by Jordan Dane
"You said it was urgent. I trust your judgment," Charboneau interrupted. Of course, nothing could be further from the truth. But stroking the man's ego felt prudent.
A long, tedious moment passed before McBride shifted his eyes away from Mantis. Eventually, the man's gaze dropped to the decanter of Cognac, and with a nod, he gestured his intention. "May I?"
Motioning his permission, Charboneau made a mental note to fumigate the interior of the vehicle and toss what was left of a very fine family blend of liquor.
"What is so very important, Mr. McBride? I had hoped to keep our meetings to a minimum, for both our sakes."
Without an ounce of appreciation, the man tossed back the liquor as if it were cheap swill, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Yeah, I know, but something came up." Setting down his empty glass, McBride shifted his eyes to the woman, then back to him. "Can I speak freely?"
"Certainly," he replied, ignoring the usual social etiquette of an introduction to his female companion. Mantis slid closer to him, insinuating her intimacy without so much as a word.
"Before I get into it, I have to ask. Did you deliberately arrange for Detective Raven Mackenzie to be the homicide cop on this case?" The man smiled. Spikes of short blond hair stood at attention atop his head. Icy gray eyes awaited his reply.
A brooding Beethoven filled the void in conversation. Charboneau's eyes drifted toward the television screen once more, finding it more suitable viewing than the crass man sitting before him. The cheetah inched its way through the brush, then leapt from cover to launch an attack, its lean, muscular body poised for the kill. A smirk fought for freedom. He indulged it.
"It was kismet. I couldn't pass up such an opportunity on your behalf. And fringe benefits are plentiful with a job well done. Do you approve of my idea of job satisfaction, Mr. McBride?"
"I don't know how you arranged it, Blue Blood. I am truly in awe of your influence and abilities. But surely you must know how much I hate cops and that I have a long memory when it comes to settling an old score." McBride's eyes darted to the TV, clearly avoiding his.
He knew McBride had no appreciation for the raw power portrayed on the small screen. So for a brief moment, he allowed himself to indulge in his pleasure, but one thought nagged him.
Perhaps McBride had become a liability.
The music began a foreboding crescendo, rousing his blood. Yet despite the tension in the moment, he remained calm, unreadable. His gaze settled on the man.
"I knew you would want to tempt fate with a little retribution, but this mustn't interfere with my plan. What you do with her after our business arrangement is concluded, that is certainly up to you. Do we have an understanding, Mr. McBride?"
Silence. A long moment passed between them.
Logan finally replied, "I have no doubt we understand each other."
On the surface, the man's remark might appear conciliatory, but Charboneau suspected otherwise. McBride had indeed become a liability.
"For now, you have the ability to shape our future association, Mr. McBride. And I, for one, eagerly await your course of action. Whether you work with me or choose another direction, I assure you I am up for the challenge."
Without saying a word, Mantis tensed, her muscles preparing to attack if necessary. He felt her body stiffen, anticipating trouble.
"I'll consider your advice." Logan glanced out the window, then returned his stare. "Let me out here. I believe we've conveyed our intentions."
"I believe we have," he agreed, his expression rigid with contempt.
Signaling his driver to pull over, he watched in silence as McBride left the limo, but the man turned back for a final point.
"Sometimes an animal must remain true to his nature, don't you agree?"
"You will get no argument here, sir." A lazy smile crooked his lips. "I'm sure this goes without saying, but if you divulge our business arrangement to the authorities in any fashion, being torn apart and devoured by savage beasts will seem like the mythological Elysian fields. And as you've seen, my influence transcends many boundaries. Consider your future carefully, Mr. McBride."
As the door slammed shut, he watched the smug expression of the man standing at the curb, waving farewell as the limo pulled away. McBride would be too impetuous to heed his warning.
"It would be quite gratifying to kill that man, in a most painful manner."
"Yes, it would, Nicky." With a demure smile, Mantis slid her slender arm through his. "Would you like me to take care of that?"
