Blood Unleashed (Blood Stone)

by Tracy Cooper-Posey

  After an early morning run and a leisurely breakfast, Marcus headed out to the gun range, the engine of his old BMW purring, and the sun warming him behind the windscreen. It was a cloudless, crisp day – probably one of the last before the summer heat truly kicked in. It was a ninety minute trip out to the range, so he plugged his cellphone into the speaker system and turned up the volume. Kiss, Nirvana and Def Leopard helped drown out the rampant – and useless – speculation cycling endlessly in his brain.

  Despite the cool day – or perhaps because of it – the gravel car park out the front of the range was just over half-full. Early risers and keeners, Marcus assumed. The retail store, which also acted as the gateway into the range, was a log cabin style affair with window boxes and what looked like a real bear, stuffed and standing on its hind legs with its front claws permanently raised. The bear guarded the front doors.

  There was a sign hanging on the front door saying “Open,” with a printed bullet hole underneath the lettering.

  From behind the long building came the intermittent crack of rifle fire, echoing sharply from the tree-covered slopes surrounding the area. Business was booming.

  Marcus climbed the three broad steps to the front door, smiled at the bear, pushed the door open and stepped inside.

  The store was an ode to lethal weapons. There were long glass counters around three of the walls, and behind the counters, tall glass cases were displaying a mind-boggling range of rifles, handguns, cross-bows, normal bows, knives and ammunition. There was four staff on duty, all of them behind the counters, serving customers. A fifth man sat at the counter sited next to a glass door that had “Range” written in log-cabin lettering. He wore a hunting vest and a cap made of camouflage fabric and was watching the other four assistants carefully.

  Because of the way he was monitoring the others, Marcus tagged him as the owner, Cliff Washanski. He was greying at the temples and there were deep creases on the corners of his eyes.

  Marcus went over to him and nodded a greeting.

  “Great day, isn’t it?” Washanski offered.

  “It is,” Marcus agreed. He took out his ID and flashed it. “Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

  Washanski’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not in trouble, am I?”

  “Looks like you run a tight shop. I don’t see any reason why you would be and if it were that sort of trouble, it would be the FBI standing here.”

  Washanki’s wariness faded. “I guess that’d be so, wouldn’t it? What can I do for you?”

  “You sell your own in-house cartridges and bullets, yes?”

  “Sure. The good shooters like ‘em. They say they’re more reliable and accurate. It’s because of the flange at the base. The cases I use, the flanges interact with the rifling on the barrel with more efficiency—”

  “Do you have a list of customers who buy them?” Marcus asked, overriding him.

  “Of course,” he said flatly. “But most of them are good guys. Regulars. I don’t get a lot of casual drop-ins up here. They’re all weekend warriors. I can’t see any of them being mixed up in the sort of trouble that you take care of.”

  “Do any of them use a breakable rifle? Something high end?”

  Washanski’s eyes widened.

  “What have you remembered?” Marcus asked.

  “The Paratus.” His gaze started dancing around. Skittering. Fear. “It’s here right now,” he said, his voice lower.

  “Here? You mean, out on the range?”

  Washanski nodded, swallowing. “Bay eleven.” He reached under the counter and hit the switch that unlocked the door to the range.

  “Thanks,” Marcus said and stepped through. He heard the door lock behind him and looked around. Bay number six was right in front of him, and empty. There were big signs everywhere, laying out the rules. Do not step in front of the red line, ever! You will be stepping into the live range area. A foot-wide bright red line butted up against the front of the bay, and ran around the front of all of the bays, which were laid out in a shallow curve. Sound protection must be worn while firing. Weapons must be unloaded at all times except when firing.

  Washanski ran a very tight operation. It was hardly surprising he seemed to be doing well.

  The bay to the right of the number six in front of Marcus was number five, so he moved to the left, watching the numbers creep up. Most of the bays were occupied. The ones toward the center were for handguns. Then, closer to the end, he came across riflemen, most of them lying flat on their bellies and sighting their targets with careful, deliberate aim.

