Savage Angel

by Stacy Gail

  Gideon nodded, the epitome of politeness. “If I have to, I’ll put all my military training to use to make sure she rests. She’ll be at one-hundred percent in no time.”

  “I leave her in your hands.” William looked to Sara, and his expression softened once more. “I’ll have Tuttle and Vargas meet you at Lynchpin later on today. Just text me the time you’ll be ready to meet up with them.”

  “Will wonders never cease,” Sara muttered when she closed the program, then for good measure turned the whole system off. “You and my father actually agreed on something.”

  “When it comes to you, we understand each other perfectly. I may not ever be William’s favorite person, but I think he’s realizing I’ll do everything I can to look after you.” He ran a hand over her hair as if fascinated by the feel of it. “Now, am I going to have to throw you over my shoulder like I said?”

  “As much fun as that sounds, I don’t think it’s necessary.” Swiveling out of the chair, she caught the towel at his waist and gave it a quick, unveiling tug. “Race you upstairs.”

  * * *

  “I think I’m spoiled.” Gideon laced his fingers with Sara’s as they walked through the elevator doors leading to the executive offices of Lynchpin. “Scratch that. I know I’m spoiled.”

  “Oh?” Sara slid him a sidelong glance. Back in what he considered her usual uniform of white shirt, black jacket and pants with her hair pulled into its high ponytail, he half-expected her to shake him off. Instead, her fingers wrapped warmly around his. “Spoiled? In what way?”

  “I’ve had you all to myself for four days. I’m not sure I’m in the mood to share you now that I’ve gotten used to it being just the two of us.”

  Her snort carried no further than his ears. “Be thankful you’re getting a break from me. I wouldn’t want you to get sick of my company.”

  “Yeah, that’d be terrible, wouldn’t it?” Though it was hard to imagine he’d be getting tired of her anytime soon, Gideon reflected as they followed the well-lit main hallway down to a smaller wing of conference rooms. Then again, he hadn’t taken the time to imagine anything when it came to Sara, at least beyond the moment. But her brush with death had cleared his head better than a hundred years of touchy-feely therapy ever could have. Life was too short to deny himself the pleasure Sara brought him, a pleasure he’d known would be off-the-charts from the moment she’d offered him that first gut-clenching shy smile. Somehow he’d gotten turned around thinking all he wanted was to be left alone—preferably on a desert island in the middle of nowhere—but not anymore. Now he didn’t want to let her out of his sight. No one short of Tarzan could do a swing like that without getting a little disoriented, but he was willing to roll with it. At least he wasn’t bored.

  “Agent Tuttle, Father Vargas. Thank you both for meeting us here at our offices.” Gideon heard the change in Sara’s voice, becoming as cool and sharp as finely tempered steel. Just what the head of Lynchpin should sound like. “I hope we haven’t kept you waiting?”

  “Not at all, you’re right on time.” As if to make sure, Agent Tuttle glanced at his watch. The bald agent Gideon now knew was named Carter came out of another door with a sleek-looking tray filled with a stainless-steel coffee pot and post-modern cups and saucers that looked like Sara’s personal taste to a T. As LSI’s guests settled around the high-gloss blond walnut wood conference table, Tuttle nodded to Sara. “Your father told me you’ve been under the weather. Feeling better?”

  “Yes, thank you.” With that formidable poker face in place, Sara took the chair at the head of the table that Gideon held for her. He couldn’t help but feel ridiculously pleased when that mask slipped enough for her to smile warmly at him when he sat to her immediate right. “I suppose I caught something that was going around, but luckily I know a good doctor who was quick to get me back on my feet.”

  Gideon had to bite his tongue to silence the admission that having Sara on her feet was the last position he wanted her in. “Glad I could be of service.” And he’d be even happier to service her just as soon as they got the hell out of there.

  As if she’d read his thoughts, Sara’s cheeks turned a shade pinker. “Unfortunately that puts me in the position of having to play catch-up, so I’m eager to hear the latest on the FBI’s investigation.”

