Gabriel West Still the One

by Fiona Brand

  He'd set up one previous meet with Elgan Reed under the same conditions. Reed had gone to the motel unit and waited until the phone rang. To Reed, he was just a voice over the phone, but it had given him a chance to study the man. He was nervy, a little uncertain. This was probably the first big deal he'd brokered, which made him a pain in the ass and perfect for the job.

  If Reed and his couriers fumbled the ball and got

  caught, then they were on their own. They wouldn't be able to implicate him because they had no idea who he was, and there was no way the jade could be traced back to him. Even if there was speculation that he might have been the perpetrator of the theft, then it wouldn't be his problem; he would be gone. After tonight, he would cease to exist.

  He picked up his phone and pressed a short dial. Seconds later the motel receptionist came on the line and connected him through to the unit. He watched as Reed picked up the receiver. "What's going on—" "The package is in the safe." He gave Reed the combination. Reed yelled for a pen and swore as he scribbled out the sequence, bitching that he hadn't turned up in person to make the transaction.

  One of the men took the painting off the wall, dialed the numbers and opened the safe.

  ''Make the payment. If you try to leave the room before I've verified that the deposit's in my account, I'll kill you."

  Reed's blustering trailed off. "Now, there's no need for that—" His face had gone pale and shiny with sweat. He swore beneath his breath. "You're watching us.'' His swallow was audible. ''Where are you?" His gaze flitted around the room, fixed on the window in front of him, and he swore again. "Hold on."

  Reed held the phone away from his ear and began talking to his friends, his voice rapid as he stabbed a finger at the window.

  In the same instant a shadow detached itself from the shrubbery between the motel units, and his eyes flickered with shock. He should have spotted anyone approaching the unit, but somehow he'd missed the movement, and even now he couldn't make the figure out clearly because whoever it was was dressed in black. The shadow moved again, and this time he caught the sharp edge of a profile—and a lip mike.

  Adrenaline pumped, electrifying him. He'd been made.

  He didn't know how it had happened, but the only reason for armed police to be here was because somehow they'd found out about the meet.

  Gently, he replaced the receiver on its rest, picked up the gun and the briefcase, and walked out the back door.

  West paused at the back-door entrance of the motel unit just as the door burst open. Two men caromed into him, one catching him full in the chest with a package. The momentum shoved all the breath from his lungs and slammed him back against the wrought-iron railing that bounded the small deck. His gloved hands closed in automatic reflex around the small, heavy cardboard box as one man sprawled back, winded, into the open doorway, and the other scrambled and half fell down the slippery steps.

  His vision wavered, heat and cold tingled through him in a disorienting torrent, as if he'd just walked into some strange electrical field, and a dizzying sense of deja vu hit him. He staggered, his vision faded, became overlaid with another—hot blue sky, blinding heat, the dank smell of a river. His gloved hand curled around rain-slick railing, cold metal anchoring him in place as he fought to orient himself, and for a moment he had a sense that he was wearing antique garments, his chest sheathed in a breastplate of thick, toughened leather as hard as wood, the hilt of a sword burning in his hand.

  He was vaguely aware of the sprawled man scrambling to his feet, felt a wrench as the cardboard box was ripped from his grasp, then static erupted from his lip mike, and the dizzying conviction that he'd been transported to another place, another time—for however brief a moment—was replaced by a moment of utter clarity.

  "Tyler."

  His gut twisted, certainty settled in his mind. He should never have left her alone.

  He spoke rapidly into the lip mike as he ran down the slick, cobbled path. "Two men, heading north. They've got the jade. I'm going back for Tyler."

  Static exploded in his ear. He shoved the mike away from his mouth as he rounded a corner, his gaze skimming the layout of the buildings as he calculated the quickest route between the blocks of units and the thick banks of ornamental plantings. Cursing, he shoved through a thick screen of palm trees.

  * * *

  The rain finally abated. Tyler wound down the misted window of the car and breathed a sigh of relief as a breeze flowed in, dissipating some of the claustrophobic heat that had built up in the car. She'd wiped the windows several times in an attempt to maintain some kind of a view of the street, and in the end she'd left them alone, because as fast as she wiped they steamed up again and, with rain sliding down the glass, she hadn't been able to see a thing anyway.

