Play Nice
Page 24
“You’ve lost your training, Anya,” he continued. “You’ve lost your urge to kill.”
“I never had the urge,” she shot back. “I never wanted to kill. I had no choice.”
“I know,” he said softly, as if he was almost sorry. “But you were young then. You are your own woman now. And I know you can’t shoot me.”
Anna squared her jaw, forced her grip tight on the gun, tried to block out his words even as they saturated her brain.
“Be quiet.”
“Anya…” Petrovich said.
“Numb,” Anna whispered.
Petrovich raised himself up on his elbows. He smiled at her. “My dragi. My Anya.”
“Just,” she breathed out slowly, “go numb.”
Anna pulled the trigger, a sharp pop echoing off the buildings as one neat little red hole appeared in Petrovich’s chest.
One bullet. That’s all you need.
He froze in place, sucking in a sharp breath, eyes slowly tilting downward to see deep red liquid seeping from his chest. He looked up at her, surprise clear on his face. It wasn’t often he was wrong. But she’d had one kill left in her after all.
Anna didn’t move, didn’t speak. Just watched as Petrovich’s eyes started to cloud over, then slowly went flat, before he fell back again, his head smacking against the pavement in a final blow.
CHAPTER 26
Anna sat forward in her plastic chair, watching a television mounted to the ceiling in the corner of the waiting area at Gate 72. A news program was on, giving live updates on Senator Braxton’s condition. The reporter was slim, blond, in her forties, and completely interchangeable with any other correspondent at any of the other four major networks airing the same story.
Senator Braxton had sustained a gunshot wound to the shoulder in the park the previous week. He’d been shot with a long range rifle found on the roof of the next building over, believed to be fired by an as yet unnamed associate of Vladimir Demarkov, a war criminal who had long eluded the authorities. Demarkov had been apprehended by authorities at Senator Braxton’s rally and had since not been cooperating with police. He was currently being held at an undisclosed detention facility while both Serbian and U.S. officials fought over who got the pleasure of trying him first.
Braxton’s gunshot wound was being described as minor, luckily having missed all major arteries and nerve pathways. The minor injury had had major implications in the upcoming race, though. Braxton’s popularity had jumped a full ten points in the polls the first time he’d been seen on TV in his new sling. The sympathy vote seemed to have sealed his party’s presidential nomination, and Braxton was now using his own injury and subsequent hospital stay to illustrate just how important his platform of health insurance reform was to every American citizen.
There was no mention, Anna noticed, of the unidentified body of a man found in an alleyway just blocks from the park that same day, though Anna had read about it in the Chronicle the morning following the incident. The body had been found near a stolen sedan, with no ID. Authorities were “looking into it,” though they had warned the Chronicle reporter that several John Does died in the City every year, and without further funding, the police force was just not able to put names to every one. Likely, the body would remain unidentified and the crime of his death unsolved.
The screen switched to a commercial for a mortgage broker, and Anna let her gaze wander out the window to the tarmac where airplanes were lining up at various gates, slowly taxiing down runways bound for destinations all over the world.
Including one that would soon be carrying her.
“This seat taken?”
Anna looked up and blinked, as the man didn’t wait for an answer, instead sliding into the seat beside her.
“Dade,” she said quietly. She should have been floored to see him there, but oddly, she wasn’t completely surprised.
He smiled at her, a tentative thing. She never would have imagined he did anything tentatively, but there it was.
“How are you?” he asked.
She nodded. “Alive.”
The corner of his mouth tilted upward ever so slightly. “That’s a good way to be.”
“It’s not something I take for granted, that I’ll say.” Her eyes searched his, looking for the answers to questions that had been plaguing her for the last week.
As soon as Petrovich had asked her who shot Braxton, she’d had a suspicion it was Dade. Why, how, and to what end, she hadn’t known until she’d collected Lenny from the kennel, checked into a motel that night, and turned on the news. As details about the shooting had trickled in, veiled as they were behind the media’s spin, small pieces had started to fall into place. As Dade well knew, there was one surefire way to keep a person from taking a hit—shoot at his target before he had a chance.
“You outsmarted Demarkov, I see,” he said, gesturing to the television where the story had just been playing.
She nodded, slowly.
“I knew you would.”
“You did?” Did she believe him? She wasn’t sure. It was an easy thing to say now that they’d both gotten away.
“I appreciate the vote of confidence,” she finally said.
He grinned a moment, before his eyes turned serious, dark and intent. “I never would have let him hurt you.”
Anna swallowed. “You handed me over to a man who wanted me dead.”
“I had a scope on you the whole time. If he’d have tried to take you out of the park, I’d have taken him out.”
Again, she wanted to believe him. But so much had happened in the last two weeks, she didn’t know what she believed anymore.
