by Cera Daniels
Zach shrugged. "I didn't bother to set them straight. Seems they'd rather get a healthy prison sentence than meet me on a cold, dark night."
"The big one said he was going to finish what we'd started. But if he thinks Klepto's the zealot, was he talking about the war, or the serial murders?" Ryan asked.
"He didn't seem smart enough to play copy-cat killer. Unless he was, and you damaged him when you knocked him out."
Ryan eyed him, hoping for humor, but Zach's expression stayed grim, and he was focused on the contents of a nearby plastic bin. Probably drooling. Shaw had amassed quite a collection, and not all of it pocket-size.
"Do we have a bead on their boss?" Ryan asked.
"If we did, I wouldn't be here." Zach pulled his sidearm out of his holster and fired into the container. "We might follow up on a few leads, but we won't take Shaw tonight."
Ryan peered over the edge of the plastic case. Zach had drilled a bullet through the firing mechanism on a grenade launcher. "Having fun?"
"Yep. Though . . . probably should have checked to see if that grenade was viable first," Zach said.
"There's no—" Ryan jerked his head up and caught a hint of the smile fighting its way over his brother's lips. "It's good to have you back, jackass."
"I know."
Contained fires and small-scale explosions rigged with Shaw's own equipment took care of each of the warehouses in short order.
"Klepto just left the key to the shipping container with OC," Jay reported.
Ryan raised an eyebrow. "He did, did he?"
"They didn't see me. Left some of our audio, too. I know it won't hold up in court, but . . . " Jay trailed off as if he'd ended on a shrug.
Zach smiled. "No, but I bet the detectives'll use it as a nice conversation starter."
"Swinging by to pick you losers up," Jay said.
Mission complete. Even if the goons had opportunity to compare notes in jail, each would say a masked man came out of the shadows and attacked, then dumped them off in the shipping container along the shoreline. Klepto's reputation revolved as much around his combat and thieving skills as it did around the mystery man behind the mask. Man. Not men. There was only one Klepto.
Ryan shook his head as he slammed the lid on the last crate on the stack. "Trussing up the bad guys like presents and leaving the evidence for the cops to find. Pretty close to what our friendly neighborhood zealot gets up to."
Zach reached over and squeezed his shoulder. "Klepto is nothing like the zealot. For one, we don't kill."
"I've got two bodies on the south side that tell a different story."
"You didn't pull that trigger." He frowned. "We don't even steal much anymore, not since the war started."
Ryan gave him a sidelong look. "Yeah, Klepto did our city a great service there."
Zach laughed. "How much longer would our funds have held the truce together?"
"Does it matter?"
"It does." Zach scrubbed his hand over his face. "I know you don't want to hear this, but Lilah had a point about forgiveness, apologies. Just maybe, well, maybe it's not Amanda you should be asking forgiveness from. Maybe you should, I don't know. Forgive yourself, first. God knows you've apologized to the whole damn city long enough."
Ryan stared at his brother's back as Zach headed off to catch their ride. Getting weapons and criminals off the streets was a better solution than their father's truce-keeping efforts, sure, but until it was over, he couldn't believe he'd done enough to atone for his part in escalating the turf war.
Until then, he'd continue to do the right thing.
Every step he took down this gray path of vigilante justice was another step out of the shadow of the past. He'd gone beyond filling his father's shoes—and combat boots. He'd made his own marks on both worlds. He'd pulled Klepto deeper undercover to protect the ones he loved and he'd donned his public mask to see them thrive.
The right thing. Was that so bad, if the city and the people in it survived to meet another sunrise?
Ryan snapped off the light in the warehouse then shoved his hands into his trench coat pockets. He wasn't the all-out criminal he'd led Amanda to believe. What he, Romeo, Jay, Torpedo, Zach, and Drak had set out to do . . . they were on the same side, despite Klepto's unconventional methods. He had to see her again. It wasn't the safe thing to do, but it was the right thing. Even if she didn't share his views, even if she never forgave him, he owed her an explanation and an apology. But would "I'm sorry" get him in the front door long enough to share the truths she deserved?
