Wicked Games: The Complete Wicked Games Series Box Set

by J. T. Geissinger

  I don’t know how long I stand there looking out at the city lights, but at some point it occurs to me that Mariana is taking a really long time to pee.

  I whirl around and stare at the closed bathroom door. I’m across the room in a few seconds, knocking on it.

  “Angel? You okay in there?”

  No response.

  Fuck.

  I try the door handle. Locked. “Mariana?”

  Nothing.

  “Okay. You wanna do this the hard way? We’re doin’ it the hard way.” I step back, wind up, and give the door a brutal kick.

  It splinters off its hinges and flies open, crashing to the tiled floor with an echoing boom. I stride into the bathroom, my head whipping from side to side, already knowing what I’ll find.

  Or, more correctly, what I won’t find.

  “This fuckin’ broad,” I mutter, staring at the open window above the bathtub. The bathtub is the old-fashioned claw kind, made of cast iron, heavy as a cement coffin. Around one of the feet is tied the corner of a bedsheet.

  The rest of the bedsheet hangs out the window.

  I rush to the tub, jump in, and lean over the windowsill. Sheets dangle all the way to the manicured boxwood shrubs planted along the side of the building two stories below. An elderly couple with a Corgi on a leash are staring up at me from the sidewalk. The dog is staring at me, too.

  The man’s voice drifts up on a current of cool air. “Lost something, have you, mate?”

  His wife titters. I resist the urge to flip them off.

  Mariana is nowhere to be seen.

  I don’t bother asking the couple if they saw the direction she ran. I simply withdraw into the bathroom, untie the knot from the foot of the tub, toss the sheet out the window, and pull the window shut. Then I go into the other room and turn on the TV.

  She said she had the room for the night, after all. Pity to waste it. Besides, I need to give her a head start.

  What’s that old saying about giving someone just enough rope to hang himself?

  I call room service and order a cheeseburger and a beer. Then I pull my cell phone from the pocket inside my jacket and navigate to the tracking app synced with the tiny GPS I stuck on the back of Mariana’s ugly sweater.

  The screen glows with a red dot, moving steadily south of the Ritz.

  Smiling, I settle into the big armchair in front of the TV and wait for my food.

  Standing across the street from Mallory & Sons Heritage Auctions in the morning fog, I think it could be a different century for how old-fashioned the place looks. Even the street feels like something out of a period movie, with its gas lamps and cobblestones. Only the taxi trundling by ruins the illusion. I almost expected a horse and carriage to turn the corner instead.

  A cheerful bell rings when I push through the front door. The place smells like incense and old books. Jazz plays softly in the background. A man looks up from a big oak counter carved with a weird battle scene involving dragons and meets my gaze with a level one of his own.

  We size each other up.

  He’s somewhere north of fifty, neither young or old, neither handsome or ugly, dressed in an average dark-blue suit. Joe Average.

  I get the sense his average appearance is carefully crafted.

  I also get the sense he’s been expecting me.

  Strolling in his direction, I take in everything about the room, including the security cameras masquerading as speakers on the walls. When I get to the counter, I lean my elbow on it and give him a corn-fed, backcountry dumbass smile meant to convey I’m not a threat, and might even be a little slow on the uptake.

  He stares at me. His left eyebrow slowly lifts into a condescending arch. In a tone so dry it’s practically dust, he says, “Is that what they’re teaching in the American military now? How subtle. I’ve seen bulldozers with more finesse.”

  I instantly decide I like him. “Haven’t been in the military for a long time, pal,” I reply. “I’m just a smiler.”

  His tone grows even more disapproving. “The smiling American. How cliché.”

  I say softly, “I’m anything but a cliché, friend. Where is she?”

  His lips purse. He exhales a small, annoyed breath. If he rolls his eyes, I might have to punch him in the face.

  “She?” he repeats, a little cattily, I think.

  “Mariana.”

  He blinks, taken aback, but quickly recovers, smoothing a hand over his tie as his face shifts into a neutral expression.

