Angel of Death

by S. Massery

  I go back to my dead theory. But also— “What?”

  He chuckles, slamming the door closed. His words ring a bell. A distant bell, like a memory scrubbed raw, until all that remains is a faded imprint.

  Head in the game.

  Why does that sound so familiar?

  Head in the game. Head in—

  “Oh fuck.”

  24

  GRIFFIN

  We exchanged numbers. When I needed to fly to Russia, I called Smith Jenkins. One flight turned into a half dozen, which turned into twenty over the course of six months. He moved his family to Paris and was always available when I called. In the two years we worked together, he never didn’t answer.

  Until he took Hadley.

  I never saw where he lived. I never even fucking asked. The possibilities of where Smith took Hadley are nearly endless. And then my phone rings.

  I hold it up, showing them Smith’s name scrolling across the top, and my team circles me. Delia watches from her seat on the kitchen counter, but the wince that flashes across her face must mean my fear is showing.

  “Answer it,” Mason says.

  I hit the green button. “Smith.”

  I’m not sure if we’re going to be acting. If he’ll pretend to be innocent in this.

  “Griffin?” Hadley’s voice comes through, and I sink into a chair. I hate that this isn’t a private conversation.

  “Are you okay?”

  “You—”

  “Tell him,” Smith says in the background.

  “If you want me, you have to come get me.” Her voice is wooden, like she’s reading a script. Hell, she probably is. “We’re where Santos’ son lived and died. His… his wife is here.”

  “Dead,” Smith says.

  “Dead,” Hadley repeats. “I haven’t seen her. There’s a lot of security—”

  She yelps.

  The line disconnects, and I toss the phone onto the table. “Fuck.”

  “He didn’t want her to say that last part,” Dalton says. “‘There’s a lot of security’ is an odd thing to include.”

  Mason hums. “I wonder what sort of security would catch her attention.”

  I shrug.

  Delia hops to her feet. “Obvious stuff. Locks on the doors? An alarm system? Cameras?”

  “He practically invited us in.” I stand and pace. “I think I know where they are. I kept records of where I went, the clients… it was coded.” I go to my bedroom, the safe in the closet, and spin the dial. There are dozens of notebooks on the top shelf, and I grab them all.

  They all watch as I come back into the living room and drop the notebooks onto the table.

  “Look for… two years ago. I think. I would’ve called him Argo, since that’s the name I had.”

  We all flip through the notebooks. Each page is covered in my tight handwriting. I used initials when I had them, or monikers when I didn’t. Dates. Details of what happened written in shorthand.

  “Here,” Delia says, pointing to a page. “This man died because of the bad blood he received?”

  I stare at her. “You can read my code?”

  She shrugs, and Jackson laughs.

  “Writing in code is probably her best-kept secret,” Jackson says. “Word scrambles and stuff.”

  I laugh, too, and take the notebook from her. “Yep. And here’s his address.”

  “So…” Jackson’s smile turns sly. “You up for being bait?”

  Great. “If it’ll save Hadley? Absolutely.”

  We pack up our bags and pile back into the car. Mason shows us a street view of the neighborhood.

  Dalton points to a taller building almost three blocks away. “What’s in there?”

  “Offices,” Mason says. “Should be empty on a Sunday, though.”

  Dalton nods. “Drop me off there. I’ll see what the vantage is like. Might have to adjust a bit, though.”

  “Take Mason with you,” Jackson says. “Zach, Reece, and I will cover the other exits in case he tries to make a run for it. And Griffin…”

  I raise my eyebrow.

  “You’re going to ring the front doorbell.”

  “That’s your plan?” I ask. “Ring the doorbell?”

  He shrugs. “You’ll have the camera on you. We need to see just what kind of security Hadley was talking about. Hell, the whole place could be booby trapped, or there could just be an alarm company sticker in the window. She wasn’t very specific.”

