When Alex Was Bad

by Davis, Jo

  Alex could barely make out the shape of Danielle’s desk, and thanked heaven his secretary hadn’t stayed late. If she had—No, don’t go there! Just get out.

  Staying close to the wall, he inched his way toward the hallway on the other side of the commons. The elevator was next to the hall, but he couldn’t risk waiting in the open. He’d have to reach the door to the stairwell at the end, call 911, because, dammit, he should’ve done that before—

  A shadow detached itself from the opposite wall, flying across the space toward him. Banged into a desk, gave a vicious curse, but kept coming. The intruder was so close, Alex knew he’d never be able to outrun him.

  So he charged, met the bastard head-on. A flash caught him by surprise, and he heard a pop, pop in rapid succession.

  Son of a bitch!

  Alex ducked low, caught the guy in a flying tackle, his momentum greater, propelling his attacker backward. They crashed over a rolling chair, over a desk, scattering items in every direction, then slammed to the floor. Metal glinted in the man’s hand and Alex rolled on top of him, pinning the gun arm as the guy attempted to buck him off. Each struggled to gain the upper hand, and Alex knew he couldn’t lose.

  Or he’d die, right here and now.

  Not happening.

  Alex fought to keep his attacker under control as he groped for something—anything—to clobber the man with. “Who . . . hired you?” he grunted, fingers closing around a heavy, smooth round object. A paperweight? “And why?”

  “Fuck you!”

  “Not even if you gift wrapped it, asshole.”

  And Alex bashed the guy in the skull, gratified when he went limp, hands releasing his shirt to fall away. With any luck, he’d scrambled the man’s brains.

  The urge to bolt was nearly overwhelming, but he resisted, taking a few seconds to search his attacker’s pockets for a wallet. Came up empty. Not that he’d expected a nice, tidy ID, but he’d had to look.

  Prying the pistol from the man’s hand, Alex stuck the weapon in his waistband and pushed to his feet. The police probably wouldn’t get any prints from it except his own, though it was worth a shot. The cops!

  He stumbled for Danielle’s desk, going for the phone, and snatched the hand set. Fumbling in the dark, he managed to punch 911. It rang one, twice—

  “Hey, did ya ice him?”

  Jesus, fuck, another one!

  The phone slipped from his hand, hitting the desk with a clatter as he sprinted for the hallway. Thank God the second man wasn’t between him and the exit. Where had he come from? He must’ve been prowling elsewhere, heard the gunshots, the struggle come to an end, and assumed his partner had succeeded.

  No matter. He had to get out.

  Alex hit the door to the stairwell, wondering how long it would take the police to respond. A shout and another bullet whizzing past his head answered the question—too goddamned long.

  He slammed the door shut behind him, knowing that would buy him mere seconds. Why, why, why drummed in his brain to the echo of his footfalls, the hammering of his heart against his ribs. His breaths came in sharp, terrified bursts. He held on to the stair rail, the only thing keeping him from falling as he practically threw himself downward, heedless of the fact that he couldn’t see at all.

  At least the other bastard couldn’t see, either.

  Cold comfort as the door banged open and quick steps sounded one level, perhaps two, above him. Six more floors to go? Quinn and Quinn occupied the eighth floor, and the entrance to every level was locked from inside the stairwell. He had no choice but to go all the way down, get outside.

  Another pop, the bullet ricocheting wildly in the close, metallic space. Missing him.

  Please, God.

  He made the next level, running so fast he missed the handrail on the sharp turn and hit the wall. Hard. Kept going. Found the first step down but found only air on the second, and plummeted to the bottom, bouncing like a beach ball.

  “Fuck!” He staggered upright, reining in his panic to find the rail again. No time to spare, his pursuer gaining.

  Wasn’t he? Difficult to tell with the roaring in his ears, the pounding of feet.

  Bottom level? Exit—there! Alex ran for the glowing sign, thinking This could be it. A bullet to the back of the head, and it’s all over. Without ever understanding why.

  And Liv . . . God, he couldn’t leave her alone to face this.

