Anthology - Bad Boys With Expensive Toys

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  "Well, we're not. Thanks," Ben told her. "Maybe you should get another job."

  "Are you kidding? This is part-time, but I get full-time bennies. Plus dental. My mom's plan doesn't even do that."

  "How nice for you," Tara commented.

  "Tell me! Good luck with... you know, whatever it is you're doing."

  "Thanks," Ben said. "Good luck with your flowers. And your dental."

  Five

  Dr. Dyson was creeping ahead of her, which was silly because he was making as much noise as an elephant in the brush. Tara walked behind him, lugging the gorgeous, stupid roses.

  "Okay," he whispered, "here's what we're going to—"

  "Anybody home?" Tara asked loudly.

  "Ack! Don'tdo that. Stay behind me," he ordered, clutching his cell phone. "I'll take out anybody who tries something."

  "Sure you will." Tara could see the body, which looked exactly like a huddled bunch of bloody rags, beneath one of the tables on the west side of the room. "Thataway, Dr. Dyson."

  "Ben, Ben, do I have to write it on my chin?"

  "That could be fun," she commented.

  "Hey," he said, spotting the body, "somebody's in trouble."

  "Okay, you can go with that theory."Me, I'm thinking along the lines of good riddance.

  Before she could stop him (sigh), he raced over to the body and flipped it on its back. An excellent way

  to get shot in the face if the body wasn't really a body.

  But this time, it was. Or damn near.

  "It's Webber," she commented, surprised. The worst of them all, shot and left for dead. Wonders never ceased.

  "Webber?" Ben whispered.

  She decided to make a long story short. "Bad bad bad bad badbad man."

  The body opened its eyes, which were so bloodshot the whites weren't visible at all. Kaarl Webber tried to grin up at her, and failed.

  "Marx," he wheezed.

  "Kaarl," she said politely. Then, casting about for a way to continue the conversation (she sucked at

  small talk), she added, "Head shot, huh?"

  "Stupid."

  "Bound to happen," she commented.

  "Lie still," Dyson said, flipping his cell open and tapping buttons. "I'm calling for help."

  Tara promptly kicked the phone out of his hand, and he watched in amazement as it skidded across the cement floor.

  "Thanks," Webber wheezed.

  "No problem," she replied.

  "What thehell?" Dyson snapped.

  They ignored him. In truth, she didn't feel terribly sorry for Webber, who liked to trade heroin for the nightly use of little boys, but it was pathetic to watch him cling so desperately to life. A head shot, a

  chest shot, and it looked as if he'd been kneecapped, too. Not a nice way to die, and she wished he'd

  get on with it.

  "Stupid," he was gasping. "Never thought they'd have the nerve. Double-crossme ."

  "Try not to talk," Dyson begged.

  "Where are they going?" she asked.

  "Tara, what did I justsay? "

  "The Mayo," Webber whispered.

  "Why?"

  Ben said, "I think he wants us to take him to the Mayo Clinic, which frankly is an excellent idea given

  the circumstances."

  Webber ignored him. "Cure . . . for some kind of... cancer .. . steal... charge billions ... to give back ..."

  "Sneaky," Tara said approvingly.

  Webber didn't reply; he had died.

  "He'll be avenged," Dyson vowed.

  "For God's sake," Tara said. "This guy totally got what was coming to him."Hell, I was thinking of

  doing him in myself.

  "Nobody has this coming," Dyson said, examining the head wound. "Christ. How he hung on long

  enough to have a conversation is a complete mystery."

  Not really. Villains are really good at the whole cling-to-life-to-burn-ex-partners thing."Yes, it's a

  total mystery. Well, at least now we know what the bad guys are up to." She paused, then asked hopefully, "I suppose this is too much blood and gore for a fellow like you, so how about you take the

  car and head back home and I'll—"

  "Fuck that," Dyson said, which was startling, if kind of sexy. "We're going to the Mayo. Right now. I mean, as soon as I get my cell—there it is!"

  "Of course we are," she said, watching him scoop up his phone from the far corner, then followed him out.

  Six

  "You realize it's about a two-hour drive to the Mayo. And it's kind of a big place. Like, university-campus big."

  "I know," Ben replied, watching the tracking screen on the right side of the windshield. Yes, indeed, there they were, right where that poor shot fellow said they'd be. "We'll find them. Once we're on the highway, I can... there!" He popped the clutch, set the speedometer at just under ninety, and hit the cruise. Tara was momentarily pressed back into her seat, then recovered.

  "And, naturally, crashing and dying isn't exactly a big worry."

  "This car can see a collision coming a mile away—literally—and adjust accordingly."

  "Of course it can. Soon everyone will have one. So, what's the plan when we get there? You can't

  exactly march into the Mayo. Well, you can, but eventually someone will ask you what you want."

  "Hit the glove compartment button."

