Brotherhood in Death (34 page)

God. God. She didn't want to break again.

So she lifted her face. “Show me, will you? Remind me what it's meant to be. How it always should be.”

“You're so tired,” he murmured.

“Be my soother.” She tipped her face up again, touched his lips with hers. “I'll be yours.”

She was his, and the miracle of belonging never failed to bring some light into the dark.

She knew what this physical act could mean when driven by violence, by a quest for power, when it was driven by need, by passion and lust. And she knew, from him, what it meant when driven by love.

That had saved her.

He was gentle with her and she with him, knowing gentleness was needed for both. Long, quiet kisses, like balm on a wound, all comfort to tend battered, bleeding souls.

So the swimming fatigue eased into a kind of dreamy wonder. He would give, she would give, and together they would find solace.

Patient hands on her skin, warming where the cold was buried so deep she'd never have reached it. His lips telling her wordlessly she was loved—she was cherished.

Then the words, those murmurs in Irish, like a soft caress over the unspeakable ache.

She gave them back to him, running her fingers through that silky hair, along those strong shoulders. To touch, just to touch, the miracle in her life.

Held warm and close in the dark, she felt that dreamy wonder begin the gradual lift to dreamy arousal.

She let it go—he knew the moment she did, the instant all the dark thoughts left her. And only the two of them remained in her heart, her mind.

With her wrapped around him, offering, asking, he could let it go. Only her, only this. Only love.

Only love, with her heart beating thickly under his lips, with her long, lean body moving. And her hands, so strong, so sure, gliding over him.

A warrior she was, would always be. But even a warrior needed tending.

He slipped inside her, gently, still gently, filling her as he murmured the words beating in his own heart. They moved slowly, riding long, sweet waves.

When those waves broke, they broke in beauty and a devotion neither had known with another.

“Can you sleep now?”

She let out a long sigh. “I think. But . . . let's just hold on awhile. Okay?”

“We'll hold on, you and I.”

Once again he felt her let go, this time into sleep. He lay quiet for a time, making certain she slept without the dark chasing her. Then he let himself follow her, still holding on.

—

S
he woke in the dark, heart pounding. Someone was screaming, and she feared it was her.

“It's all right. It's all right now.” He gripped her, swearing all the while. “It's just the alarm.”

“It's—what? It's five?”

“No, it's not yet bloody four. It's the alarm I set on the searches. Just give me a moment, let me see what the buggering hell it is.”

“You got a hit. Lights on, twenty percent. You got a hit.”

“Let me bloody see, will you?”

Gone was the tender lover of the night, and in his place was a very annoyed, very tired man. He grabbed the PPC he'd set on the nightstand, scowled at it.

“Get coffee,” he snapped, “for both of us. I'll not deal with this without coffee first. And yes, we've a hit. Let me see it through on this bleeding thing to make certain it's worth being ripped awake.”

She didn't argue. She wanted to, but she wanted coffee more. And it was so rare to see him tired and out of sorts, she'd give him that bloody minute before she pushed.

“There it is, there it is. Oh, she's clever this one, and I'll wager she had some help with it. But there it is.”

“What? Say what or I dump the damn coffee.”

“An address. Give me the shagging coffee.” He grabbed it, downed half the mug, hot and black. “An address, if I'm not mistaken, that is no more than a couple of blocks from Central. I need this coffee and a shower—and not a bloody boiling one. The copter is still outside, and we can be there in minutes.”

“I need to set it up.”

“Do what you need to do. I'm having a shower, cool enough to clear my head.”

“Give me that thing.” She snatched the PPC from him. “Go.”

She read the address—he was right. Close enough to Central that a cop with a decent arm could throw a rock through the window.

She started to tag Peabody, remembered she was naked, blocked video.

“Peabody,” came the muffled, slurred answer.

“We've got an address. Get to Central. I'll be there within fifteen. Tag Baxter. I want him and Trueheart. And Uniform Carmichael. Are you getting this?”

“Yeah. I got it. I got it.”

