On Thin Ice

by Susan Andersen

  He was right back at ground zero.

  Well, screw individual liberties then; he was requesting more equipment. The time had come to saturate. There were nine more names on the list of candidates and he was tired of doing them one at a time. He would pick out the likeliest and tap the person’s room with the gear he had on hand as soon as they arrived in Denver. In the meantime he’d make noise the likes of which the suits had never heard until they sent him more electronics. Then he was bugging every damn name on the list, no matter how unlikely.

  He used to have a reputation as the best street hump in the business. It was time he stopped acting like a lovesick amateur and started earning it once again.

  Leaving the gun where he found it, Lon tucked the dislodged bedding back into place, twitched the comforter straight, and backed away until his calves bumped into a chair, whereupon the lower body muscle power keeping him upright abruptly dissipated. He sat down hard and, elbows digging into his knees, he buried his face in his hands. Jesus. Ah God, Jesus. What was he going to do?

  An image of Vinicor taking command at the DiGornio home the night Amy Nitkey was struck by the car—Ah, Christ, Karen, was that your doing too?—flashed into his mind, and for a moment he was tempted to take this whole sorry mess and lay it out in front of the guy. Surely they could put aside their personal differences long enough to . . .

  Nice dream you dumb shit. But this is real life. Lonnie’s bark of bitter laughter was muffled by his hands. Hell, who was he trying to kid? Like Vinicor would ever believe a word that Morrison-the-Convicted-Drug-Dealer had to say about Karen Corselli.

  The Saint.

  Ah, man, he was screwed. No matter which way you looked at it, his back was to the wall. And he’d thought he was so clever. Oh, yeah; he had just known he was smarter for sure than your average guy on the street—the rules, after all, didn’t apply to him.

  Well, he wasn’t so friggin’ smart. No, he really wasn’t very smart at all.

  What he most likely was, in fact . . . was a dead man.

  Sasha let herself into their room. Her stomach felt much better but she still had to hold her head with extreme care and to avoid at all costs making any sudden unwarranted movements.

  Mick was growling and swearing into the phone, and she went to the closet to pull her suitcase off the shelf. The bus was leaving Cheyenne for Denver in about an hour and a half and she still had to pack. Going into the bathroom, she shook out three aspirin, swallowed them with a glass of water, and began to gather up her toiletries.

  She heard Mick hang up the phone in the other room and her hands went still, her face lifted to gaze at her reflection in the mirror. She’d given some reluctant thought to what Connie had said. And maybe, just maybe, she had a point insofar as taking advantage of Mick’s professional expertise went.

  But the idea of applying to him in any way, shape, or form was abhorrent to her.

  Taking a deep breath, tidying her flyaway curls as best she could, she assured herself that she would nevertheless do just that. No one was going to have an excuse to tell her again that she needed to grow up.

  Carrying her toiletry bag, her diffuser blow dryer, and a nightgown she’d discovered hanging on the back of the bathroom door, she walked out into the hotel room. Efficiently packing them into the open suitcase on her bed, she then turned to the nearest dresser, pulled open a drawer, and reached inside for the stack of clothing inside.

  Mick lounged in a chair by the window watching her, his hands laced over his flat stomach, long legs extended in front of him and crossed at the ankle, one size thirteen shoe wagging slowly from side to side. “How’s your head?” he inquired.

  He could tell by the way she swiveled her entire upper body in his direction, instead of merely turning her head to look at him, that it was far from all right, but when she not-too-surprisingly said, “Fine,” he shrugged and let it go at that. He had a brand new agenda, which was to accomplish what was accomplishable, not to head-bang with cement walls.

  To reinforce his decision, he pushed to his feet and went to get his own suitcase. Tossing it on his bed, he worked the hidden locks and flipped open, not the suitcase portion, but the false bottom. He felt rather than saw Sasha stiffen.

