Deathwatch

by Dana Marton

  She glanced sideways at Cirelli.

  The agent was watching her. “Almost over.”

  Emma, standing close enough to the coffin to lay a hand on it, cleared her throat. “My first memory of Kate is when I talked her into helping me set a trap for the tooth fairy. I was six, just lost my first tooth.”

  Tears flooded Kate’s eyes at the same time as a smile tugged at her lips. God, the tooth fairy incident. She couldn’t believe her sister even remembered that. Kate pressed her fingers to her mouth and listened as Emma gave a slightly different version of the story than she recalled.

  As Emma went on, recounting their mad caper, their father slumped in his seat. Their mother laid her head on his shoulder, raising a tissue to her face.

  An invisible fist squeezed Kate's heart.

  She had to be the most heartless bitch in the universe to let them go through all the grief.

  Or a woman without a choice.

  A movement on the nearest monitor caught her attention—a man about the right height easing in through the side door, stopping just inside, his posture apologetic, as if embarrassed for being this late. The nose was wrong, and the hair color, but that jaw…the jaw was right.

  The breath she was about to take lodged in Kate’s throat, her heart lurching into a desperate rhythm.

  She didn’t have to say anything. Agent Cirelli followed her gaze and pointed at the screen. “That one?”

  Kate nodded, unable to look away, instantly back in Marcos’s penthouse apartment again, blood all over the antique kilim rug, bubbling up Marcos’s throat, coating her hands as she hung on to him and begged him to live.

  Cirelli tapped her earpiece, then snapped out orders into her radio unit to the team of undercover agents who stood by. On the screen, two mourners stood up from the back pew. A member of the chapel choir stepped away from the rest.

  The ceremony went on uninterrupted. Sam Roecker, Kate’s partner at their rehabilitative massage studio said a few words, his face drawn. He was a pioneer in developing a special form of therapeutic massage for abused children who might never have been touched in a way that didn’t hurt, kids who were scared of any physical contact.

  When Kate had knocked on his door for a job six years ago, all she'd known was that she wanted to use her massage therapy skills to help others. He’d hired her, trained her, then eventually made her his partner. He became her friend.

  But she couldn’t look at him long now. She couldn’t look at anyone but the killer. Her entire body stiffened as he stood up, slid out of his pew and slowly moved toward the side door.

  He wouldn’t get far. Undercover agents were blocking the exits.

  He glanced up as he reached the door, right at the camera hidden in the flowers. His cold eyes blazed through the display screen in the van, making Kate gasp. The look on his face sent a message as clearly as if he had spoken.

  I’m coming for you.

  Then he slipped through the door and disappeared from the monitor. A handful of “mourners” followed him, a few seconds behind.

  Agent Cirelli stopped the live-feed and rewound the footage, freezing it on the killer’s face to get a closer look. Endless seconds ticked by as she listened to her earpiece.

  Kate clutched her hands tightly on her lap, telling herself to breathe. They would have him now. The whole nightmare was about to be over.

  But instead of giving the all clear, the agent’s face darkened as she listened.

  “Two agents down,” Cirelli snapped out the words, her face tight with determination as she checked her weapon and reached for the door. “You stay here.” And then she was gone, the door sliding closed behind her with a dull thud.

  Kate couldn’t hear anything from outside the soundproofed van, so she turned back to the surveillance monitors where her memorial service eerily continued. But it was the paused screen she couldn’t look away from.

  On the frozen screen in the middle, the killer stared right at her, as if he knew exactly where she was.

  A cold chill ran down her spine. She rubbed her arms. Almost over. They’d get him. The trap was fool proof, the FBI had promised her that. They’d said they wouldn’t grab him in the chapel to make sure none of her family got hurt, but they had a tight net outside the chapel. He’d have no way to leave the church.

  Mindful of her broken collarbone, she maneuvered her way carefully to the black curtain that separated the back of the van from the front seats, opened it an inch and peered through the gap.

