Trust No One (35 page)

“Notice I have the syringe in his neck,” Tasha said. “It’s loaded with sodium pentothal. Enough to send him to dream land permanently.”

The gunman, she thought of him as wannabe rock star shirt, glanced over to verify what Tasha said. He slightly lowered his gun, maybe even unconsciously, but it was enough to let MJ know at the moment Tasha was doing pretty good at evening the odds.

MJ didn’t mind having Tasha, who had proved as resourceful as ever, but easier to work with than MJ would have imagined, as a partner.

“I thought you had sex with your other victims,” the senator complained.

His words caught MJ’s attention. There’d still been nothing on the news about senator murders. So how would he know unless Tasha was right?

“Really? I heard they died of heart attacks. Strange considering none of them had a heart,” Tasha said.

“You two are the kids?” the senator continued.

Again, the old guy knew too much and reality intruded that Tasha’s theories and motivations were way too feasible.

And understandable.

“Why don’t you tell her about our parents?” Tasha prompted.

From her angle, MJ could just see them out of the corner of her eye.

The old guy didn’t give an inch. “Unfortunate accident, the way I heard.”

Tasha twisted the needle. “Try again.”

“Watch it, bitch,” the senator snarled and grabbed at the needle.

Tasha twisted again. “Sit still or I’ll pump you full of this shit, and she’ll just have to believe me.”

The carpet muffled the sound as the bodyguard shifted his feet, perhaps preparing to leap to the senator’s rescue. MJ took a deliberate step to her right. With his attention back on her, she redirected him with her pistol making sure he couldn’t miss her message she was still alert and willing to shoot.

“You won’t get away with it this time,” Senator James said, his voice coming out weaker, the strain and adrenaline pumping obviously having a negative effect.

“Maybe not, but you’ll still be dead,” Tasha reminded him.

“But then you’ll never find out.”

Something in his voice gave MJ pause. She wasn’t able to scan the room but she sent out the rest of her senses. She smelled minty rub, but couldn’t distinguish the scent enough to tell if it was the kind for colds or sore muscles; she tasted the woodsy scent of the gunman’s cologne, the humidifier made a soft swooshing sound, all registering normal to her senses, and yet there was something. . . .

“Ouch. What are you doing?” the senator squeaked.

“Warned you,” Tasha said, her voice cold and calm. “I think a little truth serum will help your memory. Now here’s a history lesson. Reagan. Cold war. Arms deals?”

Arms deals? Tasha was serious? MJ had only read something about arms build ups, a game of chicken with Gorbachev, no more than she’d learned in school. She couldn’t grasp how Tasha got arms deals out of Ed’s notes.

“Reagan’s policies were sheer lunacy. He was going to destroy the nation.”

Then again, maybe she hadn’t really been paying attention to what she’d been reading.

“Oh, come now. Tell the real reason. It’s not the policy. If Reagan’s plan worked, it would bring an end to the cold war. The nuclear build up would stop, and that would mess up those little arms deals you had going with the Russians.”

What? A pain so hard slugged through MJ’s chest she had to fight not to gasp. A man held a gun on her. Show no weakness. She took shallow breaths and struggled to hold onto rational thought.
             

This was about money? Her brain revved faster than a souped-up engine. Idealism, objecting to policy was at least in part understandable, though perhaps not as far as a planned assassination. But to object, to plot murder for nothing more than pure-and-simple greed? And for that reason alone, her parents were dead? Her life changed by the decisions of evil, avaricious men?

She nearly stumbled from the weight of it.

“Nothing more than money?” Tasha seemed to know MJ’s thoughts.

“Money. The root of all good,” the senator chuckled, obviously warming to his subject.

“I think your saying is skewed,” Tasha said.

At last MJ found enough air to form words. “People. Died. To make you money.” Her parents. Tasha and Niko’s parents. Who else?

The old man had the nerve to laugh out loud. “What a ninny,” he said between cackles. “People die all the time. Money’s as good of a reason as any.”

