by Rita Herron
Quinton tensed.
“You have goodness in you, Quinton, as Vincent does, but you fight that inner evil every day. It’s going to grow more difficult to resist now that your father, Zion, is in control, because he will play upon your weaknesses.” She paused. “He’s issued orders that the three of you must be turned and brought to him. And he’ll do anything to win you over. There’s a demon after you now. The Death Angel—you may have seen him in his demonic form. The Death Angel appears as a vulture or a raven.”
Quinton fisted his hands, his heart hammering in his chest. Fuck. He’d seen the vulture at the bombing in Savannah, then others had swarmed. And he’d spotted another one above Vincent’s house. “Let’s say for a minute that I do believe you. What then? Do I go around and kill vultures?”
“No. The Death Angel has the power to possess the body of a human. Find him in that form, and you can kill him more easily. You must use your power to destroy him.”
The Death Angel watched the Valtrez brothers through the window as they met for the first time.
The devastation and death he’d already wrought made him lift his head in regal glory. So many bodies to devour, so much blood and maimed flesh.
So delicious.
He licked his feathers, cleaning blood and juices from the strands, already anticipating his next feast.
The men could not stop him. Death was inevitable.
Unless they caught him in human form…
But he was too cunning and fast. Could shift into and out of demonic form in the bat of an eye.
A tasty morsel of flesh rolled down his throat, and he savored its succulent flavor, wishing he could taste the decaying flesh of Zion’s sons.
He might one day.
If he couldn’t turn them, then he would take their lives.
The Seer had prophesied that if the Angel’s plans failed, Quinton would join with the woman, and she would strengthen his noble side.
He would stop the Dark Lord before that happened. And he’d use the woman to lure Quinton into his hungry hands.
Annabelle sighed into the phone. The detective had finally connected her with another agent from Homeland Security. “So you weren’t able to trace where the message originated from?”
Agent Keller cleared his throat. “No, ma’am. It could have come from a throwaway phone or the sender has a scrambling device, but we tracked it back to the server and found nothing.” He paused. “You know this could be a prank.”
“But what if it’s not?” Annabelle said in frustration. “I’m a reporter. Maybe that’s why he sent me the message. He wants me to publicize the fact that he’s not finished, that this is a terrorist attack.”
The agent cleared his throat. “I can put a tracking device on your phone in case you receive another message.”
“What good will that do if he’s using a throwaway phone or a scrambling device?”
“None,” the agent conceded. “But if you receive another message, especially any specific information, you will pass it on?”
“Of course,” Annabelle said. “I want the story, Agent Keller, but I certainly don’t want a repeat of the Savannah scene. I was there and witnessed the horror.”
“I understand. And I will be in touch with my sources to see if any talk of a new terrorist cell has cropped up.”
He started to hang up, but she stopped him with her next question. “What can you tell me about Quinton Valtrez? Does he work for Homeland Security?”
A tense second of silence stretched between them. “I’m assuming you know that he does or you wouldn’t be asking.”
“Yes, but in what capacity does he work for you?”
Another pause. “He’s an investigator, one of our best.”
“Then you’ll inform him of my call?”
“Yes.”
“What about his unit, the Ghost team?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Miss Armstrong.”
Annabelle’s fingers tightened around the handset. No guts, no glory. “They’re a secret group of assassins who work for the government, aren’t they?”
“I don’t know where you got that information, but your source is incorrect. The government certainly has no such unit.”
“If they did, they wouldn’t acknowledge it, would they?” Annabelle pressed.
“If they did,” he said in a lethally calm voice, “trying to dig into it would be very dangerous.”
Annabelle seethed with anger.
“Now please let me know if you receive another text, especially if you discover information on when and where another attack might occur.” Without waiting for a response, he hung up.
Annabelle sighed. She hoped the bomber did contact her again. If another bomb was due to go off, she wanted to help stop it.
Detective Crawley returned and she thanked him, then hurried to her car. As she settled inside, she phoned Quinton Valtrez’s number. She let it ring and ring, but he didn’t answer.
Of course, Agent Keller was probably calling him now, warning him about her inquiry. She’d track him down; she still needed answers to many questions.
But first she’d drop by the local homeless shelter, see if anyone there had known Warren Ames and what would drive him to kill himself and hundreds of others.
Storm clouds darkened the sky, casting shadows along the winding mountain road as Quinton drove back to Savannah. He’d stopped by BloodCore and given a blood sample to find out if he actually was biologically related to Vincent Valtrez.
Would his demon blood show up in the tests?
His phone rang and he noticed it was Annabelle Armstrong, so he let it go to voice mail. She was a problem that he hadn’t figured out what to do with yet.
Just as Vincent Valtrez was now. Dammit, he’d liked his life as it was. Ordered. Controlled.
Unencumbered by family.
He got his assignment, tracked the target, made the kill. No personal involvements. No one to answer to.
No one wanting him to work with them.
He worked solo.
He was the hunter.