  The double doors of the church, carved with solemn angels, stood closed in silence. She liked those graceful angels, liked coming here on Sundays. Going to church, all of them together, was such a normal family thing, the kind of life she craved, with roots and connections.

  The steps, always crowded before service, now stood empty. But an old woman shuffled through the metal door of the fire exit on the building’s side, wearing a Sunday hat that covered most of her face.

  Her back slightly bent, she made her way carefully forward. She slowed by the real flower delivery van and bent low as if adjusting her shoe. She bent slowly, but straightened and hurried forward much faster a moment later, then ducked between two cars with a sudden agility that belied her age.

  The earth shook when the van exploded the next second, setting off car alarms all around.

  Kate stared in shock as the old woman hurried forward and headed toward the FBI van.

  Asael.

  The realization brought a wave of adrenaline that got her moving at last. She lunged to the front seat, keeping down, ignoring the pain in her shoulder. Fingers trembling, she opened the door on the side away from the killer, just enough so she could slide to the ground, never popping high enough so she could be seen through the window. She closed the door and rolled under the car next to the van, scooted over, rolled under the next vehicle, then the next and the next, hoping to be far enough when the FBI van blew.

  Oh, God. Oh, damn.

  Her broken clavicle ground together in her shoulder, the pain—hot pokers stabbing into her flesh—making her see stars as she went. She gritted her teeth and kept going. Any damage she caused would be negligible in comparison to the damage a bomb could do to her.

  An eternity seemed to pass, but it couldn’t have been more than a minute before the second explosion hit, shaking the ground under her and bringing her to a halt, spraying her with fine gravel. Dust covered her face, sticking to sweat. She tried to blink it from her watering eyes.

  She had dirt in her nose, in her mouth, in her lungs. Her chest spasmed, but she didn't dare to cough, even as her insides shook.

  Her ears rang. She couldn’t hear footsteps, but through the settling dust she could see scuffed brown shoes coming rapidly toward her, the feet way too large for an old woman.

  The feet moved faster and faster. The killer was running now. Probably for his car. Kate held her breath and prayed it wasn’t the one she was hiding under. Then he was right there suddenly, coming straight toward her.

  She reached for the fist-size stone by her hip, even as she knew it wouldn’t make a difference. The next second he would open the door, jump in and back up, see her on the pavement. He'd pull his gun. One bullet and his troubles would be over.

  No, no, no. She gripped the stone. She was too petrified, too bruised and battered to run.

  But instead of jumping into the car above her, he ducked into the next one over. And then he was gone, peeling out of the parking lot as people ran from the church.

  Kate coughed at last, spit dirt, coughed again. She lay still, suddenly boneless, amazed to be alive. At least a full minute passed before she gathered herself enough to crawl from under the car, holding her breath against the pain. The fire and smoke of the burning vans kept her hidden from the church crowd for the moment, blocked from the agents who were trying to herd everyone back inside so they could secure the scene.

  Cirelli was circling the burning FBI van, gesturing wildly with her arms, her mouth moving as
if shouting, although Kate couldn’t hear the words.

  She shook her head, trying to shake the ringing from her ears, but it didn’t work. She needed to lean against something for a second to catch her breath, but the lid of the trunk moved under her hand. The explosion must have popped it open.

  Common sense said she should head back to the agents. Reality said, they couldn’t protect her. They hadn’t been able to protect Marcos, and Marcos had been just a job for the killer. Eliminating Kate was a lot more personal.

  Rauch Asael wouldn’t stop coming until he killed her. He couldn’t afford to let her live. And if he came after her, her family could easily become collateral damage, caught up in the crossfire.

  Even as her knees shook, her overwhelmed brain struggled to think, circling back to the same thought: the only way to keep her family and herself safe was to disappear forever. So instead of running toward the church and the FBI, she opened the trunk wider and slipped awkwardly inside, pulling the lid closed. She coughed again, wiped her face with her sleeve.

