by Julie Kenner
I was right about the clue. I knew I was. But if that boat left without us…shit. I needed that antidote. Twenty-four hours, the message had said. And time was ticking away.
A taxi turned onto the street half a block ahead of us. I jumped into the roadway and held out my hand, but some bastard in a suit stepped out ahead of me, and the taxi pulled over. “No!”
Naturally, he didn’t pay a bit of attention to me. Stryker, though, grabbed my hand and pulled me into a dead run (a hell of a lot faster than I ever thought I could move). “I’ll give you fifty bucks to take the next taxi,” he yelled at the suit as we tumbled to a halt beside the cab. Stryker let go of my hand to fumble for his wallet even as he ushered me into the backseat.
“Hey!” the guy said, glaring at me. “Get your ass out of my taxi.”
“A hundred bucks,” Stryker said, peeling off bills and pressing them into the guy’s hand.
“I got a meeting,” the guy said, but most of the oomph had left his voice.
Stryker elbowed the guy aside and squeezed in next to me, passing another fifty to the driver. “He can wait for the next one.”
The driver didn’t answer, but he did accelerate, leaving Stryker to tug the door closed to the sound of the man’s curses echoing after us.
Now we had a chance of making it in time.
My optimism lasted all the way to Broadway and 38th before it came to a screeching halt along with the traffic.
I exchanged a frustrated glance with Stryker. “Twelve minutes,” he said. “From here we go on foot.” He checked the meter, passed the fare plus some over the partition, and opened the door. “It’s about ten blocks total, at least five of them crosstown. You okay with that?”
“Believe me, I have incentive.”
He nodded and took the computer case from me, slinging it over his shoulder before he grabbed my hand and turned left, hauling ass down 38th Street and right into the heart of the garment district.
It was a testament to how frantic I was to get to the pier on time that I didn’t even slow my pace to gawk in the windows. Instead, I just ran.
I never in a million years thought I could keep up with a Marine where anything remotely related to exercise was concerned, but I didn’t do half bad keeping up with Stryker. Of course, by the time we reached Pier83, I was thoroughly winded and had a stitch in my side. On the upside, I was glad I’d chosen my Prada sneakers over the Givenchy pumps. Score one on the side of practical fashion.
“Time?” I yelled, breathless, as I hunched over, my hands propped on my knees while I sucked in air. At least I didn’t have to feel guilty about not making it to the gym that morning; I was getting one hell of a workout.
“Six-fifty-eight.”
“Thank God.”
The Circle Line building loomed in front of us. A massive structure, it takes up the width of the pier and rises several stories. The top resembles a whitewashed water tower, with red letters spelling out Circle Line, a logo featuring Lady Liberty taking up the space between the two words. The main floor is not much more than in and out driveways flanked on either side by ticket windows, which I knew very well. I’d done a very brief stint behind one of those windows when I’d first moved to New York.
Now Stryker raced to the window on the left, his wallet already open. I was right beside him, terrified that his watch was slow and that the boat had already left the dock.
We were in luck, though. We really had made it with two minutes to spare, and we rushed down the pier toward the sleek white yacht that would take us on the two-hour cruise around lower Manhattan.
As soon as we were on the boat, I burst out laughing. Stryker shot me a curious glance, but I couldn’t help it. I was giddy with relief. It had been a hell of a day. Exhausting, terrifying and a whole lot of other -ings I couldn’t think of at the moment. But we’d made it! We’d solved the clue, we’d made it onto the boat, and damn it all, that was a victory I intended to revel in.
Stryker indulged me for a few minutes, the corner of his mouth twitching in amusement. Then he put a firm hand on my arm and steered me across the deck and into the cabin. I’d worked at the ticket window, but I’d never actually taken one of the cruises before, and now I drew in a breath, impressed by the polished and gleaming interior. The crew member who’d welcomed us aboard had mentioned that the ship was new to Circle Line’s fleet, and I could tell. Everything seemed shiny and snazzy, much more like a hotel ballroom than the dingy, damp interior I’d always imagined.
