Athena Force: Books 1-6

by Justine Davis, Amy J. Fetzer, Katherine Garbera, Meredith Fletcher, Catherine Mann

  “He’s got my sister’s kid, and I aim to get her back.”

  He scoffed rudely. “Fat chance, honey.”

  Leaning forward on the bar, her forearms braced, she said, “You’d be surprised what I can do, handsome.” She popped her gum, looking him over as if he was double-chocolate cake. “Describe him for me, will you, baby? I wanna see him before he sees me.”

  The bartender’s eyes narrowed. “You a cop?”

  She hopped back, opening her jacket, showing the knife sheathed at her hip and the fake navel ring. Instead of a wig, she’d put a red henna rinse on her hair and clipped it up at odd angles in tiny girly barrettes. “Do I look like cop material?”

  He was practically licking his lips. “You look like dessert.”

  She leaned over the scarred wood bar again, her voice low and breathy. “But we ain’t had dinner yet.”

  He grinned, glancing around to make certain no one was within earshot. “He’s skinny, black hair, goatee, squirrelly little eyes. Wears a long brown leather coat, pointed-toe boots. He kicks with them.”

  “Like a girl?”

  The bartender snickered. “Yeah.” He inclined his head toward a side door. “Most days you can find him in the alley.”

  “Real entrepreneur, huh?”

  “Just be careful.”

  She was kind of touched that the hard-ball bartender would even care. “Thanks, honey,” she said, then tossed back the bourbon, paid, and left through the front door.

  Outside, she glanced around. There were a lot of derelicts and foot traffic. For two blocks the streets were lit with neon signs advertising booze, lap dancing and sex shows. Cars cruised, hydraulic shocks bouncing them down the street. The curbs reeked of urine and vomit.

  Darcy wished she had a gun. She didn’t want to get close enough to anyone to use her knife. Walking toward the alley, she stopped at the edge. A single lightbulb shone down on the filth, lighting the huge trash container outside the bar’s side door. Opposite that, there were side entrances to the neighboring building, a couple drunks lounging on the thresholds and teens making deals or just smoking weed. They didn’t spare her a glance.

  Darcy said a quick prayer, pulled her jacket to conceal her knife and started walking, wanting to hold her nose. Instead, she breathed through her mouth. It wasn’t much better.

  “You looking for Touchy?” came in slurred words.

  She spun, knife out. The drunk in the doorway snickered and tipped his bottle to his lips, unmoved.

  “Where is he?”

  He gave her a one-eyed stare. “He just took off with someone. Well…they was draggin’ him off.” The drunk gestured with the bottle and Darcy moved fast, rounding the edge of the building. There were a couple warehouses a block away, an abandoned building separated by a parking lot with junk cars and a group of people hovering around the flames in a barrel. More than half were passed out on the ground under cut-open cardboard boxes.

  She scanned the area and in the distance, saw a man being thrown back against a black car. He fit the bartender’s description. A big blonde delivered a crushing blow to the man’s middle, then backhanded him before pressing a gun to his forehead.

  Oh hell.

  Even from this far, she knew it had to be Feeley.

  Darcy bolted, running hard.

  Feeley was her only lead, and leaving him to be worked over by two men in dark biker clothes wasn’t in her plans. Fake bikers, she thought, running. The neat haircuts were a dead giveaway. Money, polished—hired muscle.

  She headed right for them, and when they heard her, the men turned.

  Feeley looked at her as if he’d seen a ghost.

  Darcy stopped short. The men ogled her with open sexual interest, easing their grip.

  “Help me,” Feeley said.

  “Shut up, asshole,” one man, a Latino, said, holding Feeley against the car. The other man, the blonde, turned the gun on her. “Get outta here.”

  Darcy stilled, fear jolting up her spine as she circled, making them follow her, making them turn from Feeley.

  “I just want to talk to him for a second, guys,” she said. “Nothing big.”

  “This ain’t your business. Get outta here, bitch.”

  She gave them her best affronted look. “You talk to your mama with that mouth?”

  “Shut up.” The Latino inclined his head to the other. His blond partner headed toward her.

