Mark didn’t categorize changing the subject as a cut-and-run. He was a practical man who needed practical information, not some new age chick dispensing the meaning of life. “What I am is tired of this crap.”
“So you’re not happy. It’s okay, it means you’re free to decide what to be next.”
“Whatever. Anyone you want to notify of what happened to? The Boss will take care of that once we get to Savannah.”
He hated the veil of sadness settling over her face like old dust. “There’s no one but my co-workers, Dawn and Grace. And I’ll have to see to Mary’s business.”
“Everything about Mary will have to wait.”
“I understand. I can take a vacation when this is over, stay in Miami for a while. Florida is a nice place.”
Mark knew it well. The sun, the heat, the ocean. Home. He gave her a rigid nod and switched the indicator. “We stop for food.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Breakfast is the most important meal of the day. You’re not going to skip it.”
So, he is a bully with food, too, Ann decided.
Oh, well, eating wasn’t the end of the world. It was certainly easier than trying to explain that he wouldn’t have his way 24/7, no matter how big he was. As long as he ordered to swallow some pastry, she’d do it. And the thought of coffee appealed to her.
“You wait here,” he told her, the car parked under the shade of a tree. “We’re not being followed right now, you’re in no danger.”
“Can I come then? I really need to stretch my legs.”
He opened the door. “No.”
“But–”
“I don’t know what’s inside,” he said as he was already out from the car. “Don’t move and don’t open the door. Be right back.”
“What if I have to pee?”
“Do you?”
“No, but–”
The door shutting on her face left her alone with her muttering.
Mark came back with a paper bag in his hands, dropped it on her lap. She unwrapped it, saw the box full of colored sashimi and raised her brows. “This is breakfast?”
“Eat that fish. It helps with the shock.”
“It’s sashimi.”
“Whatever.” He eyed her, dubious. “You’re not one of those vegetarians, are you?”
“I’m not. Eating meat is part of what a human being is. I eat what I need to, nothing more than that.”
He revved the engine.
She closed the paper bag, put it on her lap. “My stomach is a little tight right now, I’ll keep it for lunch.”
His nostrils flared as he faced her, leaning so close she backed off until her head hit the window. “Eat,” he hissed. “Or I’ll push the food down your throat.”
In the small space between them, the paper rustled as she took the food out; he moved away and led the car on the interstate. She chewed, each mouthful a little war between full enjoyment–she loved the buttery taste of raw salmon–and pique–his manners were terrible. Salmon won for the moment, but annoyance came back with the last bite.
“Do you want to know what I do?” she asked, wiping her lips with a tissue. “I’m a massage therapist.”
He didn’t budge.
“I had half a mind to help you with your back and you neck. I don’t anymore.”
“Thanks.”
They drove in silence for a while.
“There’s nothing wrong with my back and neck,” he said.
“You were born this stiff? I don’t think so. I may help.”
Mark knew one way to deal with unsettling ideas: fight. No way in hell he’d let her work on his stiff back and his stiff neck. No way would her small, ivory hands be on any part of him. “No,” he stated.
“I didn’t offer,” she pointed out. “I just told you what I could do, but I’m not gonna.”
“Then we’re good.”
He walled himself behind a hard silence, hoping she would go to sleep.
She was so small, so delicate and so irritating, with her happy wisdom, her few, too few, smiles that came from some bright place within her. She deserved to smile a lot more. He’d hand her over to the Boss, fast, fix her problems and gave her back her life, her smile. He would do that, and move on.
Once more, he tried to call all the Team’s members, and got no answer. Frustration weakened his defenses and the image of her hands on him crawled its way back. He had to get to Savannah fast.
Chapter 4
Like a beautiful, elegant woman, the city of Savannah fluttered its long lashes of Spanish moss with old grace; wooden laces of well-bred Victorian houses shone like jewels. The air smelled of Cherokee Roses, sweet and pure as brides; rich Azalea, pink and red, splashed the view with color and class.
