Defending Kyra

by Susan Hayes

  An hour of beating on the heavy bag down at her gym had wiped out Kyra’s reserves of energy, but she had finally gotten rid of the lurking tension that had bound her muscles and made her head pound. Afterwards, she’d indulged in the soothing heat of the steam room, enjoying the blissful lethargy that had crept in and brought her to the verge of nodding off. She’d snapped back to wakefulness with a start. “You don’t want to do that,” she’d reminded herself and immediately left the comforting space to go stand under a cool shower until she was wide-awake again. This morning she was no longer yearning for sleep. Now she was determined to stay awake for as long as she could manage just to keep the next round of nightmares at bay.

  The gym had a “no cell phone” policy, so Kyra waited until she was outside to flip her phone back on. “Not on my day off,” she warned the electronic device as it powered up and immediately chirped at her. “Seriously?” She groaned and looked up the missed call, wincing when she noticed the number was from the Vancouver Police Department. Great. The tension she had just gotten rid of crept back into her shoulders, and as she listened to the message her stomach twisted itself into a new set of knots.

  “Oh god.” She hung up the phone and took a moment to pull herself together, leaning back against the building she’d just left. Jasmine’s ex, the big bruiser from the alley two nights ago, was dead. No, not just dead, murdered.

  She forced herself to take a couple of slow, deep breaths. The police wanted to talk to her. After all, she’d now been in altercations with two men, both of whom had wound up dead. She took another deep breath and tried not to think about the nightmares she’d been having, dreams of death and blood and pain. It’s just a coincidence, she told herself as she called back the detective who had left the message. That’s all, just some freaky, horrible coincidence.

  They wanted her at the station as soon as possible. She hung up the phone and began the short walk back to her apartment, planning to stop only long enough to grab her usual from the coffee shop on the corner. God knew she was going to need the caffeine.

  She headed straight for the bedroom when she got home and changed, opting for a pair of black jeans and a blue sweater a friend had sworn was the exact same shade as her eyes. She didn’t wear it much because it clung to her figure a bit more than she liked, but she was short on clothes that weren’t either gym-only or nightclub wear, and she was damned if she was pulling up to the police station on her bike dressed in a miniskirt and knee-high boots. That was not the impression she was going for given she was now part of two murder investigations.

  She pulled her favorite pair of motorcycle boots out of the closet and tugged them on, the worn leather sliding over her calves easily. By the time she had her makeup on she was calmer, and as she grabbed her black leather jacket she had herself just about convinced this was going to be a breeze. “You don’t know anything, so there’s nothing for you to be so worried about. You saw him hit Jasmine, you intervened. That’s it.” She headed into the living room to snag her helmet and stopped dead in her tracks, the hair on her neck suddenly standing on end as she stared at the coffee table and the black box lying on it.

  “What the hell? That wasn’t here when I left.” She eyed the long, narrow container and noted the elegant red velvet ribbon it was bound with. A cold feeling settled into the pit of her stomach as she looked around the room. She was alone, but someone had been here. In her home. Delivering that box.

  Well, it’s not going to open itself, she chided herself and stepped closer. She tugged at the end of the ribbon, watching it fall open with the lightest of touches. “Maybe it’s a get-better-soon present from Travis or something. I bet the residential manager brought it in so it didn’t get stolen.” She hesitated, her hand hovering just above the lid, and then burst into nervous laughter at her reluctance. “Stop being such a goose and just open the box!” With that, she lifted the lid and relaxed slightly when nothing moved under the delicate lining of tissue paper. She spotted the card and picked it up, flipping it over so that she could read the inscription, penned in an elegant hand.

  * * *

  Kyra,

  We’ll meet again soon.

  Until then, sweet dreams.

  V.

  * * *

  Her heart was doing a tap dance in her chest, and she felt like she was going to be sick.

  “Who the hell is V?” she asked aloud as she tore the tissue paper away and then barely managed to bite back a scream when she saw what was beneath. White roses, their delicate petals drenched in blood. A fragment of last night’s nightmare rose up in her mind. White roses held in a man’s pale hand, both splattered with gore. “For you,” a voice had whispered. His voice. The one from her office last night.

  The world slid sideways and Kyra found herself on her knees, her stomach heaving at the scent of blood and roses that mingled in the air. Barely keeping down her coffee, she staggered up off the floor and ran on unsteady legs to the closet, ripping the door open and throwing aside the clutter until she found what she was looking for, the lockbox where she stored her gun. She dialed in the combination and snatched the gun out of its case, slamming the clip in a second later. She tucked the second clip into her jacket pocket and took in several long, slow breaths. “Calm down,” she told herself. Now that she was armed, she couldn’t afford the jitters, or she’d end up shooting holes in her walls or worse, her neighbours.

  Kyra stood and pressed her back to the front door, fishing her cell phone out of her pocket one-handed. She lifted the phone so she could see it without taking her eyes off the hallway in front of her and hit re-dial with her off hand, not willing to let go of the gun now that she had it.

  It only rang twice before a male voice announced, “Detective Morris.”