  She pressed Redial on Cornell's number again. This time, instead of his answering service, she got an engaged signal, which was progress. She checked her watch and resolved to try again in one minute.

  In total, only twenty minutes had passed since West and the others had disappeared into the motel complex; it felt like an hour.

  Sliding the cell phone into her bag, she hooked the strap over her shoulder, pushed the passenger door open and stepped out onto the street, breathing in the musty tang of wet trees and the flowering shrubs that overhung the sidewalk. Instead of cooling the temperature, the rain had increased the humidity, turning the road into a steam bath. Her skin was clammy with heat. Even her clothes felt damp.

  Tyler heard her name called and spun to see a dark figure just metres away. Shock jolted along her spine. She stared in disbelief at a lithe shadow of a man. His gaze fastened on hers, flat and cold, and that first shock of recognition gave way to confusion.

  She was used to seeing him in a suit, always neat, always urbane. She'd thought she knew him as well as she knew Richard or Harrison, but this man was a complete stranger.

  He lifted his hand, and it was then that she saw the gun.

  "Get in the car." The gun centered on a point between her brows. The streetlight glinted coldly off the blunt-nosed end of the barrel. "Driver's seat. Now."

  Adrenaline flooded her system, holding her frozen for long seconds, then her mind spun into overdrive. Her fingers tightened on her bag. The eyes locked on hers were icily light and remote—and completely devoid of emotion. She knew nothing about this kind of confrontation except that if she got in the car, that would be it, she wouldn't get out alive. "No."

  The gun remained centered on her forehead. Ashley James moved toward her, his step slow, easy.

  He was dressed all in black, the clothes snug-fitting, and he held a black briefcase in one hand. In the sleek clothes he looked alien and dangerous; his shoulders broad, his figure leanly muscular and athletic.

  She wondered that she hadn't noticed his build before, or the way he moved, but then she'd only ever seen him in a business perspective. Even at social occasions, he had always come across as more neutral than overfly masculine. He'd always been impeccably dressed—seeming older than the mid-thirties she knew him to be—and a little distant, as if he couldn't quite fit in.

  His hair was different—dyed platinum-blond and cut in a short spiky style that made him look years younger. He'd also done something to change the color of his eyes. Beneath the yellowish street-lighting, they were a light, icy color instead of the grayish shade she was used to seeing.

  "Get the keys out of your bag," he said softly. "Do it slowly, then get in the driver's seat."

  Adrenaline continued to flood her system, a constant drip feed that made her heart race and sent fine tremors shaking through her. She knew this game— had seen it played out countless times on the streets—although never with a gun. The gun was hard to dismiss, but the basics of confrontation remained the same. Keep the eye contact steady. Don't move backward, unless you meant to run. "Or what, Ashley?" The soft goad in her voice came naturally, dredged up from a part of herself she'd tried hard to forget. "Are you actually going to shoot m
e?"

  The distant wail of a siren sounded. Ashley's gaze shifted to the street, then back again. The gun didn't waver.

  The siren grew louder. The high-pitched ululation made Tyler's heart slam. When she'd been a child that had been a sound to fear—now it could provide the leeway she needed. They were on a reasonably busy road, and it was Saturday night. The vehicle could be an ambulance, but there was every chance it was a police car and that it would come this way, passing within bare metres of them. All she had to do was move closer to the road.

  She stepped sideways, not taking her gaze off Ashley. "You attacked me in the garage."

  The siren was growing louder by increments, stretching her nerves to breaking point.

  Ashley moved sideways, too, but away from the road and the glare of the streetlight, edging into the shadows so that only the pale shape of his face, his shock of blond hair, and the shiny glint of the gun were visible.

  "A diversionary tactic. I needed suspicion to be firmly on you before I proceeded to the next step."

  Tyler felt sick. "You were going to implicate me in the theft, then kill me so you could get away with the jade?"