  She obliged, and he noticed for the first time how long and pretty her fingers were, tipped, oddly, with Martian Green glitter nail polish. An odd choice for a thief, someone who wanted to blend in. Of course, she couldn't exactly blend, not with her height and hair and outfit. What was really weird was, he liked her for it.

  He heard a faint nibbling coming from the backseat and deduced the rat was chewing on the roses. Dammit.

  The glove box opened, and he said, "Lift the lid of the larger box."

  She did, extracting two ID cards, freshly laminated. "Whoa," she said, examining them.

  "You'll have to stick the what-do-you-call-'ems on ... the clips. There's a box of them under your seat."

  "Dr. Benjamin Dyson, Oncology. Dr. Jane Carlson, Oncology." Tara raised her eyebrows at him.

  "Dr. Jane Carlson?"

  "Well, I didn't want to use your real name."

  She laughed, and stuck the clips on, then put her fake Mayo employee badge on. "What makes you

  think Tara Marx is my real name?"

  "Oh." Duh. "Right."

  "How are we going to find the oncology department without asking a bunch of stupid questions?"

  "I interned at the Mayo. Unless they've rearranged the entire building—always a possibility—I can find it. Besides, there's always the directories."

  "You mean you're adoctor doctor?"

  "Sure." She looked so surprised, it surprisedhim . "What?"

  "A medical doctor?"

  "Yeah. I got my MD a few years ago when I got bored. It didn't take very long."

  "So you're an MD, and I heard you've got at least two PhDs ..."

  He coughed modestly. It was refreshing to share this with a beautiful woman; usually such glorious creatures weren't impressed by his credentials. And he couldn't tell them what hereally did for a living. All the drawbacks of being a field agent, none of the perks. "Three, actually. Physics, organic chemistry, and explosives technology."

  "I am sooooo turned on right now."

  "Really?" he asked eagerly.

  "No. Not really."

  His shoulders slumped. "Yeah, I figured. Well, listen, Tara—if that is yourreal name—"

  "I just told you it wasn't."

  "—we've got a long drive, and we'd better pass the time. So, what brings you to law breaking?"

  "A broken home."

  "Really?"

  "No. Not really."

  "Gonna be a long ride," he muttered.

  "Not really," she said, yawning. She snuggled back into the car seat and closed her eyes. In another minute her head was leaning against the passenger side window,
and she was breathing evenly.

  "Tara?"

  No reply.

  "Come on, nobody falls asleep that fast. Tara?"

  Nothing. She was out. Zonked.

  "Well, shoot," he muttered, and inched the car up to ninety-five.

  Seven

  "Have a nice nap?"

  "Lovely." She didn't expect someone like Ben Dyson to understand, when you were in the field you

  slept whenever and wherever you could. Over the years she'd been able to train herself to fall asleep

  at the snap of a pair of fingers ... sometimes quicker. Now she felt alert, refreshed, and horny. No, just alert and refreshed.

  "Will it be all right in the car?" he whispered as they walked up the sidewalk. His breath tickled her ear, which should have been annoying, but was really quite pleasant.

  " 'It' has a name. Katya. And she'll be fine. She can take care of herself, believe me. Also, she's not in

  the car; she's in the pocket of my lab coat."

  "What!" Dyson nearly tripped over a flower bed. He straightened and ran his fingers through his vibrant hair, making it stand up more crazily in all directions. She almost snickered. "Tara! We're supposed to

  be inconspicuous. And even under the best of circumstances, you don't exactly blend in.

  "What's that supposed to mean?" she cried, stung. 'Tara, you have a skull and crossbones piercing your

  left nostril.

  "So?You're wearing a brown tie. And at least I remembered to put both my contacts in, blue eye."

  "Leave the tie out of this. And the contacts." He paused outside, the door to the clinic, took a deep breath, and said, "Okay, let's get it together."

  "Yes, let's."

  "Here we go."

  "Thanks for stating the obvious again."

  He glared at her, which almost made her laugh again, and held the door open. She swept past him, the hem of her lab coat flapping. It was actually a spare of his, and she'd had to roll the sleeves up. It smelled like him, too, a combination of Drakkar Noir cologne and clean cotton. She fought the urge to cuddle into it.

  Memo to me: long past time to get laid. Once this is taken care of, take care of that.

  She followed him to a set of elevators, and neither of them said a word as the car ascended several floors. At the appropriate floor, he grabbed her hand and walked out.

  "How could they steal a cure for cancer?" Tara wondered aloud. "Like there aren't a ton of lab notes and computer files and stuff? They can't recreate it?"

  "Maybe they're stupid bad guys," Dyson suggested.

  "Well, they've stayed a step ahead of you pretty handily."

  "Us," he said, glaring.

  "Oh, sure."

  "This way," he said, turning left down a corridor.

  "How the hell are they even still in the hospital?" she asked. "They should have grabbed what they needed and gotten out."