Ann didn’t feel like she was in a car, but in a carriage with white horses leading her to one of the city parks for an afternoon stroll. A southern gentleman, whose eyes twinkled dark and sly under a cylinder hat, escorted her. If she paid enough attention, she would see Southern Belles sipping cold lemonade on a porch, taking advantage of the breeze cooling the hot early afternoon. Dashing young men surrounded them, as usual.
Ann chuckled, shifting back from her fantasy. The reality could have been better, but she wouldn’t call it awful. Her southern escort was definitely no gentleman, but the carriage had A/C. Ann smiled at the realization that she knew something about him. She still had no idea where he was from, but it certainly wasn’t Boston or Bangor–his vowels were just too long.
Her chaperone parked just outside downtown. She didn’t know what she expected a safe house to be. Probably big, with iron bars on the windows and a drawbridge, not a small blue cottage with white shutters and railing running along the front porch. It almost seemed rude to interrupt its nap in the baking sun with the rumble of the car parking at the front.
But as she felt Mark’s breathing speed up, his entire body tense in response to some cue she didn’t see, the house changed. The lazy, pretty building turned into a grimacing beast made of wood, the windows now devilish eyes staring at them cruelly.
“Something’s off. Stay close,” he told her.
She swallowed hard. “Do you want me to come in?”
“You don’t leave my side. Ever. The safest place for you to be is with me.”
He took a small piece of paper from his wallet and gave it to her. Three phone numbers were written on it–no names, only three lines of digits. “Stick it somewhere safe. If something happens to me, you run and call. Any of those numbers will do. Understand?”
“If something happens to you, I’m dead.”
“I’ll make sure you’re not.” His eyes steady on the house, Mark took out his gun. The whispered motion of his thumb on the safety sounded like a hammer on steel. He got out of the car, circled it to open her door.
The sound of a million dangers hit Ann’s ears. Steps tapping in the distance on a sidewalk. Far-off voices. Rustles from the bushes behind them. It all subsided as he took her hand and helped her out.
She walked in his shadow, his body a shield against any danger coming.
The steps leading onto the porch creaked under their weight. A bird cried out close by, chilling her blood for the space of a breath.
Mark poked at the door; it was open. He peeked inside through the blade-thin opening.
They entered a narrow hall, its bare walls painted in a subdued magnolia. At their left, an old, dark wooden staircase led upstairs. The veil of dust on the handrail carried fresh scars where hands had touched not long ago. A strange smell saturated the house, one Ann didn’t have a name for. It was out of place and mean. It reminded her of the last moments in her house, when those men had broken in shooting and screaming. Could fear smell? Could death?
At the end of the corridor, a door opened into a tiny bathroom. At its side, another door was ajar. The afternoon sun filtered through the crack, as if the room strained to contain all the light in it.
Mark’s face was detached, se
t into a mask as he prodded the door with his fingertips. More light poured into the hall.
Her heart rate rocketed as they waited at the door’s side. Ann wanted to scream to fill the silence.
Seconds ticked away. Drenched air mingled with fear ran down her neck in rivulets of sweat. Mark gestured her to stay and took a step inside the room.
She peeked from behind him, saw it was empty. A laugh crawled through the ball of fear at the base of her chest, asking to be freed, but her elation didn’t live long.
“There’s trouble in this house,” Mark told her in a tense whisper after looking around in the empty room. He walked out, moved toward the stairs with light strides.
Lightheaded, Ann followed him holding the piece of paper he’d given her as if her life depended on it. Funny that it might just be the case.
And they say paper and ink are useless, nowadays, she mused to herself.
At the top of the staircase, Mark opened the door with his foot; when nothing happened he stepped inside. Ann stayed behind him.