  “I’ve been an agent since I graduated college,” he said in a quiet voice as he ran an unnecessary check over his equipment. He looked up at her, standing erect and white-faced next to her bed, and wondered if the day would ever come when the wanting would stop. “I genuflect to your honesty,” he said hoarsely. “But, baby, trying to emulate it in this business would have bought me a pine box six feet under years ago. A DEA street hump either lies . . . or he dies.” He shrugged.

  “You don’t want to believe me when I tell you that once the words ‘I love you’ were said I gave up fabricating stories for you. So I’m not gonna bother you with my assurances any more. From now on I’m going back to doing strictly what I do best.” His face was closed and stern as he watched her across the small distance that separated them. “I’ll get you out of this mess,” he said with complete authority. “And then I’ll get the hell out of your life. You have my word on it.”

  It was what she’d wanted ever since she’d learned who he really was. She nodded coolly in acknowledgment and went with quiet dignity around the room gathering up the rest of her personal items. She set aside a clean set of clothes and efficiently packed the rest. She dug out her diffuser dryer and makeup case once again.

  Then she went into the bathroom, turned on the shower, slid down the wall, and sobbed beneath its pounding, concealing spray until the water ran cold and her tear ducts finally ran dry.

  The stolen key was all but burning a hole in his pocket where it rested next to his thigh as Lon strode purposefully down the hallway. He cursed himself the entire way.

  Christ, he was stupid! He’d had the gun right in his hand, but had he pulled the damn thing out of its hiding place between the mattresses long enough to see what he was dealing with? Hell, no, that might have offered the opportunity for a solution and Lon Morrison never did anything that constructive. There was a certain amount of damage control, he’d realized after the fact, that could be done to make a handgun inoperative. None of it would do a damn bit of good, however, if he didn’t even know what the friggin’ make was.

  Consequently, as a direct result of his earlier panic, he now had probably seventeen to eighteen minutes tops to safely get himself in and out of Karen’s room before she realized her key was missing and linked it to him. And that sure as hell didn’t bear contemplating. Put the key’s disappearance together with his inability to get it up for her this morning and it didn’t take a genius to figure out the sort of conclusion she was going to draw.

  He had the key in the door when room 424 down the hallway opened. Hastily extracting and pocketing the key he stepped lively to the center of the corridor and took ground-eating strides away from 428. He nearly tripped over Connie Nakamura as she awkwardly maneuvered her way out the doorway, an ungainly collection of luggage in both hands and under one arm. Believing in the attack-is-the-best-defense school of self-preservation, he made a small production out of checking his watch.

  “Well, send up the rockets, Nakamura’s gonna make the bus on time.” Not offering to help, he lounged against the wall and watched her struggle with a sliding shoulder bag, a hat that had a tendency to tip over one eye, and three various-sized pieces of luggage. She had such an expressive face he could simply look at her all day long . . . but then he recalled his time constraints and shoved away from the wall, reaching out to relieve her of the largest two pieces.

  “What are you doing up here, Morrison?” she demanded after a small, ungracious struggle. Collecting her dignity around her like a ragged cloak, she hitched her purse up onto her shoulder, straightened her hat, and grabbing the remaining suitcase, marched down the hallway to the elevator. Lon ambled along in her wake, grinning at the rigid set of her back. God, she was so easy to rile. By the time they�
�d arrived at their destination however, he’d recalled the seriousness of his predicament, and it had effectively wiped the smile from his face.

  He looked at her levelly when she turned to face him at the elevator. “What am I doing? Well, I’ll tell you, my little China Doll,” he said and reached out to touch her hair.

  And promptly got his hand slapped away. “I’m Japanese, you jerk.” Connie’s eyes flashed and her chin went up. “Or maybe it’s all the same to you. Maybe you’re one of those people who think we all look alike?”