  His legs pumped faster as he covered the remaining distance and exploded out the door. He ran, disoriented, groping the waistband for the pistol that was no longer there. Must’ve lost it when he fell, and he spat a vicious curse at the rotten luck.

  Until he rounded the corner of the building, finding himself racing down the front sidewalk, straight toward a police cruiser just pulling to a stop near the main entrance. The cop emerged from the vehicle and stepped from behind his driver’s door, spotting Alex at the same instant.

  The officer’s left hand went up, the right finding the butt of his sidearm. “Hey, stop right there!”

  Alex showed his empty hands, but kept coming, praying he didn’t get shot by both parties. “Behind me! He’s got a gun!”

  The cop’s eyes widened, fixing on a point over Alex’s shoulder. Out of sheer reflex, Alex looked, too. His pursuer halted, bringing up his weapon in both hands. Heedless of the officer, prepared to take Alex down no matter what.

  Alex swung around again to see the cop’s gun clearing his holster. Saw him shouting Get down, and Alex wasted no time kissing the pavement, arms over his head as though that would save his ass.

  A deafening volley of gunshots rang in his ears, and he waited for a bullet to tear into his flesh. Expected the searing heat, the pain.

  Just as suddenly, the noise ceased. Footsteps moved away from him a few yards, then stopped. Next, they crunched toward where he lay prone on the asphalt, frozen in fear.

  “Jesus, what the hell was that? You okay, mister?”

  “Oh, thank God.” If he’d been standing, his legs would’ve given out. “I-I think so.”

  Alex pushed to a sitting position and swiped a shaking hand down his face. Christ, his entire body was vibrating like he’d taken speed.

  “I’m Officer Wylie. Looks like he clipped you,” he said, squatting to peer at Alex.

  “What?”

  “You’re bleeding right here.” The stout cop on the back side of middle age pointed to the side of his neck, careful not to touch the wound. “But you’ll do, unlike the other guy.”

  “He’s dead?” Alex clapped a hand to his neck, surprised to find his skin slick with blood. He hadn’t felt a thing.

  “Yep, the fucker. Shot up my car. You hurt anywhere else?”

  Wylie’s tone was kind, and Alex’s shakes began to ease some. “Bruised, maybe. I fell down a flight of stairs in the stairwell, and lost the other guy’s gun—shit! There’s another one, outside my office on the eighth floor! I coldcocked him with something, and then this one chased me—”

  A firm hand landed on his shoulder. “Easy. Let me call for backup, and the paramedics to see about your injury. Once we’ve checked the premises, we’ll get a statement. All right?”

  “Yeah. Yeah, sure.” His mind whirled. “Look for the muscle I hired for protection, too. Ryan Thompson. He should’ve been on watch. Oh, and call Detective Lambert. Someone blew up my Jag last week, and he’s got the case.”

  The officer’s bushy brows lifted to his hairline. “I heard about that. Quinn, right? Damn, son, you’ve really pissed somebody off.” He shook his head. “Sit tight.”

  “Sure.”>>

  Wylie got on the radio, and Alex sort of drifted in a numb fog. Every so often, his gaze strayed to where the hit man lay nearby. Faceup, arms flung out at his sides, inky stain soaking his chest. Dead.

  That could’ve been me.

  Alex became violently ill, stomach roiling, bile burning the back of his throat. He swallowed several times, willing down the sickness before he finally succeeded,
the need to stare into the face of a man who’d wanted him dead eclipsing all else.

  He stood and limped to the stranger, amazed by his sudden calm. Shock, perhaps? The man’s eyes were open, his expression vaguely surprised. His hair was brown, short and neat, his features square and average.

  “Mr. Quinn, I’ll have to ask you to step away from the body,” Officer Wylie said. “Come on back over here, son.”

  “He looks like just any guy,” Alex remarked quietly. “Someone who’d show at the neighborhood barbecue.”

  “The worst ones always do.”

  The scene got busy after that, bustling with a parade of cops, each asking that he recount tonight’s events even though he’d told the story until he wanted to scream. Doing their jobs, but the repetition, knowing they were testing the consistency of his account, made him nuts.