The upstairs was as big as the whole house. Ann let her eyes run over the filing cabinets, all lined up like little soldiers along the low walls, dutifully closed against prying eyes. An open skylight looked up into the blue sky where a lonely cloud plodded away, but no air came in from it to ease the heat. The walls were plain white up here, amplifying the light and the room’s emptiness.
A body lay on the floor. It swam in blood.
Ann’s mind didn’t recognize it at first, didn’t understand it, but at some point her brain caught up with her eyes. Her senses floated away to the sound of her own blood withdrawing from her head, the outline of her surrounding faded into white. A commanding, familiar voice called her but it was muffled, and too far away. When the white completely closed in, she let go.
Ann. It was Mark’s first thought when he saw Mouse’s body.
When he turned to take her away, to spare her other memories she shouldn’t cash in, it was too late. He would protect her from any harm but he had no power against what she saw.
She paled, her eyes lost focus, and then she went down.
He caught her before she hit the floor, and helped her down gently but didn’t try to bring her back to her senses. Shutting down was the best, and only defense her body could summon against the hit of witnessing the result of violent death. Both Mouse and Mary had been killed, but Ann had only imagined her sister’s end. She saw Mouse lying in a puddle of red slime, and it was a different kind of reality.
He put her feet up against the closest wall and took off his light jacket. He rolled it into a ball and placed it under her neck, trying to make the bare floor a little more comfortable. Then he started working.
One ear to the stairs, anger caged up deep inside, he searched the cold flesh that only a short time ago had been a friend, a brother. One stab. The blade had been thrust down once, cutting through spinal disks in his neck. It had been quick and clean, businesslike. He doubted the killer had wanted to be kind, but it had been a merciful death for a good man nonetheless.
No signs of struggle. Mouse didn’t have a military background, but Mark had seen personally to his training when he joined the team and taught him how to defend himself. Whoever did it was strong enough not to be bothered by beating or restraining him first.
Or he had Mouse’s trust and had gotten close with no trouble.
Mark moved the corpse. Rigor mortis hadn’t set in yet, but he was cold already; a couple of hours, nothing more. He closed Mouse’s eyes and started searching the room, but it told him nothing more. It came as no surprise to find the cabinet empty – fake passports, tags, even the cash they kept for emergencies. All gone, and so were the weapons. It was down to his .45 ACP and his fists. The only bags the bastards had left were the ones with spare clothes.
He grabbed one and picked Ann up. Warm and alive, she was life against the silent form of his friend, against the death filling the room and his head. How long could he bear to see friends fall? He’d thought he was done with it when he tore the dog tags from his neck. He had been wrong.
He settled Ann in his arms and sneaked out the house.
A red Chevrolet, no longer in its prime but still fast, was parked nearby. Judging by the brown cardigan on the driver’s seat and the cigar butts, it belonged to an old man. Carefully, he sat her in the front seat, fastened her seatbelt and sped away, hammering on the gas to put as many miles as he could between them and death.
* * * * *
Ann pulled herself slowly through the shadows. A woodpecker worked with a passion inside her head and some absent idea played with her stomach. Was she in a car?
At her side, the outline of a man, his arrogant an imperious face. She was safe.
He opened the window, threw his cell phone out. From her side-view mirror, she followed its pieces dotting the blacktop behind them. “How are you?” he growled at her.
“I’m okay. You?”
Pain lived for one heartbeat in his eyes before he bit back the worst of the anger in his voice. “Yes.”
“What happened?”
“Damned if I know. Someone knew too much – what to take, and how to kill.”
Ann had to remember who he was and what they were doing, because it was impossible not to be scared by that kind of fury. His clenched jaw was so tight his teeth could explode, his nostril flared, his knuckles white on the wheel. The trust she had in him allowed her to step over all his rage and ask, “That man–”
“Mouse. He’s gone,” he said, cold.
Nausea wobbled inside her as the image rushed back. He was so young, his lips so blue on such a white face. Had Mary’s lips been as blue? Had her eyes looked like that – dim, with the memory of a terrible surprise? Had she been left behind, or dumped somewhere like a sack of garbage?