  “No.” Lon stepped closer. “Shall I tell you what I am, my little Japanese Doll? I’m a dead man. And the little details tend to slip by dead men.” The elevator arrived and Lon slid Connie’s bags inside. She stepped into the car and he followed, turning to punch the door-open button. Turning back, he trapped her against the back wall, hemming her in by the simple expedient of placing his hands flat against the wall on either side of her head. “And since I’m probably not gonna live out the week anyway, I may as well get the answer to something I’ve been wondering about for quite some time now.”

  He slid his hands into her hair, tilted up her face, lowered his head, and kissed her to within an inch of her life.

  And she let him. She let him break the seal of her lips with an easy twist of his own. Let him explore her mouth with a hot, supple tongue. Let him move in close and surround her hips with his thighs, flatten her tiny breasts with his chest. For maybe a minute, she allowed him to do it all.

  Then she came to her senses. Nipping sharply at his tongue, she shoved him away.

  Lon straightened and stepped back. Watching her intently, he saw her scrub at her mouth with the back of her hand. He also saw that her nipples poked at the soft surface of her sweater where nothing had poked a minute ago. He touched his tongue to the back of his hand and smiled. Disconnecting the door-open button, he punched the floor for the lobby and stepped back out into the hallway. She watched him the whole time in silence, tracking his movements with uncertain ebony eyes.

  “I knew you’d taste that good,” he said quietly just as the door was closing. Then he shook himself out of the minor spell she’d put him in, turned, and loped back down the hallway to Karen’s room. Kneeling by the side of the bed moments later, he carefully studied the pistol in his hand.

  He had to struggle briefly with the temptation to simply make off with it. But if she’d got ahold of this one she could get ahold of another, and better the devil you knew, as they said . . .

  Using the bedspread, he removed any possible prints from the grip and returned it to its resting place. He reviewed the options open to him as he climbed to his feet and let himself out of the room. And allowed himself a small smile.

  Maybe, just maybe, there was a slim chance after all that he’d live to torment little Connie Nakamura again.

  There were odd, disquieting rumblings in her head. Subliminal disturbances she couldn’t quite put a finger on. With the sweet, demure smile she had perfected years ago, Karen shunned all offers of company, sitting instead in a small pocket of isolation amidst the babble of different conversations surrounding her. She ignored the fluctuating noise level as she stared blindly out the window of the bus.

  Her reflection was a dim, wavery shimmer in the rain-streaked glass and it drew her attention over and over again from the dreary, waterlogged scenery beyond. If she could only capture what she saw mirrored there, if she could only study it, dissect it, she felt as if it would perhaps provide her with the answers she sought. Repeatedly, she attempted prayer, but her concentration was fractured and the words kept slipping away.

  There was a conspiracy stirring; she understood that much. She could smell it. Lonnie, who was supposed to be her soldier, thought he was man enough to plot against her with that mealymouthed little Sasha Miller. Against her. It was laughable and if he thought for one moment that she’d allow him to get away with it, he was sadly deluded.

  There was a sharp pain in her head and Karen briefly squeezed her eyes shut in an attempt to alleviate the escalating pressure. Pressing her forehead against the cool windowpane, she focused on the words of the Twenty-third Psalm, fighting to string them together amidst the rumbling and mumbling in her brain. Bit by bit she felt the pain recede and her power restore itself.

  The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters.

  She had thought Lon was someone she could count on. Yes, he’d had his reservations; and yes he’d had his hesitations; but she had led him so gently, so seamlessly, to the path upon which she had wanted to see him place his feet. The path he’d trod for her once before. By rights he should be doing her bidding, marching to her orders, but instead that woman-child kept nagging at him and distracting him and . . .

  He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the path of righteousness for his name’s sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of—

  “What?” Karen turned her head to address the person muttering in her ear. She had to make a conscious effort to erase the scowl from her face, but for heaven’s sake she detested it when people failed to speak clearly. And regardless that the individual words were too indistinct to discern, she didn’t appreciate the vaguely menacing tone one bit either.

  No one was there.