  His teeth gleamed in the shadows. "Not exactly. The jade was just part of the game. It was valuable to you, so I stole it."

  She took a breath. The siren was close, the pulsing sound filling the night. "So this is about me."

  "Wrong," he said softly. "It's all 'about me. I steal from the rich—but I don't just want their jewelry. I like to take everything."

  A police car shot past the intersection at the head of the street. The strobing blue-and-red lights flashed down the slick road and the siren began to recede.

  Ashley emerged from the shadows. "Get in the car, Tyler, and I'll tell you what I'm going to do to you while you drive."

  Chapter 17

  Carter took a shortcut through soaking-wet shrubbery, cursing as a branch whipped his cheek, the cut stinging like cold fire. The bad guy had climbed out of one of the windows of the motel unit like a slippery eel, evading capture by a split second. Carter had slid while chasing him and his ass was wet. Now he was bleeding.

  He caught a flash of pale skin, heard a high-pitched curse and a tinny jangle as if a set of car keys had been dropped. Droplets showered down on him as he pushed free of a trailing vine, getting him in the eye. .

  He caught the man as he wrenched his car door wide He didn't waste time with words, simply grabbed him by the scruff of the neck, spun him around and clipped him on the jaw. There was no particular finesse involved—but the technique was time-honored. The bad guy went limp and dropped like a stone.

  Carter used the man's belt to fasten his hands behind his back, then assessed his options for keeping the guy on hold until the police arrived. In the end, the solution was simple. He did a quick search and confiscated his wallet and spare car keys, located the key that had been dropped on the ground, then dumped the man in the back seat and locked the car.

  The vehicle was a late-model sedan—all pretty streamlined curves—the kind that was fitted with a factory security system designed to stop car thieves dead in their tracks. Once the locking device was activated, everything was effectively frozen. The car couldn't be started and the doors and windows couldn't be opened from the inside or out. Nothing would work until the correct key decoded the computerized lock. The design was revolutionary as far as car security was concerned, but it had its drawbacks. The owner of this car was now effectively contained within a prison.’ He would have to break a window to get out.

  A dark shadow condensed out of darkness. Tyler's heart slammed hard against her chest. It was West, and he was walking up behind Ashley as calmly as any pedestrian on the street.

  The knowledge must have been mirrored in her eyes because she saw the moment Ashley realized someone was behind him, and in that moment she knew he would use the gun.

  Fear flashed through her, and with it another healthy kick of adrenaline. Her fingers tightened on the bag, every muscle tensed. Ashley's head whipped around. Tyler felt the moment that Ashley's focus left her like a weight lifting, and in that moment she launched the bag.

  Adrenaline did strange things. It altered perceptions, so that for an endless moment time seemed to slow, stop; the damp swirl of drizzle, the faint breeze rustling through the leaves and the steady roar of traffic ceased.

  The bag connected solidly with Ashley's shoulder, and in that same moment she saw the swift arc of West's hand as it chopped down on Ashley's wrist, instantly followed by the flat sound as a dark fist snapped Ashley's head back. The gun clattered on the pavement, and sound crashed back.

  "Are you crazy?" West snapped, fury flashing through him. He grabbed Tyler, pulled her out of the light, into the cover of the shrubs, and wrapped his arms around her. He didn't question his instinct to go for cover; he'd counted four bad guys, and they'd all scrambled in different directions.

  He cupped Tyler's face and turned it toward him. The gun pointed at her was his worst nightmare. "Are you crazy, throwing that bag at him?" he demanded, not caring that he was repeating himself. "You could have been shot."

  Her face was a pale oval in the deep pooling shadows. She was tense and too still, her skin unnaturally cold as if all the blood had drained from her face.

  "He was going to kill me anyway."

  The stark flatness of her words sent a chill down his spine. He hadn't gotten a good look at the guy he'd decked, and he hadn't recognized him, but he recognized what was happening to Tyler, she was going into shock again. He grasped her shoulders and shook her slightly, trying to get her to snap out of it. "He had a gun trained on you. That didn't mean he was going to fire it."