Amanda disabled her alarm on her way in the front door and headed straight for a finger of whiskey to celebrate the end of a successful day of research and back-tracking. Between a long, refreshing night of sleep and her mother's databases, her case had been rejuvenated. She had a new direction. If she'd finished her maps before following Klepto around town, Amanda would have learned sooner that, rather than a certain syndicate funding the properties where the bodies had been placed, the tax bills were being funded through a low-ranking politician's office.
None other than victim number one.
Not great news, but it was a start.
Amanda fished the envelope of data from Charlie out of her nightstand drawer and dialed the physical therapist's desk phone from her landline as she began to fill in the few remaining blanks. She'd already identified locations for other possible body drops. Now all that remained to complete her canvas was to trace the best transport routes and pinpoint the zealot's most likely hidey-holes.
Her friend picked up the phone without greeting. "I pulled a favor with the lab on that blood sample you squirreled to me."
"Hey to you too." The whiskey turned to acid in her stomach. She'd forgotten. Casually, she asked, "Any idea when they'll be done?"
"They ran it through local PD."
"That was fast." Amanda downed the rest of her glass in one go.
"No match to our people though. Would've been too much to ask, wouldn't it?" Charlie asked.
She gave an uneasy laugh. No match in the state-run system, where the police officers were all tagged for security purposes, wasn't a surprise. Klepto wasn't a cop. "My hunch was wrong, Charlie."
"You? Never. Dale is, about the inside job, but you? I don't believe it."
"Believe it." Amanda bit back frustration. Days she'd wasted going after the wrong man. Didn't Ryan care there was a killer running free, that without him leading her in circles she could have found the right man? "Pull this one from the lab techs before they waste time and resources running it through the full crime database."
"Can do. Anything else, while I'm burning through favors?" His tone held a smile, and more than the question he'd actually asked.
"Don't worry. If he asks, I'm close to something. Just working another angle. Thanks, but—" Amanda reached the end of the stack of papers he'd brought her from the office and rummaged through them again. She straightened on the couch. "Wait. Charlie, you remember the kid they pulled in with the body Ryan and I found? The report's not with the copies you gave me. I need it. I want to know what he knows."
"A witness?" There was a long pause. "Yeah. I'll see what I can do."
She didn't get far winnowing down her notes when her phone rang again.
Charlie hummed in the back of his throat. "I hate to break this to you—there's no file."
"What?" Amanda's eyes widened and she leaned her elbows on her knees.
"Paperwork shuffle. He's out, never got interviewed past the crime scene."
Amanda twisted her fingers in her pants leg. "Did anyone speak to him off-record? Or, hey, get me a name. I'll go ask him myself."
"No problem. Consider it handled."
"Thanks, Charlie. And be careful, will you?"
"You too."
She dropped the handset into the cradle and stood, then spread the contents of the envelope over her kitchen island. Renewed purpose galloped through her veins, along with the charge of instinct and love of a puzzle.
She absorbed herself in her research into the late hours of the evening.
Perhaps that was why she forgot about the alarm, why she didn't hear him come in, why she missed the sound of his footsteps rustling on her carpet. The click as the front door closed was her only warning.
And that warning came too late.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The gun leveled at her chest was department issue. Glock. A weapon as familiar as the face staring at her from her kitchen archway. The unmistakable scruff of uneven beard over his chin, the night-dark hair, untrimmed with those irritating sideburns, the take-no-prisoners spread of his feet.
Detective Jackson Price.
Real. Alive. Familiar, save for the fanatical gleam in his wide, hazel eyes.
Amanda's head spun, and it wasn't from the whiskey. "Price? How? You're . . . Why are you pointing that at me?"
Jackson.
A man she'd thought buried, a partner she'd thought lost forever.
