Stay the Night (4 page)

“This is why we never gave them the right to bear arms,” Will said to Rob, his brawler's face twisting into a scowl of disgust.

DeLuca lunged, but the shorter man seized him by the throat with a hand so hard it felt like a stone vise.

“No need to send him to Morpheus just yet,” Rob said as he flipped on the safety and pocketed the nine. “Did you find the other male?”

“Not yet.” Will made a casual gesture with his free hand. “He's concealed himself somewhere.”

DeLuca groped at the back of his belt until he felt his throwaway piece. He thought about jamming it into the Brit's belly, but the other man moved too fast, and this was the only gun he had left. “Leggo,” he wheezed.

“My pleasure.” Will shoved DeLuca away.

“How the hell did . . .” DeLuca trailed off as he clearly saw the three holes in Rob's sweater. No blood stained the knit, and through the holes only pale, unmarked flesh showed. His eyes shifted to the other distorted slugs scattered on the lobby floor before he met Rob's gaze. “What the hell are you?”

“Rather more than a rat or a bastard.” Rob stepped between DeLuca and the hostages. His eyes began to change, the centers shrinking to thin slivers of black while the purple turned darker and became bright, shiny rings of copper. “Where is your accomplice hiding?”

A small vent dropped from the ceiling and landed on one of the teller's windows with a loud clatter. Something like an unmarked soda can immediately followed and hissed gray-white smoke into the air.

Norman backed away.

“It would seem that SWAT has arrived, my lord,” Will said, kicking the grenade into a far corner.

“Apparently they've no interest in negotiating.” Rob knelt beside the unconscious bank manager to cover her mouth and nose with a white handkerchief. “Take care of them for me, Will. I'll secure the vault.”

Will began to sing what sounded like a lullaby, his voice soft and low, and went from person to person, resting his hand briefly on an arm, shoulder, or neck. As soon as he touched someone, they smiled and closed their eyes.

When he finished his song a minute later, everyone in the lobby had fallen asleep.

 

The tear gas burned DeLuca's eyes as he kept backing out of the reception area. He didn't know what kind of weird hypnosis the blond guy was using, but neither he nor Rob was paying any attention to him. On the job he'd seen some bizarre things happen, but the way this was going down defied all logic or explanation.

The hell with the Italian and the goods; I've got to get out—now
.

DeLuca aimed at Will, pumping three shots into his forehead before swiveling and emptying the rest of the magazine into the back of Rob's skull. He then hurried to the men's room, ducking inside and locking the door behind him.

The businessman he'd jumped earlier still sat where he'd left him, handcuffed to the sink piping. His groggy eyes opened to watch DeLuca strip out of his mask and jumpsuit and straighten the checked blue jacket and white trousers he wore underneath.

“Hey. I've been mugged,” the businessman said as soon as DeLuca yanked the duct tape from his mouth. The Rohypnol he'd been forced to swallow made his words slurry. “Mugged in my own bank.” He looked down at the jumpsuit Deluca had dressed him in earlier. “And these aren't my clothes.”

“There's been . . .” DeLuca paused to dig the soggy cotton balls out of his mouth, and stuck them in his pocket. “There's been a robbery.” He uncuffed the businessman and pulled a clean ski mask over the man's head. “You've got to get out of here.”

“That right?” Dilated eyes rolled comically around the holes in the mask. “Why did you put this on me? It cold outside?”

“They shot tear gas inside the bank,” DeLuca told him. “It'll protect your face.”

He popped open the businessman's briefcase, the contents of which he had dumped into the trash earlier, and transferred the money from the gym bag to it. It wasn't enough, but it would get him out of Atlanta.

DeLuca stuffed his own jumpsuit and mask into the gym bag. “Don't let anyone take this away from you,” he told the man as he uncuffed him and helped him stand up. “It's evidence.”

The business man gave him a goofy grin. “I've got evidence. I'll be a hero.”