  “You’re surprised she told me her real name.” I’m feeling all kinds of macho and self-satisfied. I resist the urge to puff out my chest and calmly gaze at him instead.

  He folds his hands on the counter and drills me with a look. “If you knew her the way I know her, you’d be surprised, too.” His gaze drifts over my leather bomber jacket to my jeans, then flicks up to my hair, which I combed by dragging my fingers through it. His mouth takes on the shriveled appearance of a prune. “You’d be very surprised indeed.”

  I dig that he’s not trying to pretend he doesn’t know who I’m talking about. And I don’t take it personally that he obviously thinks Mariana’s too good for me. We’re pretty much on the same page there.

  Even if she is an international jewel thief wanted by all the police.

  I straighten, fold my arms across my chest, and smile wider.

  He closes his eyes and shakes his head.

  “Listen, buddy—”

  “It’s Reynard,” he interrupts. “Please refrain from calling me any more nicknames. A grinning American addressing me as friend, buddy, and pal is quite literally my definition of hell.”

  “No need to get pissy. And what d’you have against Americans, anyway? We saved your asses in World War II. If it wasn’t for us, you’d all be speaking German.”

  “Let’s not get into a debate about history, Mr. McLean. I never enter into a battle of wits with an unarmed opponent.”

  Bypassing the zinger—which I have to admit is a good one—I say smugly, “So she told you about me.”

  From his coat pocket, Reynard withdraws a pair of glasses. Snooty as shit, he puts them on and looks down his nose at me. “Don’t flatter yourself. I looked you up in a database.”

  By now my grin must be blinding. “But you had to know my name in order to look me up.”

  After a pause, he says, “I’m jealous of all the people who haven’t met you.”

  “Tell me where she is.”

  His irritation is palpable. “Mr. McLean—”

  “I can help her,” I insist, bracing my arms on the counter and getting into his face. “Whatever trouble she’s in, I can get her out of.”

  He stares at me for a long time, his gaze sharp and assessing. “You’re an interesting man, Mr. McLean, I’ll give you that. But you seem to be operating under the mistaken impression that your help is wanted.”

  “You talkin’ about you, or her?”

  A muscle in his jaw flexes. “I think it’s time for you to leave.”

  I drop the nice-guy act and growl, “And I think it’s time for you to realize that dumb motherfuckers who stand in the way of something I want have extremely shortened lifespans. Tell me where she is and where she lives, or I’ll break every bone in your body.”

  His patience finally snaps. Eyes blazing with fury, he whips off his glasses and lays into me.

  “This might surprise you, you gargantuan idiot, but you’re not the first man on earth to threaten my life, nor would you be the first to cause me harm for protecting her! And if you had even one functioning brain cell, you’d realize that a woman in her position would never tell anyone where she lived—especially someone like me who could be pressured by someone like you into giving up that information! For the love of all that’s holy, I have no idea what she sees in you! You’re proof that evolution can go in reverse!”

  Red-faced, he huffs. He jerks the glasses back onto his face. Then he peers at me through them and shouts, “Why the bloody hell are
you smiling again?”

  I cross my arms over my chest and drawl, “So she told you she likes me.”

  He grits his teeth so hard, I think they might shatter. “Get out.”

  I cock my head, pretending to think, then say, “Nah. I think I’ll just wait for my buddies from Interpol to show up and take a little gander ’round the place. You looked me up in a database? Well, I looked you up too, brother. Real nice establishment you got here. Real legit. Squeaky clean, at least on paper.”

  I peer over his shoulder toward the back of the shop. “I’m sure you don’t have anything to hide, right? No random ruby necklaces hangin’ around? Big ones, maybe a hundred carats?”

  I already knew it wasn’t Reynard Mallory who bruised Mariana’s neck, even before I set foot in his shop. I pegged him as her fence the minute I entered his address into Metrix’s search program and took a look at his business. If anyone can move a hot, one-hundred-carat ruby necklace, it’s Mallory & Sons Heritage Auctions. It has branches all over the globe and a sterling reputation unvarnished by its secret, long-standing ties to every underworld organization that exists.