MJ had an overwhelming need to whirl and use her gun to blow away the disgusting old man. She fought the rage-driven urge boiling through her. Understood better Tasha’s quest for revenge.

“One more question then we’ll be on our way,” Tasha said as pleasantly as if she were on a social call, her acting skills coming in handy again.

The senator kept on laughing. “Not going to kill me, too?”

“It’d be a waste of my time, honey. I read your chart. You’re on the way to dead anyway.”

“So they tell me. Ain’t dead yet, though.”

“Who told you about us?” Tasha continued.

Instead of hearing an answer, several things happened at once. MJ, unable to see beyond her peripheral vision, heard Tasha mumble “shit.” Wannabe rock star gunman across from her took a more aggressive stance, and even without a clear sight of vision, MJ knew the momentum had changed. Somehow another factor had been introduced.

The thought flashed through her mind to shoot the man in front of her, but the adoption loomed over her head. If she killed the wannabe, in a prominent and wealthy ex-senator’s house, it would be hard to cover up. There was probably a tape of them driving up to the house. Disguise or not, it wasn’t a risk she wanted to take.

All these things flitted through her mind in a nanosecond.

In that short amount of time, Tasha sounded as if she was getting the bad end of whatever had happened.

MJ lowered the barrel of her P220 and pulled the trigger. Wannabe rock star dude jumped. Score one for her. She’d shot between his legs, deliberately missing to give her an element of surprise. At the split second his attention was off her, she kicked his gun out of his hand. Instead of retreating, he countered by landing a kick in her solar plexus before she could aim again. She went flying backward, her breath trapped painfully in her lungs. Her shot landed somewhere in the ceiling. She expected to hear someone at the door soon, who could ignore a gun shot?

When she could catch her breath again, she caught a glimpse of a second man lying on his belly, his hands firmly gripping Tasha’s ankle. He must’ve crawled out from under the bed. At that moment he jerked, and Tasha fell. Her head collided with the nightstand before she landed on the floor, unconscious.

The senator pulled the needle from his neck before clutching his chest.

MJ lay on her back, stunned, breathless, but recovering fast. She brought her weapon around, but rock star shirt man had recovered his.

Stand off again.

He growled a warning. “I don’t have orders to kill you yet, but I won’t miss when I shoot.” He aimed at her leg. “Hard to walk with a broken leg.” Hesitation cost her, and he knew it, if not the reason.

Operatives with a family couldn’t do this job.

Reluctant to give up her weapon, MJ stole a look at Tasha, who had regained consciousness and was slowly pushing herself upright. She struggled as far as her knees and stopped, seeming unable to make it to her feet yet.

The man under the bed scrambled out to contain her, scooping a knife off the floor. Tasha’s back-up ankle knife.

At the moment the woman wasn’t putting up much of fight, obviously still not fully conscious. Bed man sprang to action, pulled at her hair, got a hand full of wig.

“Fuck. Gross.” He tossed it aside, this time getting hold of Tasha’s real hair twisted in a bun, jerking her head up and angling it back so he could hold her knife at her throat.

MJ entertained the thought of shooting the guy; she could fire a round without hitting Tasha, but the man standing above her reminded her of his presence.

“Don’t do it.”

She gave him her full attention. His nod indicated she should drop her gun. With the hope there would be a chance to fight again later, and a brief sorrowful thought of Angel, MJ moved her grip to the barrel and reluctantly lowered her gun to the carpet.

“Stand up and back away,” he ordered, not attempting to get her weapon until she was out of range where she could kick him.

“I’ve got them covered, Mac,” wannabe rock star said once he had MJ’s gun in his hand.

The under the bed guy, called Mac, who eerily resembled a short squat dark-haired Mack truck in build and features, pulled Tasha to her feet.              

“Bitch poisoned me,” the senator gasped, reminding them he was still there. With one hand holding onto Tasha, Mac tucked the knife into his jacket pocket and took the syringe. It was empty.

