Death Angel

by Linda Howard

  “That’s because you aren’t paying attention, Special Agent.” The tech was as good at sarcasm as Jackson was. “Okay, there. See that guy drop his briefcase?” He stopped the action, backed up, played it again. Jackson watched a portly businessman trying to balance a drink, eat a hot dog, and carry his briefcase without breaking his stride. When everything began slipping, he held on to the drink and hot dog, and let the briefcase drop to his feet and go skidding across the sidewalk.

  “I see him. What about it?”

  “Keep watching. I’ll speed it up for you.”

  The tech tapped a key, and the people onscreen began scurrying around like ants. About ten seconds later he tapped another key and they slowed down to normal speed. A few seconds more, and Jackson watched the portly businessman sacrifice his briefcase again.

  “Shit,” he said. “Shit! It’s a damn loop!”

  “That’s right, it’s a damn loop. Somebody got into the system and got the feed, looped it, fed it back to us. Whoever it was is damn good, is all I can say.”

  “Thank you for your help,” Cotton said quietly, giving Jackson an inscrutable look. “Mister—?”

  “Jensen. Scott Jensen.”

  “Mr. Jensen. We’ll get back to you if any other questions come up, but I imagine you have your own housekeeping to do for the time being.”

  Scottie Jensen said, “You got it,” in a grim tone, and turned back to his keyboard.

  Jackson looked startled at Cotton’s lack of pursuit down an avenue that should definitely have been investigated, but he quickly masked his reaction. As they silently returned to their car, a more thoughtful look replaced his agitation.

  What he was thinking was out there—way out there. The Rick Cotton he knew was a by-the-book guy, as straight-up as anyone he’d ever met. He didn’t have any evidence, and if he voiced his suspicions to anyone he’d be laughed out of the Bureau. All he had was his instinct, and it was shouting at him.

  He didn’t say anything, not then. He kept silent after they returned to Federal Plaza, went through all the expected motions. Details turned over and over in his head, nuances of expressions that he’d caught, the timeline involved. Everything fit. Nothing was provable—hell, he didn’t know that he wanted anything to be provable, or that he’d act even if there was—but he knew what had happened, knew it down in his bones.

  And so did Cotton.

  He waited until the day was finished. Cotton headed home to his wife, and Jackson ate dinner in the city, then walked some, absorbing the lights and constant movement around him. There was always something new around the corner, wasn’t there—with people as well as with things. More so with people, come to think of it.

  Reaching a decision, he fished his cell phone from his pocket and punched in a number. When he heard Cotton answer, Jackson said, “He did it, didn’t he? You knew he would.”

  Cotton was silent a moment, then very calmly asked, “What are you talking about?”

  Jackson disconnected the call, not wanting to say anything more. He walked some more, his hands in his pockets. The night air was getting colder by the minute, but he needed to walk a while longer.

  First and foremost was the decision he had to make. Would he say anything? The immediate answer that resounded in his head was a firm “Hell, no.” There wasn’t a damn thing he could prove, even if he’d been so inclined, and he wasn’t.

  The guy who’d killed Salinas deserved a parade, not an investigation. He’d done it to protect the woman he loved, and, hell, there was something noble in that, wasn’t there? Cotton had sensed something right away, when their meeting with Drea had been interrupted, and going on pure instinct had set the wheels in motion by intimating that the FBI might want to use her as bait. That had been pure bullshit; Jackson knew damn good and well that had never been an option. The only way they could ever have built any case, using her, was if Salinas went bat-shit crazy and killed her—and the guy from the balcony knew that. He loved her, and he wouldn’t risk her, so he’d taken matters into his own hands.

  How had Cotton known the guy was capable of doing something like that? The plan had been slick, but the execution of it had required not just a big set of balls but some titanium ones. They didn’t even know the guy’s name, or anything about him. They didn’t have a fingerprint to run, or a facial analysis to try to pin him to any of the locations where shit had gone down. But Cotton had summed him up in one brief, very brief, meeting, and within seconds had a human weapon aimed directly at Rafael Salinas.

