by Julie Kenner
“Hey,” he said to the concierge, not even noticing me. I decided this was as good a time as any to make my escape. If I hurried, maybe the concierge would be so involved with the messenger that he wouldn’t check the monitors that were undoubtedly broadcasting everything going on near the back doors. I’d moved two feet away from the doorman when I heard the messenger say “Brady, 12A. I’m supposed to wait until he signs for it.”
I stopped. More specifically, I froze. And it doesn’t take a genius to know what I was thinking: This skinny cycler with helmet hair was holding the message that would shove Devlin Brady full force into the game.
I sidled back until I was leaning against the concierge desk. While I did, my good friend the concierge dialed the house phone again. Once again, there was no answer. The messenger and the concierge looked at each other. Then the concierge held out his hand. “I can sign for it.”
Helmet Head made a face. “Sorry, man. I’m supposed to make sure it’s delivered. Urgent document or something. Customer even paid extra. I’ll get ripped a new one if I don’t get a confirmation.”
“Maybe we could all go up,” I suggested. “Knock on the door.”
“Who are you?”
“Miss…” The concierge sniffed. Apparently my good friend the concierge was getting a little pissy.
“Look,” I said, trying to appear reasonable and rational. “I’m pretty sure that message is related to my business with Agent Brady. So let’s all go up and knock on the door. What can that hurt?”
“I gotta get the man the message,” Helmet Head said. “If I go back without trying everything, my boss is gonna—”
“Rip you a new one,” I finished. “Yeah. We know.” I turned to the concierge. “Please?”
He scowled, then picked up the phone, this time dialing enough numbers that I knew he wasn’t buzzing Devlin on the house phone. But I didn’t know who he was calling. A psychiatric ward, maybe?
While he concentrated on the phone, I focused on the messenger. “So, um, who’s the message from?”
“Beats me.”
“Does it say on the envelope?”
“Lady, you want to give it a rest?”
“I’m just curious. And what’s the big deal, anyway? You can’t even look?”
He did look. But he didn’t say a word to me.
“Well?”
“Is your name on this envelope?” He didn’t wait for me to answer. “Then I guess it ain’t any of your business, is it?”
“Since you won’t let me see the envelope, how do I know if my name’s on there or not?”
“What is your problem?”
“There are too many to list. But it’s important. Really. Now who sent the package?”
He sighed. “There’s nothing on the envelope, okay?”
I nodded. “Thanks.”
He gave me a curt nod back.
“So who brought it to your office?”
Every bone in his body seemed to go slack, and he let out the loudest sigh I’ve ever heard. I swear, I’ve never seen such a stunning example of exasperation. Truly. The guy should be an actor.
Behind us, the concierge started speaking, telling Agent Brady in very polite tones that he would be escorting a delivery man to the door, that it was a priority package, and that he hoped Agent Brady would answer when he and the messenger came calling.
“What about me?” I asked.
The concierge ignored me. Instead, he signaled to the doorman, asked him to watch the desk for a moment, then headed toward the elevator bank.
I tagged along.
The doors slid open and they stepped on. Once again, I followed, only to find myself foiled by a firm hand held out by an equally firm arm. If I took one more step, the concierge would be copping a feel, and that really wasn’t something I was in the mood for.
“Dammit! I told you, it’s urgent. I need to see Agent Brady.”
“And I told you no. Not unless Agent Brady wants to see you.”
I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, wondering what I should do now. I’ve gotten used to being rejected at auditions, but except for that, I tend to get my own way. And I can’t say I was too keen on not getting it right now.
Unfortunately, I didn’t see a way around it.
“Fine,” I said, mustering as much pride as I could. I turned to Helmet Head. “Will you at least answer my question?” I was standing in the doorway, and the elevator door was doing that number where it’s trying to close but can’t. Any second now, the thing was going to start squawking.
“What question?”
“Who gave you the package?”
“My boss.”
