Ultimate Kill (Book 1 Ultimate CORE Trilogy) (CORE Series)

by Kristine Mason

  They were so fucked.

  “Get him out of here and shut him up,” Honey Badger ordered Vlad.

  The Russian’s jaw ticked as he hauled Mickey to his feet and helped him from the room. Once they were out of sight, the twisted billionaire handed the gun back to Ric, then took a seat in a chair reminding Harrison of a king’s throne. “Where were we?” he asked, glancing at his watch. “Ah, yes. You were going to get on the laptop and signal the device planted in San Francisco. Correct?”

  Other than bugs, Harrison had never killed anything. Right now, he had murder on his mind and could easily picture doing the world a favor and putting a bullet in Honey Badger’s head. He masked his hatred and anger. “Yes, sir.”

  “Good.” He sent him a mocking grin. “I want the device activated at seven, which is in less than ten minutes. I suggest you get to work. I abhor mistakes and won’t tolerate a missed deadline.”

  Harrison sat on the sofa in front of the coffee table and opened the laptop. “I understand.”

  “Do you? Have you ever played Hangman?”

  “Yes,” he said, booting up the laptop.

  “Then consider your brother the man in the noose. For every mistake you make, he’ll either be shot or cut. He’s already taken a bullet to his leg, next time you make a mistake, it’ll be his other leg. Then his arm, then the other… You’re a smart man, Harrison. I think you understand where I’m going.”

  Loud and clear. He opened up the system files and found the code he’d written for the device Mickey and Santiago had planted in San Francisco. “The program is up and running. Just say the word and I’ll send the signal to the device.”

  His stomach twisting with fear and hatred, Harrison waited while Honey Badger kept focused on his wristwatch. Seconds ticked by, then minutes. Despite the room’s comfortable temperature, sweat beaded along his upper lip and brow.

  Still focused on his watch, Honey Badger raised a finger. “Now.”

  Harrison’s chest tightened as his finger hovered over the key that would activate the device. Please forgive me, he silently prayed to God and the Universe, then he pressed ENTER. He slid his eyes closed, not sure what exactly he’d just activated, but knowing in his gut it wasn’t good.

  “It’s done?” Honey Badger asked.

  Harrison opened his eyes, kept his gaze on the laptop and nodded.

  “Good. Santiago, turn on the TV,” Honey Badger said with a smile and rubbed his hands together. “I’m in the mood to be entertained.”

  *

  Holding Naomi tight, Jake rolled onto his back and pulled her against his chest. Making love to Naomi, being with her this weekend, had been surreal. He’d spent so many years thinking about what it would be like to hold her again. Now that he had, now that she was in his arms, he didn’t want to let her go. He wanted to stay locked in her bedroom, in her bed, and forget about everything else. Unfortunately, he had to leave. He might still be in love with her, he might still harbor fantasies about the kind of future they could have, but reality had a funny way of creeping in and stealing those fantasies. If Rachel was right, Naomi was still lying to him.

  As he stroked Naomi’s bare back and his heart rate and breathing returned to normal, he pushed those thoughts aside. He’d be heading for Jacksonville in an hour and didn’t want to leave on a bad note. Regardless of whether Naomi had lied to him or not, she was a good person. If she’d lied, she had good reason. At least that’s what he’d been telling himself since ending his conversation with Rachel. Otherwise, what kind of man did that make him if he’d knowingly stayed and made love to a woman who was lying to him?

  Fucking Pathetic.

  She ran her hand along his chest, her warm breath caressing him as she sighed. “I wish you could stay another day,” she said and kissed his shoulder.

  “Me too.” He moved them so they were face to face. “I meant what I said. I…” Damn, she was beautiful. He could look into those eyes of hers forever. He’d never seen judgment in them, only love and pride. She was the one person who knew him best, even over his family. There were things he’d told her that he had never told another soul. No matter how dark those secrets had been, she’d accepted him. Hell, she got him. Understood him like no one else. “I’ll call you tonight,” he said.

  “And the next day?” she asked, the uncertainty in her voice bringing out the primal side of him. How could she show any insecurities after what they’d just done in her bed?

