by Lisa Jackson
“How did you get this information?” Remmi asked.
Neither Noah nor Emma responded, but the answer was self-evident: hacking.
“I want to meet them,” Remmi said, remembering the last time she’d seen her siblings. They’d been tiny infants, driven into the desert, unaware of the strange fate that would follow.
“We will,” Noah promised.
Remmi shook her head. “I mean I want to meet them ASAP. Like tonight. They’re either at UNLV or maybe at their home. Las Vegas isn’t that far away.”
“Tomorrow,” he said, glancing at the window, where rain drizzled down the glass. “We’ll get an early start.”
She wasn’t satisfied, felt an urgency from twenty years of not knowing. Now, she was close to not only finding the answers that had eluded her, but to meeting her siblings again.
“They may not want to see you,” he warned. “Or believe you. You’re going to upset their entire lives, change everything they know. The truth about Didi isn’t all that pretty.”
“I know, but I have to meet them,” she said. “They’re the key to what happened to my mother, to their mother.”
He thought about it a second, then inclined his head in agreement and turned to the computer screen. “Okay, we’ve got to go, Ems. Thanks for doing all the leg work.”
“Finger work,” she corrected, wiggling her fingertips in front of the screen. “You’re welcome and good night, er, morning.” After she clicked off, Noah reached over to the lamp on the side table, snapping it off. The living room settled into a semi-darkness, the glow of computer screens the only illumination.
“You need to go to bed,” he said, pushing her hair out of her eyes. “Long day.” He pulled her closer to him so that they were stretched out on the couch together, wedged on the narrow cushions.
“Don’t want to,” she argued, but she yawned, her head against his chest.
“It’s late.” His arms tightened around her. His body was warm; she heard his heart beating in his chest, and it felt so right, so safe to lie here.
“I will,” she said, closing her eyes, feeling her mind begin to wind down. “In a sec—”
“Take all the time you want,” he said and kissed the crown of her head.
“Okay,” she said, but she was already drifting off.
CHAPTER 33
The house was dark.
Quiet.
Even the glow of television or computer screens was no longer visible in any of the windows. Just Christmas lights winking in the early-morning hours, bulbs casting off a blurry gleam in the rain that continued to fall.
The Marksman, as Milo Gibbs thought of himself, watched the big house for another five minutes, but nothing stirred within.
Go time.
Silently cursing himself for leaving the night-vision glasses in the truck, he snapped on a fresh pair of surgical gloves, making certain they were tight enough that he could easily feel a trigger.
Satisfied, he crept inside, through a basement window in the garage he’d left open earlier while the handyman was working with the electrical panel located on the back wall. Through the connecting door, he stepped inside the cellar, passing by a washer and dryer on his way to the bottom of the stairs, where he paused and again listened for any signs of life in the three stories overhead.
Nothing.
The house was quiet aside from the soft rumble of the furnace and, as he passed by the first floor, the hum of a refrigerator, the ticking of a clock, and rhythmic snoring of the old lady, whom he’d seen occupied the first-floor bedroom. And the Asian caretaker was still in the parlor, where, it seemed, she camped out overnight in case the woman in the bedroom needed her.
That was a bit of a problem, but not one he couldn’t handle.
The bigger issue was the man. Noah Scott.
Last night, Scott had spent the night here, and tonight, as well, he’d stayed over, which was a piece of bad luck. Still, he was running out of time. The two of them had been at his house, poking around, trying to guilt Vera into talking.
He crept up the back stairs, passing what appeared to be an empty second floor. He’d been watching the house, and no one ever seemed to stay on the guest level, which he thought was a good sign—more space and insulation between the first floor and the third.
His plan was simple: with a silencer on his pistol, he would sneak into Remmi Storm’s bedroom and shoot the man first, as he might be stronger, could more easily overpower him; then he would level the gun at Remmi and shoot. He felt the tiniest bit of hesitation at killing her, but it quickly withered. He’d do what he had to do. She was a problem.
Bang, bang—and out. No muss, no fuss. He’d take the exterior stairs and drive off in the Kris Kringle van, then ditch it down by the waterfront somewhere and hike to the nearest train station. Take the first morning train to an area where he’d parked his SUV.
The only real hitch was Noah Scott. He was the wild card, and, of course, he had to contend with his own damned leg, which hurt like a son of a bitch. He hoped the wound was going to be all right. As careful as he’d been, he still risked infection, especially while camping out in a dive like the Bayside, which he thought should be torched rather than cleaned.
That little fantasy warmed him.
He’d love to pour the gasoline and light the fire that would send that fleabag of a motel into a conflagration, with flames reaching to the sky.
But not now.
Tonight, he had a job to do.
He needed to concentrate and ignore the throbbing in his thigh muscles as he silently climbed.
In a short while, he would be home free.
Unless Vera talked.
He worried about that. Her Christian values were always at odds with her practicality. But she’d see the light.
She had to.
If they both were going to survive.
If not, he’d have to take care of her, too.
