The Edge of Midnight

by Beverly Jenkins

  The injured kids were taken to a safe house to get their wounds treated. They’d be held there until their hearing before the NIA magistrate who’d decide their fate—either the state’s correctional system or the NIA rehab ranch in Wyoming.

  With Drake driving, Myk had made a quick stop at the mansion to shower off the tear gas and get his wound taken care of, but it still hurt like hell.

  Moving through the quiet house, Myk hoped Sarita was asleep. He hadn’t really seen her since their dinner at Andre’s two weeks earlier; there’d been NIA business to attend to every night since then. He’d attributed his absences to working at Drake’s, but the more Myk lied to her, the more it gnawed at him. No matter how late he got home, though, he always took the time to swing by her room to check on her, and sometimes he would just sit and watch her sleep; but tonight, all he wanted to do was soak in a hot tub, climb into the sack, and not wake up until next year sometime.

  Entering his room, Myk didn’t bother with any lights. The moon pouring in through the open drapes provided more than enough illumination, and, besides, he didn’t have the strength. Trying to take off his black sweatshirt turned out to be a lot more difficult than he’d anticipated. Raising his arm set off rocket fire in his bullet wound. He lowered the arm and waited for the pain to subside enough for him to catch his breath. Grimacing, he tried it again. More fire erupted, and sweat broke out on his brow. The sound of his labored breathing filled the silence.

  “Need some help?”

  Myk whirled. There in the moonlight sat Sarita, in one of the chairs by the cold fireplace. She was dressed in a nightgown and had her bare feet tucked beneath her legs. He watched her rise. The prim, high-collared flannel gown flowed to her toes. The gown was the ugliest damn thing he’d ever seen; she, on the other hand was a treasured sweet sight to his battle-weary eyes. “I didn’t buy that gown, did I?”

  “Nope. I did. The saleslady said it was guaranteed against dragons and big bad wolves.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  Sarita could see pain in his face hovering beneath the banter.

  He eased himself down onto the love seat and winced as the simple movement jarred the wound beneath the bandage. “What are you doing up?”

  “Can I help?” she asked quietly.

  His reply was a firm, “No. And you didn’t answer my question.”

  “I couldn’t sleep and I heard Walter moving around, then at the window I saw him helping you in…”

  “Oh, you were up spying?”

  “No,” she protested. “I—” She stopped, realizing he was teasing by the light of humor in his eyes. “Well, I’ll bet my evening was a lot more innocent than yours.”

  “Oh, really,” he replied in answer to her challenge. “And what did my evening involve?”

  Sarita hadn’t meant to be goaded into airing her suspicions about his nocturnal activities. She had been pondering the issue all week, and when she added up his nightly comings and goings with the mysterious men in the black vans, she’d made the only connection that seemed possible.

  “Well?” he asked.

  His voice brought her back. “I think you’re involved with the dope busters.”

  For a moment he didn’t say a word, and she realized how ridiculous her conclusion probably sounded.

  “Why?”

  “For one, even though you smell like you just had a shower, I can still smell tear gas. You don’t get tear gassed or shot going over the mayor’s budget.”

  Myk knew he shouldn’t be surprised she’d figured it out. “And if you’re right, what do you plan on doing with that information?”

  “Not a thing,” she said honestly.

  Sarita waited for him to say something in response, but when he didn’t, she added, “I’m no different from anybody else. Like I said the other day, I want my city back. The drive-bys, the crack, the carjackings, it’s a cancer. I’m all for radical surgery.”

  Still no response, so she said quietly, “I just hope the good guys will be careful.”

  Myk’s melancholy smile was hidden by the shadows. She’d figured it out. He wanted to take her in his arms and soothe away her worries. “I’m sure they will, whoever they are. Now, turn on that lamp and look over in the drawer. There should be a pair of scissors inside somewhere. The only way I’m going to get out of this sweatshirt is to cut my way out.”