  She glanced around. The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. Oh, God, oh God. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters.

  This wasn’t the first time lately she’d thought she’d heard a voice speaking in her ear. It was Sasha Miller’s doing. She’d never had these problems before little You-Promised-Me-You-Wouldn’ t-Sell-Drugs-Miller started her whispering campaign in Lon Morrison’s ear. Her Lon Morrison.

  Before she’d poisoned Mick Vinicor against her. And just what was the story behind that relationship, anyway? One day they were this big, hot item—it was enough to make you retch—and the next they appeared to be on the outs. Yet Miller still checked into his room with him in every town they came to, and he still watched her like a lover. But like a frustrated lover, Karen didn’t think Sasha was supplying him with sex.

  Well, no matter. After Denver, Karen would be more than happy to do that for him. She’d show him what a real woman could do.

  She knew now what her Lord wanted her to do. It was a direct contradiction to the Commandments that guided her life, and it was that, she thought, which had at first confused her. But hers was not to question—the answers would be provided in His own good time. In the meantime she was a Christian Soldier and she would do what she was bid.

  Then everything would be hers.

  Both men, the drugs, the power.

  Everything.

  A tiny smile tilted up one corner of Karen’s mouth as she returned her attention to the scenery beyond the rain-streaked glass as they left Wyoming and crossed the border into Colorado. The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.

  NINETEEN

  As soon as Mick handed her the key to their room, Sasha veered away from the line awaiting room assignment and went looking for Connie. She found her in a secluded corner of the Denver hotel lobby where she was standing all alone gazing off into space. Coming up silently behind her, Sasha gripped her friend’s shoulder with gentle fingers and leaned around to murmur into her opposite ear. “You still talking to me?” she asked.

  Connie jumped and whirled around. “Holy shit, Sasha,” she said testily when she’d caught her breath. “Announce yourself next time, will ya? You about scared me to death.” Then, “Sure I’m talking to you,” she responded, but her voice was stiff and she found it difficult to hold her friend’s gaze. The image of Lonnie as she’d last seen him in the Cheyenne hotel elevator flashed through her mind, and she found herself in the unexpected position of feeling uncomfortable in Sasha’s presence.

  God. How did she handle it? Only a little over a week ago she would have made an immediate beeline for her friend to regale her with ev
ery single detail of the encounter and talk out all the confusion that Lon’s actions ultimately caused.

  She bit back a nervous laugh. Not much chance of that now. Sasha was way too volatile these days to make it a viable option. Not that Connie blamed her, exactly—she didn’t. Hell, she’d be volatile too if half the stuff that had happened to Saush happened to her. But that didn’t make it any easier to tell her that Lonnie, Sasha’s oldest friend and most recent adversary, had kissed Connie silly in the elevator. It was just all so awkward.

  To say the least.

  “I only wondered,” Sasha continued doggedly, picking up on Connie’s tension if not the reason behind it, “because it feels as though nobody’s talkin’ to nobody anymore.”

  “Well, hey, whose fault is that, Saush?” Connie’s tone was unconsciously defensive. “I’m not the one who went and sat with the techs in the back of the bus.”

  Quick tears rose in Sasha’s eyes, and pride being the only thing she felt she had left to her, she averted her head to prevent Connie from seeing, quickly dashing them away with a surreptitious wipe of her fingertips. God, hadn’t she run out of the damn things yet? Feeling isolated and estranged from everyone who’d ever mattered to her, she turned back, tilted her chin up, and said with stiff dignity, “I won’t keep you, Connie. I merely wanted to apologize for my attitude earlier. As you quite rightly pointed out, there was no excuse for taking my hangover out on you.” She turned on her heel and walked away.

  Connie caught the sheen of tears in her friend’s gray eyes as she turned and reached out a beseeching hand to Sasha’s departing back. “Saush, wait,” she said unhappily. This was ridiculous; they were the best of friends. The hell with awkward.