We crossed a parquet dance floor, the various shades of wood tiles set to form a star pattern. Now, tourists holding drinks mingled there, but I could imagine ballroom dancing if the yacht was rented out for black-tie extravaganzas.
“This way,” Stryker said, leading me past rows of royal blue upholstered benches and snazzy chrome and wood tables. The walls were almost entirely windows, slanting up to give some view of the sky. I heard the low, mournful cry of the yacht’s horn and realized we were starting to pull away from the dock. Lower Manhattan filled the view, and I paused for just a second, staring at the magnificence of my city, before Stryker urged me on. We passed a mahogany bar, behind which two busy bartenders filled glasses with wine for the gathering crowd. I looked longingly but didn’t ask Stryker to pause. We both needed to stay sharp, after all.
“Look at every face,” Stryker said. “If Lynx is here, I want to see him before he finds us.”
I nodded, suddenly less interested in Circle Line’s interior decorating skills and much more concerned with my companions. We continued on up the stairs to the mid-deck, this level less formal than the first. We walked the length of it, examining every face, then moved outside. A walkway ran the length of the boat, the interior side lined with padded benches and the ocean side protected by a chest-high rail. We covered the entire deck, didn’t see Lynx, then moved back into the cabin.
I noticed a ladies’ room and told Stryker to wait up. For a second I didn’t think he was going to leave my side, but fortunately we didn’t have to have that argument. He silently conceded my privacy, turning to lean against a wall as I pushed open the door and entered the less plush but sparkling clean ladies’ room.
I’d been desperate for a bathroom, and as I was washing my hands, I realized I was also desperate for a touch-up. I looked totally bedraggled. Not too surprising, I supposed. In the short span of a day, I’d been poisoned, chased, terrified and threatened. I still looked better than I did after a long night of drinking, though. I suppose that counted for something.
I dug in my tote until I found my brush, then tried to do something with my hair. The summer heat and humidity from the boat had hit it hard, and somehow it was managing to be both limp and frizzy at the same time. In my own bathroom—which Jenn and I keep stocked better than Frederic Fekkai’s warehouse—this would be fixable. On this boat, with no product except a sample size of TIGI hairspray, I had no options. I brushed my hair back from my face, gathered it with a barrette at the base of my neck, then sprayed the flyaway ends into place.
Not bad, except that now my pasty skin couldn’t hide beneath my hair. Time for drastic measures. I dumped my tote on the counter, then put everything back in, one item at a time, except for my makeup. I did a quick touch-up with foundation, used a light shade of eyeshadow to make my eyes seem wider, brushed on a hint of blush so that I looked alive, then dabbed the shiny spots with powder. I did my lips last, lining them first, then using the same MAC lipstick I’d used to leave Stryker a message in the parking garage. I had to smooth the lipstick with the tip of my finger to get rid of the dust and dirt, but once it was cleaned up, it worked just fine. See? That’s why I spend a fortune on quality cosmetics. They can take the abuse.
Once I was done, I took a step back from the mirror and inspected the results. Not bad, especially when you considered that what I really needed was a shower and a nap. But I did feel better, and just knowing I didn’t look like a vagrant gave me a boost. Considering my life was on the line, I fi
gured I needed all the help I could get.
Stryker was waiting right where I’d left him, and as I stepped out of the restroom, his gaze skimmed over me. I expected to hear a sarcastic comment about females and primping and wasting valuable time. It didn’t come. Instead, I saw a flicker of heat in his eyes, and for just one moment, that reaction made me forget the direness of my situation.
“Feel better?”
“Loads.”
“Good. You look great.”
I smiled, feeling pretty and feminine as he took my arm and led me up the stairs to the sundeck.