Now, Vincent wanted him to believe that someone was hunting him. Not just someone, but a demon. That he had to connect with family he’d never known and fight his father, the leader of the underworld.
His phone trilled again, and he checked the number. It was his handler this time so he connected. “Yeah, it’s Valtrez.”
“We’ve got problems. I just got off the phone with that nosy reporter Annabelle Armstrong.”
“Hell, what did she want?”
“Two things,” Keller said. “Information on you. She asked about the damn Ghosts, Quinton.”
His fingers tightened around the steering wheel. Fuck. She had balls. “I told you she was a problem. What did you tell her?”
“Nothing.”
“Good. She has no proof, or she wouldn’t be asking you.”
“Yeah, but there’s more. She received an anonymous text message saying that the Savannah bombing was only the beginning.”
Quinton ground his teeth, his blood running cold. “Any specifics?”
“No. I tried to trace the message, but it was impossible.”
“Where is she now?”
“Still in Savannah. She was at the local police station. The detective also told me she was asking questions about you. I covered your ass, but she’s getting way too close.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of her.” He didn’t like it, but he’d have to. “What about Vincent Valtrez? What did you find out about him?”
“Everything I’ve been able to dig up says he’s legitimate. His ties to the Feds run deep. And three months ago, he solved a serial killer case in Tennessee.”
“I know.” He tightened his hands around the steering wheel as his handler continued, relaying the story of how Vincent’s parents supposedly abandoned him at age ten, that Vincent had accused his father of killing his mother in the Black Forest, but that her body had never been recov
ered.
Because Vincent had said his father, quite possibly their father, was a demon that had killed their mother. And he’d witnessed it.
“So what do you think?” Keller asked.
“I don’t know,” Quinton said. “I need more time to investigate.”
“All right. Honestly, Quinton, with your cover in jeopardy because of that reporter, I can’t give you any assignments right now. We can’t risk exposing the team.”
He clenched his jaw. He knew the rules. Had known the moment he’d signed on.
He hung up, heart pounding. By the time he reached Savannah, his muscles were in knots and his dark side had emerged with images of men and bloodbaths. He craved the taste of violence, of the kill. Of vengeance.
He had to find out if Annabelle was his enemy. Just how much she knew. Steeling himself for whatever he discovered, he swung by his cabin and picked up surveillance gear, then drove to the bed-and-breakfast where she was staying. A quick check and he discovered she wasn’t inside.
Using skills he’d honed on the job to become invisible, he climbed up the railing outside her room and jimmied the French doors, then slipped into the room. He searched the drawers and her suitcase first but didn’t find a weapon. Her computer and files were not in the room, so he assumed she’d taken them with her.
Methodically he installed hidden cameras in every room. Watching his targets afforded him the advantage. He learned their routine, their contacts, their plans, their weaknesses. Surveillance of Annabelle would be no different.
Footsteps sounded outside in the hallway, and he slipped quietly outside, down the rail, and through the garden and thick foliage surrounding the antebellum house. He’d go to his cabin now and watch her. He would track her every movement just as he did a target’s.
And if he discovered she intended to expose him, he’d add her to his hit list.
Chapter Eight
Quinton breathed in the salty ocean air as he climbed from his SUV outside his cabin on Tybee Island and visually scanned the perimeter. Night shadows plagued the back, the palm trees swaying in the breeze, the ocean waves crashing against the shore in a thunderous roar.
Shoulders squared, he tuned in to his surroundings as he walked up the shell drive to the door, then he flipped on the light and entered.
A quick scan of the interior and he breathed a sigh of relief. Nothing seemed out of place. No intruder or demon waiting in the shadows to attack. No Annabelle Armstrong.
Although he had to deal with her now. Was someone really sending her messages regarding the bombing, a warning there would be more? Or was it a prank?
He went to his bedroom dresser and removed the wooden box. His hand shook slightly as he opened it, and he stared at the angel amulet.
Except for the stone, the amulet was identical to the one Vincent had shown him. The monks had explained its symbolic meaning, that the clear quartz represented soul realization, clairvoyance, wisdom, and continuity of consciousness. All related to his chi and the spiritual lessons he’d learned from them.
Breathing through clenched teeth, he picked it up in his hand and held it. Suddenly the amulet vibrated in his palm and the stone lit up, sending a swirl of intense clear light through the dimly lit room.
He slid the amulet around his neck and fastened it. It glowed and sparkled, warm against his neck, for another moment, then turned cool again, the glow slowly fading. It felt oddly right, as if it connected him to something he’d lost a long time ago.
Feeling more in balance, he immediately went to his surveillance camera to watch Annabelle.
She was seated at the oak desk in the corner of the room reviewing computer files, ones containing photos from her homeless exposé.
He frowned, wondering at the significance, then tried to tap into her thoughts. He rarely could do so at a distance, but sometimes if he concentrated hard enough, it worked.
This time he was unsuccessful. Then she clicked on a photo of a man named Warren Ames. He skimmed the information on the man, then noticed that he had been identified as the Savannah bomber.