  Eight, nine, ten. Marcus could feel the tension coiling in his belly. Without conscious decision, he unzipped his jacket, to give him better access to his gun.

  Eleven. He stepped past the barricading wall that separated each bay and turned to face the shooter.

  Four inch heels, leather boots...and heaven’s mercy, a pleated tartan skirt, fanned out over thighs covered by dark tights. There was a jacket, but a stream of ebony black hair covered it.

  Marcus stood still, struck motionless by the sheer unexpectedness of finding a woman when he had been expecting a man.

  He glanced at the rifle she was using. It was a very modern brass and steel weapon, with a powerful scope mounted. She was resting it on a backpack. There were no feet attached to give the barrel lift and steadiness.

  She took her shot while Marcus stood with his jaw unhinged, railing at himself for the misogynist assumption he had made about the shooter, but at the same time admiration touched him – the same warm regard he’d felt in the office when Benson had been giving him The Whisper’s resume. No wonder no one had an image of The Whisper, or any idea what The Whisper looked like. They would all be guilty of the same sin Marcus had committed; they would have assumed The Whisper was a man. This petite woman would go completely unnoticed in a crowd of people – or she would be noticed for her womanly qualities, rather than her potential as a shooter.

  She took a second shot, minutely adjusting her aim. The sound of the bullet leaving the barrel, underneath the loud clap of the shot, brought back a suddenly insistent memory. The smell of hay and explosive, contained heat jerked him back through the years and he was remembering her lying at the open doors of the hay loft with her long body spread — even her legs — for better stability, as she sighted along the barrel of the Timberwolf. Long minutes she lay there before squeezing the trigger slowly. The shot was almost anticlimactic after the long preparation to take it. She kept still, watching to see if her shot was true, then jumped up to face him, smiling.

  The memory withdrew, letting Marcus draw breath. He was shaking, and pushed his hands into his pockets as he focused on the real woman in front of him instead of the memory, fighting to gain back a measure of control.

  She sighted through the scope once more, checking her shot. Then she rolled onto one hip, removed the small earmuffs and rested her hand on her waist, the muffs hanging from her fingers, and looked up at him. “Hello, Marcus. You took your time.”

  Marcus could find nothing to say in response. Her appearance and her words had demolished any normal, sane reaction he might have had. He reached, instead, to the rule-rich structure of his business. “You need to come with me. I’m taking you in to answer a few questions.” He lifted the front of his jacket aside just enough for her to see the butt of his gun, under his arm.

  Her eyes narrowed. They were lovely eyes, almond-shaped and dark, dark brown, surrounded by thick lashes, and strong dark brows arching above. Her skin was pale olive. Anger touched her small, pointed face. “I missed you. I could have put three bullets into you while you were still trying to understand what that sound was.”

  “I know the sound well enough,” Marcus told her grimly. “Are you saying you deliberately missed me?”

  She got to her feet, leaving the rifle resting against her backpack. She was small, even for a woman. Marcus figured she was maybe five foot two or three, without the boot heels. A hundred and fifteen poun
ds, once she had a good meal or two. She was very slender. It made her cheekbones prominent and gave her a defined jaw that spoke of strength.

  She dropped her chin and looked at him with a don’t-mess-with-me expression. The movement brought her hair cascading over her shoulders, the rich ebony shining in the sun peering over the top of the hills. “You already know it was a deliberate miss,” she told him. “You’ve been wondering why ever since.”

  Marcus controlled his expression. He didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of knowing she was right. It was a small thing, but it was important – it helped establish the hierarchy between them. He added to that impression by scowling. “I’ve been too pissed to worry about why you missed. The relevant fact is you took a shot at me. Technically, you’re my enemy.”

  He hid his confusion. Why had he said anything about enemies? It immediately created a barrier. He knew better than to pull a rookie stunt like that. So why say it?

  She propped her hand on her hip once more. “Too angry to think, il mio amico? You never asked yourself why I used such an easily traceable handmade cartridge? Why I missed and didn’t take my second shot?”