“What will happen to him?”
“I don’t know, and I can’t call the boys,” Mark snapped. “The house’s not safe, the Team’s not safe.”
“I don’t understand. What do you mean, the Team is not safe?”
Sadness. Sadness soiled his words. “Nobody knew about the safe house but us. I haven’t been able to reach the others, but Mouse did. He arranged the meeting, and now he’s dead.”
“Do you think they are involved?”
“Involved, or dead. Can’t call them either way.” He shot her a sideways glance. “It’s you, me, and my gun, angel.”
Chapter 5
They drove for hours, and nobody broke the silence. Tight silence, so loud in Ann’s ears that it covered the rumble of the car, even the occasional horns.
She didn’t feel like talking, didn’t feel like looking for a silver lining. She’d done nothing but search for the bright side, trying to come to terms with the emptiness Mary had left behind, but it was too damn hard to keep that up.
Once more, life had taken away someone she loved. The memories of her parents had always talked with Mary’s voice; she never got tired of describing the flowers print of their mom’s wide skirts, or how both girls liked to pull dad’s long, blond hair. Downright hippies that lived a happy, simple life full of fields of daisies in spring and red leaves in the fall. Ann had been too little when they died to remember any of that, but Mary and her stories had filled the empty space between a little girl and her lost parents. Mary’s death killed those memories, too.
Ann clenched her jaw, rose her chin. After years spent building the person she was, she couldn’t throw it all away just because her heart bled. She would hold on to her beliefs – life was a circle, and after such a low point, happiness will come again. She would believe in that. She had to.
She’d felt lost when her parents died, but other people had come. Nobody could ever replace them, but she and Mary hadn’t been alone. In the injustice of taking their parents, life gave them the means to happiness through good social workers and a loving foster family.
Would life send someone, this time around? Someone able to coax out those tears she longed fo
r? Someone she could tell the stories that would bring her parents back once again?
“We’re here,” Mark declared parking in the dark courtyard of a hotel, oblivious to her internal war.
For the past twenty minutes, they’d been driving in a serpentine pattern of little alleys and picture perfect streets, twisting and turning so much she had no idea where they had ended up. Maybe he wanted to go to a particular hotel run by an ally and had gotten lost. No, that wasn’t it. People like Mark, with his serious frown and imperious manner, didn’t get lost, ever. It was probably his way of making sure they weren’t followed.
She looked around. “Where’s here?”
“Georgia.”
“Georgia where?”
He stilled for a second, his dark gaze bored into hers. “Three hundred, sixty-nine miles northwest of Savannah, two hundred north of Tallahassee. Happy?”
She shrugged, looked at the hotel and nearly laughed. She needed some sign of life’s balance and there it was: if the first hotel had been a nightmare, this belonged to a fairy tale.
A dollhouse, with pretty glowing windows against the black canvas of a full moon night. The front porch, engraved with white molding on blue walls, was alight. In the trimmed garden cuddling the house, high torches placed for wooing cast a dreamy light on a bird feeder shaped like a little gazebo. Close by, water lilies covered a small pond. It was a place to disappear with the one you love.
A shame Mark wasn’t seeing any of that. “When we’re in, you don’t talk,” he ordered as he stuffed ammo and cash in the pockets of his jacket. “You smile and go along with whatever I say. We don’t say our real names and pay by cash.”
“Why didn’t we stop at a cheaper hotel?”
“No such thing around here.” Mark looked quickly around. “I can’t use my ID, if that thug knew of the safe house he might know the name I’m going by. People living in this kind of place still know how to trust, they’ll buy a good story – as long as you keep your mouth shut.”
“You know, you really fit in this romantic place.”
“I haven’t slept in the past 48 hours,” he said, ignoring her. “I need to doze off for a moment. Plus, you might want to take a shower.”
Guns For Angels Page 3
