The Assassin

by Rachel Butler

  She couldn’t look at him. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move. Could hardly breathe. She wished she could just sink into the sodden ground and disappear from sight.

  After what seemed like hours, he came closer. His voice was low, his tone mild, as he said, “If you keep standing there like that, I’m going to give in to temptation and search you myself, and then I’m going to have one hell of an erection.”

  She lifted one hand, then the other, and clasped her aching fingers together. Biting the inside of her lip, she finally faced him. “What are you doing here?”

  “I asked Frankie to drop me off. I wanted to talk to Henry about something. Here’s a little tip, sweetheart— when you walk up to the gate of the house belonging to the chief of police, don’t let the guards see your pistol. In fact, don’t be carrying a pistol. Best tip of all—leave the weapons at home and call his favorite godson to go with you. What are you doing here, anyway?”

  All the air disappeared from her body in a whoosh. She stared at him, wide-eyed, aware in some very small part of her that still functioned that she very well might pass out if she didn’t catch a breath, but her brain refused to send the command. The chief of police? William? Tony’s godfather?

  Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God.

  “Selena?” His voice came from far away, barely penetrating the buzz in her head. He lifted her hair off her neck, then wiped the rain from her face. “Are you okay?”

  As her body began to tremble, she brushed him away and took a few steps backward. She didn’t want him to feel how badly she was shaking, didn’t want to arouse his suspicions or to make him rethink his decision to intervene. Summoning a smile, she folded her arms across her middle, hiding her clenched fists from view. “I’m—I’m fine. Are they g-going to call the—the police?”

  He grinned. “Honey, we are the police. Frankie will persuade them to let us handle it.”

  She glanced past him to the detective, one arm around Baby-face’s shoulders, gesturing jovially with the other. The guard’s expression was serious; his nods of agreement, eager.

  “So . . . what’s your interest in Uncle Henry’s house?”

  “No interest,” she lied. “I didn’t even know . . . I was out jogging and got caught in the storm. I was on my way back to the car when I stopped to catch my breath and the guard got suspicious. I wasn’t doing anything, but he wanted to search my backpack and then he saw the gun . . .” She shuddered at the thought of how close she’d come to getting hauled off to jail . . . or was it how close she’d come to cold-blooded murder?

  “Security guards get a little overzealous sometimes.” Tony gently brushed a curl from her face. “You okay now?”

  She nodded as Simmons joined them. The guards, she saw, had returned inside the gate but continued to watch them. “I still have the magic touch,” Simmons boasted as he offered her her pistol. “I convinced the kid it wasn’t in his best interests to haul in the chief ’s godson’s girlfriend in handcuffs.”

  Casually sliding his arm around her, Tony performed the introductions. “Selena McCaffrey, Frank Simmons.”

  Selena smiled weakly, nodded, and said, “Hi. Th-thanks.”

  He responded with his own nod and a grunt, then spoke to Tony. “Can I go now? I’d like to get home while Suz still remembers what I look like.”

  “Yeah, go ahead. I’ll catch a ride with Selena.” Tony extended his hand to the big man. “Thanks, Frankie.”

  “Hey, just remember this when I’m askin’ your brothers for a job.” With another nod, he returned to the car parked in the driveway, backed out, and drove away.

  “Where’s your car?”

  Selena had to give the answer a moment’s thought. “It’s . . . over there.” She gestured toward the lot across the street and down a few hundred yards, where the Thunderbird was the only vehicle parked. When Tony clasped her hand in his and started in that direction, she dragged her feet. “I thought you needed to talk to . . .” She couldn’t say it. The police chief. Uncle Henry. Your godfather. The words simply wouldn’t come.

  “I’ll hook up with him tomorrow. Right now you need to get home. You’ve had enough excitement for one evening.”

  Excitement? Hardly. Mind-numbing shock was more like it. When they got to her car, she couldn’t think what to do, other than offer the keys to Tony. When she merely stood by the door, he opened it and helped her inside. When her fingers fumbled over the seat belt, he fastened it for her.