  “Detective, it’s Kyra Robinson. You called a little while ago. I was getting ready to come down to talk to you when I discovered that someone’s been in my apartment, and they left me a gift.” She felt a moment’s pride at managing to get out the words without breaking down. “Blood-stained roses to be exact.”

  “Are you still in the apartment, Ms. Robinson?”

  “Yes, but there’s no one here now.” She felt her heartbeat slow a fraction at the detective’s calm tone.

  “I’ll have a patrol car dispatched to your place immediately, and I’ll be there as soon as I can. Lock the door, keep your phone close by, and don’t touch anything.”

  “Just hurry,” Kyra requested and then hung up, keeping her finger on the redial button. The seconds dragged by, her eyes never leaving the hallway as she scanned the area repeatedly, looking for some sign of danger. A voice in her head kept repeating the same words over and over until she thought she’d scream. It isn’t safe here anymore. I’m not safe anymore.

  It felt like an eternity that she stood at her door, staring down the hall into the home she’d made for herself. It wasn’t home anymore. It had been violated, and she knew she’d never spend another night here. She couldn’t stay anywhere that didn’t feel safe, not after a childhood spent being a victim, unable to protect herself. From where she stood Kyra could see the red velvet ribbon hanging over the edge of the coffee table. It was the same colour as the blood she’d seen on the rose petals.

  Finally, she heard voices outside in the hallway. Her hand tightened on the gun and she forced herself to relax. The voices got closer, a male and a female. She heard the distinctive squawk of a radio and let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. She lowered the gun and flipped the safety back on as a knock sounded on the door behind her.

  “Ms. Robinson? This is Vancouver Police Department. I’m holding my badge up to the peephole right now. Detective Morris says he’ll be here in ten minutes.”

  Kyra checked the peephole and opened the door. “Thank you for coming so fast.” She gestured for the two officers to come in, letting them see the gun she still held at her thigh.

  “Of course, ma’am.” The female officer came in first, her eyes
widening when she saw the weapon. “Why don’t you let me have that for now?”

  “Safety is on.” Kyra handed it to her carefully, the muzzle pointed to the floor and her fingers far from the trigger. “And yes, I have a permit to own that,” she added with a weak smile.

  “I’m Constable Jackson, and this is Constable Pine. We understand you had a suspicious package delivered?”

  “Not delivered, left in my apartment while I was out.” Kyra motioned them to come inside and pointed to the living room. “In there. At first, I thought maybe the apartment manager had brought it in for me, but then I opened it.” She crossed her arms over her chest and hovered at the edge of the room, unwilling to go near it again. “There was a card inside, but nothing on the outside. No delivery address or anything.”

  The two of them looked into the box and then at each other, grim-faced and clearly disturbed by the box’s contents. “Where’s the card, ma’am?”

  “On the table. I dropped it when I saw…the rest,” Kyra answered, still staying well back. “Did Detective Morris tell you anything? About me, that is?”

  Constable Jackson shook her head. “Not really. Just said you’d had a disturbing delivery and we were to keep you company until he gets here.”

  “So he’s a master of understatement.” Kyra managed a smile and caught an answering smirk from both officers.

  For the next three hours her apartment saw more comings and goings then it had in years. When Detective Morris had gotten there, he’d taken one look at the roses and called in a forensics team. They’d questioned her in the kitchen while she kept herself busy making coffees for everyone and answering their questions as best she could. The only thing she’d held back about was her nightmares. She didn’t want the police thinking she was a wacko or a wannabe psychic.

  After the forensics team had finished and it was finally quiet again, Detective Morris had cleared his throat and then glanced at his partner, an older man who had stayed quiet most of the time. “Ms. Robinson, we’re going to ask you to keep what you’re about to hear to yourself. We don’t want the press getting wind of it, but we think it’s important you understand just how much danger we think you’re in.”

  Kyra felt her heart drop to her stomach. “Okay.”

  “You know that two nights ago a young man was murdered in an alley a few hours after leaving your club, yes?” Morris watched for Kyra’s faint nod and continued. “What wasn’t in the papers was that there was a message written on the wall of the alley. It was written in the victim’s blood. It said, ‘She’s Mine.’ We didn’t understand it at the time, but now we think it’s part of a pattern. Last night there were other words written on the walls, again the suspect used the victim’s blood. This time the message was longer. It said, ‘No one touches what’s mine,’ and there was something else, too.”

  Morris sighed and scratched the back of his head before continuing. “There was a white rose left at the scene, covered in blood. Forensics counted the flowers in your box, Ms. Robinson. There were only eleven roses. We think the suspect left the twelfth with the body.”

  “Oh god.” Kyra’s hands flew up to cover her mouth as her stomach twisted into a new set of knots. “So those flowers, they were there, in the room where he died. And then someone broke into my home to leave them for me?”

  “It looks that way.” Morris nodded, sympathy showing in his eyes as she struggled to breathe.

  “I can’t stay here. It’s not safe.” Kyra felt the needle-sharp teeth of panic start to gnaw at her control. “I have to get out of here. He knows where I live!”

  “We’re glad you feel that way, and we agree. We’d like to take you to a hotel and assign you some protection. Would you agree to that?”