Yes, she was his wife, the mother of his sons. Yes, at one point he’d thought he loved her, but that had been years ago, before all the nagging and finger pointing and reminders of his past mistakes. There was no way he could ever atone for his sins. Not even with what he was planning now. Even that wouldn’t vanquish Vera’s recriminations and her continual reminders of how he’d never really lived up to her impossible standards.
Despite everything else, it was his seduction of her sister, Edie, that had been his biggest and most unforgivable sin. Who would have thought that a few weeks of passion would have changed the course of all their lives forever?
But he couldn’t think of that now.
He needed intense concentration, razor-sharp precision.
On the landing between the second and third floors, he paused, listening. Did he hear something on one of the floors below? Some movement? A disturbance in the quietude? Or was that his imagination?
He waited.
Aside from his own breathing and the rush of blood in his ears, his pulse elevating with the adrenaline pumping through his veins, he heard nothing. No signs of anyone stirring.
Noiselessly, he slid the pistol from one pocket of the jumpsuit, then eased out the silencer from the other pocket and snapped it into place. It gave off a soft click, but the sound was barely audible. Making certain the clip was in the magazine, he started mounting the final half flight to the nearly dark upper floor.
He crouched, not wanting his head to appear over the top rail, but as expected, no one surprised him.
Good.
Confident, he stepped onto the upper level, guided by nightlights and the map he had in his head.
After killing the handyman, he’d climbed up several ladders and peeked into windows, orienting himself to the house and, most intently, the uppermost floor. Earlier in the day, he’d happened to catch a conversation between the owner of the house and the handyman, in which she berated him for not doing a good job, demanding he stay until he got it right: “Don’t forget the sleigh or Rudolph’s nose. Red. Rememb
er? And it has to be visible from the street. I don’t care how long you have to work, how late it is, even if it’s midnight!”
“Fussy old biddy,” the handyman had said under his breath. The Marksman had heard it all from his hiding spot, a trellis covered with evergreen vines on the fence line.
Now, muscles tense, gun held out in front of him, the song from his youth rolling through his brain, he moved on the balls of his feet, easing around the corner, heading straight to Remmi’s bedroom.
The door to the room was ajar. Lucky. He’d be able to shoot from the doorway rather than have to twist the knob. He would empty the clip at the bed rapid-fire, then hurry back down the stairway and into the kitchen, where he’d flee out the rear door. By the time the old lady or her aide woke up and either called the police or came up to investigate, it would be all over, and he would be in the wind.
Edging ever closer, he eased along the rail and then stopped. Did he hear a strange noise? Something that hadn’t been there a minute earlier? A . . . whirring? Probably the motor of the furnace kicking in. But the basement was three stories below him. Could the sound be coming from the old vents?
Don’t think about it. It’s nothing. You’re just keyed up.
The whirring continued as he stepped toward the bedroom.
This little light . . .
His heart was beating like a drum, and he was beginning to sweat, excitement at the prospect of the kill running through his blood.
Could he do it?
Murder his own blood?
Of course.
Three more feet.
Two.
One.
The door was ajar, not completely open, and he noiselessly pushed on it with the business end of the silencer.
No lights. He kicked himself again for not bringing the night-vision goggles with him.
Finger on the trigger, he made out the outline of the bed in the darkness, leveled his gun and fired.
Pop! Pop, pop!
Backing up, he ran into something with his foot.
EEEEEOOOWWW!
The squeal of some ungodly beast echoed through the old house.
For a half-second, he thought it was one of his intended victims, but no, the sound was at his feet, and about the time he realized it, an immense furry beast sprang from the darkness, landing, and clawing at his leg.
“Aaagh!” he cried in surprise and pain. The cat—that’s what it was!—had landed on his bad leg. He kicked, but the animal skidded around, clawing and howling. And then it bit into him like a savage tiger.
He cried out.
Shit. This wasn’t supposed to happen!
Grrrrrwww. He shook his leg and batted at the animal, afraid to shoot it as he’d put a bullet through his foot.
Shit! Shit! Shit!
He had to finish shooting now! Backing up, cat on his leg, he fired into the bedroom, emptying his pistol.
Pop, pop, pop!
He fled down the stairs toward the kitchen, emptying the gun, kicking at the cat.
Pop, pop, pop!
“Hey!” a voice yelled from the living room. A man’s voice. “What the hell’s going on?”
Oh, for the love of St. Jude! Noah Scott isn’t in the bed with Remmi! He’s in the fucking living room, and he probably has a gun!
“Noah?” Remmi Storm’s worried voice.
They were alive?
“Down!” Noah yelled. “Get down!” And he was coming. In the darkness, Milo saw a dark shape vault from where the living room couch was backed against a window.
And he was out of ammo.
Fuck! Spinning, Milo headed for the kitchen and the back door; he threw himself forward, dragging the stupid cat, his leg on fire.
He should have shot the damned beast.
Crrracck! The sound of wood splintering roared in his ears.
The kitchen wall seemed to explode.
He stumbled, nearly fell.
From what he’d thought was a cupboard, something—no, someone—rolled out!
What the fuck?
He whirled quickly, the cat flying off his leg, his thigh burning like a son of a bitch. Before he could react, the tiny person jumped up and, in one motion, spun like a top and, with a weird shriek, kicked his gun from his hand.