  “Stay out of this, lady,” Blondie said.

  “Probably good advice.”

  Blondie moved toward her, smiling. Not seeing her as a threat. When he got close, Darcy executed a high double kick that connected with his jaw, the first snapping his head back, the second dropping blond babe to the ground. Latino guy pointed the weapon at her and fired. But he was way off target because Feeley struggled and Darcy was already diving for the ground, out of the path, rolling and coming up close enough to knock the gun aside, spin, then slam her elbow into his face. He howled, falling back and shaking his head.

  Blood shot out like sputters from a dying sprinkler. Feeley took off as she plowed her fist into the guy’s solar plexus, knocking the wind out of him. The jolt rang up her arm. Oh, that hurt. The guy’s wearing a Kevlar vest. Jeez.

  Darcy stepped back as Blondie struggled for air, pushing himself up. Feeley was moving fast down the alley and she let out an irritated sigh, kicked the gun into the high grass, then glanced around for something to do some damage. Rushing to the right, she grabbed a rusted pipe off the ground. When the blonde tried to get to his feet, Darcy brought it down on the back of his head. Hard. He dropped, motionless.

  Latino came after her, bloody and pissed.

  But Darcy was just as ticked off. Three years’ worth of anger and frustration came out when he lunged for her. She swiped the pipe like a sword, smacking his arm. The bone cracked. Latino dropped to his knees, howling and holding his arm. Darcy swung again, knocking him in the head, and he went over like a sinking ship. Alive, but out for now. She threw down the pipe, then chased after Feeley.

  The little weasel wasn’t getting away. As far as she was concerned, Tony “Touchy” Feeley owed her his life. She pushed herself hard, that shot of liquor magnifying her determination to reach Tony before he disappeared into a town she didn’t know.

  She knocked over a crate, leaped a discarded bumper and gained on him. His long coat was stylin’, but the impractical boots were slowing him down. He glanced back and Darcy was on him, diving for his back and knocking him to the ground. He scrambled to get up and she latched on to his boot, and pulled out her knife.

  “Move and I cut the pretty-boy boots.”

  He snapped a look at her, small eyes narrowing. “Get off, bitch.” He kicked out. Darcy ducked and put the blade’s edge to the boots.

  “I can just as easily give you back to the men in black.”

  His eyes flared and Darcy felt triumph coming. Keeping a hold of his boot, she crouched to her knees. “What’d they want, Feeley, bad debt, territory?”

  “They were going to kill me.”

  “Why?”

  “To keep me from talking to you.”

  It was Darcy’s turn to look stunned. They must have seen the ad. How did they know she was coming? She’d covered her tracks, driving the few hours from Comanche. She shoved off and stood, replacing her knife and waiting till Feeley got to his feet. Then she slammed him against the alley wall.

  “It’s not nice to make a deal, then renege on it, Feeley. Bad for the pimp reputation, you know?”

  “Are you nuts, lady? They were going to kill me!”

  “You said that. So considering you’re still breathing, you owe me, huh?”

  “I ain’t saying nothin’.”

  When he moved, no doubt to get a weapon, Darcy braced her arm against his throat, cutting off his air supply and searching him. She found a stiletto in a slim pocket inside his coat. She kept it, patting him down for more and found brass knuckles and a blackjack. Tough-guy equipment, and
she could only imagine how often he used them on women. She pocketed them all.

  “What? No gun?”

  “They took it.”

  Darcy glanced to the right, checking to see if Biker Boys had roused enough to hunt her. She had to hurry. “You answered the ad, Touchy. Talk. Why didn’t those men want you to talk to me?”

  “Hell if I know! You gonna give me some air?”

  She pushed harder. “Tell me what you know!”

  “Why should I?” He shifted his leg to kick and Darcy whipped out her knife, pressing the point to his groin.

  “Because, Mr. Feeley, if you don’t, the men in black will have no reason to kill you. Tell and they can come after me.”

  Darcy wasn’t letting that happen. This wasn’t like the rescues with Jack. She didn’t have a safety net and had risked her life too much tonight already. She was damn lucky she’d gotten the jump on those guys, and she wasn’t pressing it further.