“Bring McNab if he wants in—and Carmichael needs to tap three more uniforms. Move now, Peabody.”

“I'm up. I'm moving. I'll make the tags.”

Eve clicked off—she'd deal with the rest on the way. But for now, she rushed into the bathroom and, bracing herself, stepped into the shower.

This time the scream she heard was her own. “Oh fucking hell, it's freezing.”

“It's set at ninety degrees, precisely.”

Because he sounded like himself, and amused about it, she gave him a snarl. “Get out, because it's going up to one-oh-one. I'm out in two minutes.”

He left her to it, grabbed a towel, heard her heartfelt groan of relief after she called for jets at 101 degrees.

In just over two minutes, she darted back into the bedroom, dry but still naked, then dived into her closet.

By the time she dived out, dragging on trousers, he was already wearing his own, and a black sweater—and sliding a clutch piece into an ankle holster.

“I don't want to see that weapon unless somebody's pointing one at you.”

She dragged on a black sweater—one she'd grabbed at random rather than by plan—shrugged into her weapon harness. She strapped on a clutch piece as well, pulled on her boots.

“I need blueprints, schematics of the building to set up this op. We need to move fast.”

“I can access those or pilot the copter. Which would you like?”

“Shit. Walk me through how to access—the fast way.” She snagged her coat, tossed him his. “Magic coats, pal. They're going to be armed, and they're not going to be happy.”

To save time, she turned to the elevator.

“How many are you pulling in?” he asked her.

“Peabody, McNab, Baxter, Trueheart, Uniform Carmichael, and three uniforms he picks. I can tap more, but I need to see the building, get a sense of it. We'll get eyes and ears on it—you can help there. I don't want to drag Feeney in.”

“He'd want you to, and be right pissed you didn't.”

“Crap.” She pulled out her comm as she ran out the front door. Not the 'link—the comm, more official. If Feeney slept through the signal, that wasn't her fault.

She made it fast, left the voice communication, ended it as she strapped into the godforsaken jet copter.

“This time of day we could almost drive there this fast.”

“It's here, it's ready.”

He lifted off at a speed that had her stomach remaining at ground level and whimpering. But she set her teeth, and contacted a duty officer to inform him she was coming in by air, and by civilian. Her comm beeped an incoming before she was done.

Feeney left his own message.

On my way.

“How do I access the blueprints?”

As he soared over buildings, Roarke gave her step-by-step directions in the simplest terms he could manage.

“That doesn't sound exactly legal.”

“It's a gray area.”

She grunted, followed the steps until she was looking at the floor plan of a two-story building, with full basement.

“That's where they have him,” she muttered, and began to study the egress, the access, and working out the bones of her op.

He landed with some bumps on the helipad, and she jumped out into the cold, angry wind. She badged them both inside, jumped on the elevator.

“Doors front, rear, side. Corner building. Prime real estate. There's a basement, and my money says that's where they've got the torture room set up. No access to the basement from the outside, so we have to go in from above.”

“They'll hear you coming.”

“Maybe, but if I had a torture room— I don't, do I?”

“No. Perhaps Charmaine can design one.”

“Har har. If I had a torture room, it would be fully soundproofed.” She jumped off on her level. “I'm going to confiscate a conference room. You want to be a hero?”

“Yours, darling? Every day.”

“Ha. Help me transfer the board from my office. And program a vat of real coffee. I need to get the blueprints, the schematics up on screen so I can really see them. Peabody should be here pretty quick, but not quick enough.”

“Doesn't your conference room have a swipe board?”

“I hate those things.” She hissed out a breath. “But okay, faster.”

“Ah, technology.” This time he did pat her ass. “You program the vat of coffee, and I'll transfer your data. You can set it up how you please after. What room?”

She shoved open a door, saw it empty. “This one.”

In her office, she hit the AutoChef while Roarke sat down at her desk. Since she didn't actually have a vat, she calculated, then programmed three large pots. It should get them going.

“Swipe board or not,” she muttered, stuffing Yancy's sketches in a file.

