Deadly Desires

by Ann Christopher

  He had a tough time finding one.

  He thought of Kira’s determined attempts to escape Kareem. He thought of all the times she’d asked Dexter for help, and all the times he’d said no. He thought of the wild fear he’d seen in her eyes on more than one occasion, and how he’d told her, on more than one occasion, that she wasn’t his problem.

  “You don’t know what it’s like,” she’d said, and he’d sensed her rising panic.

  What had he done then?

  The guilt nearly doubled him up, but he forced himself to remember and, worse, to examine the kind of man he really was, which bore no relation to the kind of man he’d thought he was.

  What had he done then?

  He’d sent this brave, strong, fighter of a woman back home, to her crazed monster of a husband, and that monster had ...

  Face it, Brady. Be a man.

  Attacked her.

  The sudden certainty hit him like a lightning strike directly from God, or maybe that was the white-hot flash of his consuming rage. Whatever it was, it threatened to choke him.

  He felt the seductive pull of several possible reactions, all of them wrong. He wanted to tip his head back and roar like the Hulk, to let the fury swell until it made his muscles bulge and his clothes split down the seams and fall off his body in tatters. He wanted to swipe all her food to the floor, and then use the heavy tray table as a bat to shatter the window. Most of all, he wanted to march down to the Justice Center and use his service pistol to pump a few dozen holes into Kareem Gregory’s forehead before putting the pistol in his own mouth and giving the trigger a nice hard pull.

  Because Kareem Gregory was the attacker, yeah, but Dexter was the unforgivably judgmental genius who’d handed her over to him on a silver platter, and neither he nor Kareem deserved to live another day.

  Except that none of those reactions would help Kira now, and she was the only thing that mattered in this whole sorry mess.

  So he swallowed as much of the bloodlust as he could, which was not, unfortunately, all of it. The best he could do was turn his back on her while he paced over to the far wall, screamed like a silent gargoyle, and tried as hard as he could to crush his skull between his hands. Five good seconds of this wasn’t enough, but it was all he allowed himself. Taking ten years off his life in the process, he slammed his snarling emotions in a locked and reinforced cage, wiped his expression clean, and turned back to Kira.

  She hadn’t moved. Her face, blank as a poker-playing professional’s, was still turned away. If he hadn’t seen the sparkling track of one tear as it traced down her cheek, he might have thought she’d suffered complete spontaneous petrifaction.

  All the stupid things he could say right now crossed through his mind, one lie after another.

  You’ll be fine.

  You’re safe now.

  Kareem can never hurt you again.

  Why bother with any of it? It wasn’t like some magic combination of words would heal her.

  So he did the only thing he could do. Walking to the bed, taking care not to look her in the face—not now, anyway, because something told him she couldn’t handle it now—he laid his hand over hers where it rested on the blanket, twined his fingers with hers, and squeezed.

  Chapter 6

  The good thing about being raped, Kira supposed, was that it put lesser humiliations in perspective. That being the case, she clung to the solid warmth of Brady’s hand, gathering strength from him and not caring, in that one weak moment, that he didn’t like her. This was a pity touch for the poor sickling. She knew that. Brady had never deigned to voluntarily touch her before now. Oh, no. In fact, when she let her enthusiasm get the better of her the other day and gave him a thank-you hug, he immediately pulled away with revulsion, as though he’d been served a steaming plate of vomit.

  The regular, prerape Kira would have thrown off his hand and let him have it big-time for feeling sorry for her. This new Kira was just grateful for a moment of human contact and compassion, even if it was from Special Agent Perfect and Unsullied himself.

  But then she caught herself. Kareem had taken her body against her will, yeah, but he couldn’t steal her pride. She wouldn’t let him steal her pride.

  Yanking her hand free, she swiped that stupid tear off her face (she hated being weak and emotional) and pretended the last several minutes hadn’t happened.

  “Where—” Her hoarse voice wasn’t up to speed on the show-no-weakness thing, so she paused to clear her throat. “Where is he now?”