"Eventually, my dear. But for now, Mr. McBride will determine his own fate. If he can postpone his revenge, then he might prove a useful ally, and live awhile longer."
"And if he cannot?"
"Then you and I may contrive a DVD of our own, featuring the vulgar Logan McBride."
Her soft, feminine laughter made him smile as his cell phone rang.
"Yes?" His greeting was cryptic; very few people had his personal cell phone number. The familiar voice on the other end needed no introduction.
"The package that you wanted traced? We've located it. When can I meet you to discuss the particulars?"
"Good work. Meet me in an hour at the usual location." Without a word more, he ended the call and turned to his lovely companion.
"Mantis, my dear, I'm afraid I must indulge in another diversion before we have dinner. I hope you don't mind."
Her only response was to softly touch his cheek with a velvet stroke of a finger. Shifting his gaze toward the window, he inhaled deeply, then slowly released it, in anticipation of his next meeting.
He'd paid a lot of money to locate Fiona Dunhill. In his heart of hearts, could he destroy her, or would he ultimately settle for something short of complete annihilation? Regardless, he steeled himself for the next step of his plan.
Only a face-to-face would determine her fate.
CHAPTER 7
The afternoon sun burned off the gray morning clouds, and glistening streams of melted snow held the promise of a break in the weather. None of it lightened Christian's mood as he drove his SUV down a deserted side street. His gut twisted over what he might find inside the old abandoned armory.
Would he be opening a Pandora's box of Fiona's creation?
After pulling a paper from his coat pocket, he confirmed the address. A gray cyclone fence, laden with rusted metal signs, declared the red brick armory to be the property of Dunhill Corporation. Set amidst other forsaken hulls of warehouses, the place looked like a disaster. In the fading gray of winter, even under the warming sun, it looked bleak and ominous.
"Why here, Mickey?" he muttered as he brought his vehicle to a stop. "This place is not exactly your style."
Christian parked next to the main gate, then walked toward the entrance. He reached for the padlock and metal links dangling from the fence. No need for the set of keys in his slacks pocket. The chain had been severed, leaving the gate open.
And just ahead, a discarded shell of a black Mercedes lay atop cinder blocks, stripped of anything valuable. Neon spray paint marred its once sleek finish. The local criminal element had marked their turf with cryptic taunts, thumbing their nose at law enforcement with bright paint. No attempt made to hide the metal remains. Through the vehicle identification number, the police would have identified it sooner or later. He had no need to check DMV records to know. It had once belonged to Mickey.
Hunching his shoulders against the cold, he shoved his hands deeper into his coat pockets. "You sure loved that car, Mick."
Shadowed by the old building, a metal door lay to the right of the elevated delivery bays. The door looked like it would've been Mickey's only option. With a tug, Christian found the entry locked. He tried his keys and gained access.
The sun poured in from the doorway, only dimly lighting the skeletal core of the old munitions factory. The gloom repelled the light as if the shapeless void were a sentient being, cowering from view and hoarding its secrets. Looking overhead, he
noticed every window had been blackened, embellishing the sinister nature of the chamber. A faint smell of paint lingered in the air, making him believe the modification had been recent— and very deliberate.
He stepped farther into the darkness, but stopped short. Tiny feet skittered across the floor. With a frenzied screech, a rat darted to his right, shocked by the sudden exposure to daylight. The commotion caused a ripple effect. An army of unseen creatures slithered for more suitable places to hide, puckering the skin at the nape of his neck. God, I hate rats!
The old building gave him a bad case of the creeps.
The darkness came alive, seizing Christian with panic before he had mentally prepared for it. Despite years of therapy, he succumbed to the sensation, an unavoidable reaction. He kept the door open to reinforce his control over his phobia. If he shut it now, he'd be drawn into it, without footing. As if he were lying in a sensory deprivation tank, or had been set adrift in dead space, he sensed his equilibrium faltering. The oppressive silence weighed heavy, tightening his chest. He felt his breathing grow shallow.
An old, familiar affliction.