  The paramedics arrived and checked Alex over, pronouncing his bloody wound an ugly scratch, no stitches required. However, after learning of his tumble down the stairs, they offered to transport him to the hospital for X-rays. He declined. If he landed in that place again, it would be toes up.

  The paramedics were summoned into the building, and Alex tried not to think what that meant. The crime-scene unit arrived last, along with the news vans and the normally composed Detective Lambert, who appeared none too happy.

  Join the club, little fella.

  Alex parked his butt on the sidewalk, frustrated. He wanted to get home before Liv caught this on the evening news, and he didn’t dare tell her something like this on the phone. She’d rush down here, and he didn’t want her anywhere near this evil. The thought of her on the killers’ radar made his blood boil.

  Lambert spoke with the uniforms, raised a finger at Alex indicating for him to wait, then went inside the building for a while. Twenty minutes later, he walked out the front door, making a beeline for Alex, and halted at his feet.

  “Helluva fucking past week, huh, Quinn?”

  He gave a humorless laugh. “I’m thinking early retirement sounds fine.” He waved a hand at the main entrance. “How’d you guys get in? It’s locked after hours.”

  “Night janitor doing his rounds let us in. There was no forced entry on the ground floor, which means our perps were inside before closing, blending in, waiting to pop you and then beat a silent retreat.”

  Fantastic. “The good news?”

  “We’ve got the dead guy. May take a while, but we’ll get an ID. When we do, maybe some answers.”

  Alex’s stomach sank. “What about the man I left unconscious outside my office?”

  “Disappeared. We’ve got signs of your struggle and a brass paperweight with presumably his blood on it, which we’ve taken into evidence. We’ve also got Ryan Thompson, who was discovered in the men’s restroom, unconscious. He had a nasty knot on his head, and he’s ticked as hell those bastards got the jump on him. Ought to count his lucky stars they didn’t kill him outright. He’s your bodyguard, right?”

  “Yeah. I hired him through a friend who runs a private service. Ex-Navy SEAL.” Alex buried his face in his hands, relieved Thompson was alive. The man was only thirty-three, with a wife and two kids.

  “Former SEAL? Tough sons of bitches.”

  Shit, his head, his entire body, hurt. He rubbed his temples. “If you can ID the dead assailant, you might be able to trace his partner?”

  “We hope so, along with who hired them. Could be a break.”

  “I wish I could believe that.”

  From his grim expression, the detective did, too. Whoever was calling the shots wanted Alex dead badly enough to cover his trail.

  “I suggest you work from home tomorrow. No late nights at the office, either, until the asshole behind this is caught,” Lambert said firmly.

  Alex fingered the bandage at his neck. One centimeter, and the bullet would’ve taken out his jugular. “No argument there. What about my employees? Can they return in the morning as usual?”

  “Don’t foresee a problem with that. We’ll be done shortly. Go on home; take a Valium or something.” The detective offered a hand up, which Alex took.

  Sounded good to him. “Let me know what you find.”

  “You bet.”

  They let Alex inside to retrieve his suit jacket, wallet and keys, then escorted him to his rental in the parking garage. A cramped, nerdy little Probe because that’s all that was available, and shopping for a new car was sorta last on his to-do list at the moment.

  Thompson—who had a bad headache, but insisted on finishing his shift—and one of St. Louis’s finest followed him all the way home and waited until he unlocked the front door and stepped safely inside before driving away.

  Leaving him to face his wife with bad news.

  To face a very uncertain—and possibly very brief—future.

  Eleven

  “He’s not dead.”

  Christ. “They were pros. It’s not my fault.”

  “I’m beginning to think you couldn’t arrange to kill an elephant with a hand grenade.”

  “H-he’ll die. You have my word.”

  A nasty laugh. “Which means nothing. And Seraph?”

  “N-not yet. We’ll find him soon.”

  “You’d better. If he talks to the authorities, we’re all going down. Except prison won’t be an option for some.” Palmer’s tone sharpened to a fine blade. “Your two weeks are rapidly coming to an end. Then so will you.”

