisfy both their needs.

He drew a deep, thoughtful breath. "Commitment and a family," he said decisively. "I want a woman who can hold the fort down when I'm gone. I want security for my children, I want to give them the kind of choices I had when I was growing up."

Hannah's heart sank. She'd spent the last three years counting down the days until her promise to Uncle Caleb was fulfilled. To take her mind off her tedious desk job, she'd fantasized about the adventures awaiting her when she'd be free at last to travel, to apply her talents toward information-gathering, to follow in her father's footsteps.

Not once had she considered falling in love, getting married, having children. Never! It was the dead-last thing she wanted for herself. So, why the regret squeezing her heart? She wasn't going to change her plans, not for Luther. Not for anyone.

Silence stretched between them, ponderous and deep.

"It's pretty damn ironic, don't you think?" Luther added on a bitter note.

"What is?" Her voice sounded strangled.

"That we're so much alike in some ways and so different in others."

His words made her eyes sting. She had to swallow in order to speak. "Yeah," she agreed, trying to sound casual. She forced herself to turn away from him, toward the wall. More than anything, she wanted to roll into his arms and weep.

Why had fate done this to her—brought the perfect man into her life when she wasn't ready for him? At first, being with him had just felt comfortable, like a broken-in shoe. But then she realized he was also intelligent, loyal, and focused. She loved the way she felt around him. She didn't want to let him go.

But she would have to, because Luther's dreams and hers were bearing them off into different directions. They would never be at this same point again.

A hot tear slipped from the corner of Hannah's eye and dropped to the pillow. She didn't want to admit that this was love. That would make it even harder to leave when the time came. But she did know this—she was way more invested in Luther than she ought to be.

Rafael Valentino inserted the electronic key into the lock of an upscale apartment in Vienna. It released with a quiet click.

Everything about Rafe's apartment was quiet. Like a tomb, he thought, willing away the vision of the family vault in St. Raymond's Cemetery.

It wasn't right to
think,
of them as dead. He should remember, instead, the noise that awaited him whenever he came home from a long night's beat in the NYPD. His wife Teresa would be herding the children from the bath to their beds, using threats to ensure their cooperation. She was the loudest of all of them, he recalled, his lips twitching in a sad smile.

He let the door to his apartment fall shut. It closed on a soft hiss of air that ended on a muted snick.
Quiet again.

He kept the lights off, unwilling to chase away the ghosts that frolicked around him, hiding behind his legs to avoid their ranting mother. He could still distinguish their voices, even after three years. The baby, Emanuel, had a giggle so infectious that no one could hear it without laughing also. Serena, who was four, could hit notes that shattered glass. She was a lot like her mother. Tito, who took after his father, was thirteen. His voice had been just about to change into that of a man when...

Rafe snapped on the lights to keep his thoughts from returning to the day he'd found them all dead—even the baby. Shot in the head.

What had he expected, that he could lock up the two most powerful men in the Mafia, and not pay a price? A price so awful that he woke up every morning wondering why he bothered to get out of bed.

The lights flooding his furnished living room chased the ghosts of his family away. Rafe's stomach rumbled, reminding him that he'd skipped lunch—again. He stepped into the galley-style kitchen and opened the stainless-steel refrigerator. He had a choice of leftovers—Chinese takeout or stale pizza. He reached for a bottle of Heine-ken, twisted the top off, and deliberated.

Rafe never rushed a decision. It was that patient trait that made him good at what he did. He watched. He waited.

And right now he was watching the Individual. Soon, very soon, the Individual would be convinced enough of Westmoreland's conviction that he would make his move. And Rafe would be there to catch him when he did.

He and Westmoreland would share the honors, this time. Of course, Westmoreland was not the Individual. The director of the CIA had risked damage to his professional reputation in the expectation that his popularity would rise once the true culprit was arrested and his sacrifice became known to the public. Rafe would have to buy Westmoreland a Christmas present.

He lifted the bottle to his lips and took a thoughtful swig. That was when he felt it a light draft running across the knuckles of his upheld hand.

Rafe put the bottle down. He turned toward the lights and extinguished them, plunging the apartment back in darkness. From beneath his silk-lined jacket, he pulled out the Magnum that was holstered to his chest.