She'd cried at his funeral, and here he was in the flesh, brandishing a weapon at her like a mortal enemy. She made a show of straightening her shoulders as she dug for options. The knife block on the counter was closest at hand.
Amanda took a step backward. "Price—"
"Let's move this reunion." He waved her toward the living room with his gun.
There was no knife block near the couch, and he was steering her out of reach of her Taser. If she rushed him or yelled to alert anyone who might be close enough to hear, he could fire, and Jackson had always been a crack shot. Stall, stall, stall. Maybe he wouldn't notice if she nudged the phone off the base and got through to 9-1-1. He gave an irritated jerk of his head. Puckered skin circled his neck, edging over his collar.
"What happened to you?"
"The scars? A gift from my murderer." He pointed his weapon at the phone without even looking to aim, then pulled the trigger.
Plastic and electronic phone shrapnel scattered in the air, dusting the couch. So much for plan Q.
"Move." He directed her toward the hallway next.
"Your murderer—You mean the person who tried to kill you?"
"He succeeded."
"This is crazy, Jackson. Put the gun away."
The weapon snapped back toward her chest.
"Put the gun away," Jackson echoed softly.
With a start, she remembered those same words, accompanied by Romeo's voice on another night, the murder she'd been forced to witness. Not Jackson's death, like she'd assumed. Jackson's kill.
All those victims. The precision.
The zealot.
Her muscles throbbed with the need for action.
Calm. Stay calm. She could do this. Somehow, she could stop him.
Romeo.
Ryan's dog could speak in her mind. What if she could initiate contact from the other side? It wouldn't tip off Jackson like a phone call, if it even worked. Considering it was half as crazy as the look in her former partner's eyes. Worth the risk. She reached with desperate thoughts into a nothingness she hoped led toward the German shepherd's ears, his brain, however the freaky telepathy they'd shared had worked. Maybe it didn't work both ways.
Her heart stumbled over the doubt, skittering for several beats and turning hope into a stitch in her side. She rubbed out the sudden cramp with her fingertips. She couldn't let Jackson kill her. She had to stop him now, or he'd go after Ryan next.
If he hadn't already.
"So, Dale was right. The serial killer is an inside man, just . . . not the way he thought," Amanda said, thoughts of Romeo and Ryan looping through her head. "You know he took my badge because of you."
Jackson nodded. He came to a halt at the edge of the kitchen tile.
Amanda stopped moving backward. "Why are you here?"
"You aren't beyond redemption," Jackson said. "Not like the rest of the city."
"Dale would love to add this to my tab." She laughed without humor. "Detective Werner's partner faked his death and became a serial killer."
His face turned a strange shade of purple, his jaw clamped tight.
"Even if I got my badge back," she continued, "it kind of jinxes my career, right? Who'd want to pair up with that kind of karma?"
"I didn't fake my death!" her former partner roared. "I am dead!"
Oo-kay. Amanda's hands fisted at her sides. The fanatical look in his eyes equaled her death. Amanda's survival instincts sped through her veins. Certainty that she now faced her final moments eclipsed the cold knowledge that her former partner was a serial killer. She dropped into a defensive stance. Fight. But with what?
The end of the hallway was bare of pictures. Her mother had picked up her shoes. There was nothing within reach to throw or hide behind. She wouldn't make the couch for cover without Jackson getting a shot off. Hell. He was going to kill her. She had to try something.
Jackson scooped her Taser from the charger and hefted it in his other hand. Amanda bent her knees and leapt for the couch. A bullet never came, but electricity slammed into her midsection. Her body landed at a twisted angle and her head jerked with the assault on her nerves. Her forehead caught the sharp edge of a chair. Fire ricocheted through her body, then numbness took over.
Her former partner wasted no time. Jackson rolled her to her stomach and handcuffed her hands behind her back, his every touch burning against her nerves as they tried to come back online. "You disappointed me. Cavorting with syndicate supporters, plants, and criminals who aren't even honest enough to share their face at night."
