by Cherry Adair
“Than it’s being manufactured as a street drug.”
“Jesus.”
“I need to hold something belonging to whoever administered the drug. What do you have? I can get started while we drive.”
“I don’t have a damned thing.”
“Then you’re shit out of luck. As good as I am at what I do, even I can’t help you.”
THREE
And so it begins, Monk thought with satisfaction. Years of preparation and sacrifice had culminated in this, a very public first demonstration of a new drug that would soon sweep the world. He almost smiled. Perhaps he should call it Tidalwave instead of Rapture.
“The buyer was pleased?” he asked the caller, who’d sent him several minutes of raw video footage from the wedding reception the night before. Of course the buyer was pleased. The demonstration proved the product superior in every way.
Fast-acting. Addictive. Cheap to manufacture, with the potential of multibillion-dollar profits. A win-win for sales, manufacturing, and the worldwide tentacles of street dealers who’d all be clamoring to get onboard to sell Rapture through their own vast networks. None of them cared about the end users, content to suck them dry financially and spit them out when they became too far gone with addiction or died.
They all died in the end. An unfortunate result of Rapture that he had yet to remedy. Still, there would be no end to users. The world was a big place. Millions upon millions of potential users. More money than he could dream of and, far more important, power beyond his wildest imagination.
Calm and always contained, Monk rarely felt anything as human as excitement, but the potential for more buyers of the product—in one form or another—actually made his heart beat a little faster as he sat in the stillness of his austere cell. He closed his eyes as his man spoke solemnly.
“Yes, Father. Extremely so. He placed a large order.”
“Are we ready for the next demonstration?” This to the head of an Eastern European mob. The next level of use. Monk was able to offer buyers several options, including ingested and airborne, along with several price points. Like end users, there was no limit to potential buyers from the criminal element.
“Yes, Father. Everything is in place as you instructed. May I come to you now?”
Monk let his gaze rest on the muted colors of the ancient tapestry hanging on the far wall. Satisfied that the net he was casting would haul in more buyers as well as his ultimate prize, Monk disconnected without comment. After years of manipulation and sacrifice, Dr. North was being drawn into the elaborate web he was spinning just for her.
Monk leaned back, folded his hands across his belly, and sighed with satisfaction. Everything was going according to plan. He allowed himself a small smile.
SHE HAD HER BARE feet curled on the seat under her shapely ass, her back against the passenger door. The sunlight turned her hair to living flame. It seemed brighter, more vibrant, more alive than Rand remembered. His memories of Dakota’s hair were pretty damned powerful.
He didn’t have anything. For her to hold, or channel, or whatever the hell she claimed she did. And he sure as hell didn’t want to remember the feel of those hot silken strands gliding down his body. “We’ll be at the hotel where they found the body in a few minutes. Start channeling your inner GPS.”
“Hopefully we’ll find something useful there,” she said without responding to his sarcasm. “A shoe, or some personal effect in his pockets—there’s always something.”
“Yeah. Maybe.” His thoughts were anything but orderly, now that she’d shown up. Seeing her always short-circuited his brain, and today was no exception. He resented the power she had over his body. Fortunately, he’d managed to get her completely out of his system. Two years without seeing her effectively cured him. What hadn’t killed him made him stronger. Yeah. He was cured. It was just the kick to his chest that churned up old memories.
Rand glanced at the route on the GPS, then back to the road. That she claimed to have this extraordinary sixth sense was ludicrous. True, his friend made the same claim, following his ordeal in South America, where he’d been kidnapped, shot, and left for dead. He had excuses that no one could blame him for—trauma, PTSD, grief. Dakota didn’t.
Yet Zak had built a company based on his newfound sixth sense. Shit. Rand had no idea what or whom to believe. It pissed him off that he might need more than his own skills to crack this.
If she could help him find the person responsible for this, he’d bite his tongue and play nice. Which segued into the thought of him biting her tongue and playing naughty. He called himself six kinds of fool. She was everything he wanted in a woman, and pretty much everything he loathed in a human being. Get a grip, Maguire.