  Agent Tuttle’s brows quirked. “I’d heard Lynchpin is now interested in conducting its own investigation.”

  “Lynchpin knows its primary role is to protect Noah Mandeville, whereas your focus must be multi-layered—to both protect and detect,” Sara said, her tone so direct there was no room left for anyone to doubt she spoke the truth. “We can keep up our end of the bargain until the end of time, but it would be nice if we didn’t have to do that. The longer this situation plays out, the more inclined Lynchpin will be to enter into the investigation as well.”

  Agent Tuttle’s poker face was nowhere near as good as Sara’s. Irritation moved through his blockish jaw like a rippling wave. “I can assure you and your client that we are tracking down every lead, no matter how remote. We’re concerned not just with the life of Mr. Mandeville, but also the life of the other remaining donor recipient, who has chosen to place herself in our protection. An option I still hope your father is considering, Mr. Mandeville,” he added, glancing toward Gideon as he sat next to Sara. “Based on the fire-bombing a few days ago, it’s obvious your father’s location has been compromised. No matter how impressive his current defenses are, that attack should have made it clear that he can still be gotten to.”

  “The dead bird and tarot card message was the tip-off that his location is known to the person targeting our client,” was Sara’s calm reply. “It was this fact which made Lynchpin tighten its security to the next level, and put Carter in the position to alert to the car casing the Mandeville estate. If you hadn’t had Carter’s detailed description of it, you might not have found it or the second message. Meanwhile, the perpetrator didn’t get anywhere near his actual target. All he managed to do was scorch one of Noah’s favorite pecan trees.”

  “A sin against nature, to be sure.” Apparently Father Vargas could withstand the allure of the gleaming coffee tray no more, and his moon-round face showed delight as he poured the steaming dark brew. “I do hate to hear that any of God’s righteous creations come to harm, but such is the world in which we live, no? It is a mercy that He has such a capacity for forgiveness.”

  Seated on the other side of Sara, Carter couldn’t seem to contain a snort. “Somehow I doubt our Molotov cocktail-throwing bad guy is losing sleep over scorching one of God’s creations. Not when he’s stuck a knife into five innocent people.”

  “Like I said,” Vargas said with a sad sigh, “such is the world in which we live.”

  “The point is,” Agent Tuttle said before Carter could offer another rejoinder, “now that it’s clear Noah Mandeville’s location has been found out, he’s a sitting duck. Digging in behind his fortress walls might make him feel safe, but I can assure you he’s not.”

  Gideon’s brows lifted. “And you can guarantee my father will be safer in your hands?”

  “There are no guarantees in this world, Mr. Mandeville. I do know he’ll have a greater chance of avoiding the person targeting him if he’s moved to an undisclosed location.”

  “As we’ve already discussed, when it comes to security there’s nothing the FBI can provide that Lynchpin cannot.” The smile Sara offered the federal agent was coolly professional, and as different from her real smile as glass was from diamonds. “I must say, Agent Tuttle, I had assumed there would be something more to this daily update than the usual song and dance of taking Mr. Mandeville into your custody. I had high hopes you and your team might have made more progress in locating the killer or at the very least, could offer some insight into his or her mindset.”

  Agent Tuttle’s mouth tightened as though he was forcibly holding back something inappropriate. “You know about the package left in the stolen coupe?”

/>   “Yes.”

  “The cardboard box itself was sequential in its lot number to the one received by Mr. Mandeville in the mail, telling us the person responsible for these so-called messages either buys in bulk, or has planned these messages from the very beginning.”

  Sara nodded slowly. “Setting aside the possible meaning of these messages, what do your profilers say about someone who deliberately leaves these boxes behind in the first place?”

  “It suggests a couple of points. It either reveals an arrogant belief that he won’t be caught because he’s smarter than us, or it’s a burning need to communicate a thought or idea to a specific target.”

  “Which would be Noah?”

  Tuttle shrugged. “He does seem to be the focus.”

  “Did any of the other victims receive messages before they were killed?”

  “Not that we can find. Even after going through their garbage and questioning family members, there’s no sign the killer took that extra step of trying to communicate with them.”

