11

by Kylie Brant

  Without conscious volition he rolled from the bed and strode toward her. Her expression showed no fear. But her eyes widened a little when he placed a knee on her bed. Propped his hands on either side of the pillow she was resting against and lowered his face close to hers. She looked up at him, with thickly lashed eyes that had gone the color of fog. And he knew his earlier battle for restraint had fragmented. “I’m not just angry.”

  A flicker of unease in her expression would have had him regaining his senses. Or any visible sign of distrust. But instead her hand came up to cup his damaged cheek. Her lips parted, eyelids drooping.

  And he was lost. He leaned in, brushed her mouth with his, eyes slitted to observe her expression for any indication of distress. She was hesitant, but not anxious. So when her lips moved beneath his he sank into the moment.

  There were all kinds of kisses, and Jude wasn’t a saint; he’d experienced them all. But this was more than an initial contact between two semi-strangers. He didn’t know Mia time wise, but he knew her in a way he thought few others did. Partly because of what she’d revealed and partly because he recognized in her elements that he still battled in himself.

  Her flavor was foreign, forbidden and he couldn’t prevent himself from pressing closer, using his tongue to open her mouth so it could sweep inside. He touched her nowhere else. He didn’t dare. Her tongue met his in a tentative glide and his breath stopped in his throat. Just a moment more. Then he’d call a stop to the madness. But the rollicking in his pulse called him a liar.

  Already he was craving another taste, and therein lay her danger. He wanted to steep his senses in her, and realized even now that he wouldn’t be readily satiated. This wasn’t a woman a man could easily walk away from. She was a knot of complications. An endless source of fascination. But when her teeth closed over his bottom lip to score it lightly he knew he wouldn’t be satisfied until he’d unlocked all her secrets.

  He flicked the delicate roof of her mouth with his tongue, pleased when he felt her shiver. It ignited a hunger that tantalized him to take a little more. Their breathing mingled. Teeth clashed. The muscles in his arms were rigid with the willpower it took to not settle himself against her. To stretch out beside her and see how well they matched. Chest to chest. Hips to hips. Thigh to thigh.

  The dim thought elicited a hard fought flicker of reason. It was more difficult than it should have been to tear away from her. Nearly impossible when he dragged his eyes open and saw the dazed expression she wore. Swearing mentally, he managed to speak. Was dismayed at how ragged the words sounded. “This,” he whispered against her mouth, “is exactly why I’m not going to be worth a damn protecting you.”

  Her hand moved to his hair, rubbing it delicately between two fingers as if to test the texture. Her words did nothing to soothe the emotion churning inside him. “Then I guess,” she brushed her lips against his, “that it’s a good thing you’ll have help in that area.”

  * * * *

  “The owner of the TASER is a man named Raymond Tuttle.” Logan sat at the desk of the motel room, reading from the screen of a computer he’d brought in with him. “AFID’s a nifty little system. I would have liked to have had time to poke around a bit more.”

  Jude narrowed his gaze at the man. “But you didn’t.” The mark of a good hacker wasn’t the act of infiltrating the online security of others; it was in leaving no trace of having done so.

  “Of course not.” There was indignation in the lanky blond man’s tone. But there was a trace of wistfulness too that Jude could empathize with. “I checked and he’s still at the address listed on his registration. 1105 Coral Drive, apartment forty-seven, Tucson, Arizona.”

  Jude saw the disappointed slump in Mia’s shoulders. Tucson didn’t have hard winters. They didn’t have winters at all, compared to DC. Wherever she had been held when she’d been kidnapped, it hadn’t been Arizona.

  Still. According to Raiker’s forensic anthropologist’s discovery, the woman in the mineshaft hadn’t been killed in Wyoming, either, yet she’d been found there. She hadn’t been killed in West Virginia, but the kidnapper had planned to go there yesterday to retrieve Four and Mia. He exhibited a willingness to travel to accomplish his goals. Maybe they’d discover he’d been to Tucson.