  He says stiffly, “Your bluffs are as unfortunate as your fashion sense, Mr. McLean. I have a high-ranking friend on the police force who would have alerted me if Interpol were about to pay me a visit.”

  Then, with no small satisfaction, he says, “But I do have a GPS tracking device you might be interested in. It’s small and extremely light, excellent for hiding in clothing. Unfortunately it’s nonfunctional, due to being smashed by the heel of a shoe—whose owner was spewing some rather colorful language at the time, I might add—so it won’t do you much good.”

  So that’s why I lost the signal. Somehow Mariana found the tracker and destroyed it.

  Which means she knew I’d come here…which means she’s gone.

  Again.

  Shouldn’t have ordered that cheeseburger.

  As a jazz number that sounds like five different guys are playing five different songs comes on the speakers, Reynard and I glare at each other. After a while, I say, “Okay. Two things. Number one, I’m gonna give you a cell phone number. It’s unregistered and untraceable. Only one other person in the world has it—”

  “Your therapist?” he asks sweetly.

  “Funny. I’m gonna give you my number, and you’re gonna give it to Mariana.”

  His expression sours. Before he can tell me to go jump off the nearest bridge, I add, “In case of an emergency, she can call me twenty-four seven on that number. I mean it. Day or night. From anywhere in the world, she can call me, and I’ll come.”

  I grab a pen from a cup next to the cash register and scribble my number on a yellow Post-it note, then stick it to the center of Reynard’s tie. He peels it off with two fingers, his pinky held out and his lip curled. I’m surprised he doesn’t pinch his nose.

  He mutters “Stupendous” and puts the Post-it between the pages of a book he lifts from under the counter. Then he tosses the book back into place with derision, dusting off his hands.

  Cheeky son of a bitch.

  “Number two, I want you to tell me who did that to her neck so I can have a talk with him. And by talk, I mean beat him to a pulp.”

  Reynard freezes. “You’re playing a very dangerous game, Mr. McLean,” he says with a strange stillness in his entire aspect, even his voice.

  I send him a hard stare. “I’m not playing any game, Reynard. I’ve never been more serious in my life. Someone hurt my girl. That shit doesn’t stand. He’s lucky if I leave him breathing.”

  He blinks rapidly, as if clearing his vision. “Your…girl?”

  I make a dismissive gesture, then park my hands on my hips. “She’s not a hundred percent on board with the program yet, but I’ll get her there. I’m irresistible, as you can tell.”

  His laugh is faint and disbelieving. He reaches for the porcelain teacup sitting to his left on the counter and gulps from it, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Then he reaches under the counter again, this time to produce a slender silver flask. He uncaps it, pours a small measure of what looks like whiskey into the tea, then decides to drink directly from the flask instead.

  When I say, “She loves you, you know,” he violently coughs, spraying a mist of golden liquid over the counter. When his coughing fit is over, he stares at me with watering eyes and an open mouth.

  Man, I dig shocking the shit out of people.

  “At least I’m assuming you’re the person Mariana was talkin’ about when she turned down my offer to take her back to the States with me because it would be a death sentence for someone she loved. She ran straight here like she was runnin’ home. Figured this had to be her safe place.”

  He makes a strangled sound and clutches his throat. He wheezes, “Take her with you?”

  “And you, if she wants. Both of you would have my protection.”

  He looks me up and down with wide eyes, like I’m off my fucking rocker.

  “Christ,” I say, insulted. “The two of you are really shit for my ego, you know that?”

  “She took advantage of you. She lied to you. Why on earth would you offer to take her anywhere but prison?” Reynard asks, like he really can’t fathom it.

  I shrug. “Because I care about her.”

  He gapes at me. “Are you on drugs?”

  “She moves me, Reynard. You have any idea what it takes for a man like me to be moved? By anything? Ever?”

  His face goes through several different expressions before settling on something I can’t quite comprehend. There’s a darkness there, an old memory maybe, something rattling around in a grave.