  In that one moment, Rick Cotton had performed above his own capability, and all Jackson could do was mentally salute. “Way to go,” he murmured to the night.

  RICK COTTON SLEPT well that night. Soon he’d be retiring from a long and undistinguished career, but this one time he’d gone beyond his own limits and he felt good about it. He would go even further, doing what he could to stonewall any investigation. Those two deserved their chance at happiness, and he’d try his best to make certain they got it.

  Sometimes there was a difference between the law and justice, and sometimes justice had to step outside the law. The proof of that, he thought just before he fell asleep, was that he didn’t work for the Department of Law; he worked for the Department of Justice…and Justice had been served.

  THE LAST FEW days had been strained, as if they didn’t know how to act with each other, which Andie supposed they didn’t. On one level their intimacy went deep; their acquaintance had been marked by drama and passion, and deep pain. On a more mundane level, there was a lot they still didn’t know about each other, and only time would remedy that. For now, they walked cautiously around what felt, to her, like a huge elephant in the middle of the room, not speaking of it or acknowledging it was there even though they both went out of their way to avoid it.

  She didn’t know what he was thinking, what he was feeling. He was self-contained anyway—that was the understatement of the year—and since they’d left New York he’d walled himself off, emotionally. It hurt her to be around him and not be able to touch him, but not being with him would hurt even more. Oh, she could touch him physically, but the mental barrier he kept between them reminded her of the afternoon in the penthouse, when she had tried desperately to reach him and he’d turned away.

  She knew him better now, knew she had nothing to fear from him—the opposite, in fact. No matter what, this man would place himself between her and danger without a second’s hesitation.

  Watching him one afternoon, watching him prop his shoulder against the door frame and stand motionless for long minutes at a time, staring out at the sea, her heart squeezed with pain for him. He was so alone, so willing to take all the risks himself in order to protect her, yet once he’d taken those risks he had distanced himself from her. Did he blame her, for forcing him to kill again after he’d sworn he wouldn’t?

  She knew how she would feel if someone forced her to do something that would keep her from returning to that perfect place of joy and seeing her son again. She would feel bitter, and alone, and as if there was no longer any point in trying. Was that what Simon was dealing with now?

  She stared at his back, trying to read his mood, get some impression of him, but he was as closed to her as she was to herself. He was too close, she supposed; she couldn’t get any insights into his future any more than she could her own.

  Backlit like he was, she couldn’t make out his features, but he was surrounded by a nimbus of light that turned his thin white shirt translucent, letting her clearly see the lean, muscled shape of his body. She stared at him, feeling the blood drain from her head until she swayed on her feet and the world around her slowly faded away until there was nothing but him and the light.

  He had stood between her and death one other time, his pain and love shielding her, sending a signal, perhaps, that had weighted events in her favor. She had loved, and she had been loved. Her love for her child had been the biggest factor in the decision to let her have another chance, but Simo
n’s love for her had also been felt.

  They were linked; what she did affected him, and what he did affected her. If anyone had asked her if she’d fallen in love with him that afternoon they were together for the first time, she’d have said an emphatic no, but the truth was she had felt their link even before then and that was why she’d been so terrified of him. She had recognized him, somehow, on some molecular level that defied logic, and known that he would force her to once again take the chance of loving. But if he hadn’t, would she be here now? Or would there have not been enough love to balance the emotional wasteland she’d become?

  Conversely, by loving him, was she also shielding him as he’d shielded her? He loved, and he was loved. How much difference would that make in his life? Already, she would say, the difference was huge, but love was like an aggressive ground cover, spreading and taking up more and more space, choking out weeds. Because of love, he’d stopped hiring out his services as a hit man. Because of love, he was trying—and she sensed what a gargantuan effort it was for him—to open himself up to her, to let her inside the iron shields that separated him from the rest of the world. He was more comfortable alone, but for her he was willing to step outside that zone in a big way, to live the rest of his life exposed and vulnerable.