  “The Justice Center,” Brady said.

  Since they were now back in safe waters, Kira risked a glance up into the brown blaze of his eyes. “He needs to be arraigned, though, right? When is that?”

  “Nine A.M.”

  “He won’t get bail, will he?”

  Whoa. A shadow crossed over Brady’s face, a dark flash of murderous intent come and gone so quickly she could barely register its presence. Maybe Kareem should try to stay in jail. It might be the safest place for him, at least while Brady looked like that.

  “Not if I have anything to say about it.”

  It was tempting to let this be some comfort to her, but she’d spent far too much of her life doing an ostrich imitation with her head deep in the sand, and she needed to break that habit.

  “But you don’t have anything to say about it, do you, Brady?”

  His lips twisted. If there was one thing she knew about Brady, it was this: he didn’t like not being in charge. Funny, wasn’t it? He and Kareem had that in common. “The US attorney knows how I feel about the need to keep Kareem off the street. So I’m hoping for the best.”

  “He set me up, you know.” For some reason, it seemed important for Brady to know the whole story, or at least as much of the whole story as she could bear to tell him. “The personal ad in the paper that I thought was from his supplier? It was a fake. He wanted to see what I’d do with the information. A test of my loyalty, I guess you could say. I failed, just in case you’re wondering.”

  Brady’s expression was now so dark and fathomless it was like looking into a shadow. “I see.”

  “I’m confused, though. Since the information I gave you was a false lead that led to the search of an empty warehouse, how did you find out about the real warehouse?”

  “I can’t tell you that,” he said mildly.

  He couldn’t tell her. Please. Like that would stop her from asking now that all kinds of exciting possibilities were sparking in her brain. “Someone flipped on him, didn’t they? You have another confidential informant besides me, don’t you? Or should I say a real confidential informant, since the information I gave you didn’t amount to anything. That’s it, isn’t it, Brady?”

  Unfortunately, he had his poker face firmly in place.

  “As I just said, I can’t tell you that.”

  They stared at each other, and the final dot connected for her when she remembered who’d been absent from Kareem’s celebration dinner. “Oh, my God. It was Kerry, wasn’t it? He’s your informant, isn’t he?”

  A funny thing happened then: Brady blinked.

  And that little give was answer enough for her even though he stuck to his script. “I can’t tell you that.”

  “You won’t tell me that,” she clarified.

  “Yeah.” His voice was hard now, a titanium rod surrounded by four feet of steel encased in concrete. “I. Won’t. Tell. You. That.”

  But she already knew, and understanding began to sink in. If Kerry was the snitch, then he was a dead man. Simple as that. The DEA would try to protect him, sure, and they’d go through the motions. They’d put him in WITSEC, and they’d post a guard outside his door, and they’d smuggle him to some new city, but it wouldn’t matter in the end. Even if Kerry was given twelve new identities, underwent facial reconstruction, and flew off to live with monks atop a Tibetan mountain, it wouldn’t matter.

  Wow. And here she’d thought she had the shortest life expectancy of anyone in Kareem’s circl
e.

  The ache from all this unnecessary loss pulsed in time with her heartbeat. “Oh, Kerry,” she murmured, forgetting that she wasn’t alone.

  Brady shifted closer, and suddenly he wasn’t just standing there—he was looming. Those dark eyes, piercing on a good day, now cut through her with a scalpel’s sharp edge. It felt as though there was something inside her that he wanted to see, and he wouldn’t stop slicing until he revealed it.

  “You’re awfully concerned about your husband’s lieutenant, Mrs. Gregory. Is there a story there?”

  God. This man was so intuitive, he really should hang out a shingle and start a career reading palms or crystal balls or some such. He could make a fortune and retire by the end of the year. That was another thing he had in common with her husband: they both had an eerie ability to see things they shouldn’t.

