Old man. One of Gabe’s nicknames. Because he was all of a year older than Bull and Hawk and two years older than Caz. Because they’d heard the sarge affectionately refer to his company commander as the old man.
Because Gabe had always led, and his brothers had always followed.
He tried to thicken the ice around his soul and felt it thin instead, like river ice before break-up.
Dammit, he wasn’t a fucking hero. He didn’t give a shit about the Rescue residents. He didn’t want to protect them. People weren’t worth his life—or his death.
But his brothers were worth…anything he had to give.
Hell.
He wasn’t about to give in without a fight. “I’ll think about it.”
Chapter Two
The first week in May at the University of Illinois-Chicago was an intense time as students and faculty revved up for final exams the following week. End of the school year and commencement parties had started, as well.
Thursday evening, Audrey Hamilton glanced back at the university in her rear-view mirror. Her fellow university librarians were heading off to a faculty party.
As always, she’d made excuses not to attend.
She scowled at herself in the mirror. You are one timid, vacillating, spineless coward. An invertebrate in human form.
The truth hurt.
She loved the reference part of her job. She enjoyed helping students and faculty locate the materials needed to complete their work or studies.
The liaison responsibilities? Having to schmooze and build relationships? Totally not in her skill set and way outside her nerdy comfort level.
And tonight, rather than facing her fears and attending the staff party, she’d fled. With a sigh, she settled down to a rainy drive through rush hour traffic.
In her apartment complex’s parking lot, she started to turn into her designated slot and almost rear-ended a beat-up yellow car parked there. The high-pitched squeak she gave probably woke every cat in the neighborhood.
She glared at the trespassing vehicle. Seriously? That’s my parking space. Growling, she backed up and quickly discovered that building C’s visitor slots were filled…as were building D’s and E’s.
Finally, she found parking at building F. F for eff-it-all—a word infinitely satisfying to mutter under her breath.
Before getting out of the car, she pulled her cell out of her purse. No calls from Quentin.
Eff-it-all, eff-it-all, eff-it-all. She punched in his number. Again.
No answer. Again.
Worry festered in her stomach. Where was her client? He’d promised to call her, and yes, as an author, he was absent-minded when writing, but today, he’d gone to interview some people. Possibly scary people.
There was nothing she could do now. Slinging her purse over her shoulder, she picked up her groceries. With a heavy recyclable bag on each arm, she paused in the drizzling rain and eyed the distance to her building. Her laptop would have to remain in the trunk. Laptops and rain—not a good combination.
She was drenched before she’d gone past the first building. Spring in Chicago was so…nice. Really. She loved the rain. Loved it more when she didn’t have to walk in it.
As she approached her building, she was panting like a steam engine. Sheesh, maybe she should visit the complex’s gym now and then.
Or not.
She huffed a laugh. She was a lazy nerd and proud of it. Which was why winter was the best season. She could curl up on her big cushy couch with a mug of hot chocolate and read.
At the front, the security door on her building was propped open. Driving rock music and raucous laughter poured like a waterfall of noise from an apartment upstairs. Someone was having a party. No wonder the parking lot was full.
There were days she wished she lived in a cave.
She headed down the hall to her ground floor apartment. Should she call the manager to complain about the noise or the cars? No. Just because she was a boring rule-follower didn’t mean she’d ruin some college kid’s weekend by having his car towed.
Maybe this was a good incentive to stop living nose-to-nose with others and buy a house. She was twenty-seven, after all. However, she’d always lived in apartments, and the thought of buying a house all by herself was somewhat nerve-wracking.
Her mouth twisted. She and Craig had planned to buy a house. She’d envisioned a cute fixer-upper that would fit in her budget since she was excellent at looking up how to repair things. However, Craig had wanted an eye-catching, client-impressing house—and that’s what he and his new girlfriend had bought.
It turned out that Craig had also wanted an eye-catching, client-impressing woman.
Audrey shook her head. How had she missed the signs their relationship was doomed? His interests didn’t mesh with hers. In fact, after the initial excitement, she’d usually been relieved when he hadn’t come over and she could have an evening alone. The way he’d criticized her clothing, her makeup, her social skills.
Eventually, she’d have understood that their personalities were incompatible.
It sure did burn that he’d been the one to dump her.
Inhaling slowly, she let herself into her apartment. As she carried her groceries into the kitchen, she tried not to remember their last time together. Two months ago, he’d told her they were done.
Her biggest mistake was asking him why he was breaking up with her.
“Because I need someone at my side who likes people, who is sociable. Someone who can impress my clients and my boss rather than trying to avoid even meeting them.”
The words had shriveled her soul.
Truly, introverts shouldn’t try to have relationships. Nerds should be content with being alone. These days, aside from casual university friendships, her relationships were online, and she was perfectly happy to have them that way.
The jagged ache in her chest didn’t count.
Maybe she should get a cat.
After putting her groceries away, she checked her phone again. No calls. Still no answer when she rang Quentin. Could he still be interviewing people at the pharmaceutical research facility? No, it’d been too long. He knew how worried she was. He wouldn’t have left her hanging like this.