After the park, Anna had cried in her motel room for two days straight, only pausing to sleep when exhaustion consumed her. She’d given herself that time to grieve for everything that she’d lost—her faith in Shelli, the fleeting closeness she’d felt with Dade, the betrayal that seemed to be all around her. And even for Petrovich. For two days, she’d cried every tear she had in her, but that was all. Just two days. Then she’d forced herself to find new identification, documentation, and make arrangements to leave the City.
She realized Dade was still watching her, his expression somewhere between a plea for forgiveness and a look of a stranger assessing her for the first time.
“Demarkov was the man who hired you to kill me?”
Dade nodded slowly. “Apparently you killed someone close to him. His brother, General Fedorov.”
Anna nodded. “I remember him.” Though, honestly, she felt little remorse about what she had done in his compound that night long ago. Sadness that it had been necessary at all, but certainty that, at least that time, she had acted for the best.
She listened as Dade recounted Demarkov’s account of his brother’s rise and fall, and the man’s grudge against Anna for her hand in it.
When he was finished, she let it all sink in before deliberately changing the subject.
“You shot Braxton,” she said. It was a statement, not a question.
Which is possibly why he didn’t answer, just continued to stare at her.
“That was where you were that morning. You had it all planned.”
He paused a moment, then slowly nodded. “Some of it. There are things you can never plan for. But I think it turned out well.”
Anna wasn’t sure if adding another kill to her list of sins really qualified as “well,” but this was the first time she’d been in an airport in years where she wasn’t looking over her shoulder every five minutes. So, things could have ended worse.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, wondering if he’d planned this encounter, too.
“I’d imagine much the same thing you are. Moving on.”
She nodded. Moving on. That was a good way of putting it. It sounded so much better than running away, something she’d vowed she was never going to do again.
“Well, good luck,” she said, realizing how silly that sounded even to her own ears. She wasn’t s
ure what she was supposed to say, what she was supposed to feel toward him. Feelings were still a bit of mystery to her, and it was going to take some time to sort out what to do with them all again.
But Dade grinned, his eyes going warm as his lips curled at the corners. “You too, Anna.”
They both stood, and before she could decide if this was a handshake situation or a hug situation, Dade leaned in and brushed a soft kiss against her cheek.
“Good-bye, Anna,” he said softly as he pulled away. Then added, “For now.”
Before she could respond, he turned his back to her and walked purposefully out of the gate, back into the flow of travelers making their way toward dozens of other gates.
And then he was gone.
EPILOGUE
The late afternoon sun reflected off the bubbling fountain in the center of the square, almost blinding if one stared at the water too long. The streets were filled with tourists, the adobe shop fronts leaving their doors open today to let in some of that rare breeze so coveted in Sedona. Wind chimes tinkled from a turquoise jewelry shop down the street, the scents of coffee and the recent rain mingling in the air as the red rocks loomed in the distance, creating a watercolor backdrop.
Anna sipped her cup of tea. Chamomile. It was warm, soothing, and calming, the perfect combination for the perfect setting. She let her oversized sunglasses slide down over her eyes, leaning her head back against her wrought iron chair, feeling the cool metal as a soothing contrast to the warm sun shining down on her face. Lenny snored at her feet, only awakening intermittently to bark at a bird or beg for a piece of her turkey sandwich.
“Can I get you anything else, Miss Jones?” her server asked. The woman was young, a college student she guessed, with a thick Hispanic accent and huge brown eyes.
“No, thank you. I’m fine.” Anna shook her head, noticing, not for the first time, the absence of hair whipping her cheeks. Her new short, blond hair was definitely different. She felt as if she were greeting a stranger in the mirror every morning. But different was the whole point. Besides, it was nice to see her natural color again. Natural fit her lifestyle here in Arizona.
Anna yawned, stretched lazily, leaned down and ruffled the fur on Lenny’s head.
The first thing she’d done when she’d gotten here was find employment so she could start paying back the funds she’d borrowed with her credit card. Sedona had precious few dog shelters, but she’d quickly gotten employment as a dog walker, a job few people wanted in the desert heat. She didn’t mind though. The solitude gave her plenty of time to think, the fresh air was always welcome, and the company of the animals she cared for was comforting and friendly. The salary wasn’t much, but it paid for the small guest cottage she’d rented from an elderly couple in the center of town.
It was a different existence than in San Francisco. Different in so many ways. Her past was gone. She was free for the first time in her life, starting over for real, without the fear of demons catching up to her. They’d already done that, and she’d survived. She could survive anything now.
That was something to be thankful for every day. And to know that she could do it again if she needed to.
If.
“Miss Jones?” The server appeared at her elbow again.
Anna lifted her sunglasses and smiled at the woman. “Yes?”
“You have a phone call.”
Anna frowned. “For me? Are you sure?”
The girl bobbed her head up and down. “Yes. Anna Jones?” The girl shoved a cordless at her.