  Except for the faint glow of the emergency release lever, darkness surrounded her that smelled faintly like rubber, probably from the spare tire in the tire well under her.

  She didn’t mind the cramped space. It reminded her of the gap behind the washing machine in the laundry closet where, as a kid, she used to hide from her birth mother’s hard slaps. Some people disliked tight, dark places, but she thought of them as sanctuary.

  She closed her eyes. He didn’t get me. She was unhurt. And once she was far away from here, the people she loved would be safe too.

  Her heart slammed against her chest. She was twenty-nine and still lived with her family. She had a job and kicked in money to pay bills, but she’d stayed home.

  The arrangement helped them financially, and it helped her, too. She was saving for a house. And since she didn't have a huge rent payment, she was able to contribute to Emma's college tuition. She could also waive her fees when she had a client whose parents couldn't afford them.

  She’d waited forever to have a family, so she’d been reluctant to leave them, especially since they didn’t want her to go. The Bridges family had been the first and only place she’d truly been safe. In her subconscious, they defined “home” and “safety,” the two things she craved above all else.

  She no longer had either.

  Her breath hitched. Sweat beaded on her forehead. Compared to the air-conditioned van, the trunk was an oven.

  Fire trucks wailed in the distance, coming closer and closer. Her hearing was coming back. In another moment, she could even hear the agents shouting orders. She tuned them out and did her best to untangle her thoughts, her brain barely able to process what had just happened, feverishly trying to come up with a plan for what she would need to do next.

  This was not how the FBI’s set-up was supposed to end. The agents were supposed to grab their man, and she was supposed to be back with her family, explaining herself by now. The sudden change in direction sent panic racing through her.

  She was a massage therapist, not some super spy or action movie heroine. She knew muscles and anatomy. She had no idea how to disappear, how to find a new identity, how to hide from a man who always found his target.

  The sirens came closer—until she felt as if they were going off inside her skull—then suddenly cut off.

  She didn’t know how much time passed before someone came for the car she was hiding in—maybe an hour. She was ready to pass out from the heat. The door opened, then slammed shut. The engine hummed to life.

  Her nails sank into the heel of her hands as her fingers curled into tight fists, her entire body tensing. Oh, God.

  Last chance to change her mind. She could still get out. She could go to the agents.

  But she didn’t. She stayed hidden in the trunk, wracked with doubts, as the car backed out then slowly rolled forward.

  What if she never saw her family again? That invisible hand kept squeezing her heart, hard, until she could barely breathe.

  Tears spilled at last and washed down her face.

  She had thought attending her own funeral would be the hardest part. She’d been wrong.

  Leaving was harder by far.

  Chapter Two

  Broslin, Pennsylvania

  18 Months Later

  “Yo. Murph! You’re home.”

  Murphy Dolan shifted drowsily on the passenger seat of the car as he woke, every limb stiff after the long flight from Germany to Philly then the ride from the airport. He blinked his eyes open, registering the snow first then the fact that they were pulling up his driveway.

  The clock on the dashboard showed two a.m. They'd made good time, no traffic to speak of this time of the night.

  After an eight-month deployment in Afghanistan, his semi-renovated Victorian with its peeling paint and dark windows was the most beautiful sight he’d ever seen. For the first time in a long time, his battered body relaxed.

  “Did I get the house right?” Tommy, his army buddy, peered bleary-eyed through the windshield, leaning his forearms on the steering wheel.

  “This’s it. Thanks, man.” Murph stretched, as much as he could in the cramped space. God, it was good to be home.

  He craved the quiet solitude of his house, the peace and normalcy of the Pennsylvania small town he called home, and the safe sanity of everyday life.

  “Pretty little town,” Tommy commented, a city boy through and through. “Must be nice living in a Christmas postcard.”

  Maybe not that idyllic, but Broslin was a place you’d want to come home to, Murph thought, the kind of place where people knew and watched out for each other. “Wilmington ain’t bad.”