He’d gotten in trouble.
She scowled. He’d been positive his credentials would gain him access to the scientists and managers there and that his well-known name would keep him safe. What if he’d been wrong?
Her fingers felt like stiff icicles as she booted up her desktop computer in her office alcove.
Quentin wrote conspiracy thrillers and occasionally ran across criminal information he’d share with the law. The FBI agent he usually talked with was here in Chicago and had a name like a restaurant chain. Denny…no, Dennison.
Although Audrey’s specialty was biology, since becoming a freelance internet researcher, she’d become very eclectic. And she was damn good at digging out information. It didn’t take long to locate the FBI Special Agent and only a few minutes longer to find his cell phone number.
She punched the number into her cell.
“I don’t recognize this number. You have ten seconds to prove you’re someone I want to talk with.” The man’s voice had a harsh New York accent.
“Quentin’s missing.”
A pause. His laugh was a bitter bark of sound. “That works.”
Over the phone, giggles and a high voice called, “Daddy, come and play. We got Candyland.”
“I’ll be a minute, kids. Ask your mommy to start the game with you.”
The disappointed whines disappeared as a door shut. His voice came back on the line. “Who is this? Why do you think he’s missing? Start at the beginning.”
“I’m Audrey Hamilton. I do internet research.” Moonlighting from her university job had seemed like fun last year. Her clients had the oddest requests—from articles on resilience in foster children, to apple production numbers in Wisconsin, to how to disappear in the computer age, to horseb
ack travel times in the nineteenth century.
But blundering into an actual crime? Perhaps she should rethink her career choice.
“Quentin hired me to collect data about recent viral epidemics and vaccines.” Her hand clenched around her cell phone. “I found… First, do you remember the influenza last year? Because of the high mortality, the CDC recommended everyone get a vaccine booster that’d been developed by a small pharmaceutical research company. Xeno Labs.”
“I remember.” He snorted. “I got the booster.”
“Perfect. Quentin requested I find him articles about creating mutations in the influenza virus. Several scientists wrote about their research in developing vaccine boosters for unexpected mutations.”
“Ms. Hamilton, there are tons of articles about the flu, aren’t there?”
She could almost see him deciding to cut the conversation short.
“Of course. The point is I discovered the top three researchers were hired by Xeno Labs two years ago. At the same time.”
Silence. “Were they now?” he muttered. “Quentin suspected something?”
“He’s pretty sure Xeno engineered a viral mutation, one that would necessitate a booster. Their booster. The profit must have been enormous.” The bastards.
“That’s a serious accusation.” Dennison exhaled noisily. “But Dane’s instincts are rarely wrong. Did you say he’s missing?”
“Quentin went to visit Xeno labs this afternoon. Now I can’t reach him.”
The sound of a keyboard being tapped came over the line. “Xeno Labs—north of Chicago.”
“Yes, that’s where he was going.”
“I’m sending someone there and someone to his home. What else can you tell me?”
“Uh, not much. I merely looked up articles for Quentin.”
“I see. If you have my phone, I assume you also have my email?”
“Yes.”
“Email me with the names of the people he planned to talk with. Attach the pertinent articles and anything else you think relevant. Can you do that?”
Quentin hadn’t been willing to point fingers at the lab, not without more information. But now… His scruples could go hang. “I’m emailing you the names now. I’ll send the files in a second email after I get them together.”
“Perfect.”
She’d never met Quentin. Her business was conducted over internet and phone, but he lived somewhere in Chicago. If she—
“Miss Hamilton, I know you’re worried, but I want you to stay put. I’ll call you once I know what’s going on.”
Darn it, she wanted to go and check out that lab herself, to look for him at his house. “All right.”
After getting the emails sent off to Dennison, she waited with her cell phone beside her. No one called.
Finally, she gave up and worked on information for a health food store client. Stats on the correlation between pesticides and early dementia for their blog.
Hours passed as she worked. Despite the loud music from upstairs, her small apartment felt adrift from the world and far too lonely. Now she really did wish Craig were here. Or a cat.
Or anyone.
A sound roused Audrey, and she blinked awake. Pushing her hair back, she sat up in bed. Her camisole and silky boxers were twisted around, and she wiggled them into place.
Had her phone rung? Maybe Quentin or the FBI agent called?
No…that wasn’t what she’d heard.
A sound came from the living room.
Did she have mice? Startled, she reached past the crystal vase of silk flowers on her nightstand to turn on the lamp.
Footsteps sounded.
Her eyes widened. There was someone in her—
The bedroom door was flung open, and a man charged across the room. He landed on her, knocking the wind out of her. His palm covered her mouth.
Screaming against his muffling hand, she fought with everything in her, hitting at his head, trying to scratch his face. The covers over her legs destroyed any chance to kick. His arms were leather covered, defeating her fingernails.
Silently, he rolled her over in bed, all his weight on her. He shoved her face against the mattress until she couldn’t breathe. Panic ripped through her.
“You gonna be quiet?” He brutally wrenched her arms up behind her back until her shoulders felt dislocated.
Frantically, she nodded.
Gripping her by the hair, he yanked her over and up.