It was my turn to be exasperated. “Who gave it to him?”
“Her,” he said. “My boss is a woman.”
The concierge took a step forward. “Miss, if you don’t step back now, I’m going to call the authorities.”
That did it. Frustrated and defeated, I stepped back. But as the doors slid closed, I did manage to catch a glimpse of Helmet Head’s satchel: Speedy Delivery.
Well, I thought. That was something.
Chapter
15
DEVLIN
D evlin stared at his answering machine, the red flashes almost blinding in the dim light of the apartment. He almost erased the messages, but then he squared his shoulders and pushed PLAY instead. A whir, a beep, and then, “Yo, Devlin. It’s Mark. Agent Bullard if you want to get official about it, and since I hear you’re sitting on your ass, I guess we’ll make this an official request. I outrank you, after all.” A pause, then, “I’m worried about you, buddy. I know you’re not dirty, man. And a lot of the other guys are rallying for you, too. So just give me a call, okay?”
The message clicked off and Devlin drew in a breath. He’d known Bullard for going on three years now, and the guy was a decent enough agent. But he’d never been investigated by OPR. Never shot his partner. As far as Devlin knew, Bullard hadn’t ever even fired his weapon outside of training.
Still…he picked up the phone. Almost called back. Then he slammed down the receiver and, for good measure, he hit the ERASE button, effectively deleting the rest of the messages from the machine. Why not? He’d already interacted with the human race today. As far as Devlin was concerned, his quota for the week was filled.
He stood there and counted to ten, trying to calm down. When that didn’t much work, he headed to the kitchen for a beer. Or bourbon. That’s when he heard the knock.
For a second, he considered ignoring it, but he dismissed the idea. Most likely Annabel again, and he figured he could put up with her for at least a few more minutes.
But when he pulled open the door, it wasn’t the elderly lady he saw. It was Evan, the concierge, standing beside a skinny guy in cycling gear who immediately shoved an envelope into Devlin’s face. A standard brown clasp envelope adorned with a crisp white label. Devlin noted his name, and also noted that there was no return address. He didn’t take the envelope.
“You’re Agent Devlin Brady?” the messenger asked.
“Who wants to know?”
“Agent Brady,” Evan inserted, in the smooth tone of a man used to working out problems, “this gentleman insists that this delivery is of the utmost importance and that he was strictly instructed to deliver it only to you.”
“Tell him to get the hell out of my way, or my fist will deliver something meant only for him.”
“Come on, man,” the messenger said. “I’m going to get so fucking fired if you don’t sign for this thing.”
Devlin looked at Evan. “You fell for this shit?”
“I’m sorry, Agent Brady. You’ve received so many official papers these last few weeks that I thought this might be urgent or expected. But now that I see it’s not, I’ll escort the gentleman back downstairs, and apologize for the inconvenience.”
“No way, man. Just take the thing, would you? I’m going to get so busted.”
Devlin was just about to
say that wasn’t really his problem when he heard the locks click on Annabel’s door. Then it opened and the woman’s head poked out, her eyes wide behind her glasses.
“I was wondering what all the fuss in the hall was about. Is there a problem?”
She looked at Devlin while she spoke, her voice and expression just a tad too innocent. He sighed and held his hand out for the envelope.
“Thanks, man. Sign here.” The messenger shoved a clipboard at him, and Devlin dutifully signed. He tucked the envelope under his arm and dug in his pocket for his key as Evan and the messenger headed back toward the elevator bank.
“By the way,” Evan said as Devlin pushed his door open. “There’s a young lady in the lobby who wants to see you. I called to announce her, but you didn’t answer.”
“I’m not interested in seeing anyone,” Devlin said.
“She said it was about a game.”
Devlin paused, for a moment wondering if it was the woman from the bar, come to play find the panties. “Tell her it’s a bad day. She can try back later.”
“Certainly, sir.”