  “You’re just a chick.”

  “At the moment that hardly matters, does it? Tell me why you answered my ad.”

  His eyes narrowed. “I saw it and remembered I had a girl a long time ago. She was into some surrogate deal. You don’t forget someone who’d have a baby for strangers, you dig? They were gonna pay her fifty grand to push out a kid. She promised to give me a cut for her time off.”

  The woman must have been desperate, she thought. “She tricked for you.”

  “Yeah. She wanted out, but owed me for her crib, essentials and the time off. Nine months.” He smirked.

  “She was willing to have a baby to pay you off? Sounds like an honorable woman.”

  “She was a fucking whore.”

  “And that makes you what, Touchy?”

  His nose actually tipped the air. “Her man, her protection. Her keeper. She owed me!”

  This guy was unbelievable, and as far as Darcy was concerned, he was no better than an abusive husband. A slave trader. And she wasn’t ready to believe everything he said. But then at this point, why lie? “Did she have the baby?”

  “Hell if I know.”

  “Didn’t you collect her debt to you?”

  “She split. I didn’t need the money that bad.”

  She shoved him into the threshold of a side door. “You’re lying. Someone tell you to leave her alone?”

  Feeley just stared back, unmoved.

  “What did you tell those guys?” She inclined her head in their general direction.

  “Nothin’. They seemed to know what I knew already.”

  Great, Darcy thought, she had a trail. “Where’s this woman now?”

  “Christ, you want me to draw you a map?” She put pressure on his windpipe. “Last I heard she was in Vegas, dancing or something.” He cleared his throat. “Always was a better dancer than she was a whore.”

  Darcy stared, wondering what made people like this. “Your level of humanity is remarkable.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Blow me.”

  Darcy released him. He shook his jacket into place, smoothed his oily black hair and gave her a smirk.

  He stepped toward her, maliciousness in his ugly face, and she moved in his path. “Don’t try it.” She caught her knife by the tip and eyed his boots. “I won’t be so kind.”

  “I told you what you wanted. What the fuck else do you want?”

  “A name.”

  “Forget it.”

  “Why do you care?”

  He eyed her and the nine-inch knife. “Because you’ll kill me then.”

  “I saved your life, idiot. I should have let them have you,” she said, disgusted.

  “You need me.” He smirked.

  She glanced down the alley in both directions, then looked back at Touchy. He was backing toward the shadows. “Not anymore.” She started walking.

  “Hey, gimme my goods.”

  “Drop dead.” Darcy didn’t break stride.

  “Her name is Cleo,” he finally said.

  Darcy stopped, casting a look back over her shoulder. “Say again?”

  “Cleo Patra.”

  She frowned. “That can’t be real.”

  His gaze shot nervously to the ends of the alley and he took a couple steps. “No, it’s a stage name, no one uses real names down here. Change your name, hide your past, you dig?”

  Darcy knew that probably better than this Cleo woman. “Except you. Anthony Degas Feeley, from Reno.” His small eyes rounded. “The Vegas police have a warrant out for you, you know.”

  He sneered. “So what else is new? Gimme my stuff.”

  Darcy kept the stiletto, but held out the other junk. It would have tipped a boat, it was so heavy. He moved toward her and she pulled it back. “Describe her.”

  “Tall, big tits. African. She was twenty-five or so when she split.”

  Darcy dropped the gear and hurried to the entrance of the alley.

  “Hey what about my reward?”

  “You have your life, Touchy. I’d say we’re even.”

  “Bitch.”

  “That’s queen bitch.” She faced him. He was gathering up his piles of metal. She pitched the roll of bills at him and he snatched it up like a hungry dog.

  “Steer me wrong, Touchy, and I’ll send the cops after you.”

  “Lady, are you stupid? The cops ain’t got shit on those guys. You’re stepping into some dangerous shit. If you wanna die, keep looking for Cleo.” He darted into the shadows and for a breath, Darcy watched him slither along the side of the building, then disappear. A real rat.