One thing was certain. The place could harbor his worst nightmare. No one needed to tell him Mickey had died here. Death loomed heavy in the putrid air. How he knew this, he couldn't quite grasp. Christian no longer questioned his bizarre link to the Grim Reaper. He just knew.
In an instant, he'd been transported back to his childhood terror, the wound made fresh with his early-morning nightmare.
"Deep breath." He found his center and searched for composure. The old terror was hard to quell. "Now let it go, slow." He uttered his reflexive mantra.
To avoid being swallowed by his habitual fear, he shut his eyes. He listened patiently for his heart to slow, until he no longer felt every single beat thrashing in his chest. Yet an odd sensation inched its way hot from his belly to his fingertips. An inexplicable aura warmed him, giving him immeasurable comfort. At first, he couldn't place the peculiar tingle. Soon it had a name.
Raven Mackenzie.
The delicate scent of her skin bathed in fragrant soap. The tentative touch of her fingers along his stomach.
The luster of her dark hair. Eyes that sucked you in, cradling you in safety.
Unlike his usual recovery method for anxiety, the thought of Raven spread rapidly throughout his body and mind. It filled him with serenity. Unnerving. A part of him would've preferred a merciful rap upside the head with a baseball bat. Another side of him longed for—
"Damn it!" he cursed. "Quit thinking from below your belt."
Finally losing the harsh rhythm to his heart, he opened his eyes again, letting Raven dissipate from his thoughts. Getting accustomed to the dark, he found the shapes making sense. Walls of wooden crates, rusted metal foundry equipment, and garbage lay piled in disarray, like his war room at the Dunhill Estate.
At least, that's what he told himself.
Venturing into the shadows to his right, he felt for the lights. His fingers found a panel pulled from the wall, wires exposed. If the damage had been done years ago, he would've expected the wires to be encrusted with dirt or cobwebs. These were free of such texture. Whoever cut the wires hadn't intended Mickey to find the light switch operable near the main entrance.
Closing his eyes again, he let his instincts take over, skills honed over the many years since the violent loss of his childhood.
Just like the war room, Delacorte!
He felt certain the old building maintained a minimal amount of electricity for security reasons. Allowing his mind to wander, he imagined how the electrical circuits might have been set up and began his systematic search for a backup light switch.
If Mickey had died here, surely there must be clues to help him seek the truth. And he'd need light to do a thorough search.
Making his way farther into the darkness, he kept his eyes shut, heightening his other senses. When he neared a solid obstruction, the airflow around him changed with only a faint subtlety. The perception brushed his skin. Coupled with that, sound bounced from the mass and deadened as he drew closer, giving it dimension. He supposed his ability was similar to that possessed by a bat with its sonar. With skill and agility, he sidestepped the obstacles in his path, eventually discovering another light panel in a far corner. This one had juice. The lights crackled to life, flickering a meager battle against the darkness until they eventually won out. He squinted and raised his hand to shield his sensitive eyes from the welcome intrusion.
"Why the hell did you come here, Mick?" he asked again. The place looked like a war zone. From where he stood, light shed no greater understanding.
The obstacles he'd sensed earlier were arranged in a makeshift maze. Discarded machinery, heaps of trash, and rusted barrels were strewn in grand design. Barriers erected in a pattern created a funnel wider by the doorway, then narrowed as the path led farther away to an inner circle.
He wandered the main passage, feeling certain Mickey would've done the same, but he had the benefit of electricity. Mick would've been lost in the dark. Small breaks in the barricades allowed access between the passageways, but unless the man had known the layout, his escape route would've led into countless dead ends like a frustrating maze. Catwalks and metal stairways overhead gave high ground to his attackers, making Mickey an easy target.
When he neared the inner circle of the labyrinth, his jaw fell slack with shock.
A sense of what the man had endured submersed him in an emotional quagmire. He pictured Mickey being tormented, pummeled from above, then ritualistically murdered in the center ring like the main event to a circus. The twisted mind that orchestrated the macabre killing staggered him—a prime example of the cruelty mankind visited on its own. The same kind of deranged mind that could pull the trigger on his younger sister while she ran to her mother in fear.