  The scissors made short work of the black sweatshirt. One long cut from hem to neck up the front and back enabled it to be gently pulled down his arms and off. Under the soft light of the lamp, the white bandage Drake had applied to his upper shoulder glowed against the darkness of his muscled torso and arm.

  Sarita set the scissors aside. Even though his participation had been minimal in the removal of the shirt, sweat was beaded on his brow. His forced breathing and closed eyes indicated he was in a lot more pain than he seemed willing to admit. “Did Drake give you something for the pain?”

  “Didn’t want anything.”

  “Of course, not,” she said sarcastically. “What a silly question.”

  He opened his eyes. “How’d you know Drake patched me up?”

  “I didn’t. Thanks.”

  Myk shook his head with amusement. He wished he knew how much she actually did know. Probably enough to terrify everybody involved. He looked over into her intelligent dark eyes. God, he wished this were all over. If it were, he’d give Ms. Everything a run for her money. She’d have to ditch that gown, though, he told himself, scanning the flannel monstrosity critically. “Don’t ever wear that gown again.”

  She looked down at herself, wiggled her bare toes, then asked innocently, “Why not?”

  “Because it’s damn ugly.” He preferred her in fabrics thin enough to slide over her skin so he could feel the heat of her response. It was strictly the male in him, and he felt no need to apologize.

  She countered, “It’s not ugly, and besides, it keeps me warm.”

  “Keeping you warm is now officially my job. If I had two good arms, I’d tear it off and feed it to the fireplace.”

  Sarita smiled. “Impossible. It’s Big-Bad-Wolf-proof. Remember?”

  He suddenly assumed the storybook role and growled at her playfully, snatching at the loose-fitting waist of her gown in an attempt to bring her closer. Shrieking with laughter, she tried to jump away, but he caught a trailing sleeve. “Come here, little girl,” he demanded in his wolf’s voice.

  “Let go!” she howled. She instinctively pulled against his hold, stretching both the flannel sleeve and his injured shoulder. The fabric gave first, tearing away the cap of her sleeve. The whiplash forced him back against his seat. Pain exploded, and he cursed.

  Sarita froze. “You dummy,” she whispered in soft condemnation. Moving to him quickly, she slid between the breach in his thighs, then leaned down to check his bandage. “You’re bleeding again.”

  “Don’t doubt it. Hurts like hell, too.”

  A red stain was slowly seeping into the cloth. “I’m going to call your brother.”

  He grabbed her hand. “No. Let Hizzoner sleep. I’ll be okay.”

  “Chandler, don’t you think you’re taking this hero stuff too far? You could bleed to death.” He was stroking her fingers with his thumb.

  “Not a chance.”

  She clicked her tongue, intimating her displeasure, and pulled her hand away. Men. “Then at least lie down. Are you working tomorrow?”

  “Yep. Have to be in Philly by noon.”

  “I think Philly should wait.”

  “Board meeting. Can’t.”

  “Or won’t?” she asked. “You don’t need to be running around playing CEO. You’re hurt, Mykal.”

  He met her eyes.

  She added, “It takes old guys longer to heal.”

  “Did I hear you say, ‘old guys’?”

  She grinned.

  “I’ll show you old guys, Miss Thing.”

  The Big Bad Wolf slid one large paw beneath her gown and found her lusciou
sly bare. Her skin was warm, soft, and he took his time exploring the smooth contours of her silken limbs.

  “Ooo, Grandma,” she cooed, “What nice hands you have….”

  Myk chuckled. “The better to feel you with, my dear…and where may I ask are your panties?”

  “I think I lost them in the woods.”

  His explorations discovered a particularly flushed and moist place between her thighs, and Little Red purred in response

  The wolf asked softly, “Do you like that…?”

  She did and silently widened her stance to show him just how much. He moved her gown up around her waist, and she held it there. The pain in his arm be damned, he filled his hands with her hips. “You should come visit Grandma more often….”