  “So why is my father being treated differently by the killer?” Gideon wanted to know, and his simmering frustration inched closer to the boiling point. “What’s so special about him?”

  “That’s one of the many questions we’re trying to answer.”

  “Which theory are you personally leaning toward, Agent Tuttle?” Sara asked, frowning. “Is your target terribly arrogant, or is he sending a message to Noah?”

  Agent Tuttle hesitated. “I like to keep my mind as open as possible to all theories.”

  “And as for the message itself—the dead bird and Judgment cards. What’s that about?”

  The agent’s expression darkened with annoyance at being questioned before he glanced at his companion. “I’d rather have our expert in theology field that one.”

  Father Vargas glanced at Tuttle before offering a delicate shrug. “Is there anything specific you’d like to know?”

  “Yeah,” Gideon said before Sara could draw a breath. “Just how nuts are these guys who want my father dead?”

  Agent Tuttle looked up from the process of pouring himself some coffee. “We discussed this earlier, Mr. Mandeville. While I don’t doubt your conviction in what you saw, our profile indicates only one person.”

  “I know I saw two people that night.”

  “It was midnight, you were teetering on top of a fence, and you were literally face to face with a flying Molotov cocktail. In that split second, who knows what you saw? It could have been a tree or a shrub—”

  “I’m no panicky civilian, Agent Tuttle. I know how to keep my cool under fire, and I sure as hell know that what I saw wasn’t some shrub. There were two people that night, one on either side of that car.”

  The agent looked like he wanted to argue the point, before he shook his head. “As I said, I like to keep myself open to all possibilities.”

  “Father Vargas,” Sara said before Gideon could tell Agent Tuttle what he could do with his closed-minded openness. “Let’s start with the most obvious clue, the Judgment tarot card. Is our bad guy some sort of occultist?”

  “In my opinion, the term occultist is much too harsh.” Idly stirring his coffee, the priest seemed more interested in his cup’s contents than the conversation. “The very term occult lends an impression that this person’s beliefs for such extreme action are based on hocus-pocus, or magic, or some other hobgoblin of the imagination.”

  “I’m confused.” Sara tilted her head so that her ponytail slid over her shoulder. Automatically Gideon reached to push it back before he caught himself. Getting touchy-feely when she was in LSI-mode would only undermine her authority. But damn, seeing Sara in all her in-charge glory made his hands itch to claim her as his own for everyone to see. “I don’t know how else to categorize something like tarot cards. They’re leftovers from a more superstitious time, are they not?”

  “I’m merely suggesting you avoid labeling this person in that context. You wouldn’t want him dismissed as just another fringe element and completely overlook the thrust of his message, now would you?”

  “Which leads us right back to my question, Father,” Sara said, and Gideon could hear the fraying patience. “Just what exactly is this person’s message?”

  “I believe it’s that he feels he has the right to sit in judgment of his target.” He said it simply, like it should be obvious to a preschooler. With a diffident air he tapped his spoon against the rim of his cup. “I’d go even further than that. I think he’s determined to rain his judgment down upon his target, as it seems clear he feels he has the righteous power of God on his side in the form of these angels.”

  At the word Gideon glanced at Sara, but her expression never altered. “And the bird? I’ve been assuming it means the obvious—that the killer’s telling Noah he’s a dead duck.”

  “If that were the case, the person would send a dead duck, wouldn’t you imagine?”

  “It’s hard to imagine anything that goes on in the twisted mind of a murderer.”

  “The point of the dead dove is as significant as the tarot card,” Agent Tuttle offered when Father Vargas merely frowned into his cup. “Our profilers feel the killing of a dove is considered to be the symbol for the death of innocence.”

  “Or sacrifice,” Father Vargas added. “This person might be letting his target know he is willing to sacrifice the innocent to achieve his goal.”

  Sara pursed her lips. “What is the killer’s goal?”

  “This person feels he’s doing important work—that much is shown in his relentlessness.” Father Vargas drained the last of his coffee before setting his cup and saucer aside. “Whoever he is, he’s a true believer.”