  “Ran a background check on him on the way over.” His other operative, Hunter Mason was sitting at the table with Mia. At six-six and two hundred fifty pounds, he was the agent Jude used most often with skittish businessmen in need of protection. Something about his girth and booming voice inspired confidence. “Busy guy. Long arrest record, no convictions. He must have a talented defense attorney. He’s wiggled out of a couple drug charges that could have brought some stiff sentencing. Got community service for an aggravated assault and an attempted rape charge was dropped when the witness declined to testify.”

  “So he’s a model citizen.” Jude wasn’t totally unhappy about the man’s unsavory past. Criminals—even those who hadn’t been convicted yet—usually had more to hide, which gave him a potential bargaining chip.

  He looked at Mia. “Which passports did you bring?”

  “All of them.” She tried to hide the satisfaction from her expression but was unsuccessful. It didn’t matter. He’d realized last night he was royally screwed where she was concerned. “They’re hidden in the lining of my backpack.”

  “Use the third one.” He didn’t want anyone with an interest discovering the names Mia Deleon or Samantha Simmons on a flight manifest. And just to be safe, may as well not use the passport she’d entered the country with either.

  “All right. Should I dye my hair red before we leave?”

  The picture had been taken with her as a redhead, he recalled now. They’d used a wig at the time. “No. Women dye their hair all the time. You should pass scrutiny.” His focus shifted to Logan. “I’ve got Blake and Caro on the way to Johnstown to return Mia’s car. You can drive the one back that you and Hunter arrived in. We’ll take my vehicle and fly out of Dulles.”

  “Once you buy three tickets,” Hunter drawled, hooking one ankle over his knee. Jude had already discussed options with the man on the phone this morning when he’d sent him out for coffee. The operative had drawn a blank when it had come to thinking of another alternative regarding Mia.

  Jude’s gaze settled on her again. The early arrival of his operatives this morning had made it easy to avoid any awkward conversations about last night. Not that she’d seemed inclined to start any. His usual ability to fall asleep in a matter of minutes had deserted him after the kiss. He’d known by her breathing for hours afterward that she wasn’t sleeping either. And the awareness had done nothing to beckon slumber.

  “Yeah,” he answered finally with a tone of resignation. “Once I buy three tickets.”

  * * * *

  1105 Coral Drive, apartment forty-seven, Tucson, Arizona was a shithole masquerading as middle class digs. Considered generously, forty years ago it might have been decent. But Jude wasn’t in the mood to be generous. The complex was a set of three two-story buildings with ten apartments doors lining top and bottom, all facing the parking lot. If someone had stacked two Friend’s Inns, the motel he’d found Mia in, on top of each other, Tuttle’s building could pass as its twin. The communal pool was neglected and looked unused. At least no one had entered the sagging gate that surrounded it in the eight hours or so that Jude had been parked on the street beside the lot.

  He tried to find a relaxing position in the rental. The sedan was mid-sized, but still not comfortable for hours on end for someone his height. And there hadn’t been much to see until after nightfall. He wouldn’t even have known Tuttle was inside if he hadn’t gotten the man’s plate and vehicle model from Arizona’s Motor Vehicle Services. Tuttle was home. Maybe he’d slept all day.

  He wasn’t sleeping now, however. The man had started getting visitors about seven-thirty, a few at first, arriving alone or as a couple. When it had gotten dark the trickle had turned to a steady st
ream. Jude recognized the short swarthy man who let each in from the driver’s license photo. He knew even from this distance that the buttoned loose-fitting vintage shirt the man wore was meant to hide a weapon beneath it.

  Tuttle’s frequency of guests obviously wasn’t due to his hospitality. The average stay was twelve minutes. It would take a semi-astute observer all of an hour to figure out what was going on in apartment forty-seven. Raymond Tuttle was a dealer.

  The realization wasn’t totally surprising, but it was going to come in handy. Jude looked up the number for the Tucson police department and added it to the contacts list on his cellphone. Then he started the car and pulled into the parking lot, picking a spot where he had an unfettered view of Tuttle’s place. Taking out his phone again, he began filming the activity at the man’s door.

