by Anna Hackett
“Hey, Kinse.” Blair moved closer and gave the woman a quick hug.
The blonde’s gaze went over Blair’s shoulder. “And Detective MacKade.”
“Afternoon.”
“I’m Kinsey,” she said to MacKade.
He nodded. “I know. I was involved during your kidnapping ordeal. Glad to see you’re okay.”
Kinsey’s pretty nose wrinkled. “Thank you. I’m happy to say that the whole kidnapping thing is well behind me.”
Kinsey was shacked up with Smith now and the pair of them were crazy in love. Blair narrowly avoided shaking her head. Smith Creed was over six feet of badass, and not the biggest sharer of feelings. But somehow, Kinsey had waltzed through the man’s defenses.
Still, it had taken Kinsey being kidnapped and held hostage by a terrorist group to knock some sense into Smith. She’d gone through a terrible ordeal, and ended up taking a bullet at the end of it. They’d all been scared out of their minds. Blair knew there was nothing worse than waiting to hear if a loved one was okay, being helpless to save them.
Actually, there was something worse. Her chest contracted. Finding out the person you loved more than anything was gone. Blair shook off the past and focused on Kinsey. It had been touch-and-go for a while, and Blair had watched Smith go through hell waiting to know that Kinsey would pull through.
Blair was damn happy that the two of them had found their happily ever after. They now called Smith’s cabin just outside of the city home. And Smith had smiled more in the last few weeks then he had in…well, ever.
Kinsey shot Blair and MacKade her mega-watt, former-showgirl smile. She waved a hand to a nearby doorway. “The others are in the conference room.”
Blair and MacKade moved at the same time, their arms brushing. Electricity skated up her arm and she barely suppressed a hiss.
The corners of his lips twitched. “After you.”
The Bunker conference room was a slightly more high-tech version of what they’d had at police headquarters. There was a sleek conference table, ergonomic chairs, and a huge screen on the wall.
The screen was filled with the face of Dr. Ty Sampson. The former military scientist spent most of his time out at Area 52, although Blair knew Ty had a place in Vegas. She suspected he stayed at base to avoid people interrupting him. He preferred working on his experimental designs for vehicles and gadgets for the team over socializing.
Right now, his handsome face—with short, black hair, dark skin, and neatly trimmed goatee—was scowling. Ty’s typical look. His broad shoulders were visible, encased in a white lab coat.
“I’ve been running tests on the sword. Age, composition. It’s made from a specialized Japanese steel called tamahagane. Construction is typical for Japanese katanas. A curved, single-edged blade, with a long grip to accommodate two hands. It dates to the 15th century.”
Blair looked at MacKade. “Muramasa’s time.”
“Did you find anything that would explain this bizarre berserker reaction it generates in people?” Lachlan asked.
Ty gave one shake of his head. “No.”
“The guy had increased strength, Ty,” Blair said. “There has to be something.”
The scientist lifted his chin. “Good morning to you, too, Mason.”
She rolled her eyes. “Good morning, Dr. Sampson.” She used a sing-song voice. Trading barbs with Ty was a pleasant pastime. She held out her arms. “Look, barely a scratch on me. I survived the homicidal sword wielder. Thanks for asking.”
Ty lifted his chin. “Glad to see you didn’t get an arm sliced off. No offense, Lachlan.”
Lachlan looked at the ceiling, crossing both his prosthetic and regular arms over his T-shirt-covered chest.
Blair clasped her hands to her chest. “Your concern is touching, Ty. So sweet.”
A woman shouldered into view on the screen, nudging Ty back a step. He scowled at her.
“Enough of the chit-chat.” Dr. Natalie Blackwell smiled, pushing her dark braid back over one slim shoulder. The Australian was Team 52’s archeologist. She wore a pretty, pink shirt with a tie at the neck. Even at base, the woman looked like she’d stepped out of a magazine called Sexy Librarians-R-Us.