Jesus Christ!
In that second, the interior lights snapped on.
Blinking against the sudden illumination, he saw the Asian caretaker, who had kicked her way into the room from some kind of dumbwaiter. She was winding up again just as he heard, “Stop!”
From the corner of his eye, he spied Noah Scott, standing behind the coffee table, legs spread, expression grim, pistol aimed straight at Milo’s head. “Don’t move,” he ordered.
For a split second, Milo thought about taking his chances and bolting, but he noticed the Asian woman in a half-crouch, muscles coiled to strike again. The cat who had attacked was glaring at him from the top of the couch, its black lips pulled into a snarl of fury.
Remmi, her hair mussed, was off the couch and staring at him in shock. “Milo? You? You were going to . . . kill me?”
The back door was only fifteen feet away. If he could just—
“Don’t,” Noah Scott ordered again, as if he could read Milo’s mind.
The female karate fiend’s face was a hard mask, eyes glittering. She looked like she would enjoy nothing more than kicking him to kingdom come and back again.
Damn his bad leg. That was Ned Crenshaw’s fault.
“Call the police,” Noah told Remmi, but she was already picking up her phone.
This couldn’t be happening. He couldn’t be trapped by a couple of non-pros, a female martial arts student, and a damned cat. It was surreal; that’s what it was, surreal, but he couldn’t kid himself about what was happening.
He thought about being nailed for the Crenshaw murders.
He thought about the handyman dead in the back of the van.
He thought about the years of prison that were in store for him.
No way.
No fucking way.
“Don’t move,” Noah told him coldly. “I mean it: one step, and I’ll shoot you, right here. Right now.”
“You can’t,” he said, desperate to get away, trying to think of anything.
Scott held him in his sights, his face hard, recognition dawning. “You shot me. Out there in that desert. I saw your face, Gibbs, and I didn’t realize who you were. But I do now. And I’m damned sure you tried to blow me away, just like you did Ned Crenshaw. Just like you did Trudie.” His eyes narrowed. “You came back to the hospital to finish me off, but I ran, so don’t tell me I can’t pull the trigger. Because I can. And I will.”
The bastard would enjoy killing him.
For the first time in a long while, Milo Gibbs felt fear burn through his blood. He knew if he didn’t do something quickly, right now, he was doomed. Time to play his trump card and try like hell to ignore the pain pounding through his leg.
“I’m your father,” he said, looking straight at Remmi.
Her mouth dropped open, and she stared at him, blinking and shaking her head. Her knees looked as if they might buckle, and if they did, and Scott had to steady her—if he was distracted for one half a moment—Milo knew he could grab the gun, could salvage this cluster-fuck of an operation, could reverse this untenable situation.
“You’re lying,” Remmi said.
“Wish I was, but me and Edie—er, Didi—got together before she ran off to California and . . . and I went back to Vera. Didn’t know about you for years.”
“Oh, God. No, no, no.”
He saw the truth sinking in, but, damn it, Scott was still holding the gun rock steady.
“It’s true, Remmi,” he said, in his best cajoling tone. “If I’d known—”
“You’re saying that I’m your daughter and you came into this house to murder me?”
“It’s not what—”
“After you killed how many others?” She was obviously stunned,
disbelieving. Then the anger came. Instead of hanging her head, trying to sort fact from fiction, she raised her chin and glared at him through eyes that were hard and glassy with unshed tears. “You’re not my father. You’re no father. I don’t care what you did or didn’t do with my mother. I don’t give a damn what blood type you have or DNA test or any of what the rest of it says.”
He tried again. God, the door was so damned close. “But, honey—”
“Go to hell, Milo. Go straight to hell.”
Shit!
He had to get out of here!
He thought he could hear the sound of approaching sirens. The cops were on their way. But there was still time. He could still escape, regardless of the gun pointed straight at his chest.
The stairs were mere steps away.
He glanced again at the post at the top of the stairs. Only three steps—
Then he saw her. The Asian woman. She was coiled tighter. As if she had anticipated his move. Before he could react, she spun around; foot outstretched, face twisted into a demonic grimace, she screamed and flew at him, all of her weight thrust upon his already throbbing knee.
Thud, thud, thud! Tiny, hard feet hit in rapid succession.
Pain screamed through his body.
He fell to the floor, knocked senseless, hardly able to stay awake.
“Stop!” Noah ordered.
Through his pain, he saw the muzzle of Noah’s pistol aimed straight at his face. Remmi stood next to him.
“Don’t,” Milo croaked out.
“Jade?” A worried female voice called from a far, far distance. “Jade? Are you up there? Remmi? Is everyone all right?”
The old lady, he thought, his blurred gaze focusing on the tiny Asian woman.
And then she aimed at his thigh again and let loose with a wild cry. He slanted a look at her, and their eyes met.
He saw the pure hatred in her gaze.
“Jade, no!” he heard Remmi cry as the compact woman landed all of her weight on him. Pain screeched up his leg, and he shrieked, writhing, hearing his own bones crack.
“Stop!” Remmi yelled once more, but it was too late.