  Not wanting to encounter the men in black again, she left the alley and moved down the street, weaving between people and checking behind herself for the hired creeps. Her heart pounded like a hammer, her senses alert for anyone moving toward her, but prostitutes and drunks shifted past as if she didn’t exist.

  It took her a half hour to get far enough away that she could hail a cab, and when she did, she gave the guy an extra ten to make a couple turns around the block before heading toward her hotel.

  On the first pass, she spotted the goons in black just coming out of the Match Lite, looking bloody and pissed, and she scrunched down in the seat for a couple blocks. Then on the second pass, she eased up, looking behind.

  “Driver, slow down and pull over.” As he did, Darcy hunched on the seat, looking out the rear window. The goons were gone. Yet before she faced front, a man stepped under the single bulb that lit the front door of the bar. Her heart slammed to her stomach. Jack? He was paying a man, or handing him something. When he looked up to scan the street, Darcy was certain it was him.

  Black hat, bomber jacket, long legs. Yeah, that was him.

  She sank into the seat, ignoring the cab driver’s curious glances in the rearview mirror. “Drive on, please. And thank you.”

  Just because Jack was here didn’t mean that he was tailing her. He was a bounty hunter. He was always after a jumper.

  Her thoughts shifted to her one solid lead.

  Cleo Patra.

  In Las Vegas. Sin city. She couldn’t take Charlie with her. It wasn’t a place for a child by any means, and she wasn’t putting her son in danger for anything. Those men were willing to kill Touchy to keep him from talking to anyone, and since she’d been meeting Touchy to find out about a woman who’d become a surrogate twenty years ago, the weak link was suddenly a viable connection to the egg mining.

  And more dangerous than any of the Cassandras expected.

  They’d found Touchy after she’d placed the ad and spoken to him. Had they bugged his phone? Seen the ad? Been watching all this time? It was pretty obvious that they understood the ad enough to go after Touchy. He was a link to this Cleo woman.

  Darcy was part of that chain now, and though no one knew her name, the number in the paper was her “rescue” cell number. Although it was unlisted, with some smart computer hacking, it could be traced.

  This was a little more danger than she’d bargained for. Way more.

  But she had to go to Vegas, and the sa
fest place for Charlie was away from it all.

  When Darcy arrived at home she was still scared, still looking over her shoulder for the boys in black. She did a complete check of her house, locking windows, and had her cell number changed. It didn’t feel like enough, and she wondered when she wouldn’t have to behave like a fleeing convict all the time. She sent another e-mail to the Cassandras, telling them the little she’d learned and that the source, Touchy Feeley, was not reliable. She’d have to find Cleo Patra to prove it and would go looking in a couple days. She also warned them about the danger that was nearly on her doorstep and was possibly coming to theirs.

  She was tempted to confess her past right then, but the roadblocks weren’t cleared away yet. She was still a parental kidnapper and involving them directly would expose them to aiding and abetting charges. She couldn’t do that to them. Kayla, who knew the most, probably could guess how she was feeling. But she wasn’t ready to talk openly about it with the Cassandras, no matter how much she wanted their support right now.

  Besides, all her theories about Maurice were just that, theories. She was hoping that document expert Loni Marks would shine some favorable light on the papers she’d taken from Maurice’s safe. If she didn’t, Darcy was really going to need the Cassandras’ help. Because if Jack had seen her and Charlie on TV, there was a chance that Maurice might have, too. Her son would need more protection than just herself, and although Maurice wouldn’t know Charlie by sight—he’d been an infant when she left—Athena Academy and Rainy’s name might clue him in.

  After a long workday, Darcy sat in Loni Marks’s lab in the basement of her home, sipping vanilla coffee as Loni examined the papers. For Loni to confirm anything, she’d needed the original documents, and Marianna Vasquez had agreed without hesitation. Darcy had given her a post-office box to mail the papers to, and Marianna hadn’t questioned its location. Darcy had, after all, portrayed herself as a freelance writer.

  As Darcy watched Loni work, she was fascinated by the woman’s methods. Not only was she a handwriting expert who could detect forgeries with ease, she was equipped to test ink and paper and could tell how many people had handled the paper and if different pens were used. Darcy was more than impressed.