“I’ve been gathering all kinds of information on this swordsmith, Muramasa. His full name was Sengo Muramasa and he was known as one of the most famous sword makers in Japanese history. Not quite the best, that title goes to Masamune. There are no exact dates for when these men lived, but Masamune predated Muramasa. There are some myths that Muramasa was a student of the master, but it’s likely they missed each other by at least a hundred years.”
“So this Muramasa,” Blair said. “What’s so special about his swords?”
“His swords had a few unusual features,” Nat said. “He frequently used a wave-shaped hamon on his blades—”
“Hamon?” MacKade said.
“It literally means ‘blade pattern,’” Blair said. “It was a visual effect on the blade caused by the hardening process.”
MacKade’s brows rose. “You know about swords.”
“I like weapons.”
Nat cleared her throat. “Muramasa also used a distinctive fish-belly shape for the nakago, which is the back portion of the blade where it extends into the hilt.”
Lachlan frowned. “None of this translates to a weapon with advanced powers.”
“Patience, Lachlan.” Nat tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Some accounts I’ve found about Muramasa claim that while he was renowned for being a genius at making swords, he also had a terrible temperament.”
“Sounds like you, Ty,” Blair said.
The scientist shot her the finger.
Nat ignored them. “Muramasa had an abrasive, violent personality, and was prone to flying into rages. And yes, the legends say that his swords were cursed. That as he created them, he prayed that they would become great destroyers.”
“Shit,” Seth muttered.
“The Tokugawa Dynasty ended up banning his swords, despite the fact that they were prized for their exquisite sharpness. So many of the Tokugawa family had been killed or committed suicide with Muramasa blades, that the blades were said to be cursed.” Nat tucked an escaped strand of hair behind her ear. “They were said to cause bloodlust, that the swords thirsted for blood, and if the wielder didn’t kill somebody, then the sword compelled them to commit suicide.”
“Dios,” Axel said.
Nat leaned closer to the screen. “That said, I traced the history of the swords in the Soul of the Samurai Exhibit. The deceased estate, it was a family descended from the Tokugawa.”
“They kept the swords,” Blair breathed.
“So it seems.” Nat leaned back. “There’s an ancient legend that talks about a contest between Muramasa and Masamune.”
“But you said Masamune lived well before Muramasa,” MacKade said.
Nat nodded. “Yes. But the legend illustrates the beliefs about Muramasa and his swords. The story says that Muramasa challenged Masamune to a sword-making competition. They both crafted their blades and suspended them over a stream. Muramasa’s blade, called 10,000 Cold Nights, cut everything that passed it—leaves, sticks, fish. But Masamune’s blade, called Tender Hands, only cut leaves. The fish swam up to it safely. Muramasa laughed and believed he’d won, but a monk watching the contest declared that Masamune’s sword was superior, because Muramasa’s blade cut indiscriminately, that it was evil and blood thirsty. In contrast, Masamune’s blade didn’t cut the innocent and undeserving needlessly.”
MacKade shook his head. “How can a sword be cursed? Even by scientific means.”
“I’m still working on it,” Ty said. “I’m testing for all types of toxins and poisons. It must be something in the way the sword was made. But I haven’t found it yet.”
There was silence around the room. Everyone knew that the longer it took for them to work out what was going on, the greater the chance that more people would die.
“I’ve got my team questioning dealer
s, fences, and collectors across the city,” MacKade said.
Blair eyed him. She strongly suspected that while she and the other detectives had been sleeping, MacKade had been working.
“We dug into Fuller’s life. He’s clean. He was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“Poor bastard,” Axel said.
Suddenly, MacKade’s phone rang. He nodded at them, pulling it out of his pocket. Blair watched as he stalked out of the room, pressing the phone to his ear.
Lachlan moved closer. “He holding anything back from us?”
She shook her head. “He sent me and his detectives home for a nap, but as far as I know, he hasn’t got any leads. He’s as motivated as us to find the swords.”
But when MacKade returned, her gaze went to his face, and she tensed. He looked grim.
“There’s been another incident.”
Blair straightened. “What?”
“We’ve had reports of people being attacked by someone wielding a sword. Several are reportedly dead.”