“I’m hoping like hell that when we get where we’re going, there is something.” He was desperate enough to almost believe her. God. Her timing couldn’t be worse.
If this was the drug that killed his mother, having Dakota—a key member of the Rydell team—suddenly show up in the same place as its reappearance was dangerously fortuitous. What were the chances?
Slim enough to make him suspicious as hell.
“So you’re not a chemist anymore?”
Even her hair seemed to stiffen. “My lab was destroyed. People died… No. I’m not in that field anymore.”
“You were fired. Then the lab was destroyed.” More omissions. That had been almost two years ago. What had she been doing since? He didn’t give a damn enough to ask—to brave her prickly field of don’t fucking bother—and she didn’t offer. Fine with him. He heard her take a controlled breath before she spoke again.
“Right.” She turned those pale peridot eyes to him and waited out his sarcasm as she changed the subject. “Was anyone at the event not affected?”
“Other than my men and the majority of the waitstaff? No. Everyone drank the Kool-Aid, including the priest, the groom’s eighty-two-year-old grandmother, all the band members, and two of my security people.”
“How soon till we get the lab results back?” she asked.
“I asked them to put a rush on it. Later this afternoon, I hope.” He turned down the tree-lined street indicated by the car’s GPS. “What’s your angle, Dakota? You’re pushing hard to be involved. Why? You no longer represent Rydell, what possible interest could you have in the outcome of this investigation?”
“I was involved with every aspect of this drug. Why do you think I insist on seeing where this all leads?”
“We both know that’s not it.”
When her mouth tightened, deep lines furrowing between her eyebrows, he resisted every ingrained urge to reach over and smooth them away. Damn, she hadn’t lost the ability to bring out his protective instinct. He squashed the urge to touch her.
“You have something to prove,” he said mildly, when he felt anything but.
She shot him a fulminating glare, her chin tilted pugnaciously. “And what if I do?”
“Then your presence here is not only redundant,” he told her, tone cooling, “it’s a waste of everyone’s time.”
Her snort was eerily reminiscent of his. “Why don’t you ask what you really want to ask?” She widened her eyes dramatically, hand on her chest. “Did you do it, Dakota?” she demanded gruffly. “Admit it. You just happened to know where this wedding was taking place, despite the fact that not even the paparazzi knew, and you dosed a room full of Hollywood stars with a drug destroyed years ago! Confess!”
Her mimicry nudged a reluctant smile to his lips that he suppressed. Nothing about this situation was amusing. Even if she could help, he damned well didn’t want her here. “Apparently the formula wasn’t destroyed in the explosion.”
“Apparently not.” She deflated slowly, her expression suddenly … what? Sad? Heavy with guilt? Yeah, that one he’d believe. “Only two people who worked on that drug are still alive, Rand. All of our notes and files were destroyed along with the lab. I was minding my own business in Seattle when Zak called me in. Cole met me at the gate after
a twelve-hour flight. There’s no way I could have done this. Even if I had the ability to be in two places at once, why would I have done it? To what purpose?”
He twisted the wheel and floored the gas pedal, overtaking two cars in the fast lane. He zipped in front of them, waiting a few seconds until the sounds of the car horns were lost behind them. “I have no idea how you think. I’ve never had any idea how you think.”
“Clearly, I had no idea how you think either, so we’re even.”
It didn’t matter what the hell the drug was—he wanted the person or persons responsible found and brought to justice. Dakota was right about that. “Blood work’s been sent to a local lab. Let’s see which of you is right.” He ran his hand over his hair.