  Still, when you were married to a sociopath, you learned how to hold your cards close to the vest, and there was nothing like a good deflection to catch people off guard. “That’s funny, Brady. I know I was a little out of it, but I could’ve sworn you called me Kira back in my motel room.”

  Bull’s-eye.

  The good special agent dropped his gaze, and just before he turned to grab a chair and set it by her bed, she thought she saw a flush creep up the hard planes of his jaw.

  She watched while he spun the chair around and straddled it, and she felt like a boxer sitting in her corner during a championship bout, waiting for the bell to signal the beginning of the next round.

  It didn’t take long.

  “We need to talk.”

  She didn’t care for the new solemnity in his voice, or for the way he wasn’t meeting her eyes again. His utter focus on her blankets made dread skitter up her spine.

  “We’ve been talking,” she said flatly.

  “You could go to the police.” His gentle voice unraveled her defenses and made her feel more exposed than if she’d paraded naked through Times Square at noon. “You could press charges—”

  “ No.”

  “—and you know there are resources available for battered women—”

  “ No.”

  “Maybe you should think about it.”

  One arrested moment passed, and then, without warning, she burst into laughter. Ugly, hysterical, uncontrollable laughter.

  Brady looked alarmed, probably because he was afraid all the commotion would bring the nurses running. “Mrs. Gregory—”

  Tears streamed down her cheeks now, and she spent a couple of seconds swiping at them and trying to get it together. She had a better chance of walking to the moon, but, hey, a girl had to try.

  “Call the police, Brady? Really? Press charges? Really? This is your best advice after all your years of law enforcement training? And you’re basing this on—what? You think a domestic violence charge or maybe a restraining order will stop Kareem Gregory in his tracks even though the DEA, the IRS, and pretty much the entire federal government can’t? Brilliant idea. Thanks so much for the advice. All my problems are solved.”

  Weariness crept over Brady’s expression, aging him ten years right before her eyes. Resting his elbows on the tall back of the chair, he rubbed his face so hard she was surprised his features didn’t fall to the floor.

  Finally, he lifted his head and spoke again, in a tender voice that just ripped her apart. “I know testifying against him would be hard, but you could do it. You’re strong. You can do anything you set your mind to.”

  That was the thing, though. She wasn’t. She couldn’t. If she got up there on the witness stand, she would open a whole Pandora’s box of shameful secrets about herself. Like how she and Kareem had had the most varied and exciting sex life imaginable back when they first got married. Like how she’d been leading Kareem on, kissing and touching him and letting him touch her as though they could heal their marriage, when she knew all along that she wanted a divorce. Like how ambivalent she’d been, even up until the moment things spun out of control on that terrible night. How she’d wanted Kareem. How her body had hungered for him.

  How she deserved what happened to her.

  How the rape was no one’s fault but hers.

  “I can’t testify,” she told Brady. “Don’t ask me again.”

  Thankfully, he recognized a brick wall when he saw one. “Okay.”

  “Okay.”

  They sat in companionable silence for a minute, until her exhaustion began to take hold. Lying back against the pillows, she turned on her side and smoothed the blankets, almost wishing he would take her hand again.

  “Tired?” he asked.

  “Yeah. I have a concussion, so ... ”

  “Ah. The mystery is finally solved.”

  Brady eased closer, now resting his arms on the bed’s side rail rather than the back of his chair. Some of the harshness bled out of his expression, making him less formidable. Almost human, like the rest of the mere mortals in the world.

  “How are we going to keep you safe, Mrs. Gregory?”

  What a nice idea. Doomed, but nice. “We can’t.”

  His lips twisted with what looked like disagreement, but he didn’t argue. “What are your plans?”

  She smiled, fighting against the approaching sleep that made her eyelids heavy. “Now I take my boards and find a job as a nurse. I took my last final yesterday, which makes me a graduate. Did you know that?”

  “I thought you looked different.” She had her eyes closed now, but she could hear the amusement in his voice. “Congratulations.”

  “Thank you.”

  A pause, then he said, “And then what happens?”