Devlin didn’t think any more of the woman. Instead, he shut the apartment door and flipped the dead bolt. He tossed the envelope onto the foyer table, and was just about to leave it sitting there when one small oddity caught his eye. A watermark, barely visible, on the pure white label. He hesitated, wanting to simply leave it be. But Devlin had learned a long time ago to trust his instincts, and the fact that he’d been living in a cave for the last few weeks hadn’t changed that.
He took the envelope, then angled it slightly, so that he could just make out the mark: PSW.
Devlin reached for the gun he wasn’t wearing as his mind raced to Melanie Prescott, his first thought that she was in danger. He hadn’t been on the case in over six months, his reassignment inevitable once the case had gone cold. Was this a break? Or was it something else entirely?
The thoughts ripped through his head almost as quickly as he ripped the seal on the envelope. Then he reached in, carefully extracting the single piece of paper with the very tips of his fingers. He laid it on the table, then felt his stomach tighten as he saw what was written in bold at the top of the page: PLAY OR DIE.
He drew in a breath, steeled himself. This was something else entirely, all right.
And this something was a hell of a lot worse.
Chapter
16
JENNIFER
“N o way,” I said. “I’m staying. Consider this a hunger strike.” I’d been pacing the lobby, but once Mr. Concierge returned and told me that Agent Brady refused to see me and that I’d have to leave, I’d plunked myself down on the fancy brocade sofa. Now I kicked my feet up onto the polished wood coffee table, crossed my arms over my chest, and dug in for the long haul. Agent Brady had to come out sometime. And until then, I was staying put.
I wasn’t entirely sure what I was going to do about food or bathroom breaks, but I was kind of hoping we wouldn’t get that far. Of course, the second the thought entered my head, I realized I desperately needed to pee. So much for mind over matter.
“Let me be a bit more specific,” my concierge friend said as he loomed over me. “If you don’t vacate the premises by the time I count to five, I will call the police. One…two…”
Okay, obviously he’d figured out my weak spot. So I got up—slowly—and headed toward the revolving door. Mr. Concierge Asshole Dude continued counting, which really pissed me off. I was going, wasn’t I?
“Three…four…”
I was just about to step into the revolving door when I heard the phone ring. Since he stopped his counting, I stopped walking. Call it a matter of principle.
I couldn’t hear what he had to say, but I did see the way he looked at me. Annoyed and maybe even more than that. Maybe downright pissed off. Then he nodded, hung up the phone, and walked toward me. I held up my hands in defense. “I’m going, already. Just get off my case.”
“Agent Brady will see you now.”
I balked, but I recovered quickly. I lifted my chin high as I moved away from the door. Then I walked with a grace and dignity I didn’t feel toward the elevator bank. I stepped into a waiting car, pushed the button for twelve, then turned to aim my very best stage smile at the concierge. The kind that the guy on the last row of the balcony can see. “Thanks so much. You’ve been such a big help.”
And then—with timing that couldn’t be more perfect—the elevator doors slid closed, effectively erasing his prissy, sour face.
A minor victory, maybe, but at the moment, I was taking whatever I could get.
Chapter
17
JENNIFER
O nly a few moments had passed from the time I stepped into the elevator all agog with victory to the time I emerged on the twelfth floor, completely and totally terrified once again. Under the circumstances, a victory was like a drug. During the moment, all was perfect. But once the drug wore off, reality slapped back, and even harder than ever.
I’d barely knocked when Agent Brady yanked the door open. He stared at me, not the pillar of strength I’d expected at all. Instead, he looked lost, his pale eyes cloudy with distrust. For an instant, recognition flickered in his eyes, and he stood back from the door, a silent invitation if not exactly a welcome.
I almost ran the other direction, I swear to God I did, but right now, this was the only person I knew who could help me. And I desperately needed help. So I stepped inside. The thud of the door closing seemed to echo in my head as Devlin stared me down. I just stood there in the dimly lit foyer, my hands at my sides.