  “She didn’t really have much time,” I say in a low voice. “The fact that she warned us at all—”

  Delia grabs my arm. “Hey. He wasn’t saying anything bad about her. But we can’t read too much into her words when they were a little vague.” She reaches into the front seat and punches Jackson’s shoulder. “And you left me out. What am I supposed to do?”

  Jackson sighs. “You should stay in the car.”

  She snorts. “Try again.”

  “Okay, fine. You can cover the street.”

  She purses her lips and leans back, crossing her arms over her chest. It isn’t what she wanted, but she probably expected to be right along with the guys, busting into the house.

  I glance at her stomach, and she elbows me.

  “Don’t.”

  “You two are lucky.” I swallow. “Love. A kid on the way…”

  “You’ll get that,” she promises. “We’ll get Hadley back and you can beg for forgiveness. Although, I have to say, my liking her depends on how much she makes you beg.”

  “What does that mean?”

  She smirks. “You better be on your knees kissing her feet before she forgives you.”

  I groan.

  “We’re close,” Mason says.

  Jackson slows the car to a stop, and Zach and Reece pull their car over behind us.

  “There’s your building, D.”

  Dalton pats my back, then shoves the door open and hops out. He grabs his rifle, packed in a huge black bag, from the trunk. Slinging it over his shoulder, he gives us a salute and jogs down the street.

  We park on a side street. He’s had Hadley for a full twenty-four hours, and the sun is lowering. It’ll be dark soon—which will make Dalton’s job more difficult. Jackson puts his hand on my shoulder.

  “Just stay calm,” he says. “We don’t know what he wants with you. He had plenty of opportunities to kill you.”

  “Right.”

  “Don’t be inflammatory,” he warns. “Don’t attack Smith’s character. Just say what you need to say to get Hadley and yourself out of the house.”

  “Got it.”

  “We’ll be in your ear.”

  I glance at him and take a deep breath. There’s a gun in my ankle holster and another at my hip. There are not enough bullets in the world to do the kind of damage Smith deserves. I step out into the middle of the street—the roads are abandoned, eerily enough—and walk toward the house.

  Déjà vu washes over me. Last time I walked up to this house, I was eager. Full of fire. Now, it’s trepidation. Worry. As I get to the front door, it swings open. There’s no one there, so I pause. I look over my shoulder, back toward the street.

  This house is grand. The red hardwood floors have been buffed until they shine. A spiral staircase is at the end of the hallway. As soon as I cross the threshold, the door slams closed behind me.

  I pull the gun, spinning around, but I’m still alone.

  An echoing laugh floats toward me. “Come and get her, Angel of Death.”

  “What’s happening?” Jackson asks in my ear.

  I take another step, and the radio bursts with static.

  “Griff—” It cuts out, and an awful noise replaces his voice.

  I shake my head, yanking the earbud out. The training takes over. I clear each room. Every door on the first floor is wide open, but there are little black boxes by the doorknobs. They look like scanners.

  High tech.

  That’s probably the security Hadley was referring to. In which case, it woul
d be vital to not get locked in a room.

  I make it to the stairs and climb them slowly. All of the doors are locked except for one. A used bedroom: rumpled white sheets, a pillow with a head indentation. The window is sealed and boarded over.

  “Griffin?”

  I spin around, but she isn’t there. Her voice comes out of a speaker above my head.

  “Basement,” she whispers, and it bounces around me.

  I’m seriously starting to hate Smith.

  I rattle the handles of the rest of the doors, and one swings open under my hand. There’s a long, steep stairwell. I go down slowly, not even flinching when the door creaks closed behind me. Fucking house of horrors.

  The basement is dimly lit. It’s hot and dry, and it looks like it was built to be a bomb shelter. Steel reinforces the wood. The windows are covered by metal slats that could probably be slid open to allow light in. And there, in the corner, is Hadley. She’s blindfolded, her hands tied in front of her. The rope laces her arms together all the way up to her elbows.

  Smith stands right behind her, a knife to her throat.