Blair’s hands curled into fists. “Where?”
“A fancy penthouse at the Waldorf Astoria.”
“You need us?” Lachlan asked.
MacKade shook his head. “Reports are that the perpetrator is gone. He only left bodies.” MacKade looked at Blair. “Let’s roll.”
Blair pulled her Mustang to stop in front of the sleek tower of the Waldorf Astoria. Luke saw several police cruisers out front. As he climbed out, he nodded at the nearby uniforms.
“Well one perk of being police are the prime parking spots,” Blair murmured. “Not sure it outweighs the death, crime, and mayhem, though”
He shot her a look, holding the door to the lobby open for her.
Inside, they strode toward the bank of elevators, they skirted the large Christmas tree set up in the center of the lobby. He saw the uniforms waiting for them.
One officer nodded at him. “This is the private elevator to the crime scene, Detective. Housekeeping called it in.”
“Thanks.” He nodded and gestured Blair into the elevator.
He stabbed the floor button for the penthouse, and resisted the urge to tap his boot, or punch the fancy, mirrored walls. He knew what awaited them at the top. Beside him, Blair was relaxed, leaning against the elevator wall like she didn’t have a care in the world.
But as anger punched in his gut, he saw the lines bracketing her eyes. He studied her more closely. Her jaw was tight. Her hands were curled hard around the railing. She wasn’t as unaffected as she pretended.
“Whoever did it is gone,” he said. “The first cops on the scene cleared the penthouse, and security footage confirmed that the man responsible left.”
Blair nodded, but he noted her fingers brush over her holstered SIG Sauer. When the elevator slowed and the doors opened, several cops were waiting for them. Baxter was there, looking rumpled.
“Hell of a mess, Luke.”
Luke’s stomach hardened. The penthouse was all sleek tiles, glass, and opulence. It was decorated in an overdone style that shouted “I’m rich” and, as he strode forward, he eyed a life-sized Buddha statue. No way he could relax in a place like this. At the end of his shift, he liked to grab a beer, drop onto a comfy couch, and watch a game.
Huge, complicated chandeliers dominated the ceiling, and the couch looked as comfortable as a rock. He wondered if Blair liked it. When he glanced her way, he saw her top lip was curled, and he fought a smile.
Then he saw the blood. The urge to smile died a quick death. Lots of blood.
There were three bodies lying in the living area. Blood had formed thin red rivers across the tiles. The bodies were all tough-looking men in suits. They all had handguns.
Luke moved down the hall, Blair moving silently behind him. They checked the first bedroom. It was untouched.
Then he moved into the master.
There was a wall of windows surrounding it, but his gaze went straight to the giant, circular bed.
There was a woman resting on the white sheets. Dead.
Shit. Luke took in the blood soaking the sheets, and the bloody footprints on the carpet. For a second, he was back in his childhood home. Seeing other bloody footprints and his mother’s lifeless eyes.
His hand curled tight.
“MacKade?”
He sucked in a breath and kept staring at the carpet.
“Hey.”
A hand touched his cheek and he looked into Blair’s mismatched eyes.
Her steady gaze snapped him back. “I’m okay.”
He moved toward the windows, staring down at the city below. Casino signs blinked merrily, and taillights on Las Vegas Boulevard winked on and off. They were unaffected by the death, but somewhere down there were two dangerous weapons.
“No swords here,” Blair said.
“Clearly one of the swords was here.”
“Yeah. It got away from someone.”
And Luke knew it could happen again.
“Who owns the apartment?” Blair asked.
“Let’s find out.” Luke strode back into the living room. “Owner of the apartment?”
One of the cops moved forward. “Dummy corporation.”
Baxter lifted a small notepad. “Rivera is tracking it down, but he said there is a long trail of offshore companies. It’ll take time, and to be honest, we might not ever get the answer.”
Luke looked over and saw Blair wandering around the edge of the blood pools. She stopped, hands on her hips, looking down at the dead men.
“What do you see?” he asked her.
“These guys were muscle. Guards.”