  "Do you know what the cure for cancer looks like? Could you pick it out of a laboratory filled with beakers and fridges and tables and drawers and notes?"

  "No," she admitted, "but I had sex in high school. I've always got that to cling to."

  "I hate you," he sighed.

  "Probably shouldn't have tagged along, then," she said smugly.

  They paused outside a closed door that was lettered ACUTE LYMPHOCYTIC LEUKEMIA (ALL). "What's that?" she asked.

  "Cancer of white blood cells." He was squinting at the wooden door and fumbling in his back pocket. "There's three guys in there."

  "How do you knowthat?"

  "This contact," he said, tapping the eye socket beneath his blue eye, "sees in X-ray."

  "Of course it does." Still, she was impressed in spite of herself. She'd never met a guy so smart and so dumb at the same time.

  She put her hand in her own pocket, gave Katya a pat, then asked, "Do you want me to kick the door in?"

  "God, no. I've got a spare key card."

  "You've gotwhat?" she asked, staring as he withdrew a silver card the size of her Visa. "All this time you've had a spare?" Her ringers itched to strangle him. To choke him and stroke him and pull his shirt off ...no, to slap the shit out of him and throw him out the window. "What the hell am I doing here, then?"

  "Well," he said reasonably, "if you knew there was a spare skeleton card, you wouldn't have helped me."

  "Damned right I wouldn't have helped you!"

  "Shhhhhhh!"

  She seized him by the collar and began to shake him back and forth. Ohhhh, the things she would do. Tendons would rip; muscles would tear. She'd wrap that stupid brown tie around his throat and choke him until his multicolored eyes bulged out. She'd ...

  . . . kiss him back.

  Somehow, during the attempted throttle, he'd gotten his arms around her and dodged her flying elbows and pulled her close. His mouth was moving over hers, and he smelled, oh, he smelled wonderful, and she was still clutching his collar, but now she was leaning into him, into his mouth, into the kiss, the amazing, unbelievable kiss. . . .

  He pulled back. "Whoa. Sorry, Tara."

  "Huh?" she huhed.

  "I mean, there's a time and place. It's just. . . I've wanted to do that since you marched into my garage.

  I mean my lab. And are you abad bad guy? I mean, you don't beat up old ladies, do you?"

  She was having a little trouble following the conversation. "What? No. What?"

  "Oh, good. Because we can work on the rest."

  "What?"

  "Well, let's get in there, then."

  She grabbed his shoulder and spun him back, then planted one on his mouth for good measure. She'd

  call the shots around here, thank you very much! If there was kissing,she'd be the kisser, not the kissee. Ooh, yeah, and now his hands were sliding up, caressing her back, and ...

  "Holy shit, it's Tara Marx!"

  . . . the bad guys had opened the door.

  Eight

  "I told you," Ben said, trying not to sound smug. Trying not to sound out of breath, too. "I told you: time and place."

  "Hi, March," Tara said. "Webber sends his regards. Okay, not really."

  The beefy black man who opened the door jerked his head at Ben. "Whatcha got L.F. here for?"

  Ben blinked. "L.F.?"

  "Er, Lovely Friend," Tara said.

  "Oh, no!" he said, horrified. "It's Lab Freak, isn't it? Isn't it!"

  "Uh, yeah. But it's like a compliment."

  "We paid you," the man named March said. Rumbled, actually. He was a full head taller than Ben, and about twice as wide. He'd be frightening enough without the shoulder-length dreads. "What's the problem?"

  "Um, you lied and didn't mention you're going to use my invention to screw over my country?"

  "Yeah," Tara added.

  "Oh, likeyou give a shit," March snapped at her. He was dressed in splendid bad guys' fashion—black suit, black shoes, black shirt, black tie, black tie clip.

  "I've got my reasons."

  "Yeah, yeah, don't cry about it again. 'One more big job and I'm out; one more payoff and I'm going straight.' Puke."

  Ben turned to her, surprised. She looked, weirdly, embarrassed. "Really, Tara? Good for you."

  "Oh, shut up," she muttered. "You shut up, too, March. Are you gonna let us in, or do I have to kick your big butt up and down this corridor?"

  "You're gonna have to kick my big butt up and down this corridor. And watch it with the weight comments," he added, wounded. "I've been working out."

  "Fine," Tara said, and Ben almost gasped. Gorgeous, a great kisser, smelled like a meadow, and she was fearless, besides! What a woman! "It's on!"

  "No, you don't," he said, grabbing her shoulder and thrusting her behind him. He whipped out his cell phone and pointed it at the enormous man in the doorway, a man so large he was actually turned sideways in order to fit. "Don't touch her or you'll be sorry."

  March blinked. "What, you're gonna call your mama?" Then he said, "Eeaarrrgggghhhhh!" as an electric current shot from t
he phone into his chest. He twitched a few times like the world's largest bass, then collapsed in the doorway. They had to skip back to avoid being crushed.