  He murmurs, “Yes. Yes, actually, I do.”

  I sense an opening and press my advantage. Leaning closer to him, I say, “Let me hel—”

  The bell over the door in front of the shop jangles.

  Reynard looks over my shoulder. Instantly, his eyes shutter. Something about his posture changes, softens. Even his face somehow becomes more indistinct. Suddenly, I’m looking at Average Joe again, the man you couldn’t pick out of a crowd, who could easily vanish into it instead.

  In a voice meant to carry, he says, “You just have to continue east for two more blocks, sir. The entrance to the tube is on Chancery Lane. You can’t miss the signs.”

  His eyes convey a warning as real as his words are fake.

  Go. Now.

  I glance over my shoulder. Two beefy olive-skinned men in suits with suspicious bulges in odd places flank the door. They look at me with that flat, killer gaze I’ve seen a thousand times before.

  “Thanks, man,” I say cheerfully, turning back to Reynard. “This city’s just so huge, ya know?” I laugh an unselfconscious, touristy laugh. “Way bigger’n my hometown. I keep gettin’ lost! Have yourself a nice day!”

  I turn and saunter toward the men, smiling my dumbass backcountry smile again. On them, it works, because they both give me a quick once-over, then dismiss me and turn their attention to Reynard. I walk out the front door, whistling, then stand on the sidewalk and pretend to look for a street sign while I memorize the plates on the stretch limo parked at the curb across the street.

  The back window is rolled halfway down. I catch a glimpse of a face in the shadows of the interior. It’s a man, black-haired and unsmiling, with hard, shining eyes swimming in darkness, like coins glinting in the bottom of a wishing well.

  Every nerve in my body slams into Defcon One. If I were a fire alarm, I’d have sirens sounding and emergency lights blazing.

  “I work for monsters,” Mariana had said.

  I damn sure know a monster when I see one.

  I turn and casually stroll down the sidewalk, keeping my posture easy, not looking back even though there’s an animal inside me, clawing at my skin, roaring at me to go back and introduce the black-haired man to the barrel of my gun.

  When I’m safely around the corner and out of sight, I yank my cell phone from my pocket and dial Connor’s number. When his voicemail p
icks up, I say, “Sorry to bother you on your honeymoon, brother, but I’m gonna need to borrow your wife.”

  This situation calls for a bigger brain than my own, and if anyone knows how to root a monster from its nest, it’s Tabby.

  I hang up and put a pair of earbuds in my ears. From my phone I activate the bug I stuck under Reynard’s counter when I came in. I start to listen as I duck into a pub across the street.

  15

  Mariana

  “All clear! You can come out now!”

  Reynard’s voice is muffled through the heavy stone lid of the sarcophagus I’m lying in. I press a button next to my left hand and the lid slides open on pneumatic rollers installed specifically for its current use: hiding people.

  I climb out, dust myself off, and look at Reynard. He stands with his arms folded over his chest, staring at me with such disapproval, I wince.

  “Don’t say it. I already know.”

  He says acidly, “Know what, my darling? That you led your inamorato right to me? That you broke every rule we have? That he could single-handedly ruin us both?”

  Groaning, I walk past him on my way to the back of the shop and the hidden exits I can access through the warehouse. “I said don’t say it!”

  Reynard follows right on my heels. “Not to mention you got another job added to your oath because of a foolish impulse—”

  “Trying to help those girls wasn’t foolish!” I whirl around, heat crawling up my neck, and glare at him. “What was I supposed to do, sit there and drink champagne while their throats were slit in a room down the hall? Let them suffer like Nina did? Is that what you would’ve had me do? Not even try to save their lives?”

  My shouted words die in lingering echoes in the rafters.

  More gently, Reynard says, “Capo would’ve savaged you, Mariana, and still would’ve done as he pleased with them. As it is, we’re fortunate he even let you walk out of that room. I told you to be careful. Instead, you took a sharp stick and poked a sleeping bear.”

  “Well, he has his necklace now,” I say bitterly. “So he got what he wanted.”