“And the woman?”
She arched a brow. “Entertainment.”
“So what does that add up to?”
“Someone with money.”
“You think whoever was here was a collector or a buyer.” That’s what Luke thought.
“I don’t know yet.” Something flashed in Blair’s eyes. “But I don’t care how many fucking dummy corporations they’re hiding behind, we need to find them.”
“For once, Mason, you and I are on the same page.”
Chapter Four
Sitting on the edge of Luke’s desk, Blair sipped her coffee and munched on a slightly stale cupcake. She’d made MacKade stop for coffee and a snack on their way back to the station.
“We do have chairs, you know.” He nudged one with his boot.
“I like it here.” She swiveled, eyeing his neat and tidy desk. “It’s interesting watching you in your milieu.”
“You know what milieu means?”
“Ooh, sting to the heart. You saying I’m just a dumb Marine grunt?”
Something flashed in his eyes. “You’ll never hear me say that.”
She grinned. “I think I’m growing on you, MacKade.”
He snorted.
Blair snatched a pen off the desk and threw it at him. Of course, he caught it with lightning-fast reflexes.
Their gazes locked for a second, and she felt the hum of sexual tension between them. She released a breath. Something in her head warned her to get far, far away from this man. Luke MacKade wouldn’t be an easy, fun lover you tussled with and then walked away from with a smile.
But Blair was no coward.
MacKade finally broke the connection, then grabbed his coffee and sipped.
“Any luck tracking down the corporation that owns the penthouse?” she asked.
“No. It’s a tangle of shell companies and offshore corporations.” Frustration laced his voice.
“I know someone who can untangle it.”
MacKade raised a brow, leaning back in his chair.
“Brooks.” Team 52’s resident computer geek and former Naval Intelligence officer could perform miracles with computers. “He could probably crack it in a few minutes.”
MacKade pondered the offer, then nodded. Blair reached into her backpack and pulled out her secure, heavy-duty tablet. She woke it from sleep mode, tapping in the com
mands to initiate a secure call to the Area 52 base.
The Team 52 logo blinked onto the screen, then dissolved, leaving Brooks’ handsome face behind.
His brown hair was a little mussed, his dark-framed glasses heightened his sexy-geek look, and tattoos in red, blues, and greens peeked out from the sleeve of his black T-shirt. The shirt pictured a set of fangs on it, with the words “Rancor ate my homework” in the center.
Blair resisted rolling her eyes at Brooks’ never-ending supply of humorous shirts.
He smiled. “Well, howdy there, Deputy Mason.” His voice was an exaggerated drawl.
She poked her tongue out. “I’m with the police, not the sheriff.”
“Do you have a shiny star?”
“Shut it, Brooks. We need your help.”
“What have you got for me?” He cracked his knuckles and pushed his glasses back up on his straight nose.
“We can’t track down who owns the penthouse of the latest attack. MacKade tells me it’s owned by some tangle of dummy corporations.”
Brooks’ face turned serious. “Send the info through to me.”
Blair tapped the screen. “Sent.”
MacKade came up behind her, looking over her shoulder. She felt the heat of him on her back, and resisted the urge to elbow him. His woodsy scent engulfed her and she fought back a moan.
“Hey there, Detective MacKade,” Brooks said.
“Brooks.” MacKade was close enough that his deep voice shivered through Blair.
She felt the brush of his breath on her ear. Damn. Again, she found herself breathing through her mouth to minimize his impact.
“Oh yeah, looks like a nice little tangle.” Brooks’ fingers flew over the screen of his tablet. “But they can’t hide from me.”
For a second, Blair and MacKade shared an amused glance.
“Geeks are the same,” MacKade murmured, “doesn’t matter if they work for the police or not.”
“I heard that,” Brooks grumbled. Then he straightened and shot a hand into the air. “Got something.”
MacKade’s eyebrows rose. “That quickly?”
“I have skills, Detective. I also have a name. BrightSea Industries.”
Blair tapped a finger on her chin and looked at MacKade. “Mean anything?”