  She nodded. “I think that’s the best offer I have had all day.”

  They both looked relieved. “All right, we’ll leave you to pack while we start organizing up a hotel and some protection for you. We’re going to keep you safe, Ms. Robinson. You have our word.”

  6

  Kyra paced around her hotel room and tried to relax. She hadn’t even bothered to unpack yet, and her suitcase sat on one of the room’s two beds, unopened. The motel was clean but far from new, the towels and sheets serviceable but worn. She glanced at the door and sighed. It wasn’t the accommodations that were the problem. It was the fact this motel had exterior doors. She felt unsafe and exposed. Her nerves sang every time someone walked by her door.

  The detectives had explained it was so they could watch her without having to put someone outside her door, showing her the unmarked car in the parking lot where her security detail would be watching. The police had assured her it was better this way. Even if someone managed to figure out what motel she was staying in, they’d have no way to know what room she was in and the officers assigned to protect her would spot anyone prowling around. It didn’t matter what they said, though. She didn’t like it, not one bit.

  She finally stopped herself from pacing and went over to her suitcase, popping it open and picking up the handgun she’d slipped inside while no one was looking. She put it under her pillow and tried not to laugh at herself or the hackneyed cliché she had just enacted.

  She fluffed the pillow up and left the gun there despite her self-mockery, feeling better for knowing it was close at hand. Her stomach rumbled and she realized she was hungry. Now hunger was something she could deal with. Absolutely certain that there was no such thing as room service at this fleabag motel, she grabbed the phonebook from the desk and started flipping through the yellow pages. There had to be a pizza place somewhere nearby. If years of travelling had taught her anything, it was that wherever there were motels, there were fast food places nearby that delivered.

  It didn’t take her long to find the solution to her hunger problem, and she cheerfully put in an order for two medium pizzas. Pepperoni and mushroom with double cheese, and a couple of cans of whatever diet cola they had on hand. If she was going to be stuck in this room for the next twelve hours, she was going to drown her sorrows in cheesy goodness and pay for the caloric sins later. If I live to see later. She put down the phone and gave herself a mental shake for the hundredth time that day. There was no point in getting macabre. Either she’d make it through this nightmare or she wouldn’t. One way or the other, she didn’t plan on going out hungry.

  A second later a thought popped into her head and Kyra caught herself giggling as she searched the small room for a paper and pen. She sketched out her message in big block letters and took it over to the window to show to her security detail parked outside. If she didn’t think to warn them her of her dinner plans, some poor pizza delivery guy was going to wind up having a really bad night and her dinner might end up shot to hell, literally.

  Gareth had been forced to watch in frustration as the two plainclothes officers had escorted Kyra out of her apartment building and into their car. He’d been lurking for hours as police and forensics had come and gone from the complex, an overheard snippet of conversation having told him they were there for Kyra, so he’d stayed well away, not wanting to get tangled up in whatever it was they were investigating.

  As one of the men had put a suitcase into the trunk of their car, Gareth watched Kyra intently. She had looked scared. Scared, exhausted, and slightly pissed off if he read her expression right. Anger was a good thing. Maybe there was enough toughness in that itty-bitty frame to get her through the hell that was coming her way. He damn sure hoped so.

  As the police and their passenger pulled into traffic, he’d turned on his phone and sent another text message, this one requesting all information on where they were taking her and what had happened to send the police flocking to her apartment in the first place. That done, he’d headed back to his hotel room for coffee, room service, and research on the woman he’d been tasked to save.

  By evening he was camped out in a nondescript rental car that the Brotherhood had acquired for him, the keys delivered just a few hours before. From hi
s vantage point just down the block he watched through binoculars as Kyra pulled back the curtains to her motel room window.

  “What the hell is she up to?” he’d muttered as he’d noticed the sign that appeared in the window. When he’d trained the lens on it, he found himself laughing aloud as he mentally bumped her up a few levels in his approval rating. Whoever she was, it would seem that Kyra Robinson had a sense of humor that was immune to life-and-death situations. He read the words again, still laughing to himself. “Have pizza coming. Don’t shoot the delivery boy.”

  Well, now I know how to get in to see her. He started making plans as his eyes strayed to already darkening sky. There wasn’t much time left.

  It had taken him only a few minutes on his cell phone to determine which pizza joints were nearby and a bit of fast talking to convince the kid behind the counter that he was Kyra’s boyfriend and they’d decided to do a pickup instead of delivery. He put the pizzas in the car and circled back to lift a couple of magnetic decals and a flimsy car topper sign from one of the beat-up delivery vehicles, and within minutes he had his rental car converted to a pizza delivery vehicle.

  He pulled into the lot slowly, making a show of looking around as if he wasn’t sure where he was going. He parked as close as he could to Kyra’s room. If she decided not to go with him voluntarily, he didn’t want to have to carry her across the entire parking lot. He gathered up the pizza boxes and headed over to the unmarked car and the single occupant seated inside. Gareth tried to make his steps slow and his body language uncertain as he approached, hunching his posture enough to bring his height down from his natural six foot three inches to something slightly less threatening.