  She stared out the window as he left the parking lot. The rain was picking up, and the wind buffeted the small car. The frequency and intensity of the lightning increased, and the thunder seemed a constant rumble, but all that registered only vaguely with her. All she could think about was William.

  He was the chief of police. Had likely been a cop all the years she’d known him. Was Tony’s godfather. He’d been there when Tony was born, had been part of his life as he grew up. He was a beloved member of the Ceola family . . . and he wanted his godson dead.

  If she’d harbored even the faintest hope, after recognizing Greg Marland, of escaping this mess without someone dying, it was gone now.

  And if she’d harbored even the faintest hope that Tony would believe everything she could tell him, it was gone now, too. He loved Wil—Henry, while he loved only sex with her. He had a history with Henry, while he was merely having an affair with her. He would never believe his godfather was a cold-blooded killer, and he would hate her for proving it to him. But she wouldn’t care if he hated her for as long as he lived.

  Just as long as he did live.

  When they reached Princeton Court, Tony parked in his driveway, shut off the engine, then looked at Selena. She was staring blankly, as she’d done all the way home, unaware that they were here. Was it the run-in with the security guards that had shaken her so badly, the threat of arrest when she’d done nothing wrong, or both of those combined with getting caught in the storms?

  He climbed out and circled to the passenger door, unhooking her seat belt, pulling her out and through the rain to the stoop. Once inside, he headed straight upstairs, tugging her along, and into the bathroom. By the time they’d changed into dry clothes, she was looking a little better. He caught the ends of the towel she was using to blot her hair and pulled her close. “You okay?”

  Her smile was wan. “Apparently I’m doing better than you.” She reached toward the raw scrape across his cheek, but stopped short of touching it. “Have you ever considered finding a new line of work?”

  He pressed a kiss to her palm. “I’ve just taken a few hard knocks here lately. It doesn’t happen all the time. In fact, the last time was more than two years ago.”

  “Hmm . . . once in two years. Now twice in four days. That doesn’t sound good. Is it safe to hope that this time the guy responsible looks worse?”

  He snorted. “He was on a racing bike and must’ve been doing eighty or more. He was long gone before I even got up off the ground.”

  “I take it you foiled his nefarious plan?” she asked with a smile that didn’t touch her eyes.

  “Yes and no. He didn’t get to kill the drug dealer he’d targeted for tonight. He did kill one of his own people, though—the guy who’d been watching the dealer’s family. While he was in police custody, no less.”

  As he spoke, thunder shook the house, and the power flickered off. When it came back, mere seconds later, Selena’s eyes were wide and her hands trembled in his. “It’s okay,” he said. “If it gets worse, we’ll head for the basement. We’ll be safe there.”

  The smile she gave him was sickly. “We may not be safe anywhere.”

  He never would have figured that, living in hurricane country, she would be afraid of storms, but he reassured her anyway. “Trust me—the basement’s safe in a storm. I even keep it clean for just that purpose.”

  She looked as if she wasn’t the least bit convinced, but before she could argue, the blast of a siren split the air, making her jump. “What the—!”

 
“Did I forget to mention that the tornado siren for this area is at the end of the block?” He went into the bedroom and turned on the television in time to hear the meteorologist say, “—a funnel on the ground in the area of Twenty-first and Peoria and traveling east-southeast. If you’re in that area, go to your safe place now.”

  Stopping at the bathroom again, Tony grabbed their shoes, then pulled Selena down the stairs and along the hall to the basement door. There he gave a sharp whistle for Mutt, who came running and trotted right down the stairs. He’d learned from the last tornado that hit the area how impossible it was to force the two cats to go someplace they didn’t want to; it was safer all around to let them fend for themselves. Selena looked as if she’d rather fend for herself, too, hanging back ten feet. “Come on, darlin’.”

  “I—I can’t.”

  “You have to.”