Anna waited until the server had ducked back inside the café before she put the phone to her ear.
“Hello?” she asked tentatively.
“Anna Jones?”
She paused. “May I ask who this is?”
“David Prescott. I work for Senator Braxton.”
Anna stiffened, the entire serene scene in front of her freezing in time. “I remember you. What do you want?”
“First, Senator Braxton wants to convey his thanks for your part in thwarting his attempted assassination in Golden Gate Park.”
She paused again, answering slowly. “What part?”
“Miss Jones, Senator Braxton is on track to become the next president of the United States. He has the many and varied means of several government agencies at his disposal.”
“What are you saying?” she asked.
“I’m saying that playing dumb only makes you look dumb. When a presidential candidate issues an official thank you, just say, ‘You’re welcome.’”
Despite the jarring presence of Prescott’s voice in her ear, Anna felt herself grin. “You’re welcome.”
“That’s better,” Prescott said.
“Now what do you really want?” she asked.
“You’re very direct. I like that. Okay, I’ll tell you. Senator Braxton finds himself in a situation where someone with your particular skill set would be beneficial to him.”
“What kind of situation?”
“One that he feels your team would be well suited for.”
“Team?” Anna asked, trying to read through Prescott’s vague and purposely veiled proposal. “What team?”
“Yourself and Nick Dade.”
She bit her lip, not sure how to answer that one.
“Listen, I’d prefer not to discuss this over the phone,” Prescott went on. “Is there somewhere we can meet?”
“No,” Anna said, automatically. “I walk dogs. That is my only skill now.”
There was a silence on the other end, then, “Listen, Anna. You have an opportunity here to do what few people will ever be able to. You can make a difference not in the bullshit way that every vote counts at the polls, but in a real way that has very immediate, important, and lasting outcomes.”
Anna drew a deep breath in through her nose, inhaling the rich scents of the marketplace around her. “This situation. Which skills of mine, exactly, are so perfect for its resolution?”
“For one, you don’t exist. Neither would any ties between you and the senator.”
“So the senator doesn’t want voters to know he’s hiring a killer?” she said bluntly.
“The senator doesn’t want to hire a killer. He wants the kind of security and resources at his disposal that you and Dade can provide. Unofficial, under the radar, problem solvers who can think and act from both sides of the law if necessary.”
Anna did the deep breath again. Both sides of the law. To be honest, the only law she’d ever followed was the law of survival.
“I’ve spent too much time working for the government,” she hedged.
But Prescott must have sensed the hesitation growing in her voice, and quickly jumped in with, “You wouldn’t be working for the government. Officially, you wouldn’t be working for anyone at all, though a nicely padded Swiss bank account does come with the job.”
Anna raised an eyebrow and glanced down at Lenny. That wasn’t altogether an unpleasant thought, she had to admit.
“Will you at least meet with us?” Prescott pressed.
Anna took a deep breath. “Fine. We can meet. But no promises.”
“Fair enough,” Prescott answered, relief clear in his voice. “That’s exactly what Dade said.”
Again at the mention of his name, that unnerving feeling resurfaced. “He did, did he?”
“We’ll meet you tomorrow at the helipad at the Sedona airport,” he said. “Three o’clock your time.”
Anna nodded. “But, like I said, this is just a meeting. I haven’t agreed to anything, and I likely won’t.”
“Of course. We’ll see you then, Anna.”
Then the line went dead.
Anna stared a moment at the cordless in her hand before slowly setting it on the table.
A meeting. That was all.
But as Anna well knew, one meeting was sometimes all it took.
“Well, Lenny,” she said, leaning down to rub the dog’s head, “how do you feel about Washington?”
ALSO B
Y GEMMA HALLIDAY
HIGH HEELS MYSTERIES
Spying in High Heels
Killer in High Heels
Undercover in High Heels
Alibi in High Heels
Mayhem in High Heels
HOLLYWOOD HEADLINES MYSTERIES
Hollywood Scandals
Hollywood Secrets
Hollywood Confessions
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Gemma Halliday is the author of the bestselling High Heels mysteries series, Holly Headlines mysteries series, and the Deadly Cool mysteries series for young adults. She’s been the recipient of several writing awards, including a National Readers’ Choice award and three RITA nominations. Gemma lives in the San Francisco Bay area, where she loves nothing more than hearing from her readers. Visit her online at www.gemmahalliday.com.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
PLAY NICE. Copyright © 2012 by Gemma Halliday. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.minotaurbooks.com
The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
Halliday, Gemma.
Play nice / Gemma Halliday. — 1st ed.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-0-312-65607-2 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-4299-5048-0 (ebook)
1. Assassins—Fiction. 2. Retribution—Fiction. 3. San Francisco (Calif.)—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3608.A54836P53 2012
813'.6—dc22 2011033691
eISBN 9781429950480
First Edition: March 2012