  The ‘my friend’ spoken in Italian confirmed for him the source of her very slight accent. Marcus gave a miniscule shrug. “You missed because you didn’t want to ruin my rugged masculinity?”

  A trace of a smile touched her mouth and made her brown eyes sparkle with humor, which pleased him. He needed to put her at ease after the enemy gaff.

  Her smile faded as she studied him. “You know who I am. You know I don’t miss. You knew almost immediately, once you stopped shaking and started thinking.”

  The Whisper. Marcus didn’t say it aloud. He was suddenly aware of the gunman on the other side of the weatherboard barrier, and their very public position. So instead, he leaned down and picked up the rifle. It was surprisingly light. He examined it, figuring out how it worked, then ejected the cartridge box and shoved the weapon at her. “Break it down and pack it up.” He pushed the box into his pocket

  She considered him for a moment. Then she silently took the rifle and crouched down by her backpack. With practiced movements of her hands and wrists, she broke the gun apart. Scope, barrel, trigger housing and stock. The barrel was the longest piece and it was just over a foot long. She pushed all of them inside the backpack, and Marcus glimpsed molded foam inside. The backpack was the gun’s official carry case. A briefcase would have looked odd put against her casual, chic appearance, but the pack was explainable. It made sense. No wonder no one had ever so much as glimpsed The Whisper, before.

  She zipped the case up and stood up, slinging it over one shoulder. “What now?” she asked.

  “What’s your name?”

  “You know that.”

  “Your real name, or whatever name is on the passport you’re currently using. I can’t keep calling you ‘you’.”

  “Ilaria,” she said.

  The name suited her sultry looks. He took her arm and his fingers closed around it. “We’re going out to my car. We can talk there.”

  He walked her back through the store. Cliff Washanski nodded as they passed, but he didn’t speak. Marcus saw his gaze flicker over the grip he had on her arm, then he looked down at his clipboard, his attention abruptly taken by something mesmerizing on the top sheet.

  The sun had punched through the light cloud cover when they stepped out of the store and down to the parking area. It warmed their backs, despite the small breeze wafting over the gravel, bringing with it the scent of pine, rain and turned earth.

  Marcus unlocked his car and opened the driver’s side. “Get in,” he told her.

  “I will drive?” she asked. “Fine.” She slid onto the seat behind the wheel.

  “Keep moving. Onto the other seat,” he instructed, as he pressed the safety lock on the armrest of the open door. It would prevent her from unlocking her door and escaping.

  She pouted prettily, her full bottom lip pushing out, then lifted herself over the gear shift and dropped down onto the passenger seat. Then she lifted both legs over, but instead of sliding them down under the dash, she crossed her ankles, her knees up against her chest, and rested her boot heels on the edge of the seat. She was small enough that there was plenty of room for her contortions.

  Marcus got in and shut the door. “Get your boots off my seat,” he said shortly. “That’s leather you’re punching the heels through.”

  She lifted one leg straight up in the air, showing a high degree of suppleness and agility. Then she unzipped the knee-high boot and dropped it to the floor. She returned her foot to the seat and extended the other leg and removed that boot. Then she turned herself sideways on the seat and rested her back against the door. She pressed both feet against the center console.

  Marcus felt a degree of reassurance with her theatrics. She could hardly escape the car and run around in the wilderness in tights. The gravel in the parking area alone would cripple her.

  “You wanted to speak, so let’s speak,” she suggested.

  Marcus pulled his gaze away from the extended line of her legs, from ankle to the top of her thigh, visible under the raised hem of the skirt. For her height, her legs were proportionately long.

  He pushed himself back to business. “What is it you want with me?” he asked. “You set this up so I would come to you. Why?”

  She bounced her heels up and down, as if she were thinking. Then she glanced over at the store. “You know, men come in and out of this place all day long on a Saturday, and your windows are not tinted.”

  “Afraid you’ll be seen with me?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said flatly.