  “City girls.” Tommy offered a sleepy smile. “Bright lights, big titties.”

  Murph shook his head as he got out and grabbed his army duffel bag from the back of the car they’d rented at the Philly airport. He fronted the money, and Tommy drove, since the shrapnel in Murph’s left shoulder still hurt like hell and would have made hanging on to the steering wheel for a long drive too much.

  He didn’t want to think about his injuries now. He didn’t want to think about anything at all. He wanted to go back to sleep in his own bed, in his own house.

  Tomorrow, he’d start rolling again, would figure out a way to fix his shoulder and get back on the Broslin P.D. He was going to finish renovating his house. He was going to reclaim his old pre-deployment life and never leave town again.

  “You want to come in to grab a cup of coffee?” He gestured toward the house.

  An inch or so of snow covered the walkway and the roof, the moon huge in the sky, bathing the carved wood pillars in silver light. Maybe the place did look like a postcard.

  But Tommy rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. “Nah. I’m so close to home, I just want to get there now. Mom's probably waiting up.”

  Murph nodded. “Thanks for the ride. I’ll see you around.” Although he wasn’t sure if they would see each other again. His injuries had permanently retired him from the United States Army Reserves.

  As Tommy backed down the driveway and drove away, Murph filled his lungs with the cold night air. He looked after the car, watched it disappear at the end of the street, then his gaze slid to the house on his left. The FOR SALE OR RENT sign was gone, a single light on in an upstairs window. Looked like he had new neighbors.

  Good. He didn’t like abandoned houses around. They drew crime.

  On his other side, Mrs. Baker’s house slept dark and quiet. She usually spent winters with her grandkids in Florida since her arthritis couldn’t take snow. She needed warmth and sunshine.

  He’d walk around the place tomorrow, make sure everything was all right.

  Murph shuffled up to his front door, yawning. He’d been traveling nonstop since he’d been released from the field hospital in Bagram, Afghanistan two days ago. He was dead on his feet, but his bed was just steps away now.

  He dropped his bag, fished out his keys and
unlocked the door. The house wasn’t exactly home yet, but it would be once the renovations were finished. Right now, except for the main living areas downstairs, most of the place was still a construction zone.

  No big deal. He was grateful that he'd lived to see the place again. Too many of his friends weren't coming back. He didn't want to think about that either, although, he knew they'd stay with him for as long as he lived.

  He swung his bag inside, untied his boots and kicked them off as he went, shedding clothes on the floor. He didn’t even turn on the lights. Plenty of moonlight came in the windows, and he knew the place, although it looked like his brother had moved around some of the furniture.

  Doug had asked to stay a week when his wife had tossed him out in the fall. He’d ended up staying six. Murph didn’t mind. No sense in the house standing empty.

  He would drag the sofa back by the window later. All he wanted right now was to stretch out his weary bones and sleep on his own sheets. The bedroom was fixed up. Thank God for that.

  The guest bedrooms and guest bath upstairs and the staircase that led to them needed plenty of work still, as did the basement and the outside of the house, starting with the roof. He’d tackle that in the spring. He shut that line of thought down. He didn’t have the energy to so much as think about work.

  Down to nothing but his ACU pants, he dragged his tired, aching frame into his bedroom, then pulled up short at the sight of a nearly naked woman in his bed.

  What the hell?

  Her long legs tangled in the sheets, her mess of reddish-brown hair half across her face. Her white nightgown, nothing but a scrap of fabric, looked shrink-wrapped around her torso and hips. He caught her scent, a faint trace of old-fashioned roses, sexy and somehow homey at the same time.

  He stared, suddenly wide awake and then some. Even the pain in his shoulder stopped pulsing.

  As a welcome home present, he approved one-hundred percent.

  Except for the screaming.

  * * *

  Kate woke from a deep sleep, saw the shadow of the killer at the end of her bed and screamed before she remembered the gun under her pillow. But she did pull the weapon the next second, flipped the safety off and aimed at the bastard.