Smaller than the previous two, this deck was my favorite simply because it placed us out in the open with a grand view of the skyline and the sky. We were high above the river now, and the cool breeze from the water felt fabulous after the heat of the summer day. Benches were lined up one behind the other, and we walked to the back of the boat, taking a seat on the very last bench. The yacht’s wake churned just below us, and that, coupled with the steady pulse of the water beating against the sides of the boat, created a cacophony of sounds that enveloped and soothed. I turned sideways in my seat, relaxing just a little as I took in the stunning skyline passing beside us.
“Keep a lookout,” Stryker said. “But I don’t think he’s here.”
“Me either.” Reluctantly, I turned away from the view, the game sucking me back to reality. “I don’t think I’m fair game yet, anyway.”
That obviously surprised him. “Why not? The clue on the CD is the qualifying clue, right? I thought you said that in PSW once the target solves the qualifying clue, then the assassin can start doing his thing.”
“That’s right. But I don’t think we’ve solved it yet.”
He held his hands out, indicating the boat. “Not that this isn’t a lovely way to spend an evening, Mel, but if the solution wasn’t Circle Line Harbor Lights Cruise, then why are we here?”
“Maybe I just wanted to spend some quality time with you?” I retorted. My intention had been to tease, but there was too much truth in the words, and I felt my face heat. Spending time alone with Stryker was appealing, and under other circumstances, a slow cruise around lower Manhattan with him would be the perfect way to spend an evening.
Too bad the specter of possible death had to step in and ruin my good time.
“Sorry,” I said, before he could answer. “I’m just a little punchy.” I shifted again on the bench and prepared to explain. “We solved the Circle Line part, but so what? We haven’t found any other clue or noticed anything relevant to the game at all. If we were online, we’d probably be maneuvering through a digitized version of this ship, clicking on various items around us until we found the solution. That would trigger the assassin.”
“The solution,” he repeated. “You mean it would be over? The whole thing just turns into a race for your life?”
“No, I just meant that particular solution. It would be another clue, actually. And then we’d have to solve it in order to find the next clue. And so on and so on until we get to the end or the assassin makes a kill. Whichever comes first.” I said the words blandly, as if I were simply stating a geometric proof. But there was nothing bland about these facts, and I shivered.
Beside me, Stryker slipped off his jacket and put it over my shoulders. Before he did, I saw him take the gun and slip it into the waistband of his jeans, using the tail of his shirt to hide the butt.
“I’m not really cold,” I said.
He met my eyes, and I saw understanding there. “I know.” He took my hand, his fingers twining with mine. I hesitated, then leaned against him, relief pouring over me when he curled his arm around my shoulder. Beside us, the skyline seemed to float by, the lights of the buildings starting to twinkle in the growing dusk.
We sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes before Stryker spoke again. “You’re probably right. But I still want you to be careful. Don’t drop your guard.”
“I won’t.” I turned in his arms. “Too bad we can’t just stay on this boat forever. If we never solve the clue, he can never start hunting me.”
There were a lot of reasons why that plan was unworkable, but we both knew the biggest one. It was Stryker who finally voiced it. “If we don’t solve the clue, we’ll never find the antidote. And the clock is ticking. Any ideas what to do now?”
I wanted Stryker to hold me and make it all better. But that wasn’t an option. I was the one with the skill to interpret clues. And I was the one whose ass was on the line. I sat up straight, shifting out from under his arm as I leaned across him for the laptop case. “We go back to the clue,” I said. “And we figure out what we missed.”
Chapter
27
W hile the computer booted up, Stryker watched Mel with undisguised fascination. She’d put on makeup in the restroom, and in doing so, she’d also put on a layer of confidence. He wasn’t surprised by the result—even when his mother had been the most ill, she’d religiously applied her makeup. At first he’d protested, telling her she looked great and needn’t bother, but she’d insisted. And it hadn’t taken long to see that the woman had had more energy and concentration on the days when she’d gotten dressed and made up. Even on her last days, he’d made sure the nurses had listened when his mom insisted on showing the world the face she’d wanted it to see.
