Angel's Pain (12 page)

“We might know something even before we get there. It'll be sundown by the time we get to Oklahoma City.”

“That's true.”

It
was
true. And it was just after dark by the time they found a diner and settled in to await contact from the others. They were still pacing and worrying when Roxy's phone rang, and as she picked up, she heard Vixen's voice speaking very softly.

“We're completely surrounded,” Vixen said. She sounded as if she were on the verge of tears. “There's no way out.”

T
opaz came awake quickly, just as she always did. She and Jack had taken refuge in an abandoned house about forty miles south of the crime scene in Oklahoma City. It was in the middle of nowhere, and in good enough repair that the locks would keep any ordinary intruders at bay.

She rolled onto her side, and smiled sleepily as Jack stretched his arms over his head, eyes still closed, then snapped one arm around her and hugged her tight. It felt good to be with him this way. Secure. Not doubting. Just knowing.

They made slow, delicious love, relishing the feelings they'd finally admitted having for each other. She hadn't thought life could ever be this good.

She kissed his chin, then eased out of his arms and out of their bed—a well-worn sofa that had been left behind. Feet bare, clad in her tank top and panties, Topaz walked to the front door and unfastened the deadbolt. The thing was so old and rusty, she'd been surprised it still worked. It took a little effort to unlock it. But she did.

“Running out on me already?”

“I just want to see what kind of night it is.”

“Moon's a waning crescent. It's chilly and clear. Almost no wind. And it's dark outside. Now come back to bed.”

She sent him a smile. “Patience, caveman. I'll be there before you know it.” Then she twisted the knob and pulled the door open, taking a half step out into the fresh, cool night before she saw them and froze in place.

Men. Lumberjack-sized men. No. Not men. Her eyes scanned them, realizing they formed a living boundary around the place, even as she jerked back into the house, slammed the door and slid the lock. “I think we're in trouble, Jack.”

Her tone, and the energy behind it, must have been pretty clear to him, because he was beside her almost before she finished the sentence, wearing his boxer-briefs and reaching for the door.

“Don't,” she said. “Don't unlock it.”

He frowned at her, then moved to the window, parted the layers of “curtains” they'd hung and glanced outside. He blinked long and slow, and then looked again.

“Drones.” He said it like a curse word.

“Yeah. And it looks like they've surrounded the place.”

“Hell.” He moved to the other side of the room and took a look from another window, confirming her guess with a nod in her direction.

“Shit, Jack, what are we going to do?”

He met her eyes, then crossed the room to where she stood and folded her into his arms. “We'll think of something.”

“What? Did you see how many are out there? Dozens!”

“Twenty-two,” he said. “I only counted twenty-two.”

“
Only
twenty-two?”

He held her harder and even laughed a little, but she knew it was fake. “Look, we'll just hang tight, see what they have in mind.”

“What they have in mind is tearing us into bite-sized bits, Jack.”

“I don't think so.” He backed up a little, still holding her, but staring down into her eyes. “If they wanted to kill us, they'd be storming the place by now, wouldn't they? Why take up formation out there? Surrounding the place as if…”

“As if they don't want us to be able to leave,” she said slowly. “Jack, what the hell is Gregor up to this time?”

“I don't know.” He pulled out his cell phone. “We have to let the others know the situation, see where things stand with them.”

He flipped his cell phone open, dialed Roxy's number and waited.

 

Baltimore.

It had been a lifetime since Briar had left this city with nothing more than a backpack stuffed as full as she could stuff it and the bruises her stepfather had left on her body. She'd been fifteen, bound for New York, determined to make it on her own.

She hadn't. She would have been dead if Gregor hadn't found her the night he had. She'd been drunk on cheap wine when her latest john had tossed her out of his car after she threw up on him. Hadn't even paid her. Called her a filthy whore and left, his tires spitting gravel as he spun away. That was where Gregor had found her. That was where he had changed her.

That was where he'd told her you couldn't trust anyone but yourself, a lesson she'd already learned the hard way. But she'd been a fool, because she'd begun to trust
him
. And in return, he'd damn near killed her. Would have, if it hadn't been for Reaper and his band of merry men. And women.

She would have vengeance on Gregor. She would.

But the list of men she intended to murder was a long one. And the man whose name was second from the top was still living right here in Baltimore. It was too good an opportunity to pass up. And it would distract her from the storm roiling deep down inside her. The one Reaper stirred up every time he tried to see something good in her. He was so wrong. Maybe this would prove that to him once and for all, and he would see her for who she really was.

Evil. She was evil personified. He'd killed because he couldn't help himself. He'd taken lives because that was what he'd been programmed to do by those who'd gained access to his mind. He regretted the blood on his hands.

She wouldn't. She would relish this.

She rose before he did, went into the bathroom and cranked on the shower taps. Then she closed the bathroom door and crept out of the hotel, into the newborn darkness.

The city was coming to life. She hailed a taxi and gave the man the address of the house where she'd grown up, every nerve tight and tingling as they drove.

And when the taxi stopped outside the house, at the outer edge of the city, she sat there, staring at it for a long moment.

“This the place?” the driver asked.

She shifted her focus from the yard behind the chain-link fence, where she used to play, to the driver, who was frowning into the rearview mirror and reaching up to adjust it, no doubt wondering why the hell he couldn't see her face in the glass.

She opened the door and got out, then leaned back in long enough to hand him a ten-dollar bill. The fare was $8.50. Close enough. Then she turned to stare at the house while the driver pulled away.

So many memories. Dammit.

“Who lives here, Briar?”