  “You’ve been in this predicament before,” he says, and she flinches. “It didn’t end so well for the guy holding the knife.”

  “Why are you doing this?” I ask.

  “Griff—”

  Smith grabs her by the hair, yanking her up. He tilts her head sideways. The light glints off the knife, and she presses her lips together. “What did I say about talking, dear Hadley?”

  “Smith,” I snap.

  He meets my gaze, a small smile on his face.

  “You said it yourself. This doesn’t end so well for the guy holding the knife.”

  Smith is just a little taller than Hadley, and she completely shields him. I think he knows that this time is different. He’s practically untouchable. “You asked why I’m doing this? Answer me this, first: Did you find Il Fantasma?”

  I squint at him, edging closer. “I did.”

  “And?”

  I can see one of his eyes staring at me, level with Hadley’s temple, and the fingers that wrap around the hilt of the knife. That’s it.

  “He’s dead,” I say.

  Hadley whimpers.

  “Attaboy,” Smith says. “I’m going to let you in on a secret: I was hoping you would kill him. You’ve been slipping ever since you saw Hadley in the city. Buying a place in Paris? Putting down roots? There were rumors starting that the Angel of Death was thinking about retirement.”

  I shake my head. But then I realize: he’s right. I bought the flat in Paris after I saw Hadley. I took fewer jobs. The traveling lessened. I wanted to be good for Hadley—good enough to go back and bring her home.

  Home. Paris. It’s where we always dreamed of going.

  And now it’s our own personal hell.

  “Do you have something against that?” I ask in a low voice.

  Smith laughs. Evil bastard.

  “You do so much good for the world!” he yells. “You take bad men off the streets. And you just want to quit?”

  “That isn’t your choice, Smith.”

  He continues like he didn’t hear me. “I have a solution,” he mutters. His other hand comes up to Hadley’s neck, showing me a syringe.

  “Smith, no.”

  Fear pulses through me.

  “Let’s bring your demons back out, Angel. Let’s bury Griffin Anders forever. It’s easy. I’ll show you how.”

  He bites the cap off the syringe and plunges the needle into Hadley’s neck.

  I yell at the same time she screams. Smith lets go of Hadley, shoving her toward me and backing away quickly. I fire two shots at him before I spring forward and catch her. I pull her to the center of the room, glancing around for Smith.

  He’s gone.

  “No, no, no,” I chant.

  I pull the blindfold off her, and she blinks up at me. Her eyes are wide, mirroring mine.

  “You stay with me,” I order. “Do not close your eyes.”

  I pick her up and sprint for the stairs. There are two sets: one that I came down and another from the first floor that I somehow missed. The door to the first floor falls open under my shoulder, and I burst into the main hallway just as the front door explodes inward.

  Zach lunges in, his gun up, and I skid to a stop.

  “Don’t you dare fucking shoot me, Laurent!”

  He lowers his weapon. Hadley’s eyes roll back.

  “What happened? You went dark!”

  “He injected her with something. I—”

  She convulses, and my heart stops working.

  “He was in the basement. Go!”

  I sprint outside, clutching her to my chest, and almost crash straight into Delia.

  “What happened?”

  “He injected her with something—poison—” I’m losing it. “I don’t know. I don’t know.”

  She turns and runs, and I follow her as Hadley continues to tremble in my arms. We get to the car, and Delia slides into the driver’s seat. I pull Hadley into the backseat with me. Delia guns the car down the street.

  I brush Hadley’s hair off her face, checking her pulse. It’s slow. Painfully slow. She makes a coughing, choking sound.

  “Earbud,” Delia says to me.

  I fumble for it, putting it back in my ear. Everyone’s talking at once.

  “What happened—?”

  “Griffin—”

  “Where’s Zach—?”

  “Hadley—”

  “I’m here,” I say, and the line quiets. “Smith injected Hadley with something. I don’t have any—” My throat closes. “I can’t do anything about poison,” I finish.

  “Hospital?”