“What do we do?” he demanded from Tasha.

Tasha shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m not a nurse.”

With the syringe in his hand, Mac backhanded Tasha barely missing impaling her eye with the needle.

Holding herself in check, MJ mentally filed the red spot blooming on Tasha’s cheek as something to be taken care of later. If they got out of this . . . . The mental picture of Angelina reaching up with her pudgy fingers caused MJ’s fighting spirit to be renewed. She would get out of this, both of them would. Alive.

Mac turned to his partner. “Joe?”

Joe, aka rockstar shirt man, answered, “I’ll call for help.”

Terrific. Med techs, then cops, would soon swarm the place.

“Call for his caretaker. She’ll probably be faster than 911,” MJ said, hoping to find some way out of there before officials arrived. Come to think of it, had someone heard the gunshots and already called the cops?

“I’m not calling 911.”

Relief warred with shock. What sort of body guards wouldn’t call for help?

“Frisk them and tie them up while I make the calls.”

“Already got her knife,” Mac said. “Let’s see what else you got.” He eased his hands across Tasha’s breasts, taking ample time with her curves. Probably spent more time with Tasha than he ever spent on foreplay, MJ thought.

He found a gun in Tasha’s back holster, stuffed it into his pocket with the knife. Like a magician with a rabbit, he produced a pair of old-fashioned hand cuffs from somewhere behind him. Likely his back pocket. He pulled Tasha’s hands behind her. Tasha seemed inordinately quiet; a green tinge lit her face. That must’ve been one hard blow on her head.

Joe, even while on the phone, hadn’t lowered his gun or lost his watchfulness. After he apprised whoever was on the other end of the situation, Joe mostly said “okay,” and “yeah, okay,” listening intently to instructions, while keeping his focus on the women.

The senator slumped in the wheelchair. Dead? No one seemed overly alarmed. What sort of hired bodyguards were these men? Obviously the senator hadn’t done the hiring. Someone else was orchestrating the moves.

It was her turn to be searched. She gritted her teeth while Mac’s tire-sized hands rubbed over her body. At least she didn’t have as many curves to tempt his hands to linger.

In the pocket of her nurse’s jacket were papers with the phony instructions on it for the senator. Mac pulled them out and laid them on the dresser beside her. The shiny silver paper clip holding the sheets together caught her eye. Just as with Tasha, after he’d found her knife and extra gun, he pulled her hands behind her and cuffed them with another set of handcuffs Joe had tossed to him. Thank goodness it wasn’t a cable tie cuff.

“What are we supposed to do?” Mac asked when Joe disconnected his call.

Joe moved to the senator, searched for a pulse. “He’s dead, or will be soon. Put him in bed, it’ll look like he’s sleeping.”

Had the idea of getting help for the old guy been changed in favor of...what? Letting him die? The thought didn’t really bother her. Training reinforced bad guys deserved to die. Even though sometimes it was hard to tell the good guys from the bad, at least this time the distinction was clear. The senator and his buddies were on the “definitely deserve to die” list.

While her parents had been on the other list, the “do not deserve to die list”, and yet they’d been killed anyway thanks to this slimebucket and his cronies. MJ remembered the funeral. Her parents looked so unnatural in their caskets, almost like those wax statues she’d seen on vacation once. So still in death, so unreal. . . and so unfair to take her family and leave her all alone.

“Old fart’s heavier than he looks,” Mac complained.

MJ stuffed her bad memories back into the closet of her mind, the one with the “danger, too much baggage” sign on the door. She opened the door to her working brain and with Mac and Joe’s attention turned to the senator, MJ palmed the paperclip off the papers Mac laid on the dresser. She had the feeling that whatever was planned for her and Tasha wasn’t good. And she wanted a way to get out of these cuffs when the time was right. Fortunately since they were the old-fashioned metal kind of cuffs, the paperclip would work.

“What next?” Mac asked.