Fueling his imagination, his senses dimmed the overhead lighting to black, setting the stage for savagery. Flashes of Mickey's terror darkened his eyes, infused by images of his own childhood trauma. Undistinguishable, visions lambasted him in rapid succession, embroiling him in a waking nightmare. Blinding him.
Now I lay me down to sleep— Please, God . . . Help me! The tortured screams of a child filled his brain. Powerless. Trapped. Happening all over again. But a familiar voice beckoned him to release his pain.
The voice cried out, "Stop where you are, Delacorte. We've got a warrant to search the place."
As if he had emerged from a thick haze, his mind slowly cleared. A figure eclipsed a bright light like a vaporous mirage. He raised his hand to shield his eyes. An image of a woman came into focus. Detective Mackenzie hurried toward him, armed with a document. Her partner was close behind. No doubt, he'd just lost his edge in the investigation.
"This is Dunhill property. What brings you here, Detectives?" His words sounded hollow. Jutting from his memory, cruel images still tortured him.
No amount of posturing or stalling would help. What lay in the inner circle would be incriminating enough. He had no hope of dissuading her from her duty. Whatever evidence remained of Mickey's murder would clearly imply a connection to Fiona. No way to stop it. Given his link to the family, he'd consider it a stroke of good fortune if the police allowed him to stay involved with the case at all. Now, he needed Raven on his side. How he would accomplish this feat, he had no idea.
Slapping the paper to his chest, the detective smirked, "Let's drop the charade, shall we? You ditched me earlier so you could come here alone and get a jump on your own investigation. Why are you here, Christian?" Raven questioned.
But the sound of her voice carried in the chamber. They'd have no privacy to talk about how he'd acquired the address. He didn't know how to answer without giving himself away. So he didn't.
Saving him from the wrath of Detective Mackenzie, her partner stepped past him, making his way to the inner circle. "You touch anything, Mr. Delacorte?" the man asked.
"No. Just got here. It took me a while to find
lights that worked." His eyes shifted to the floor, taking in the disturbing scene. "What the hell—"
The cement floor was stained a deep brown, the stench of blood still in the air. Arterial spray tainted a wall, like a gruesome display of modern art. Dried blood told the story. Mickey had died here—in this desolate place. The man's coat and tie were carefully laid out on the floor, away from the heaviest concentration of blood. Shirt buttons had been gathered and set beside the high-priced coat in mockery, trivializing
Mick's lifestyle at the scene of his slaughter. Whoever killed him had no respect for the law. Everything had been laid out for the police in obvious contempt.
Most shocking were the copies of newspaper clippings placed upon a grouping of wooden crates. Some were unrecognizable, but the ones he knew well stole his breath like a punch to the gut.
FAMILY MASSACRED
GUNMEN KILL FAMILY
POLICE ACTION INVESTIGATED
The headlines and photos of his childhood terror filled his eyes and blurred them with tears. Disturbing as these articles were, those set alongside them made his mind reel with even more questions. A chill shivered through him and exposed his heart with the precision of a surgeon.
CHARLES DUNHILL MURDERED
SNIPER KILLS PROMINENT LOCAL
What connection did the murder of Charles Dunhill have to his family's horror? Whoever killed Mickey Blair knew the answers. Suddenly, the sign pinned to Mick's chest invaded his confusion. Seek the truth, Christian.
The truth about what? His eyes zeroed in on the newspaper clippings, blocking out the rest of the world—a world that had ceased to exist for him in that instant. He felt entrenched in his past. Sinking to one knee, he picked up one of the articles with trembling fingers. A tear lost its hold and trailed down his cheek.
Reality hit hard. His past had been nothing more than an illusion—devoid of substance. Fiona must have known. Yet she had chosen to leave him floundering in ignorance. The only person he trusted had left him behind, to discover the truth on his own. But why?