  “And the day after that,” he assured her. “Before I leave, let’s look at our calendars. I think I need to come back for Woodbine’s Crawfish Festival.”

  She grinned. “It’s a good time.”

  “It’s always good with you.”

  Her grin turned into a full smile. “I have my moments.”

  “And if I didn’t have to catch a plane, we’d have more moments,” he said, and grazed his hand along her breasts.

  “Don’t start something you can’t finish.” She gave his chest hair a gentle yank. “Go get ready. I’ll make some breakfast.”

  On cue, his stomach grumbled. They both laughed, and he rolled on top of her for one more kiss. Just when that kiss started to turn carnal, she tore her mouth away.

  “Seriously, if you don’t stop you’ll miss your flight.” After giving him another quick kiss, she climbed out of bed. “How do you want your eggs?”

  He stared at her breasts, wondering how she could go into chef mode when his mind was still on sex. Again. “Whatever’s easiest.”

  “Scrambled it is,” she said and, to his disappointment, put on a tank top and shorts.

  After she left the room, he climbed out of bed and headed for the shower. Once finished, he repacked his suitcase, then stowed it into the back of the rental. As he made his way into the house and toward the kitchen, the rancid odor of burnt eggs hit him hard and fast. He entered the kitchen, grabbed the pan filled with dark brown, overcooked eggs and removed it from the burner. The toaster had already popped up the charred toast Naomi had made. The butter dish sat on the counter, along with plates, silverware and glasses, as if she’d started breakfast and had to make a sudden break for it.

  Concerned, he stepped back into the living room. When he didn’t find her in there, he checked both bedrooms and bathrooms.

  Where the hell was she?

  No longer just concerned, but downright worried, he reentered the kitchen, checked for her in the backyard, then stopped and listened. The faint sound of a TV came from the short hallway off the kitchen. He hadn’t been down this hallway and had assumed it was where her laundry room was located.

  “Naomi,” he called as he rushed into the hall and discovered two doors. He opened one, saw the washer, dryer and utility sink, then left the room and opened the other door.

  A small flat screen sat on a stand in the corner of the room airing what appeared to be a newscast. He let out a sigh of relief when he found Naomi hunched over a small desk and typing furiously at the computer keyboard. “Naomi?” he asked as he approached her. “Everything okay?”

  When she didn’t answer him, he moved to the edge of the desk and touched her wrist. She stopped typing and kept her head down.

  He dropped to a knee and nudged her chin, forcing her to look at him. When she did, and he caught the horror in her eyes, he immediately gripped her shoulders. Alarmed, he stared at her flushed, tear-soaked face and gave her a slight shake. “What happened?”

  She drew in a ragged breath. Her face crumpled and more tears sprang from her eyes.

  “Please, baby,” he said, trying to keep his tone calm and soothing. “Talk to me.”

  Her watery gaze shifted to the TV. He turned and looked at the small screen. Disgust, grief and fury swept through him as he started at the news footage. “Oh, my God,” he murmured as the camera panned out, revealing what was left of the entrance of a school.

  Flames engulfed a large portion of the building. Firefighters aimed their hoses at the blaze. Black smoke spewed from a gaping
hole filled with debris. The camera switched scenes. Adults and older children ran through the parking lot peppered with police cruisers, ambulances and fire trucks. Injured, frightened kids, their faces streaked with tears and smoke, sobbed and wailed, their wide terrified eyes searching frantically. Men and women—parents he assumed—ran through the chaotic scene, checking one kid and then the next, likely looking for their child. Unable to stomach the fear and sadness on the parents’ and kids’ faces, Jake looked to the caption below the footage.

  “Bombing at Idaho middle school. Five dead, dozens injured.”

  He rubbed Naomi’s arms. “That’s horrible, hon. I hope to God it was accidental and not—”

  “This was no accident,” she said, her tone flat, bleak. “Look.”