“Yeah.” DeLuca finished by pressing his empty backup piece into the man's hand. “You'll need this, too. Watch out for the bank robbers. They're dressed exactly like cops.”

The businessman lifted the gun and used one eye to peer into the barrel. “Smells like firecrackers. Should I shoot at them?”

DeLuca picked up the briefcase and straightened his jacket. “No, just point it at them. That'll scare them, and they'll back off.”

“Okay.” The businessman nodded and lifted his arm, pointing an unsteady finger past DeLuca. “What about that guy?”

DeLuca turned and saw Rob standing against the door.

“No. Can't be. You . . . you're dead.”

“Killing me takes more than a few bullets.” Rob walked over to the businessman and pulled the ski mask from his head. “Sending this poor fellow out, drugged and dressed as he is, however, would work very well. Are you a murderer as well as a thief?”

The restroom became an unseen grove of perfumed oranges.

“No,” DeLuca heard himself murmur.

“It's time to put an end to this, then.” Rob unzipped and began removing the jumpsuit from the swaying businessman.

 

It's time to put an end to this, then
.

With Rob's words echoing in his head, as they had been mercilessly for the last twenty minutes, Norman opened his eyes and stepped into the bathtub. As he sat down, he bent his elbows and knees to fit his arms and legs inside. The fiberglass tub felt cold against his back and ass. He turned on the water, adjusting the temperature to lukewarm, but left the drain stopper open.

He'd been a Catholic once, a long time ago. Had gone to confession each Saturday to offer up his pitiful sins to God and dutifully if mechanically make his penance. Life, the job, and the disillusionment inflicted by both had erased most of the prayers from his memory. All he remembered now was the very beginning of confession.

Forgive me, Father
.

For his sins, Norman DeLuca put the barrel of his service pistol in his mouth, angled it up against his palate, closed his eyes, and put an end to everything.

Chapter 2

“
H
ey there, pretty lady.”

Chris Renshaw looked into the mirrored wall behind the bar. A florid, fleshy man stood just behind her, his bulk diverting the flow of people walking to and from the hotel elevators. This forced one waitress to quickly jack up her heavily loaded tray before it smashed into the back of his head.

First the auction, now the meat market
. Chris had already had her fill of being hit on by desperate middle-aged Viagrathons.
This is turning out to be a great night
.

Once he saw that he had Chris's attention, the big man leaned in, staggering a step and catching himself before fanning her with his rum-and-Coke-scented breath. “You know what? You got the prettiest red hair I've ever seen in my life.”

Chris didn't turn around or respond. In his condition he probably would interpret either as an invitation to have sex with her on the bar.

Undiscouraged, the big man hitched up his belt and began moving his hips in a pelvic thrust that almost kept time with the Village People hit pounding out of the bar's overhead speakers.

Chris's rusty sense of humor kicked in as she watched him gyrate in the mirror—
air-humping attack of the macho, macho man
—while her training created a more professional mental snapshot:
White, mid-thirties, six foot one, two thirty, silver-brown hair cut in a crew, close-set light blue eyes, trimmed reddish brown mustache, quarter-inch vertical keloid under left jaw. Ocher off-the-rack suit, pale green shirt, stainless sports watch, tan belt
.

Thanks to her excellent visual memory, Chris could pick him from a lineup or, six months from now, positively identify him in court.

Here's hoping I don't have to
. She picked up her drink and took a sip.

“I'm Dave.” Without waiting for an invitation, he dragged the nearest empty stool too close to hers and sat. His butt missed most of the dark brown cushion, making him lurch sideways, but he shifted in time to keep from landing on the floor. “Rickety damn things.”

Tension knotted in Chris's shoulders and neck, and once more she debated the wisdom of coming to the bar this late at night. Six other men had approached her since she'd arrived, and she doubted Dave would be the last. That, combined with the attention she'd received during the art auction, only made her feel like nothing more than a dangling hunk of bait.

Which, naturally, she was.