  Holding on to her gown, Sarita’s breath caught in her throat as he dallied at the lodestone between her thighs. The heat pooling there set off the tight swelling that signaled the beginnings of wolf-induced arousal. “If Grandma stayed home more, maybe I would….”

  She then reached down and gently captured the source of all that made him male. His eyes closed in reaction to the slow up-and-down movements of her possessive hand.

  He whispered, “Doing that is going get you in trouble, Red.”

  “I hope so,” came her husky reply, “but then again, you’re an injured Big Bad Wolf. How dangerous can you be?”

  He stopped the hand moving up and down his hard length. The heat in his eyes singed her in places that might have rattled her in the past, but not anymore. He’d seduced her into exploring the depths of her passion too many times and in too many places to be coy about expressing it now.

  “You don’t think wounded wolves are dangerous,” he asked slyly. He slid a finger up over her nipple, boldly teasing it through the gown until it blossomed, and she sighed with pleasure. He transferred his caresses to the other breast, seducing and arousing it, until it, too, stood out from the flannel like a jewel. Only then did he bite each nipple with just enough pressure to raise shivers.

  The hand beneath her gown resumed its luxurious traveling, sensitizing her skin to his touch. First one, then two fingers penetrated her slowly, boldy, and the Big Bad Wolf smiled like the alpha male that he was. “See how dangerous I can be…?”

  Sarita had trouble standing while his long fingers did their slow dance. “Unbutton your gown,” she heard him say. At first, she didn’t move; couldn’t. His scandalous fingers were overriding her senses, making her unable, but more importantly, unwilling to concentrate on anything but the rise in her temperature and the free-flowing proof of her need.

  “Undo your gown, Red. The wolf’s hungry.”

  Somehow her hands freed the buttons on the gown’s bodice, and the open halves fell apart uselessly.

  Myk had never known such a sensual woman. The passion-hard features of her face had him mesmerized. When her gown fell open, he moved his attention to the beautiful dark-tipped treasures now bared. The urge to touch them flared strong, so he withdrew from the honey-filled sanctuary between her thighs. As the contact broke, he noted her soft cry of disappointment. “Don’t worry,” he murmured, rolling woman-dewed fingers over her throbbing bare nipples. “You’ll get more. I promise….”

  When he took her into his warm mouth, Little Red surrendered willingly and let the wolf have his way.

  Alone in the War Room, Myk looked through all the reports he’d let lie for the past few days while recovering under the stern eye of Little Red Riding Hood. The wound was healing but still kicked up a fit if he moved suddenly or reached too far. At the moment, though, he was interested in one report in particular and quickly rifled through the stack until he found it. Pleased, he pulled it free, but reading it made him scowl. Sarita’s Mr. Fukiya wasn’t on any database anywhere in the world; no credit cards, no bank accounts; no social security number, no record with INS. The researchers had checked the FBI, CIA, Interpol, Scotland Yard, and their equivalents around the globe. Nothing. Myk knew Sarita would have his head for running her friend’s name through the system, but Myk was curious about the so-called Ninja, and now the curiosity had grown. Obviously, the name Fukiya was an alias, and Myk knew that people took on aliases for myriad reasons. What was Fukiya’s? What had he meant by saying he’d come to Detroit for his health. Had that meant physical health, as in sick, or health as in needing to hide himself from someone who meant him harm? Too many questions and no answers. Myk penned a note to the researchers to keep digging.

  A knock on the door made Myk look up. Walter called from the other side, and Myk called back.

  When Walter came in, he said, “I delivered the general to her troops.”

  Myk smiled. “What’s going on over there today?”

  “A trip to the market to buy the food for all the Christmas baskets they’re giving out. She is amazing.”

  “That she is.”

  Walter came over and picked up some of the reports. He began skimming them.

  Myk asked, “Have you met Mr. Fukiya?”

  Walter looked up. “The so-called Ninja? Yeah, I met him last week at the center. Watched him conduct his martial-arts class. Guy’s good. You know what a fukiya is, don’t you?”

  Myk didn’t.