  Wearing nothing but an old T-shirt of his and hugging her arms to her chest, she looked as vulnerable as a woman could get. Slowly he moved toward her. “Don’t tell me one of your rotten parents used to punish you by locking you in a small dark space.”

  She tried to smile, but the quivering of her lips made it less than successful. “Rodrigo. How did you guess?”

  Son of a bitch! If the worthless bastard wasn’t already dead, he would hunt him down and kill him. Controlling his anger, he said lightly, “Hey, the basement’s not that small, and we can do all kinds of fun things in the dark. Hell, we can do ’em with the lights on if it makes you more comfortable.”

  As if on cue, the power flickered, surged, then went off. He fumbled for the flashlight that hung inside the door, clicked on the beam, then went to her. “Come on. I’ll hold you the whole time, I promise.” He gave her a grin and a wink. “I’ll be your safe place.”

  She let him guide her to the doorway before her feet started dragging. He shone the light down the stairs and around the room. “See? There’s nothing to be scared of.” The space was small, but it was relatively empty. A set of steel shelves held his tools, a few boxes of Christmas decorations filled one corner, and there was a rollaway bed, complete with bedding in a zippered bag. Other than an oil lamp and an old comforter folded into a bed for Mutt, that was it.

  The storm had intensified even more, and Tony could swear he heard the freight-train sound everyone associated with tornadoes, even over the damn siren. Leaving her no choice, he moved her onto the steps, slammed the door behind him, then forced her to the bottom. He left her long enough to light the lamp, unfold the rollaway, shake out a sheet, and fit it over the mattress, then he brought her over to sit with him. After wrapping his arms around her, he softly asked, “You want to talk?”

  She made a choking sound that might have been the beginning of a laugh or a sob. With no follow-up, it was impossible to guess which. She was usually so very calm, serene, and controlled. If he wasn’t seeing it with his own eyes, it would be difficult for him to imagine her showing fear. She seemed impervious to such human frailty.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice strained.

  “There’s nothing to be sorry about.”

  For a time she remained still and tense, lost inside herself. She broke the silence in a voice so soft he could barely hear it. “I told you, Rodrigo didn’t like raising another man’s child. Sometimes he hit me. Sometimes even that was too much bother, so he just locked me away in a closet under the stairs. It was small and cramped, but I could lie down if I curled up tight. Usually he left me there an hour or two, and it really wasn’t so bad. As long as I was in there, he wasn’t bothering me. But one day he locked me up and he . . . forgot about me. They left, and they didn’t come back for hours—all day, all night, and part of the next day, with no light, no food, no water. I screamed until I lost my voice, and I beat on the door until my hands were bloody and raw. I thought . . .” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I thought they’d left me there to die.”

  At least that explained her response to the incident with Henry’s security guards. If she couldn’t voluntarily walk into the basement, the prospect of a jail cell probably filled her with terror.

  Tony cradled her close and stroked her hair. “If I could give you a different past, different memories, I would,” he said at last. “You deserved better.”

  The breath she exhaled was warm against his throat. “Not long after that, I got it. The next time Rodrigo tried to put me in the closet, I got hysterical. For the first time ever, I fought back and did a good bit of damage. The next day he sent me away. But to this day, I don’t do well in small dark places.”

  “Nah, you’re doing fine.” He kept his voice as soothing as his touch, as he rubbed and patted.

  Before she could do more than smile weakly, a crash sounded out back, followed by the thud of something slamming into the house. The wind’s roar turned deafening, and the house seemed to literally sway above them as the light fixture hanging from the ceiling swung from side to side.

  Within seconds, the noise level went from teeth-jarring to relatively calm. The house settled back in with a shudder, the siren faded away, and the rain diminished from torrential to what sounded like a sprinkle.

  “Is that it?” Selena asked.

  “I think so. For that one, at least. Want to walk outside with me?”

  “Yes.” She wiggled free and shoved her feet into her wet shoes while he put on his own. Holding tightly to his hand, she climbed the stairs one step behind him.