All she could do was gasp for air. But her mouth was free. Scream, fool.
Before she could, the man hit her so hard the left side of her jaw exploded in pain. She fell back. Hot tears streamed down her cheeks.
“I got a knife, cunt. You make a noise, and I’ll slice you up.” He was dressed all in black. Like a prizefighter, his face was battered. Scarred and swarthy with a big nose and black eyes. His black hair was buzz cut. His raspy voice held an accent—one she recognized from her college days watching foreign films. Greek.
He yanked her up to a sitting position and made a quick movement. Suddenly, warm liquid trickled across her left biceps, followed by searing pain. He’d cut her. She choked back her cry.
“Yeah. Better.” He held the knife up. “Pretty, huh?”
Frozen with fear, she could only stare as blood—her blood—dripped off the blade.
A nasal voice from the doorway said, “Nobody’s here.”
“Good. Search the place.” The man in front of her smiled. “Who’d you tell about your research, cunt?”
“Research?”
His fist impacted her ribs, and she felt a crack. As pain engulfed her, she hunched over her left side, sobbing for breath. Oh God, it hurt.
He repeated louder, “Who’d you tell about Xeno Labs? Besides Quentin Dane.”
Only a whimper came out.
Leaning forward, he whispered, “The author is dead, poutana. He gave me your name. Your address. And then he died, screaming. Do you want to die like that?”
Grief mixed with her terror. Oh Quentin. “N-no, please.”
“Who did you tell?”
If the man realized the FBI knew about the labs, would he leave?
“I—” Yet, if she gave him Dennison’s name, he might go there. The agent had small children. They’d been playing Candyland. No, she couldn’t. “Quentin. I only t-talked to Quentin.”
A crash and hammering noises came from the other room, then the other man appeared. “I trashed her desktop computer.” He had a thick New York accent. “Did she talk with anyone else?”
“She says no. I think she’s lying.” Gripping her hair, the Greek tossed her on the floor.
Her hip hit first, the pain muted by the carpet. She caught herself on her elbow and instinctually kicked his leg with all her might. Her bare foot glanced off his shin.
“Cunt.” He stomped his boot down on her left thigh.
As pain blasted through her leg, she tried to scream. His hand covered her face, covered her mouth and nose. No air. She panicked, flailing at him.
When black filled her vision, he laughed and let her go.
As he rose, he casually kicked her in the belly. Her whole body jerked at the impact. Curling into a ball, she gasped for air—and cried. Her arm burned, her leg and hip throbbed, every shuddering wheeze stabbed into her ribs and stomach. Oh, God, help me.
“What? Yeah, at her place.” The New Yorker was talking on the phone. Vision blurring with tears, she tried to focus. If she was going to die here, she wanted to see who’d kill her.
He was shorter than the Greek and burly with muscles. Blond buzz cut. Nose thickened—had been broken. Front tooth half-broken off.
The New Yorker shoved his phone into his pocket with a scowl. “Hey, Spyros, the Xeno boss says a cop showed up at the lab.”
Audrey tried to even her voice. “You’d better run. The police and FBI will be here soon.”
The Greek hissed a laugh. “Nah. I got men in both places. I’d know. Why do you think I’m still free?”
He had his own people in the police and FBI.
And his name was Spyros. A tremor shook her. He didn’t care that she’d heard his name—because she’d never identify him. She was going to die.
“Why’re the cops looking for Quentin Dane at the lab?” the New Yorker asked. “The Xeno dude was pissed.”
“Dane said he didn’t call them. He wasn’t lying—not at the end.” The certainty in the Greek’s voice was terrifying. “I bet this cunt sent the cops after him.” He looked down at her with black eyes. “What else did she tell them?”
The air was so thick with her fear she felt as if she was drowning in it.
“Dunno, but we been here too long already.” The New Yorker slapped the doorframe. “Time to go.”
“Yeah, I know.” The Greek reached down and gripped her upper arms, his thumb digging cruelly into the knife wound on her biceps.
Hurts, hurts, hurts. Her stomach heaved as she tried to choke back her sobs.
“Bring the car around,” Spyros said. “Park at the side exit. I’ll clean up our package.”
“Fuck, you’re bringing her?”
“I want to take my time. It’ll get bloody.”
“Your call.” The apartment door opened and clicked shut.
Spyros lifted her and set her on the bed, then fondled her breast through the camisole.
No! When she shoved at his arm, he carelessly backhanded her.
Her head whipped back, the skin beside her mouth tearing from his ring. Her head spun from the new horrible pain.
“Where’s your phone, poutana?”
Her phone. It would show the call to Dennison. She stared at him, too terrified to speak.
He set a big hand around her throat and squeezed. “Where?”
Red streaks shot through her vision as she struggled for air. Her fingers scrabbled uselessly against him. Lifting her by her neck, he stood her up. Her feet touched the carpet; her legs took her weight…
Yanking her knee up as fast as she could, she smashed his balls so violently she could feel cells bursting.
He choked, wheezed, and struck out, punching her in the cheek, before his legs buckled. He hit the floor, wavering on his knees.
Not a Hero Page 3