“I'm going to start setting up. Maybe you could bring the rest of the coffee.” She strode out without waiting for his answer.

In the conference room, she scowled at the computer. “Activate swipe board.”

You are not registered for this room and this equipment at this time.

“Bite me. Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. Register it, goddamn it.”

The use of profanity is not—

“I'll beat you to death with a hammer, then stomp what's left into dust. I'll torch the dust. Register this room and this equipment at this fucking time to Dallas, Lieutenant Eve.” She slapped her badge on its pad. “Scan it. Do it. Or I swear, you'll be in the recycler in two minutes flat.”

Identification scanned and verified. This room and this equipment is registered to Dallas, Lieutenant Eve.

“Damn right. Activate the motherfucking swipe board.”

Board is now activated. Profanity is against regulations, and must be reported.

“This time you can blow me. And bring up all data currently transferred from my office comp.”

Images flickered on. Ignoring the drone of the comp informing her of the regulations, and her violations, she began to arrange them in the way she needed.

“Activate wall screen.” She frowned at her PPC, at the comp, at the screen, and started the sticky—for her—transfer when Roarke came in with two large pots. “Save this comp's motherboard and transfer the blueprints to the wall screen. I'll get you coffee.”

She'd barely picked up the pot when it was done—so she shoved the pot at him.

“I have to see this.”

He poured for both of them while she stepped closer to the screen, shoved her hands into the coat she'd yet to take off, and fell silent.

Like a general, he thought, studying the battlefield. He said nothing, just handed her a mug of coffee, until she finally nodded.

“Okay,” she said, turning just as she heard the clomp of Peabody's boots, the prance of McNab's.

They both looked a little hollow-eyed, Eve noticed, but sniffed the air like hounds on the hunt.

“Is that the smell of real coffee?” Peabody asked.

“Grab some. This is the building. It's two blocks from here.”

“Son of a bitch.” McNab angled his head, currently covered in yet another watch cap of green and blue stripes. “How'd you nail her?”

“Utility bills,” Roarke said. “The property itself? Ownership's buried behind two interlocking shells, and under that, it turns out, is deeded to Grace Blake's great-grandmother—and they used the woman's maiden name. And the deed is in trust, as the woman herself is deceased. And the trust—”

“Get into that later,” Eve ordered.

“Well, it's a clever ruse and worth the time, but for now, it was the payments for the heat and so on. Still not in her name, or I'd have found it sooner, but again, the great-grandmother—one Elizabeth Haversham—nee Pawter—and the utilities came to an account under Beth Pawter, so it took some doing to link it up.”

He glanced at Eve, who was again studying the screen. “She has an
account in that name, if you've an interest, with a brokerage firm in Iowa, where Elizabeth Pawter Haversham lived. It's well funded, that account, even with the cost of the building and its expenses coming out of it. Until a year ago, the dead Mrs. Pawter rented that building for a nice, steady income.”

“Because she started to plan how she wanted to use it,” Eve said, still studying the screen. “She met at least one of the others, found their mutual history, and it began.”

Uniform Carmichael arrived next, with three others. Baxter and Trueheart followed.

While they made short work of the coffee, Feeney walked in.

“There better be some of that left.” He stole the mug McNab had just poured in case there wasn't. “That the target?”

“That's the target, and here's how we're going to take it.”

It would work, Eve thought as she went over the timing, the contingencies. And by hitting the target before first light, they'd take the women by surprise—and likely unprepared.

She frowned as she noticed Roarke step out while she went over positioning with Baxter and Trueheart. When she glanced back, he walked in carrying a stack of bakery boxes.

Every cop in the room caught the scent of yeast and sugar.

She should've known.

“Donuts may be a cliché, but they do the job, don't they?” Roarke set the boxes on the conference table. “And so will all of you.”

He shot Eve a quick grin as hands darted and grabbed for jelly-filled or crullers, bear claws or honey-glazed.

“Stuff them in, and suit up. Feeney, the donut king's with you. Peabody, Baxter, Trueheart, with me. Uniform Carmichael, take your men to the pre-op location. We go in quiet.”