  He considered that. Was she trying to avoid witnesses who might place her with him so her hit was clean? Or was she avoiding some other sort of surveillance? The first possibility seemed far-fetched. If she was here to take him out she would have killed him in Pershing Square when she’s had a better opportunity and a clear route of retreat. Snipers specialized in long distance impersonal killing.

  “So who are you hiding from?” Marcus asked her.

  She gave him the briefest of smiles. There was no emotion or warmth in the expression or in her eyes. “Could we...maybe, talk somewhere more comfortable?”

  “You mean more secure, don’t you?”

  She shrugged. “Sure.”

  He considered that. “I should take you in. To the field office. That’s the most secure location in the city.”

  She shook her head as he’d known she would. “I can’t be processed,” she said.

  “Can’t or won’t?” he questioned.

  She put her arms around her knees, leaning forward earnestly. “It is like this, Marcus Anderson. You came here by yourself. You might have turned up with a whole posse of your coworkers, but you didn’t. You traced the bullet by yourself. You investigated independently and turned up here by yourself. That means your reputation as a wild card is true, which is what I was counting on.” She gave him another small smile and this time, he saw some warmth in it. “But if you try to take me in, if you try to do the right thing, that would be regrettable.”

  Marcus stared at her. There was no amusement on her face anymore. Somehow, in the last few minutes, despite him being the only one with a loaded gun, she had turned this around on him. He could almost feel the size and depth of her power. This was The Whisper, one of the world’s best snipers, and she had earned that reputation the hard way. Despite the long legs and smoky eyes, she was a killer and couldn’t be underestimated, which was exactly what he had begun to do.

  “Why would it be regrettable?” he asked curiously.

  “Because I like you,” she told him, “and I really don’t want anything to happen to you.”

  Despite the warmth that had built up from the car sitting in out in the sun, Marcus shivered. His gut knew what his intellect kept ignoring. She could hurt him, and with ruthless efficiency, should she decide he wasn’t useful.

  He weighed h
is options quickly but carefully. If he didn’t take her in, he would be compounding the original sin he had committed when he’d swiped the bullet and begun investigating on his own. But McLaren had considered the whole business about The Whisper a waste of time and resources.

  McLaren – that was the problem. Marcus simply didn’t trust him and hadn’t been able to since McLaren had taken over the running of the field office. His dismissal of The Whisper was one more shred of proof that Marcus couldn’t trust McLaren to make the right decisions or do the right thing.

  Marcus reluctantly decided. He straightened up in the seat and turned the engine on. “Do your seatbelt up,” he told Ilaria.

  “Where are we going?” she asked as she turned in the seat and strapped in.

  Marcus scowled, his gut uneasy. It was difficult to speak of it. This sort of thing…it led to trouble. He didn’t like trouble. He had worked hard the last two years to eliminate the factors in his life that stirred up issues and created crises. This thing now, going behind McLaren, questioning Ilaria…it had all the hallmarks of a situation that could blow up and consume them all.

  Been there, done that. He couldn’t do it again.

  “Okay, then,” Ilaria said, even though he hadn’t spoken. Her accent made the words sound exotic.

  All the way back, he kept his gaze on the traffic, but he could still see her slender thighs and knees from the corner of his eye.

  Chapter Twelve

  Ilaria moved directly to the big doors and looked out at the ocean, her boots gripped in one hand. She had padded from the car to the house in her stockinged feet, careless of the dirt.

  Now she gave a great sigh of appreciation for the waves, sand and watery sun, then turned to examine the room, her gaze flickering across details, quartering the area like the professional she was. “This is not a safe house.”

  “It isn’t,” Marcus replied and tossed his keys into the bowl on the kitchen counter where they belonged.

  Ilaria dropped her boots onto the hardwood next to the loveseat, then shrugged out of her jacket and laid it over the arm of the chair. Beneath, she wore a figure-hugging tee-shirt with a V-neck that dipped low enough to show a hint of cleavage. It was a dark peach color that matched the stripes in her skirt and made her skin glow. Just under the left sleeve of the shirt, Marcus could see the bottom edge of a bracelet peeping out. It looked like it was brass or bronze.