  In most confrontations with firearms, the gun never got fired. And if people who were involved in those confrontations knew the statistics of their chances of actually being hit by a bullet if a firearm was discharged, they wouldn't be so petrified.

  "No." Her voice still had that stark, eerie flatness. A small shudder jerked through her. Her gaze finally connected with his, but his relief was short-lived. "He meant to kill me. This was personal."

  West swore softly beneath his breath. "Stay here. Don't move out of the shadows, and keep your movements to a minimum."

  His gaze swept the sidewalk, looking for the gun. When he saw the Bernadelli, his belly went cold; the direct link with the theft of the jade and their stalker, chilling.

  He nudged the Bernadelli farther away from the perp with his booted foot, and studied the still form of the man lying on the sidewalk. He was average height, his body lean and toned. The black clothes and boots were practical B and E gear. The anarchistic spiky blond cut was the only aberration.

  Ashley James. The extent of the deception made West go still inside. He'd met James briefly on a few occasions, and each time the overwhelming impression had been the utter absence of personality.

  Ashley's lids flickered, his eerily light eyes settled on West, and the part of himself that he'd kept hidden poured from him, an overwhelming presence of cold, a basic amorality that would always keep him separate from most of the human race. All the hairs at West's nape lifted and in that moment he knew James intimately.

  Before James could recover fully, West flipped him on his stomach and held him in a wrestling hold, his arm tightened on James's neck, pressing on his carotid—not enough to kill him, but enough to put him out and keep him out for a while. James grunted, fighting the hold. "Don't bother," West said coldly. "You screwed up. You picked the wrong victim. You'll be locked up so long you'll be an old man before you get out, if at all, because Interpol are going to send your DNA profile to every major law enforcement agency on the planet. If you so much as dropped a hair, left a fingerprint or a smear of body fluids anywhere that evidence was collected, they're going to find out."

  West felt James go limp. He kept the pressure on the carotid, counting the seconds, because the brain could only survive so long without oxygen, and he didn't want to kill James. When he was
satisfied that he would stay unconscious, he released the hold and sat back on his haunches, feeling sick to his stomach.

  The sound of footsteps pounding on the pavement jerked his head up. He heard the harsh rasp of the man's breathing, saw the flap of a jacket, the shape of a gun, and flowed to his feet.

  He saw Tyler turn, startled, the bright swing of her hair beneath the streetlight. Adrenaline flooded his system. His heart slammed against his chest and he dove. Everything seemed to flow in slow motion as he wrapped his arms around her and took her down to the pavement.

  The report of a handgun from close range snapped in his ears. He clamped Tyler tight against him and rolled until they were behind the car, his chest tight with panic. A car swished past, the beam of the headlights catching them in its glare. The road was wet, the gutters still running with water. Tyler was lying half beneath him, legs tangled with his, hair spilled over her face. She made an odd gasping sound, and pushed at his chest.

  West's weight finally shifted off Tyler and her chest convulsed as she tried to breathe, but it was as if her entire system had closed down, her throat clamped, lungs burning.

  West snapped a question at her, then another, his hands moving rapidly over her body as he searched for a wound.

  His gaze locked with hers, dark and burning. "Damn it," he roared, "talk to me,"

  Her head spun, and she began to drift. Distantly, she heard West cursing, then his mouth locked over hers. The pressure of his breath made her chest convulse again, the loss of control so complete that she felt as boneless as a rag doll. Her vision dimmed, then abruptly oxygen flooded her lungs. A paroxysm of coughing shook her, and Tyler found herself turned on her side. West's hands gripped her face, his dark eyes glared into hers. "Talk to me."

  She gulped in a breath and swallowed the urge to cough. "I'm not hurt—at least I don't think I am.

  Just winded."

  Relief flooded West. He hadn't found a wound, her pulse was good, but a shot had been fired and he'd panicked. Tyler hadn't been hit. Relief loosened off his tension, then a burning pain registered. He'd been told that getting shot felt a lot like being punched—sometimes like being kicked by a mule. The shock wave hit, numbing the area, and a lot of guys had a period of confusion about whether or not they'd taken a bullet at all before the pain kicked in.