  He glanced to the computer screen. At the top of the page she had typed in a search for Rose Wood. Below that were pictures of a restaurant that looked as if it had also been bombed. A yawning cavern had replaced the roof, revealing charred singed rubble. The front of the restaurant was covered in soot and ashes, the glass from the large front windows broken and scattered along the sidewalk patio. Part of the sign, which must have once hung along the front of the building, had broken in half. One part remained suspended and barely clinging to the brick, while the rest lay in pieces on the concrete front walkway. He read the caption beneath the images, “The Rosewood Bar & Grill, an iconic San Francisco restaurant known for its good food, atmosphere and celebrity appearances, exploded this morning (4:00 AM PDT). Fortunately no one was injured. The cause for the explosion is currently under investigation.”

  He glanced away from the screen and met her red-rimmed eyes. “What does this restaurant have to do with the school?” he asked, looking back to the TV. When he caught a fireman carry a woman’s limp, soot covered body from the building, he quickly turned away. He’d been in the Marines, had witnessed and personally experienced bombings and explosions in Iraq. To see this kind of destruction—at a school—brought back haunting memories he’d thought had been put to rest.

  Instead of answering, she scrolled down the search page, then stopped at another set of photographs. Shocked, he stared at pictures of flames shooting out of what looked like a high-rise hotel, at the billowing black smoke streaming from the shattered windows, at the bloodied and injured people running from the building. Before he read the caption below the photos, the news anchor reporting the school bombing said, “We’re going to do a split screen to help keep you up to date on the other devastating explosion that took place a little over an hour ago in Henderson, Nevada.”

  Jake met Naomi’s gaze, caught the sadness and, strangely, guilt in her eyes before focusing on the TV. “At five o’clock this morning, Pacific Daylight Saving Time, an explosion ripped through the Sun Valley Hotel and Convention Center,” the reporter said, motioning to the decimated building behind him. “The hotel was at full capacity due to the large IT conference scheduled this week. Fortunately it was early in the morning when the explosion happened.” The reporter shook his head. “With the amount of people expected, one hour later and the devastation would have been significant, killing hundreds. As it stands, we’ve been told seven have been confirmed dead and at least forty people have been injured. The cause of the explosion is yet to be determined. Firefighters are still working on putting out the blaze and making sure everyone has been evacuated from the building.”

  The news anchor thanked the reporter, then the screen was dedicated solely to the middle school. “Just like with the Sun Valley Hotel and Convention Center, the explosion at Coolridge Middle School could have resulted in more deaths and injuries. During the night, a water main break had knocked out power, delaying the opening of schools and many local business by an hour throughout Rosewood County, Idaho.”

  Goose bumps crept along Jake’s skin. He quickly looked back to the computer screen, at the search Naomi had typed. He took over the computer mouse and scrolled down further, read through the article about the convention center explosion, then sucked in a breath. “7854 Rosewood Court,” he said, staring at the convention center’s address.

  “I have to go,” Naomi said, her voice shaky. “You have to leave.” When she tried to rise, he pressed on her shoulders, forcing her to remain in the office chair.

  “What the hell is going on?” he demanded. The Rosewood connection definitely knocked him off guard. While the coincidence was uncanny, he couldn’t understand why or how she would have even tried to make a link between the three explosions in the first place.

  With more strength than he expected, she shoved him away. Knocking the chair back, she stood and hugged herself, tears streaming down her face. “Leave, Jake. Just go and don’t call me again.”

  Confused and angry, he grabbed her by the upper arms. “Fuck that. I let you walk away once without an explanation, I’m not about to let it happen again. You owe me—”

  “Stop,” she shouted. “You don’t understand. This is my fault.” She pointed to the TV and computer screen, her breath hitching with a sob. “All of those people, their deaths, their injuries…it’s my fault.”

  “You’re not making any sense. How could explosions in California, Nevada and Idaho have anything to do with you?”

  She hugged herself tighter and stared at the TV with so much pain in her eyes it made him ache. He loved her and hated that whatever she thought, whatever ridiculous conclusion she’d come up with and firmly believed, left her frightened and ready to run. Ready to push him out of her life again.

  “Please, just trust me. You have to go.”