  For her, he was willing to kill again, and count the cost well worth it, so long as he was the one who paid and she didn’t have to.

  She didn’t think she made any sound, no gasp or sob. He’d known she was in the room behind him, of course, because she hadn’t been trying to sneak, and the house was small anyway, so small he probably knew where she was every minute. But he was so attuned to her that abruptly he turned, every muscle alert, ready to go into action once he identified the source of whatever had upset her. He saw her swaying there, her face paper white, and reached her in a few quick strides to wrap those strong, supporting arms around her.

  “What’s wrong? Are you sick?” Even as he spoke he was lifting her off her feet, cradling her to his chest. There was no distance between them now, no reserve in those dark eyes that could look so icy.

  “No, I’m fine,” she said, winding her arms around his neck and holding him close, holding herself close to him, two actions that might look like one but were very different in intent. “I love you, Simon Goodnight. Simon Smith. Simon Jones. Simon Brown, Simon Johnson, whatever your name is, no matter what, I love you.”

  His arms tightened around her and she saw something ease inside him, some burden get a little lighter. “No matter what? Even if my real name was Clarence or Homer or Percy?”

  “Well, then I might have to rethink this,” she said promptly, just to tease him, and was rewarded by one of his little smiles.

  “Cross,” he said, so easily that for a split second she missed the significance of what he was saying.

  “Cross? That’s it for real? Truly?”

  “Truly.”

  She rubbed her cheek against his shoulder. “Thank you,” she said, because the trust represented in that simple action, telling her his name, was enormous. “You can let me down. I’m all right.”

  “You looked as if you were about to pass out.”

  “No. You know how it hits you sometimes, how much you love a person, and it’s almost too much for you to hold in? Like that.” She pressed her lips to the underside of his jaw, loving the smell of him, the feel of his skin cool under her lips but with his vital warmth just below the surface.

  He released his hold on her legs, letting her slide down to a standing position, but he simply rearranged his grasp on her and pulled her fully against him as he bent his head to kiss her. She went on tiptoe to meet him halfway, her hands clasping around his neck, stroking beneath his collar. His erection pushed against her and a heated mixture of excitement and anticipation began stirring deep in her belly. Though they had slept together since arriving here, he hadn’t made love to her, and she hadn’t felt able to bridge the distance between them to reach him.

  She felt able to now, though. He was right there, in her arms. Sliding her hands from his neck, down his chest and belly, she unfastened his jeans, slid his zipper down, and discovered he was commando. Humming a little with delight, she wrapped both hands around his length, wringing a guttural sound from him that made her shiver.

  Moving swiftly, once again he hoisted her in his arms, breaking her grip on his penis. “Bed or couch?” he asked.

  “Bed.” Oh, the bed. She needed room to do to him everything she wanted to do.

  He carried her into the small, sunlit bedroom and dumped her on the large bed that took up most of the space in the room. She laughed, trying to shuck off her own jeans while she was still bouncing. He stripped off his shirt and stepped out of his jeans and that was it for him, so he turned his attention to helping her with the rest of her clothes.

  She wasn’t wearing a lot, herself; the heat was too intense for layers and layers of clothes. Jeans, underwear, and a loose tank top was all she could tolerate. He pulled the top off over her head, then immediately palmed both her breasts. “These are so pretty,” he murmured, brushing his thumbs over her nipples and making them flush with color as they firmed beneath his touch.

  He made her feel pretty all over, the way he looked at her as if he could lick her from head to foot. She had never felt pretty, even though the mirror told her differently. Sometimes she had looked like a million bucks, but inside she’d felt worthless. But when Simon touched her, when she felt the tenderness with which he handled her, as if she were something precious beyond reason, then—then—she felt pretty.