Her brain tried to process his words.
He yanked her boots off of her feet and slung her over his shoulder.
Jackson had been at the fundraiser. He'd seen her with Ryan.
Her breath caught in her throat. Please, let Ryan be okay.
Whatever her businessman had done, it didn't warrant death. And certainly not at the hands of this psycho.
Amanda fought to gain control of her limbs. The Taser jolt was wearing off, but her wrists were secure, and her head spun, pounding from her secondary injury.
He'd been outside McLelas Financial somewhere. Watching. Had Jackson also seen Klepto?
Her knees connected with the inside of her tub. Sounds of metal grating against metal came from behind her. She tried to rise from the kneeling position, but she felt stunned, unable to move or turn around. What was Jackson doing? Why hadn't he shot her, like the others?
She threw her energy into a last mental effort to reach help. Her brain hiccupped, a hysterical series of pleas exploding from the depths of her mind. Romeo!
"Spirit-mate his?" came the slow, slurred reply.
Get Ryan. Please, find help. Amanda fought her bonds as the shrill sound of tape torn from a roll echoed in the small bathroom.
"Too much . . . Spiritwalker . . . "
And then, pain through their tentative connection, an all-consuming fire in her head.
"You made poor choices," Jackson said.
She moaned, unable to respond coherently. The pain moved from her skull and spread to her limbs.
He pushed the drain closed under her socked feet. "I will spare your soul for greater things."
"D-don't . . . do me any favors," she managed to gasp.
Jackson jerked her arms upward, then pushed the center of her back until she thought the muscles in her shoulders would tear, her upper body easing lower and lower into the tub. Amanda panted for breath, no strength left to struggle as he stepped away and left her pitched forward, suspended by her wrists.
"The water will cleanse you," he said.
He meant to drown her. He was insane. Amanda's head sagged with the rest of her body. Jackson believed he was saving her.
She was going to die.
A moment passed, and then her former partner hovered over her again, a flash of yellow in her peripheral vision.
This time, the electroshock burst, longer, more intense, struck her ribcage. Amanda screamed until oblivion swallowed her whole.
Jackson watc
hed as her body twitched, then slumped, against her makeshift bonds. She was still, her eyes closed, her chin resting on her chest. If he could only grant the city one mercy, he would give this woman's soul peace. He twisted the knob on the tub and water soaked her clothes on contact, rushing into the basin. Finally, from his pocket, he withdrew the mark of truth. His chest stung as he tied the black ribbon at the nape of her neck, but this necessary task of masking the fallen had become a comfort.
"Goodbye, Amanda."
A single droplet splashed to grace her cheek as he drew the bathroom door closed.
Jackson slid the Taser into its base and saw himself out of her home.
"The time for such kindnesses has passed," he said. "The city must now be reborn from ash."
His plan would come to a head tomorrow morning, and by tomorrow afternoon, Relek City would be offline. And the day after? Destiny, at last. Fulfilling his mission would touch so many lives. He brought himself with careful, deliberate movements into driver's seat of the delivery van and pulled into the street well under the once-posted speed limits. He would give his last breath for this cause. But with such delicate materials on board, each yet to reach a final resting place, there was no need to rush Destiny's hand.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Ryan's Oxfords slipped and slid on the half-melted snow in her driveway. For the third time since he'd cut off the car he wondered if he shouldn't have turned up in Klepto's gear, instead of the less weather-practical suit. He gave a self-deprecating shake of his head. If she threw him out on his ass, the last thing he needed to be concerned about was the loss of yet another pair of pants.
He braced himself in the doorframe and lowered his head to take a deep, centering breath. Her lights were on. She was still up. He could do this. And if she rejected him again? His confidence seemed to take glee in shredding itself in areas where it had never abandoned him before.
The glow from her home cast odd shadows on the ground. Ryan squinted. Not shadows. A large, dark blob lay sprawled under her front window, one paw stretched toward the cement.