  “A hollow bamboo tube Ninjas supposedly use to blow darts through. Sorta like the blowguns you see the Amazon natives using in those nature programs sometimes.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “No.”

  Myk ran his hands over his eyes. Lord. Was Fukiya really a trained assassin?

  Walter smiled. “I know, but hey, at least he’s on our side.”

  “Let’s hope,” Myk said, and tossed Walter the info on the man.

  Walter read it through. “So, he doesn’t exist. That’s interesting, but if you think about it, we may be better off not knowing. No telling who he is, and we’ve got enough on our plate. You’re just interested in him because you think he’s sweet on your wife.”

  “No, I’m not,” Myk denied.

  Walter rolled his eyes and changed the subject. “I went downtown to see if our Fed friends had anything we might be interested in, and they gave me this. Info on Big Tiny Crane and the man he’s working for, your friend, Clark Nelson.”

  Myk stilled. “That’s who owns the diamonds?”

  “Our friends weren’t sure, but a few days ago they threatened to slap those Chicago bookies with Federal terrorism charges for trafficking in blood diamonds, and the Russians sang loud enough to be heard back in Moscow.”

  Myk whistled as he read Nelson’s sheet. “Faye’s new man has been busy since I saw him last.”

  “Yeah, he’s a major player on everybody’s list: DEA, Treasury, Justice. Supposedly, he runs a legit import export business. Everybody’s sure he’s importing big cocaine, but they can’t prove it. They think he’s here trying to find a lead on the diamonds.”

  Myk didn’t like this. If the Feds were right about Nelson owning the diamonds…. Myk steepled his fingers and thought about what he needed to do to keep Sarita safe until Clark could be arrested. “See if you can find Saint. We may need him. Are our friends keeping tabs on Nelson?”

  “They were, but lost track of him sometime yesterday. He’s checked out of his hotel.”

  Myk was liking this less and less. “He’s probably ready to make a move.”

  “They think so, too.”

  “I don’t want Sarita moving around the city without one of us with her.”

  “I’m already spending nights with her, she’s not going to want a sitter at the center, too.”

  “I’ll just have to tell her what’s going on. She’ll understand.”

  “You’re going to tell her about NIA?”

  “No, just about Nelson and the diamonds.” Myk had already told Drake that Sarita knew he was a member of the Dope Busters, but Myk hadn’t told anyone else. She’d promised to keep the information to herself, and Myk knew her well enough now to trust her at her word. “Anything else?”

 
“No. It’s enough, I think.”

  Myk agreed. “You get on the Saint matter, and I’ll head over to the center.”

  Walter left.

  Myk took the pictures of Nelson and Crane that had been included in the report and fed them into the scanner. When the copies were ready, he placed them in an envelope and went to get his car.

  Driving to the center, Myk used his cell phone to put in a call to Drake to give him an update on the latest developments. The answering secretary said the mayor was in a meeting, but she would have him return Myk’s call as soon as he was free. Myk thanked her and clicked off.

  Myk had a stop to make before going to the center. He parked the car, then took the steps up to the flat’s porch two at a time. In answer to his knock, the curtain on the door was pulled back. Kerry Fukiya looked out at Myk for a moment, then opened up.

  “Mr. Chandler, what brings you here?”

  Myk walked in. He handed him the pictures. “Them.”

  Fukiya studied the faces of the two men. “Who are they?”

  “Their names are Crane and Nelson. If you see them anywhere near the center, call me.”

  “Are they child predators?”

  “No, Empress predators.”

  Fukiya looked up sharply. “Oh really.” He scanned the faces again, then handed the pictures back.

  Myk said, “Keep them.”

  “No need. They’re not faces I’ll forget.”

  Myk saw that Fukiya lived spartanly. The furnishings of his living room consisted of a futon, a small serviceable table, and a few Asian-inspired pictures on the wall. A small shrine of some sort stood on a short marble pedestal on the far side of the room. There was a kitchen and a room in the back where he probably slept, but Myk was sure they were no more fully furnished.