  “In what?” Sara’s tone was dry enough to suck the moisture out of the air. “There are religious connotations all over this—that’s why I asked you to come in and meet with us today. But it’s hard to believe the doer is religious. Last time I checked, one of the Commandments had a certain hang-up about killing.”

  “Actually, many believe the correct translation is thou shalt not murder. Killing, like a soldier doing his duty in a war, is permissible. God’s little loophole.”

  “That’s some loophole.”

  “Yet it’s most likely the mindset of this individual. They are waging their own personal war, and killing in a war isn’t sinful. It’s necessary so that true evil won’t gain a foothold.”

  There was no way Gideon could hold back a scoff. “Have you ever seen a war zone, Father?”

  “Yes, I have.”

  “Then I’m amazed you can say that’s not true evil.”

  “I’m only positing that this is what we’re dealing with.”

  “The killer must have a few toys in the attic if he thinks transplant patients are evil, but killing is no biggie,” Gideon said, his tone flat. “That makes zero sense.”

  Father Vargas was silent a moment. “What I’m suggesting is that those unfortunate deaths were simply a part of the overall message.”

  Sara leaned forward. “What do you mean?”

  “I’m just pointing out a possible continuation of this person’s theme of messages. But there’s a catch—in biblical stories, it’s usually up to the recipient of these messages to receive and understand them before it’s too late.”

  Gideon almost cursed. “Isn’t that why you’re here? To help interpret these messages?”

  “I’ll do my best. But the way these things usually go is that the true recipient of the message is the only one capable of understanding it.”

  “And welcome back to square one.” With a short sigh, Sara nodded and pushed to her feet. “All right. Thank you for your time and patience, Agent Tuttle, Father Vargas. Carter, if you wouldn’t mind seeing these gentlemen out to—”

  “Ms. Savitch, there’s one more thing.” Father Vargas moved toward the door along with everyone else, his smile benign. To Gideon’s surprise, he watched Sara back up a full step as the priest approached her. “What sort of message do y
ou believe is being sent?”

  Sara stared at the man as if she had never seen him before, and Gideon stepped forward in alarm when the temperature in the room zoomed up an easy ten degrees. Her poker face slipped, and his jaw nearly hit the floor when pure savagery flamed to life in her eyes, her face twisting with such vengeful violence he clamped a restraining hand around her wrist—a wrist that was scorching hot to the touch.

  “My job—my reason for existing—is to protect those who cannot protect themselves, Father Vargas.” To Gideon’s dumbfounded amazement, she bared her teeth in a dangerous smile one usually reserved for a cage-match opponent. “That’s the only message I concern myself with. Good-bye.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Over an hour later after the Feds had been shown the door, Sara was still shaking.

  Not good. Not good.

  She jabbed her thumbs over her smartphone’s touch screen as she stalked down the halls of Lynchpin, her pulse matching the staccato urgency of her footfalls beat for beat. She sent yet another message to Marcel, all the while cursing him for not answering her summoning texts fast enough. Nothing was moving fast enough, except maybe her heart. From the moment she’d looked into Father Vargas’s eyes, her pulse and thoughts had been locked in a mile-a-minute race with no finish line in sight.

  Unfortunately she hadn’t been able to do much when Gideon had been bound and determined to be a pain-in-the-butt roadblock from the moment the meeting ended. She hadn’t been prepared for him to demand answers after the Feds had left the building, but in retrospect it wasn’t all that surprising. The man had great instincts, and he now knew her as well as she knew him. Of course he knew something was up. While the feminine part of her couldn’t help but get all warm and fuzzy over that undeniable proof of their closeness, the savage protector that genetics had molded her into chafed at the possibility of Gideon being sucked into a problem that no military in the world trained its troops to handle. He may have handled what she was descended from with strength and aplomb, but what she’d run face-first into was nothing short of a storm of insanity. Gideon was still healing from the wounds his own personal demons had given him. The one thing he didn’t need was another kind of hell tearing at the fabric of his mind.