“They’re wrong,” Dakota told him flatly. “I told you before, Ecstasy could cause that kind of euphoria, but that spike in libido and total breakdown of inhibitions indicates DL6-94. It’s not Krokodil, which is a completely different and dangerous drug, with completely different and dangerous side effects. The end result, however, is they both guarantee death. I can’t confirm that this is Rydell’s formula, but I’m taking an educated, well-informed guess. I won’t know one hundred percent for sure until I talk to some of the victims and see the lab report. You must’ve questioned everyone affected. I’ll start with any reports you’ve compiled—”
“Everyone’s still at the hotel. Several under doctors’ care. Two people had mild heart attacks, and Dunham’s grandmother put her back out. Although,” Rand’s lips quirked, “she admitted to me that she’d never had such great sex in all her eighty-plus years, and she could now die with a smile.” He shrugged. “She was the only humorous moment in the whole mess. What are the long-term consequences if this is what you think it is, Dakota? Am I going to have a hundred people die on me?”
She rubbed both hands over her face, then dropped them back into her lap. “It depends on the dose. One wafer won’t do much more than make them horny and have zero inhibitions. You can tell the dosage by how much bloom they have on their eyes. Anyone—”
“Bloom?”
“Looks like a cataract. Did you notice anyone’s eyes afterward?”
“Groom’s stepfather got falling-down drunk. If anyone had a problem, he’d be the one.”
“Have him checked again.”
“Half of them are users of some sort of illicit drug,” Rand pointed out. “I’m leaning toward somebody doing this to blackmail half of Hollywood’s fucking elite.” The embarrassment up in that hotel suite stuck with him, profound and palpable.
“I imagine it was terrifying for everyone when they finally recovered.” Sympathy—guilt?—filled her voice. “Since the drug is lethal, you’re fortunate nobody died. There’s a dangerously fine line between pleasure and death. A microgram too much, and you’d be telling a different story this morning.”
He glanced at the clean lines of her profile as she looked at the scenery whizzing by, then turned his own attention to the road as she glanced at him. “Will they keep this quiet, or is someone going to blab to the press?”
“Frankly, it’s unlikely that everyone will keep their mouths shut. We’re talking about actors here. This isn’t like old Hollywood where scandal was kept hush-hush. These days, if Lohan gets a hangnail, it’s front-page news. It won’t remain a secret. Not for long.”
“Then we’d better work fast and get them answers. Did someone happen to check the dead man’s eyes?”
“No need. He was murdered. I don’t have the details, but it wasn’t Rapture. Let’s hope there’s something in the room for you to hold, because otherwise we’re as screwed as the groom’s stepfather, who did half the people in that room last night.”
They were out of the center of town and the traffic moved at lightning speed. Dakota glanced at the GPS on the dash. “At this velocity, our ETA is two minutes. I’m taking a power nap. It was a long flight, and I didn’t get any sleep. Wake me when you need me.”
His eyebrows rose at that loaded statement. “White-knuckle flyer?” Another thing she’d never told him. One more he could add to the list.
She wedged her back more comfortably between the seat back and the door frame, and closed her eyes. “If God wanted us to fly, he would’ve given us wings.”
“He gave us planes instead. There’s no time for a nap, we’re almost there.”
“Hmm,” she murmured, already drifting. Within seconds, her breathing indicated sleep.
Rand glanced over at her. “You’re a complication I don’t fucking need right now, Dakota North.” His lips curved into a thin, humorless smile. “Thank God I’m immune.”
THE HOTEL WAS TUCKED away in a cul-de-sac on the edge of town, too far away from the tourist destinations to offer much trouble for anyone but the locals. This was the kind of low-rent dive where casino losers came to lick their wounds as they counted their euros before going back to try their luck one last time. Night and day compared to where the wedding had taken place.
Rand parked the rental in a patch of shade under a stand of spindly palm trees in the weedy parking lot and glanced at his sleeping ace in the hole. He’d never met anyone who could fall asleep so fast, and so deeply. He knew a hundred ways to make Dakota wake up smiling.
He didn’t plan on using any of them ever again.
Right now, there was no point waking her. She needed, according to her, something tangible to hold, so until they found something the waiter might have left behind, he preferred she stay where she was. It was unlikely they’d even find anything. In which case, he’d have one of his men return her to the airport.
He was torn between the desire, no, the need to believe her tracking claim and the urge to be as far away from her as possible. The shadows of his once-frozen emotions were once again a tight, hot knot in his belly.