  He spread her legs and moved over her, settling his heavy weight into the vee of her thighs. She sighed in contentment. She could have done with some foreplay, but she also enjoyed his urgency, and the sense of pressure, of being stretched, as he slowly pushed into her mostly unprepared body. Her legs quivered around him, then tightened as her body lifted to his and she took him deeper.

  Magic. Making love with him had been like magic, right from the start. Her body soared in response, in delight, in sheer, bone-melting pleasure, because that was the difference—not having sex, not fucking, but making love, so caught up in being with him that her protective mechanisms had shut down and she had just let go.

  She did so now, flying from unprepared to orgasm so fast she felt she would have spun apart if he hadn’t been holding her locked tightly to him. When her brain cleared and her body relaxed in utter contentment she returned the favor, holding him steady with arms and legs as he stiffened and shuddered and lost himself in pleasure.

  They dozed, and when Andie woke it was to the uncomfortable reminder that they weren’t using condoms. Most men would simply be happy they weren’t having to suit up, but Simon wasn’t most men, and she wondered if he was hoping they might have children. Her heart constricted, because some pains never lessened, never went away.

  “I can’t have children,” she said into the silence, and put her arm over her face so she wouldn’t have to see his if disappointment shadowed it.

  “Neither can I,” he replied calmly.

  Stunned, she lay frozen for a few seconds, wondering if she’d heard him correctly. When she could move, she peeked out from under her arm to find him lying there watching her with something like relief in his eyes. “What?”

  “I had a vasectomy years ago. I didn’t think my genes were something that needed to be passed along.”

  He was probably right, she thought, and burst into tears. Damn the man, he could make her cry when nothing else in the world could. But wasn’t that something he’d do, calmly analyze the situation and then take steps to protect the world from his progeny, which might carry the peculiar combination that made him so lethal, but without his coolness of thought, his restraint?

  “I-I had to have a hysterectomy when I was fifteen,” she said, hiccuping and crying and talking all at once. She got up and went into the bathroom, got a tissue to blow her nose. While she was there, she took care of another area that need
ed attention, then wet another washcloth and took it to him.

  “My own genes aren’t anything to brag about,” she said, still sniffling a little. “It took a miracle to get my attention, and you can’t count on miracles all that often.”

  “One to a lifetime, probably.” He gave her a wry, crooked smile. “And I’ve already had mine…with you.”

  She lay down beside him again, cradling her head on his shoulder and placing her hand on his chest. Feeling the strong, steady beat of his heart made her feel better, more secure. She would always feel better when he was near, their bond making her stronger; she hoped she had even half that effect on him, because it wouldn’t be fair if she got all the benefits and he gave and gave with nothing coming back to him.

  “I don’t expect much,” he murmured, staring at the ceiling while he stroked her hair. “At the end. If remorse is a requirement for redemption, then I’m not there. I don’t imagine I ever will be. All I can offer is…revenge, maybe, and retribution. I can offer restraint—unless you’re threatened, and then all bets are off. But I don’t feel remorse. Some people need killing, and I did the job. So…this life with you is probably all I’ll have, but it’s enough, sweetheart. It’s enough.”

  The damn tears started again, and Andie smiled at him through the blur as she leaned forward to kiss him. His heart beat strongly beneath her fingers and she flattened her palm over that vital, rhythmic surge. “Don’t count yourself out,” she advised. “I have inside information, and in the end, I think, you’ll be fine.”

  It would be a long road for both of them, she thought, suddenly seeing a span of years stretching out in front of them. She got only a sense of time passing, no specific incidents, but years and years and years. They had time, and they had each other.

  About the Author

  * * *

  LINDA HOWARD is the award-winning author of many New York Times bestsellers, including Up Close and Dangerous, Drop Dead Gorgeous, Cover of Night, Killing Time, To Die For, Kiss Me While I Sleep, Cry No More, Dying to Please, Open Season, Mr. Perfect, All the Queen’s Men, Now You See Her, Kill and Tell, and Son of the Morning. She lives in Alabama with her husband and two golden retrievers.