“You,” he finally said. “I know you.”
I nodded. “Jennifer Crane. I was Melanie Prescott’s roommate last year.”
“What do you know about the game?”
I took a step backwards and casually rested my hand on the doorknob. After what happened with Andy, my faith in the safety of my surroundings had diminished to zero. Agent Brady might be the target, but I was still going to be careful.
Brady didn’t move a muscle. He just stared right at me, his face etched in stone, his eyes penetrating. The man scared me and, unreasonably, that made me feel better. This was a hard man. And a man like this could keep me safe.
“Talk to me, Crane. I need to know what you’re doing here.”
There was no denying the sharp edge of anger in his voice, and I cringed. “I got a message,” I said. “About PSW. I’m…I guess I’m playing the game now.” I licked my lips. “And I guess you are, too.”
His face never softened, but I saw a flicker of something cross his eyes. Then he shoved his hands into his pockets as he moved out of the foyer. Not knowing what else to do, I followed, silently congratulating myself on only looking back toward the door once. There was no place to run, after all. Ever since I’d left Andy, I’d been telling myself that this apartment was safety. Now that I was here, I was clinging to that, and nothing was going to make me change my mind.
Not even Devlin Brady.
Chapter
18
DEVLIN
“Y ou’re here about PSW,” Devlin said. He examined her face as she nodded, her lips pressed together as if she wasn’t going to say another word until she was sure he was on her side. Smart woman. “It’s okay,” he said. “I don’t bite. Just tell me.”
She hesitated, then drew a breath and spoke. “You’re the target. And…and I’m the protector.”
He looked her up and down. A mane of coal black hair framing a thin, worried face. A delicate body, but with a solid layer of muscle. He thought back, trying to remember her file, and he seemed to recall the theater. A dancer, maybe, in which case she might have a hell of a kick.
A kick wasn’t going to do a lot of good against an assassin’s bullet. Finally, he just laughed. A weak, tired, time-to-quit-all-the-bullshit kind of laugh.
She took a step back, her green eyes wide, her expression terrified.
“Forget it,” he said.
&nb
sp; “Forget it? Forget what?”
“The whole goddamn thing,” he said. “I don’t need a protector. I’m not playing the game.”
“What do you mean?”
“What does it sound like?”
“So you’re just going to sit here? A target, literally, for some freak? You’re going to end up dead!”
“Maybe,” he said. Then he turned and headed down his small hallway to the living room. She followed. “Would you like coffee?” he asked, the sarcasm coming naturally. “Soda, water? Anything I can do to make you feel more comfortable?”
“You wanna make me more comfortable? Quit acting like an asshole.”
It was a gutsy response, and accurate. And he liked the girl all the more for it. “Sorry. Asshole is my natural state of being.”
“Work to overcome your limitations,” she said.
“Feel better?”
Her brow furrowed. “What?”
“Do you feel better?” He spoke slowly, the way his mother had always talked to the hired help who didn’t speak English, as if a slower speed would somehow make the unfamiliar words comprehensible.
She shook her head slowly, clearly not comprehending.
“Anger,” he said. “Sometimes it takes the edge off of fear.”
“I…Oh.” She squinted at him, probably trying to decide if he was okay, or even more of a jerk than she’d originally believed.
While she pondered that mystery, he moved into the kitchen and came back with a Diet Coke. He hadn’t asked what she wanted, but in Devlin’s experience, most women wanted Diet Coke.
She popped the top without even looking at the can, took a long sip, and then grinned. “You’re right,” she said. “Getting pissed off at you totally made me feel better.”
“Happy to oblige.”
She glanced around his apartment, her nose wrinkling in disgust as she did so. He stifled a shrug. Women. The place wasn’t that bad yet. Nothing was breeding in the mess on the floor, and to the best of his knowledge, he hadn’t yet discovered penicillin in its natural form.