He peered through the window as he locked the car doors. Dakota flipped an arm over her eyes to block the sunshine but stayed asleep. He shook his head. How could she look so bonelessly comfortable curled in the seat like that? How could she look so normal? The liar that she was didn’t show on her sleeping face. Instead, she looked beautiful and achingly innocent.
Looks, he knew, were deceptive.
Resolutely, he turned away and headed for the portico of the small hotel. The sun felt good on his shoulders, but back here in the alley there was no scent of ocean, just a sense of desperation and the stifling pressure of lost dreams. There was a reason the lavish casinos didn’t allow Monaco residents inside to gamble.
He didn’t gamble for money. Hell, Rand didn’t gamble at all. He’d bet everything on love once and lost his ass. Lesson learned. Case closed. He didn’t need her, he needed her skills. If she really had them.
He wasn’t into woo-woo. He’d tried to keep an open mind when Stark talked about the strange new sixth sense he’d developed the year before. While traveling in Venezuela, Zak and his brother, Gideon, had been kidnapped by terrorists. The details were grim. Rand could only imagine the burden Zak carried over his brother’s death. When Zak sold ZAG Search on his return and started Lodestone, he’d tried to persuade Rand to join forces, thinking their two companies complemented each other. Security and tracking.
Probably would too. However, Rand had declined the partnership offer. He savored his independence. As a stuntman, then stunt coordinator he’d known to check every trick himself, seven ways from Sunday, no matter who told him it was safe. He was used to relying solely on himself, and he’d been slow to hire people for his company as it grew; it was difficult to find people he could have that kind of faith in. The kind of faith he’d had in Dakota.
Until yesterday, he’d been riding the wave. If he didn’t find who was responsible and mitigate the damage before things spun even more out of control, he’d lose it all.
Still, Zak Stark was a good man and he trusted him. He’d kept meaning to wander by, knock back a few beers, and catch up, but Zak lived in the same city as Dakota, and Rand had let the friendship lapse because he had
n’t wanted to be anywhere near her. Even his home in Los Angeles was too damned close to the Pacific Northwest.
With no leads and even fewer clues, he and his people needed all the help they could get. As much as he didn’t want her around, he had to admit, he might need her to stick around after all.
Mark “Ham” Stratham and Derek Rebik waited for him just inside the front doors. Both wore black chinos and black T-shirts—no insignia. They didn’t need uniforms or identifying badges to lend them a sense of authority.
“You made it in good time.” Stress lines were carved deeply around Rebik’s mouth.
“I’m motivated,” Rand replied. “I left the Lodestone agent sleeping in the car. Go keep an eye on her, would you?”
Rebik raised a brow. “Sleeping?”
“Red-eye flight,” was all Rand trusted himself to say.
The agent nodded and took off.
“This way.” Ham led Rand across the empty lobby, past the unmanned front desk, and into the open cage elevator. He pulled shut the concertina-style door. “We’re on the third floor.” A chain-smoker, he smelled of cigarettes and the spearmint gum he used to disguise his smoking habit. It didn’t fool anyone.
Rand pushed the button. Ham was a more than slightly overweight ex-cop with thirty-five years’ experience on the Seattle homicide squad. Lines of strain tightened the skin around his eyes. His brown hair was buzz-cut, military style. Like Rand, he had no sleep in more than twenty-four hours. “How are our charges?”
“How do you think?” Rand stepped to the back of the elevator, crossing his arms over his chest. “Pissed, embarrassed, and a nanosecond away from a lawsuit against me, the hotel, and whoever else they can think of. What do we have?”
“Room was registered to a Daniel Perry. Fifty-three. Tempe, Arizona. US passport, been here a week,” Ham said briskly. No fluff. “Hit the casinos hard, lost his shirt. Skipped early last night. Dead guy is Denis Brun. Twenty-five. Native Monegasque with a local address. Worked for the catering company for seven years and change. A couple of run-ins with the law over the years, minor drug busts. Clean for three years.”