  “I p-promise I’ll—”

  Click.

  He hung up, replacing the receiver. Wondering how he’d come to this. Selling out for the color of green.

  Committing murder.

  And for the first time in his sorry life, he considered eating the barrel of a gun.

  If he failed again, he might as well save Palmer the effort.

  Jason tapped a pen on his notepad, staring at a painting of an ancient ship in a storm-tossed sea on the wall of his uncle’s office. Bill had loved all that nautical shit, most of which Jason had donated or thrown out, but this painting captured his own emotions, his life, perfectly.

  It reminded him how small and insignificant people are in the grand scheme. How vulnerable, despite the best of preparations, hopes or dreams. In the end, a man has to battle forces greater than himself, knowing that any moment he can be crushed by the hand of God or the wrath of the devil.

  Or granted reprieve by the same.

  “Wow, Jason needs a good therapist, boys and girls,” he muttered, frowning at his blank paper. “Or some great drugs.”

  At his elbow lay a file of information and photographs. Some of the pictures had been snapped in the previous months, some since he’d arrived in St. Louis. Covert, watching Boardman and listening to the underground buzz, following orders, while his new neighbors probably believed he was lounging in lazy splen dor all day.

  “I frigging wish.”

  Focus. First, he drew a large triangle on the paper to represent a pyramid. Across the base, he wrote Alex and Olivia. Above their names, Jenna Shaw, Ken Brock, and Kyle Murphy. Just over Ken’s name, in the middle of the pyramid, me. Where the top began to narrow, Henry Boardman and Dmitri Baranov.

  He paused at Baranov’s name—the dead hit man, previously sought for capture in twelve countries, taken out by a beat cop. How poetic was that? Yet a much more capable foe than whoever blew Alex’s Jag. The stakes had been raised, the hunt for Alex’s head taken to a new, terrifying level.

  And at the apex he scribbled Palmer Hodge.

  His hand shook, and he dropped the pen.

  Still, he felt stronger now than when he’d first arrived in St. Louis. Not as raw or broken.

  “Motherfucker,” he hissed, gut churning. “I’ll get you if it takes my last breath.”

  He didn’t know how long he sat, drawing lines from one name to the other, creating a crazy-ass spiderweb, mulling over exactly how all of the names were connected. Scouring his brain to think whether any were missing, or if all the players were present and accounted
for.

  As an afterthought, he added Danielle Forney to the second tier from the bottom, the woman who’d replaced Alex’s longtime secretary. A hot little blond number who looked like she’d be much more at home working at, say, Penthouse.

  Man, Alex knew how to pick great eye candy. Not that he was a great judge of females, but he was learning.

  “Note to self: pump Miss Forney.” He smiled. “So to speak.”

  A man had to make certain his skills were well-rounded, after all.

  “Jason?”

  Startled, he scooped the pictures into the file, then grabbed the folder and the notepad. “Coming!” Crap, he’d let Olivia keep the spare house key Bill had given her years ago, told her to come over whenever, but he’d expected her to knock.

  Quickly, he shoved the damning notes and file into his top desk drawer, ready to congratulate himself on his reflexes—then his gaze lit on his gun, resting on the corner of the desk. He barely had the thing stowed with the rest when Olivia appeared in the office doorway.

  “Hey, stud muffin.” She did her best to seem sunny, but the strain in her eyes and around her mouth gave her away. “What are you doing?”

  “Working. I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “I knocked and got a little worried when you didn’t answer.”

  “Oh.” Damn, like she needed more stress on those pretty shoulders. “Sorry. Guess I was really into it.”

  “Into what? Your desk is bare.”

  Casting about for a viable excuse, he vacated his chair, waving a hand. “I was on the computer. Job hunting.”

  Sauntering toward him, slim hips swaying, she arched a dubious brow. “Right. Because you’re really strapped now that you’re saddled with this little shack and all.”

  He gave her a tight smile. “I need to feel useful.”

  “Jason,” she said, pressing against him and resting a palm on his chest. “Your computer isn’t on.”

  “I turned it off. Just now.”