  It was after two AM and the procession to apartment forty-seven was starting to wane. When Jude saw the last guest leave the apartment and head back to his car, he got out and ambled toward him. “Hey.”

  The kid—and he was no more than that, Jude estimated when he got closer—startled. Shoved whatever he was carrying down the front of his pants. “What?”

  Jerking his head toward the apartment, Jude said, “Does he have good stuff up there?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The boy wiped his nose with the back of his free hand, and began to sidle away.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Mind your own business, man.” His hand on the car door, he pulled a fob out of his pocket.

  Jude held out the video he’d just shot. “I just want to make sure you get credit on this film.”

  The boy peered closely, releasing a groan when he recognized himself. “Aw, shit. Are you a cop or something?”

  “Or something. Show me your ID.”

  With a low moan the kid reached into his back pocket, his fingers trembling so hard he could barely get his wallet out. Jude took it from him and used the flashlight app on his cell to read the name. Aiden Barclay.

  “Okay, Aiden.” He handed the wallet back. “Answer the question. If I go up there, does he have good shit?”

  “Yeah.” The kid’s head bobbed nervously. “I mean, I don’t get anything fancy, but my friends get some pretty sweet blends from him. Ray can mix anything. You just tell him what you want it for and in a couple days he’ll have something whipped up. Or maybe he gets it from someone else. Guess I don’t know.” There was a click as he unlocked his car.

  “Don’t come back here,” Jude advised, giving the boy a hard look. “I’m going to use your name and he probably isn’t going to be happy with you after I leave. But if I find out you called him and told him about me, I’m coming after you. And then none of us will be happy.”

  “Oh fuck,” the boy moaned. “All I wanted was some Oxy.”

  “Remember what I said.”

  The kid fumbled with the door handle, finally yanking it open and sliding inside. Jude waited until he’d squealed out of the lot before heading to the metal stairway, taking the short wooden sap from his back waistband and moving it to the front, beneath his shirt.

  He knocked at the door like he’d seen the stream of other customers do.

  “Name.”

  He knew he was being surveyed through the peephole on the door. The man would be suspicious of a strange face. “Wallace Prescott. Aiden told me about you.”

  “Don’t know an Aiden.” Still the door didn’t open.

  “Maybe you’ll recognize him in this.” Taking out his cell, Jude pressed play and held the video he’d recorded up for the man to examine through the hole.

  “Fuck that shit. Get the hell out of here. Don’t come back without a warrant.”

  “I’m not a cop so I can’t get a warrant. But I’m guessing when I take this down to the police station and show them the last few hours of film—I made several of these, because you’re a very popular guy—they’ll be here shortly with one in hand.”

  There was the sound of a deadbolt unlocking and then the door opened a few inches, held in place with a security chain. One baleful red-rimmed eye stared out at him. “What the fuck do you want with me?”

  “To trade information for information.”

  The man surveyed him for a few moments. Jude had the feeling he wasn’t unused to the concept. There had to be some way Tuttle had managed to avoid any charges sticking. Sometimes the police would trade a smaller fish for one further up the food chain.

  “Okay.” The door shut again and there was a rattling sound as he unhooked the chain. Jude exploded into action, grabbing the knob and pushing the door open in a short violent motion that would knock the man off balance, before drawing the sap as he entered low. He brought it down hard on the man’s wrist, and Tuttle cursed, his fingers loosening around the handgun he held. Jude hit him again, one foot going to the door and kicking it shut behind him. Tuttle dropped the gun. Jude drove the end of the sap into his gut, and the man folded over, wheezing.

  Picking up the weapon, Jude never took his gaze from him as he resecured the chain on the door. “Sit down.” Tuttle started to stumble in the direction of the couch. “Not there.” He probably had another gun stashed in the cushions. “On the folding chair.”

  “Robbery is a very bad idea.” The man’s words came between gasps. He was still struggling for breath. “Everyone has bosses, you know? And you do not want to steal from these people. Your head will wind up on a stake.”