  “No, damn it. You’re scared shitless and I want to know why.”

  She dropped her hands and paced the small office. Her breathing grew labored as she ran her hands through her hair and pulled on the strands. When she let go of her hair, she swept her arm along the bookshelf near the TV, knocking everything to the floor. She moved to the next shelf below, upending its contents, then did the same to the shelf beneath until finally dropping to her knees. Hands covering her face, she wept.

  He rushed to her side and pulled her in his arms. Running his hand down her back, he cradled her. “Please, baby. Tell me what’s happening. Don’t shut me out, let me help you.”

  She shook her head against his chest and fisted his shirt. “You can’t. No one can. No one can stop him but me.”

  He forced her to look him. “Who? Your stalker?”

  Nodding, she swiped at her eyes. “He’s sending me a message and I don’t think he’ll stop hurting people until I go to him.”

  Trying to reign in his patience, he cupped the back of her head with a gentleness that belied the anger and turmoil coursing through him. “How can you be sure he’s sending you a message?”

  Chin trembling, her eyes filled with immense anguish, she gripped his shoulders. “Because my real name is Rose Wood.”

  PART II

  It's being here now that's important. There's no past and there's no future. Time is a very misleading thing. All there is ever, is the now. We can gain experience from the past, but we can't relive it; and we can hope for the future, but we don't know if there is one.

  — George Harrison

  Chapter 8

  Bloomington, Indiana

  8:40 a.m. Central Daylight Saving Time

  VINCENT D’MATTO POURED Fruit Loops into his four-year-old son’s cereal bowl.

  “Don’t forget the milk, Daddy.”

  He glanced down at his son, Gustavo, focused on his chubby cheeks before looking into his big brown eyes. His mother’s eyes. “Never, little dude. How ‘bout some worms and spiders with that milk?”

  Gus’s eyes grew big and round, before he looked down at the Spider-Man costume he wore—the same costume he’d been wearing regularly since Halloween. “Do you think it’ll help?”

  “Help what?” Vince asked, topping the cereal off with two percent milk.

  “Fight bad guys.” Gus hopped off the chair and flexed the foamy, built-in muscles of the Spider-
Man costume. “Sandman is going down,” he said, his expression fierce and determined.

  Vince rubbed his son’s short brown hair before kissing his head, then looked up when his wife, Anna, entered the kitchen carrying their youngest son. “Morning.” After giving Gus’s head a final pat, he held out his hands to take the eighteen-month-old from his mother’s arms. “How do you feel today?” he asked Anna, his gaze drifting from her tired eyes to her swollen belly.

  The baby, Benito, grabbed Vince’s cheeks to keep the attention on him. “Loop,” Benny said, staring at him as if they were negotiating a million dollar deal rather than cereal.

  Anna poured the Fruit Loops into a small bowl and set it on the baby’s highchair tray. “She kicked up a storm last night.” His wife placed a hand on her stomach. “Sorry if I kept you up.”

  Vince set Benny in the highchair and secured him. “You didn’t,” he replied, opened the fridge and pulled out his lunchbox. Anna’s tossing and turning hadn’t kept him awake, worry had. If the cysts the doctors had found on the baby’s brain remained, and she was born with—he shut the refrigerator door. He couldn’t go there. They’d deal with whatever came their way and make it through.

  Somehow.

  He flinched when Anna ran a hand over his tense shoulder. “You’ll make it to the ultrasound?” she asked, her voice laced with uncertainty.

  Glancing at her, catching the concern in her eyes and wishing he could absorb every one of her fears, he set the lunchbox on the counter and quickly pulled her into his arms. He hugged her as tight as her protruding belly would allow and drew in a deep breath through his nose. Despite the severity of their situation, he grinned. When he’d first met Anna, her perfume had reminded him of sunshine and wildflowers. Now she smelled like baby lotion and diaper rash cream. And he loved it. Loved that she’d given him two beautiful, healthy sons, that she’d sacrificed her own career to raise their children. That she’d been cutting corners and coupons to help make sure every extra penny from his paycheck went toward paying for his degree.