  “En route,” Delia snaps. She skids the car around a corner.

  “Any sign of Smith?”

  “He’s gone,” Zach says. “The basement was empty. So was the rest of the house.”

  “You got a knife?” I ask Delia.

  She pulls one out and hands it back to me, and I slice through the ropes on Hadley’s arms.

  Tremors still run through her body.

  “I’m going to kill Smith,” I vow.

  “You get Hadley help,” Jackson says, “and we’ll get Smith for you.”

  “We’re here,” Delia says. She parks right in front of the emergency entrance.

  I scramble from the car, carrying Hadley, and rush inside. They take her immediately. I lower her onto a stretcher, and they wheel her away. One of the nurses stops me at the door, and I struggle to move past him until he pushes me against a wall.

  “Stop,” he says in broken English. “That will do no good here.”

  Delia comes in and grabs my hand. “They got her,” she whispers. “Let’s just…”

  I move to one of the chairs in the waiting room and drop into it. I don’t have privileges in this hospital like I do in some.

  “What if she dies?” I ask Delia. “What if—?”

  She squeezes my hand.

  Eventually, the guys join us. Zach is the first one in, pulling me to my feet and hugging me. Jackson is next, then Mason. Even Reece shakes my hand. I turn to Dalton, who seems just as torn up about this as I am, and he nods. Delia leans into Jackson, and the rest fan out around us.

  “We didn’t get him,” Mason says. “He vanished like a damn ghost. Smith Jenkins isn’t even his real name.”

  I shake my head. “And I’m betting we don’t have any pictures of him either.”

  He leans forward, his elbows on his thighs. “I can check back on airport hangar surveillance tapes, but I don’t think much will turn up.”

  We lapse into silence.

  Eventually, a doctor comes out and stops in front of us. “You’re Haley’s family?”

  I jump up, ignoring the weird looks from the guys about her name. I had given a nurse the fake name on the passport. “Yes.”

  She nods. “You got her to us in time. She was injected with a toxin that constricts the muscles, which explains the conv
ulsions you mentioned. It kills by asphyxiation. We were able to give her the antidote and intubate her. She’s currently sedated while the toxin is flushed out, but she should make a full recovery.”

  Relief.

  Earth-shattering relief.

  “When can I see her?”

  The doctor smiles. “I can bring you back now, Mr. Williams. I’m sure your wife will be glad to have some company. Although, as I mentioned, she is still sedated.”

  Delia whispers, “Williams?”

  I glance at her and wink. “Thank Shade for that one.”

  I follow the doctor down a hallway, and she pauses next to a doorway.

  “She’s in here,” she says.

  I step inside, and I half expect Hadley to be gone. But she’s there, her hair spread around her head. My heart beats faster. I almost lost her. Again.

  Dragging the chair closer, I sit and press my forehead to her hand. “I’m never leaving again,” I promise. “I’ll never be that stupid. Because I’m pretty sure I fucking love you, Hadley. And that excites me more than it terrifies me—for once in my life.”

  25

  HADLEY

  I wake up with a start, immediately thrashing. Smith’s hands on me is the last thing I remember, and I need them off. A beeping noise picks up speed in the background.

  “Hey, hey,” someone whispers. Arms band around me, locking down my flailing body, and lips press against my temple. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

  A light flickers on over our heads, and I stare at Griffin. He lies next to me, stretched out on the narrow, uncomfortable cot.

  I stop moving, and he lifts himself up on his elbow. “Hadley?”

  “You—” I swallow. “What happened?” My gaze darts around the room, and terror wracks through me. “Where am I?”

  “I had to bring you to a hospital,” he says softly. His fingers lift a piece of my hair and twist it. “Smith injected you with poison. I couldn’t—”

  “Poison is tricky business,” I say. “I remember you saying that.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did you get him?”

  He’s stretched out on the bed beside me. When I move my hand, I feel the familiar pull of an IV attached to the back of my hand. An ache starts up in my chest.