So Ames was the homeless man he’d seen near the ship.
Then she clicked to a different file, and his picture appeared. Her face twisted as she studied the information scrolling on the screen. His background. His stint in the service.
Photos of his recent hits, three terrorists who had deserved to die.
Anger knotted his stomach, and he gritted his teeth. Who in the hell had sent her the information?
She clicked back to his photo and another one appeared beside it—Vincent’s. Shit. She had done her homework. Had connected him to this man when Quinton hadn’t even known he existed. Was that the reason she’d gone to Eerie, to research him? To find out if the two men were connected?
Then she clicked on a site about supernatural phenomenon and began to research demons, starting with the nine circles of hell.
“Who are you, Quinton Valtrez?” Her expression softened as she lifted her hand and traced it over his face.
He froze, unnerved by her gesture.
Then she rose and walked to the bathroom and began to strip.
His gut tightened as she slowly unfastened each button of her silk blouse. He felt as if he was watching a slow striptease, only she had no idea she was performing.
She would be furious if she did.
But the dark side, the man with an unquenchable thirst for sex, couldn’t drag his eyes away as she slid the silky fabric over her shoulders, revealing full, tantalizing breasts encased in thin wisps of black lace.
Good God, she was breathtaking.
Her skirt came next, the black fabric hitting the floor in a puddle. His gaze zeroed in on the strip of lace serving as panties, the sheer material revealing a crotch that made his mouth water.
He’d fantasized about her, but she was even more beautiful in the flesh. Her skin was exotically creamy-looking, her luscious breasts spilling over the bra, her stomach flat, her hips flaring into shapely thighs that could suck a man in by holding him between them. Although petite, she looked muscular, well-toned, and… sinful.
He wanted her so badly his cock pushed against the fly of his jeans.
Tilting her head sideways, her glossy hair cascaded around her bare shoulders as she unfastened the front clasp of her bra, allowing her breasts to spill free. His heart hammered, his sex twitching with arousal.
Pink-tipped globes swayed as she pushed her panties down her hips and kicked them off. Her hips flared, and he zeroed in on the tiny triangle of blonde curls between her legs. He wanted to touch her, sift through that silky softness.
Watching had always been his weakness. And he’d dreamed about seeing her naked for months. Having her beneath him, his cock pumping inside her until she cried his name and begged him not to stop.
He stood with a curse. Dammit, he was in trouble. Keller wanted him to get rid of her.
But he wanted to fuck her instead.
Annabelle undressed, her body coiled with tension, her emotions on a roller coaster. The last two days had been hell.
Her trip to the homeless shelter had proven fruitless. Then she’d combed the cemeteries asking the homeless people who slept there if they’d seen or talked to Warren Ames, but came up empty. If she could find his family, she’d do a human-interest piece.
Was the bombing an isolated event?
Could someone have put him up to the bombing? Drugged him into committing mass murder?
Had that text been a prank?
If it was real, when would the next bomber strike and where?
Needing to relieve her tension, she stepped into the shower and let the warm water sluice over her. Unbidden images came to her of Quinton’s dark, brooding face, his smoky eyes, his hands trailing over her, stroking her, massaging the ache from her shoulders, arousing her with his fingers and pressing his lips where he’d touched her.
She hadn’t been with a man in ages, had closed herself off from relationships after her
mother’s death and her father’s desertion. She couldn’t contemplate the pain of another loss.
So why did she find Quinton so damn attractive?
His black eyes stole into her thoughts, and she pictured him crawling above her, kneeing her legs apart, settling himself between her thighs. Lowering his head to taste her mouth, then lower to her breasts, where he’d suck her until she bucked and begged him to fill her.
Then he’d free his hard length and thrust it inside her, stretching her until she thought she’d come apart.
Her hand moved, her fingers caressed, gentle feather-light strokes over her clit, then quickened, slid deeper, deeper, adding pressure as if they were his sex.
She sighed and moaned as titillating sensations rocked through her. Heaven help her. She couldn’t get involved with Quinton.
He was a government assassin.
A man who might be a demon…
Still, she had to go to him. Find out what he knew. If he had an idea where the bomber might attack again.
Fuck.
Hunger shot through Quinton as he watched Annabelle caress her body.
It was the most erotic sight he’d ever seen.
He zeroed in on the small tattoo of a rose on her hip and wanted to touch it.
Kiss it. Ask her the significance of the tattoo…
Unable to stand the tension, he unzipped his jeans and freed his hard length, then wrapped his fingers around his rigid penis and stroked.
He imagined ramming it inside her, watching her body buck as he plunged to her core. She parted her legs wider, her body quivering as her orgasm rocked through her. His body jerked and spasmed, pure hot pleasure rippling through him as cum shot from his tip.
He envisioned the sticky fluid flowing down her legs, the milky white bathing her crotch and thighs, and he groaned her name, mindless with erotic sensations.
Shit. No other woman had ever stirred his hunger to such intensity or aroused emotions like this in his chest.