  “Or yours will. Chances are they’ll never catch me.” Jude watched the guy’s florid expression go ashen. “Lucky for you, I’m not here to rob you. I just want to talk to you about your TASER.”

  Tuttle’s eyes went shifty. He definitely lacked a poker face. “I don’t have a TASER.”

  “Not now.” Jude’s voice was silky. “But you have one registered in your name that’s not in your possession. Who’d you give it to?”

  “I didn’t give it to anyone.”

  Jude blew out a breath of frustration and pointed the man’s gun at him. “Buddy, sitting outside for the last several hours did nothing to improve my patience. Who did you sell the gun to?”

  “No one. It was stolen.”

  Temper frayed, he glared at the man for a long minute. “Fuck this.” He stood up, went to the couch and started tearing off the cushions.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Taking your place apart. You can keep the drugs. I’m guessing it’s the money your bosses are going to be most upset about missing. Well, damn.” He saw the barrel of a sub-compact pistol almost buried beneath the attached back cushion of the couch. Jude pulled it out, stuck it in his waistband. “You are not a trusting guy. Not particularly smart either, willing to take a bath for someone who left you hanging after he committed a crime with a TASER you gave him.”

  Jude continued tossing the place, turning over furniture before moving toward the big screen TV. “Okay, wait a minute,” Tuttle said hastily. “Yeah, maybe I mailed one out a few days ago to a friend. I had no idea what he’d do with it.”

  Stopping to stare at him, Jude said, “Mailed where? What friend?”

  “Some DC motel. I can’t remember which one. It went to a lady. Shelby something.”

  “Shelby Kronberg.” It’d been the name on the passport that Four had used to get into Vietnam.

  “Yeah. Shelby something. I don’t know what happened to it after that. I sent it along with two cartridges and a cocktail I’d mixed for this friend before.”

  Tuttle cringed when Jude crossed the room toward him, fist clenched. “A drug cocktail?”

  “Party drug, you know. K-Sleep I call it. A ketamine base, blended with a couple of sedatives…seriously this stuff is better than what they give you in the hospital. Had a hernia repaired last year. Woke up in the middle of surgery, for crissakes.” When he got going, Tuttle was quite the talker. “You stick a girl with this stuff, she isn’t going to wake up until long after the party’s over, know what I mean?”

>   A red wash of anger flooded Jude. He knew exactly what the man meant, having just experienced the effects himself yesterday. “And people say chivalry is dead.”

  The man shrugged. “Hey, I don’t create the demand, just the supply.”

  He battled for control. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind that this was the guy who supplied The Collector with the drugs he used for kidnapping the women. No sedative on the market was as fast acting as what he and Mia had been injected with. And from what she’d said, a similar drug had been used the night she’d been taken five and a half years ago.

  “I want the name of the man you supply.”

  Tuttle looked unhappy. “Hey, this guy’s a good customer. I do a steady business with him.”

  “He’s such a good customer he’s going to let you take the fall for the crime committed with the TASER you sold him.”

  “Fucker’s going to pay double next time,” the man said furiously, raking his hand through his slicked back hair. “But I’ll tell the cops it was stolen. They can’t prove different.”

  Jude rubbed his forehead, as if in pain. “The stupid. It burns.” With exaggerated slowness, he enunciated, “I am still here. I will still rob you and spit in your face after your bosses impale your head on a stake in the parking lot. What. Is. His. Name?”

  The man took a minute to consider his choices and it was apparent that the brain activity was agonizing. Finally he shrugged. “He’s a black hat. Know what they are?”

  Interest stirring, Jude nodded. Hackers often referred to themselves in those terms. White hats were those computer security experts who operated within the law. Black hats had criminal intent. Jude and his crew would be most appropriately referred to as gray hats, since they’d been known to operate on both sides of the law, with no criminal intention. A yearly expenditure at his business was sending his computer techs to the annual Black Hat convention. But maintaining a presence in the underground computer world was the best way to keep a finger on the pulse of current hacker issues.