He scanned the darkened corners as he crept down the hallway toward the only room with a balcony. His years as a street cop kept his heart beating steadily.

It occurred to him as he approached the door at the end of the hall that the Individual might have also set a trap for
him.

The door stood slightly ajar. Rafe sidled up to it. With the tip of his Magnum he widened the crack. Light from the parking lot showed that the door to the balcony had been left ajar. He was not alone.

He stepped back quickly but not fast enough.

A weapon exploded.

Rafe saw the flare in the muzzle, felt a bullet strike him in the chest, throwing him back into the hall. At the same time, something gouged his throat, striking sharp and deep.

He lay on his back, stunned by the realization that he'd been shot in the chest, though he couldn't feel a wound. The gash in his throat was a bigger worry. Blood gushed warmly out of it, staining the collar of his shirt. It was also pouring down his throat. He swallowed fast, keeping it from filling up his lungs.

But he wasn't dead yet. He could still think; could still raise his gun with his right hand and take aim.

He did so, firing at the enormous shadow that was moving toward him.
Bang!
The Magnum kicked against his palm, sending his attacker scuttling in the opposite direction, running now toward the balcony.

Rafe fired again and struck his mark. The man roared and fell. But then he staggered up, unsteady on his feet. With a hand clutched to his chest, the man fired at Rafe and missed. He lurched through the exit. In the next instant came a strangled scream followed by a thud and then the wailing of a car alarm.

Diavolo!
The man had just fallen. He could not have survived a four-story drop to the parking lot.

There went the Individual's hit man—probably Misalov Obradovitcli—straight to the devil, with no chance at a plea bargain, no opportunity for the FBI to work him over.

Rafe spat blood onto the Berber carpeting and crawled toward the phone on his nightstand.

"Nine-one-one, do you have an emergency?"

He couldn't speak. His vocal cords had been severed with shrapnel of some kind.

"Sir, I can hear you on the other end. Tap the phone once if this is an emergency."

Rafe tapped the receiver against the leg of the night-stand.

"We're sending an ambulance to your location. I have you at 3900 Inglenook Drive, Apartment
AC.
Is that correct?"

He tapped the receiver again, gagging on the river of blood that coursed his throat. His fingers closed over the Saint Michael medallion Teresa had given him when he was still a rookie. He found it twisted and broken.

Like everything else he'd ever valued. A gurgle of denial escaped him.

"Are you able to breathe?" asked the woman on the other end of the line.

What had happened to his medallion? But then he realized. Instead of hitting his heart, the bullet had struck the platinum disk, sending a piece of it straight into his throat.

It had to be a sign, a sign from Teresa that this wasn't his time to die.

He left the receiver on the floor and struggled to his feet, leaning over. The blood reversed direction, pouring out his mouth. His housekeeper would never forgive him for this.

But he had bigger worries than Margerie's scolding tongue. A doctor was going to want to put him in the hospital when he could least afford to leave his work. The Individual was bound to take advantage of that and make his move. Rafe had better not miss it.

Oceana Naval Air Base Trial Services Building
30 September
~
08:10 EST

Jaguar's defense lawyer examined the evidence strewn on her desk. Commander Curew looked more harried than ever, Luther noted, with the bun at the nape of her neck unraveling and the point of her collar curled. She worried the inside of her lip as she flipped through the pictures Luther had printed off the CD, comparing the photographed serial numbers with the numbers highlighted on the list of missing weapons he'd copied off his Palm Pilot.

"They match," she said with some amazement.

"Yes they do."

"I need to inform the NCIS right away" She reached for the phone.

"No, ma'am," Luther said, making her hesitate. "I have orders from the FBI to wait on this." With Hannah tapping an impatient toe and Westy guarding the closed door, Luther explained that they needed Special Agent Valentino's all-clear before involving the Naval Criminal Investigation Service.

"Lovitt has been working for Westmoreland all along," the commander marveled, putting the receiver down.

"He's been storing these weapons in Sabena," Luther added. "His brother-in-law's the sheriff, and the sheriff's brother owns the warehouse."