  “Then I live my life. Because Kareem has taken the last thing from me that he’s ever going to get.”

  It took him longer to speak this time, as though his thoughts didn’t want to be corralled and organized. “Good for you. But what does that look like?”

  “Hell if I know, Brady. I’m making this up as I go along.”

  Just before she fell asleep, she imagined a light touch along the side of her face, as if he’d skimmed her cheek with gentle fingers.

  Chapter 7

  Kira had no idea how long Brady stayed, but he was gone well before the doctor woke her up to give her a final once-over. After a particularly disgusting breakfast of runny oatmeal, fake scrambled eggs, and cold toast, the nurse gave her a stack of discharge instructions and she was wheeled through the sliding glass doors to the curb, where several cabs idled. She took one back to the motel.

  Her car was still in the parking lot, which was something of a disappointment. In a neighborhood that was surely overrun with thieves in all shapes and sizes, her little vehicle had been rejected and she could not, alas, report it missing and try for the insurance money.

  Ah, well.

  A quick prayer seemed appropriate. “Please, God,” she said to the blue sky overhead as she unlocked the door, climbed inside, and tried the ignition. After a discouraging rumble or two, the engine actually turned over—it worked, it really worked!—making her feel guilty for her lack of faith.

  “Thank you.” Feeling an unexpected surge of affection, she rubbed the dashboard. “Thank you so much.”

  Then she pulled out of the parking lot, drove several blocks to the address she’d found in the Yellow Pages before she left the hospital, and parked outside a glass storefront, above which hovered one of those rolling steel security gates.

  Joe’s Gun World.

  Ah, yes. This neighborhood was full of fine establishments, wasn’t it?

  She got out of the car, but loitered on the curb for a minute, having a tough time making her feet walk inside. Though Kareem had guns, and his bodyguards carried guns, and she knew he kept guns somewhere in their house, she wasn’t comfortable around guns. She’d never touched a gun, held a gun, or even passed through the rifle section at Walmart.

  There was another regret to add to the long list of regrets she had about her marriage: she should have asked the bastard to take her to target practic
e. He’d have been thrilled with her interest in something so near and dear to his twisted heart.

  Well. Enough procrastinating.

  Taking a deep breath, she went through the door, which had a jingling overhead bell just like the one at her favorite bakery. The place was, to her surprise, well lit, clean, and uncluttered. The walls were lined with rifles, yeah, but there were racks of clothes for the well-dressed gun owner, including orange hunting vests, various Elmer Fudd hats, and a huge section of what looked like safari jackets, just in case you were headed to Tanzania to hunt lions and elephants.

  “Can I help you?” said a voice to her right.

  This must be Joe. He was not the Joe of her imagination, a bristled, overweight guy with a military haircut and tobacco stains on his plaid shirt. No. This guy reminded her of Fred and George from the Harry Potter series: young, tall, red-haired and friendly.

  “Ah, hi,” she said. “I’m, ah, looking for a pistol.”

  “Great. Let me show you a few things.” Just like the guy at Tiffany who’d shown diamond earrings to her and Kareem a few years back, he led her to a gleaming glass case. “Any idea what you have in mind? We’ve got some nice ones that could fit in your purse—”

  She could see where he was going with this. There was a whole row of silver pistols—nickel-plated, weren’t they?—that were way too cutesy for what she had in mind. Did those things have the firepower to actually hurt anyone? Why not just throw a brick instead?

  “Let me get this straight.” Time to interrupt this spiel before it really got going; the next thing she knew, he’d be showing her pistols in pink and lavender with matching rhinestone-studded purses and shoes. “If I get one chance at protecting myself in the middle of the night, say, or one shot at an intruder, or, I don’t know, one chance to hit a rapist over the head with my gun before I try to run away and escape—this is the gun you want me to have? Is this the gun your mother has? Or your sister?”

  Joe’s wide-eyed, drop-jawed expression eased into a wry smile. “Something tells me you have a weapon in mind already.”