Going for a run tonight before coming here might have improved her mood, but she didn't like jogging in a strange city, especially at night. She had access to a state-of-the-art workout room back at the field office; Ray Hutchins mentioned it the day Chris had arrived. An hour or two on a treadmill would have burned off some stress. It would have also given Chris too much time to think, and second-guess, and blame herself.

She'd done enough of that back in Chicago.

She didn't need Dave harassing her while she checked out the place. This was her op; she had to evaluate the setup and decide how to continue the on-site surveillance. But the bar, which Ray had insisted was a regular meeting place and drop point for some of the less reputable local dealers, simply didn't feel right. She couldn't imagine the Magician coming here to broker deals for the art he stole. Interpol estimated that her target was at least in his seventies—far too old to blend in with this forty-and-under crowd.

Chris knew he'd hate the cheesy atmosphere of the place, too.
You wouldn't be caught dead in an out-of-towner sleaze pit like this, would you, Magic Man?

Although she almost felt Dave's eyes crawling up and down her body, two inchworms racing to measure her assets, Chris felt no inclination to leave. She could handle the Daves of the world better than the hollowness of the tasteful, expensively furnished apartment they'd set up for her cover during the operation. She knew when she went back there she'd spend the rest of the night sitting by one of the arched windows and staring down at the empty streets of Atlanta, alone with the if-onlys.

If only I hadn't left him alone
.

If only he'd stayed in Chicago
.

If only I'd realized how desperate he was
.

If only he hadn't written that note
.

“You're not from around here, are you?” Tired of being ignored, Dave brushed shoulders with her and flagged the busy bartender, engulfing her in a cloud of his pungent aftershave.

“No.” She faced him, tacking ten more years to his age for using Old Spice and the Jurassic-era pickup line. The broken capillaries around his nostrils and eyes indicated his long-term fondness for rum-and-Cokes, but Chris noted the high color and damp condition of his skin. She also caught a faint, acrid scent that his aftershave didn't quite mask.

Not an antiquities smuggler or an international art thief, but borderline plastered and hitting the meds daily
.

“Me either.” Dave smiled, showing off expensive porcelain caps framed by food fragments. From the appearance of the detritus, he'd snacked heavily on nacho chips and salsa. “I've got an executive suite all to myself one floor down. So what do you say? Want to join me for”—his eyebrows went up and down precisely three times—“a private drink?”

The cagey eyebrow action decided Chris's next move.

“Not tonight, thank you. Excuse me.” Before he could protest, she slid off the bar stool and went around him.

Dave turned and peered after Chris as she made a tactful retreat to a deserted, dark corner. As soon as she sat down she saw him take a step in her direction, as if to join her again and press the issue.

Don't make me throw you to the ground and read you your rights
.

Fortunately a sultry brunette in a turquoise blue dress chose that moment to occupy Chris's abandoned bar stool. Dave stopped in midstalk, and once he inspected the brunette's neckline and how it showcased her generous breasts, his expression changed to that of a lover scorned to one who'd just been clubbed over the head by a Playboy Bunny.

Red hair might have its privileges,
Chris thought,
but killer cleavage grinds it into the dirt every time
.

“It'll never work,” a man's mellow voice said on her left.

Not another one
.

She turned her head and for the first time saw the outlines of a tall, lean form sitting in a deeper well of shadows.
Male, dark business suit, British accent—
that was all she could put together on him.

There was no one else sitting in the immediate area around them, so she assumed he had spoken to her. “I'm sorry; what did you say?”

“This stratagem of yours.” He sat forward. Soft light from an overhead spot gilded the straight black hair brushing his shoulders, but only skimmed down the imperial line of his nose to jump to the rim of his wineglass. “It won't work.”

Stratagem
. Chris couldn't remember ever hearing another person actually use that word in conversation. “I don't know what you mean.”

“Using that large, friendly fellow at the bar as an excuse to change seats was utter genius,” the stranger told her. “Anyone would think that you moved here simply to escape him.”