He thought about her now, watching Mel, and he realized just how alike the two women were. They were both fighters. Both strong women who weren’t afraid to speak their minds and think for themselves. He wondered briefly what kind of a woman Jamie Tate had been, and once again he felt the familiar tug of regret and guilt that he hadn’t been able to save her.
He hadn’t been able to save his mother, either. Cancer had been too elusive an assassin, even for a Marine. He’d told himself it wasn’t his failure; her body had broken down, and there’d been no way he could have fought that. Time would heal the loss.
When Jamie Tate had died, though, the failure had been his alone, a wound that would scar him forever, even though he’d never even met the woman.
Everything was different this time. He knew Mel. She was healthy. She was alive. And the thought of seeing her cut down—seeing that vibrant, sarcastic, beautiful light destroyed—was simply too much to bear. It wouldn’t happen because Stryker wouldn’t let it happen.
He’d worked as a bodyguard enough times to know that, as her protector, he shouldn’t even think about letting this get personal. Get personal, and you open the door to the possibility of making a mistake.
Too late, though, because this was personal. Personal for Mel and personal for him. And it was for that very reason that he’d make sure Mel stayed safe. And in the end, he’d find the son of a bitch who’d done this to them, and he’d nail his sorry ass.
“Hey,” she said, her smile just a tad too knowing. “You with me?”
“Absolutely.” He shoved his rambling thoughts from his head and focused on the computer. She’d opened the clue again, and now Stryker tried to coax some flash of brilliance from the nonsensical words.
Close, my dear, but not quite yet….
How long has it been since you felt my assassin’s kiss?
Like Dorothy, the sand slips away….
x2 + y2 = r2
y = mx + b
Like starlight in your pocket, a touch of the familiar
before your lights
go out
and you’re lost…alone…in the dark…never
again to be found.
“‘Assassin’s kiss’ has to mean when he stuck you,” Stryker said, thinking out loud.
“Right. That’s what I think, too. And we already know what the equations mean. Circle. Line.”
“And starlight, lights and dark probably refers to the Harbor Lights cruise,” he continued.
“Except here we are and no new clue has hit us on the head.”
“That’s why we’re sitting here now,” he said. He squeezed her hand. “We’ll figure it out. I’m not going
to let anything happen to you.”
She lifted a brow. “Can you suck the poison out of my blood?”
“Want me to try?”
Her cheeks flushed red even under the makeup she’d applied, and he stifled a chuckle. “Thanks for the offer,” she said, her eyes twinkling. “Maybe I’ll take a rain check if I get really desperate.”
“You really know how to hurt a guy.”
“There are all kinds of desperate,” she said, her voice husky but her eyes amused.
“Is that so?”
“Absolutely.” She kept the smile, but the amusement soon faded, replaced by an expression he couldn’t quite read. She reached out and stroked his cheek, the velvety touch both tempting and tender. “Thank you again,” she said. “For being here. And for watching out for me.”
“Mel, I—”
“Come on,” she interrupted, nodding at the screen. “We need to get back to it.”
“Right. Okay.” He sucked in a deep breath, hoping the oxygen would help him focus.
“ ‘Close, my dear, but not quite yet,’ ” she read.
“Probably just a commentary about finding the message on the CD,” he suggested.
She nodded. “That’s my thought, too. Patting us on the head and telling us, ‘Good job, now go jump through some more hoops.’ ”
“Keep going. What about this next line: ‘How long has it been since you felt my assassin’s kiss?’ Telling you there’s a ticking clock. A time bomb.”
She grimaced, and he regretted his choice of words. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll buy that. Next?”
“The Dorothy line,” he said. “That one just sounds like a warning. ‘The sand slips away.’ Dorothy had that hourglass, right? So he’s telling us that you’re running out of time.”
She scowled. “I’ll second that.”
“I think you’re right about the equations,” he said without pausing. “They probably simply mean what they mean. But these last two lines. Could they mean more than just the Harbor Lights Cruise?”