She spun around, first startled and then furious. Reaper was standing a few feet away, hands thrust into the pockets of his coat, wind blowing his dark hair.

“This is my business, Reaper. You shouldn't be here.”

“Anger is coming off you in waves.”

“I get that way when people poke around in my business. Or when I'm followed.”

He shook his head slowly. “You were angry before you knew I was here, and too focused on that house to even sense my approach. Who lives here, Briar?” he asked again.

She lifted her brows, tipped her head to one side. “I did. Once.”

“And now?”

She shook her head and started for the door. “Go away, Reaper.”

“I'm not going anywhere.”

“Then you can watch.” She never broke her stride again, just went up to the front door, twisted the knob until the lock snapped and then walked right inside.

A woman Briar had never seen before rose from an easy chair, where she'd been reading a magazine and smoking a cigarette. She was middle-aged, with dirty blond hair, a bad perm that had gone out of style twenty years ago, and worry lines around her eyes and mouth.

“What…who—I thought that door was locked. What is this?”

“I'm looking for Martin Rose. Does he still live here?”

“Well, yes, but—”

“Yeah, he's here. I smell the bastard.” Briar started forward, crossing the living room toward the hallway that led to the den.

The woman sidestepped, blocking her path. “He's asleep.”

Briar stared at the woman. “You might want to be careful, lady. This isn't your business.”

“I'm going to call the police if you don't leave right now,” the woman said, her voice rising with fear.

Before Briar could react, Reaper's hands were on her shoulders, firm, holding her. She wanted to turn around and punch him in the jaw, but instead she drew a calming breath.

“I'm his stepdaughter,” Briar said, her words clipped. “Why don't you just tell him I'm here and see what he says before you call out the National Guard?”

The woman blinked, staring at her. “No one could find you.”

“I didn't want to be found. Who are you, my mother's latest replacement?”

The woman swallowed before speaking, clearly upset, though now she seemed to be fighting to remain calm. “I'm his nurse. One of them, at least. Your father—”

“Step
father.”

“Your stepfather is a very sick man.”

And about to get a lot sicker, Briar thought. “Either tell him I'm here or get out of my way, lady. I'm not going to ask again.”

The woman sent a pleading look beyond her, no doubt silently asking Reaper to control her. As if. Apparently he didn't give any sign that he was going to help her cause, because the blonde sighed and stepped aside.

Briar stared down the hallway at the den's closed door and without looking at the woman said, “It would probably be a good idea for you to get the hell out of here now.”

Nurse Nancy nodded jerkily, and, snatching a jacket from the back of a chair as she passed, she hurried to the door and through it.

Reaper said, “She's going to call the police the second she's a safe distance from us.”

“Yeah, I can read thoughts, too.” She was still staring at the door. “I'm asking you to leave.”

“I'm not going to. You don't want to do this, Briar.”

“No?” She turned to glare at him. “Let me tell you something, Reaper. If you try to stop me, I'll use your trigger word and let you do the job for me.”

The threat stunned him. It was clear in the way he drew back slightly, as if she'd struck him with a fist and knocked him off balance. But she ignored that, along with the look of pain that flashed into his eyes and the wish that she could suck the words back. Too late.

She turned to the den door, twisted the knob and flung it open, stepping into the room in one long stride.

But it wasn't a den anymore. It was a bedroom, identical in every way to a hospital room, except that it was located in a house. There was an IV pump standing to one side of the standard-issue hospital bed, with three bags hanging from the hooks above it, dripping steadily into tubes that wound and merged and joined one larger tube that was stuck into Martin's arm.

That was the first thing she noticed about him. His arm. It was white, whiter than her own, and the skin was like paper. Between skin and bone, there wasn't much else. And as her gaze moved higher, she saw that the upper arm was just as thin as the forearm, before it disappeared beneath the short sleeve of a hospital gown. A blanket covered him from the chest down, his arms resting atop it.

It took her a while to force her gaze upward, to his neck, where the skin hung loose, as if the man beneath had vanished when it wasn't looking. Then, finally, she looked at his face. Sunken. Hollow. Gray. He didn't seem to be breathing. But after a moment he sucked in one long, stuttering gasp. Then nothing again.

“Good thing you got here when you did,” Reaper said. “He'll be dead in a day or two, if not by morning.”

She couldn't move, couldn't reply. There was a tremor working through her from somewhere down deep, making its way slowly to the surface. Her hands began to shake, her stomach, to clench.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” Reaper asked. “Do it. Kill him.”

She closed her eyes, blocking out the view of the monster who'd haunted her dreams for the past seven years.

“You'll probably want to wake him up first,” Reaper went on. “Though I don't know if that's even possible. So just do it. Do you want to strangle him, or just bash his head in with something heavy?”

“Shut up.”

“Say the word and I'll do it for you. You know the word I mean, right, Briar?”

“Shut the fuck up!”

He shut up. She opened her eyes again, all the useless rage pooling inside her turning into something else, something heavy and dense.

In the distance, a siren sounded.

“We have to get out of here, Briar.” His tone had changed. It was oddly tender now. Soft. His hand went to her shoulder.

She shook it off, knuckled a hot tear from her cheek and stepped closer to the bed. Standing right beside the man who'd taken her virginity at the tender age of eleven, she lifted her hands and bent closer, lowering them. Her left hand closed around his neck. She didn't need the right. One was enough to almost fully encircle it. Grating her teeth against the bile that rose in her throat at the physical contact, she tightened her grip. Do it, she told herself. Choke the life out of the vile bastard. It's long overdue.