  The first thing he noticed when they stepped out the front door was that the Impala was gone—not far, just ten or fifteen feet across the yard, though it appeared undamaged. The smaller T-Bird was exactly where he’d left it and intact. Branches, leaves, and flowers littered the street, two of Selena’s lawn chairs leaned at an angle against the side of his house, explaining the earlier thud, and a half-dozen trees were down at the back edge of the yards.

  “Part of my yard is gone,” Selena said in amazement, pointing to a bare patch of earth. “It literally sucked the grass out of the ground.”

  All of her patio furniture was gone and, except for the two chairs next door, was nowhere in sight. Shingles were missing from both houses, and a strip of siding had been torn off the far side of the sunroom, but that seemed the extent of the structural damage.

  Tony grinned as he helped her over a sycamore uprooted from next door and dropped in her front yard. “Well, we survived the first one okay.”

  She scowled down at him, her lips primly pursed. “The first one?”

  “Where one tornado goes, others often follow.” He lifted her down and held on when she would have stepped away. “But it doesn’t matter if that’s the only storm or if there are a dozen more. You’ll be okay. We’ll be okay together.”

  She simply looked at him, holding herself distant, then the tension abruptly drained from her. She leaned against him, her cheek pressed to his shoulder, one hand knotted in his shirt. “Thank you,” she murmured, and brushed a kiss to his jaw.

  And just like that, his lousy Saturday night became pretty damn good.

  14

  It was after 3 A.M. when William’s quack doctor finally left the guesthouse. Damon locked the door behind him, then leaned against it, a sling holding his left arm close to his chest. The old man had needed a hand from Jose Cuervo to clean and pack the wound, which Damon could have done just as well himself, and in half the time. But at least the doc had had some pills—antibiotics to prevent infection and some little white marvels for the pain. Going into the kitchen, he washed down the antibiotics but left the pain pills where they sat.

  Fucking William had let him into the guesthouse, shown him where the oil lamps and candles were stored, then disappeared into the main house. He hadn’t even waited to get the doc’s drunken opinion about the seriousness of the wound. Arrogant bastard didn’t care whether Damon lived or died, as long as he didn’t inconvenience him any more than necessary.

  That was okay. Damon knew someone who did care. Retrieving the cell phone from his j
acket pocket, he dialed her number. She answered on the fourth ring with a sleepy “Hello.” “Christ, you sleep through tornadoes?” he asked.

  There was a moment’s rustling as Lucia resettled in the bed. “Tornadoes know better than to fuck with me. There hasn’t been one anywhere close to the house. What about you?”

  “What about me?”

  “You wanna fuck with me?”

  “I’d like nothing better, but . . .” He pushed aside one curtain to look at William’s house. From this angle it was impossible to tell whether anyone was up and about over there. Both the old man’s bedroom and study faced the front of the house, and the flicker of an oil lamp wouldn’t carry far. But that was okay. Sooner or later the bastard would come around, and Damon would be ready.

  “But . . .?” Lucia prompted.

  “But you’d have to come to me. I’m a little incapacitated. I could use some tender loving care.”

  “Poor baby. Lucky for you, I’m good at tender loving care. Are you at home?”

  “No. I’m staying at the boss’s guesthouse.” He smiled as he gave her the address, told her to call him when she arrived at the rear gate, then disconnected. Lifting the curtain again, he gazed at the house. He hoped the old man got a good night’s rest. He was going to need it to face tomorrow.

  Rolling out of bed after only a few hours’ sleep was tough, but Selena managed on the second try. The power had come back on sometime while they’d slept—the clock on the nightstand flashed in the dark—but she didn’t need the lights to locate the T-shirt she’d discarded the night before. Sliding it over her head, she went downstairs and into the dining room, where she booted up the computer and signed online.

  It was amazing the information you could find out about a man when you knew his real name. After an hour on the Internet, Selena had learned practically everything she’d wanted to know about her dear Uncle William . . . Henry.