Bulletproof (Unknown Identities #1) (4 page)

“Tonight,” he insisted.

She gaped at him. “That’s irrational. It’s almost midnight.”

“First thing in the morning,” he bargained.

“Fine. First thing in the morning,” she agreed.

He would never leave if she didn’t make him. Amelia was tired. She had to go through her stuff, see if anything was salvageable.

“Good night, Bernie.” Her feet felt like lead weights as she walked past him and shuffled back toward her apartment. What she really needed was a good night’s sleep.

“Oh no. You’re not staying here tonight.”

It wasn’t a question.

She stalled, glanced back at him then gestured to the uniformed officer next to her door. “I have security for the night complements of the Boston PD.”

Fincher had offered to let the cop stay.

The detective’s wife was a big fan of Amelia’s. He was doing her a favor since the only indication of foul play was the damage to her personal belongings and the possibility that an animal had been harmed in the process. Didn’t exactly merit official protection, but since the night was mostly over anyway, he’d gone the extra mile.

What about after that?” Bernie pressed, signifying that maybe he wouldn’t let this go even after he’d cooled off. “You have a plan for tomorrow? And the day after that? Staying here just makes you an easier target.”

“I’m going to my grandmother’s house.” Amelia had only just made that decision. But, in reality, that was the best solution. She didn’t go out there often since her grandmother died. Not that many people were privy to the location of the old family home. “It’s only a forty-minute commute.”

She’d made that commute almost every day during her college years. Long time ago. Tonight it felt like an entirely different lifetime.

At her door, Bernie hesitated. “Call me if you need anything. Or,” his gaze narrowed in accusation, “if anything else happens. If you stub your toe I want to know before your brain has time to process the fact that you should feel pain.”

Amelia nodded. “I’ll call.”
Not
.

As soon as she got him out of here, they were done until nine tomorrow morning even if the roof fell in.

For a moment he stood there like he might hug her – he’d done that once, after her grandmother’s funeral. Bernie wasn’t the touchy-feely type. An embrace was a big deal for him and turned seriously awkward between him and Amelia. Maybe she wasn’t the touchy-feely type either. Her last boyfriend seemed convinced that was the case.

“Okay. G’night,” he mumbled, blatantly dubious of her promises.

“Night.”

When he turned away she couldn’t help herself, she called after him, “Bernie.”

He looked back at her, the worry and fatigue making craggy lines in his face.

“Thanks.” Her throat tightened. “I appreciate you rushing over here to check on me.” She suddenly wished he had hugged her, but that was childish and she was an independent adult.

For a moment their gazes held... then he shrugged. “Why wouldn’t I? You keep circulation up. I can’t afford to lose you.”

Amelia smiled, cursing herself for the slight tremble in her lips.

As he walked away, she let go a big breath, releasing an immense trainload of tension. Time to do what had to be done. She flashed the uniform a smile and reached for her door. It opened, forcing her to step back as Fincher and his techs ambled out.

“We’ve done all we can for now,” the detective announced.

“Is it okay if I straighten up?” Not that she looked forward to the massive task, but there was always the chance she would find something the techs missed. Some clue as to the intruder’s real intent.

Scare tactic or assassination attempt?

Geez, she had definitely delved into far too many strange stories lately.

“Sure thing. The evidence gathering part of our work is done.” Fincher patted the pocket of his overcoat and grinned. “My wife is going to be thrilled with this.”

He’d asked for an autograph for his wife, but he’d suggested Amelia put both his and his wife’s name on the copy of
The Torch
she’d brought home from work.

Amelia thanked him again and entered the scene of her newest dilemma.

She closed and locked the door with all three deadbolts, for the good it would do.

Exhaustion clawed at her.

“Just do what you gotta do.”

After pilfering through the rubble for ten minutes or so, she decided her curiosity didn’t need to be appeased tonight. With her treasured bottle of Absolut and the one unbroken glass she could find, she settled on the sofa. She poured a shot and, shoving the overturned coffee table aside, she spotted last year’s edition of the Yellow Pages. “Might as well start with the classics,” she muttered, dragging it from the floor to her lap.

“Bodyguards.” She sipped the vodka as she turned pages. No such heading. “Personal security.” The list was longer than she’d expected. Several half-page ads touted the experience and expertise of one agency or another two like it.

She ran her finger down the list and then rubbed at her eyes. Narrowing down the choices by skill wouldn’t be a problem, but she had to keep in mind that she’d be spending considerable time with whomever she selected.

That put a whole new spin on her perspective.

For that, she needed at least one personal recommendation.

A couple of years back she had done a story on bodyguards. She’d actually gone to dinner with one of her interviewees. A frown tugged at her brow. Dinner and a rather forgettable twist in the sheets. He might have been the best in personal protection, but his performance in bed had been seriously lacking. Or maybe it had been her. Whatever.

Somewhere she still had his number... maybe in contacts list on her cell phone.

She lugged her purse from the floor and plopped it on the damaged sofa next to her. Finding her cell phone inside the huge bag was always a chore. Most of the time she kept it in her pocket but after the police arrived she had dropped it in her purse and hung onto the disorganized bag as if she might need a life preserver in the deluge.

Would this rain never stop?

Pepper spray. Sunglasses – like she needed those with all of this incessant rain. Her fingers closed around a business card in the bottom of her bag. Frowning, she pulled it out and peered at the printed information. Security Specialist John Noble. Ten years experience. Bonded. References available upon request.

Where the heck had she picked this up?

She cringed. Oh crap. Probably at the bar the other night. It hadn’t exactly been a night to remember either, most of them weren’t.

Just another evening like hundreds of others she’d wasted at a random bar with one too many cocktails – mostly to de-stress and to dispel the niggling theory that she was lonely. Not that she would ever admit it out loud. Not unless she suffered a mental breakdown anyway.

It had been a really long time since she’d shared confined airspace outside the work setting with a man.

She just wasn’t good at intimacy. Getting too close was difficult for her. Letting people see beyond the fearless reporter persona was well outside her comfort zone. Kept her from being a joiner. No clubs, no groups, no religion. None of that conformity stuff. She had the highest regard for those who needed to belong, it just wasn’t for her.

“Whatever.” She tapped the card against her knee, trying to recall her last bar outing. Had she met this guy? She couldn’t put a face to the name, but his card looked far too pristine to have been in the bottom of her bag for long.

Still... a bonded, experienced, security specialist was right here at her fingertips. First thing in the morning she would call John Noble.

The proverbial little voice bugged her to reconsider that decision. She studied the business card again.
Just
make the call
.

Luck was for losers. Faith was for belongers. But instinct... that was the one thing Amelia believed in.

She picked up her cell and entered the number. As she waited through the rings she kicked off her shoes and padded to the wall of windows that looked out over the quiet street.

The bodyguard thing felt a little overboard. She wasn’t afraid. Not really.

Her gaze searched the shadows beyond the circles of light beneath the lampposts. No man in a trench coat. No one at all. Who wanted to stroll in this weather?

The call went to voicemail. She puffed out a tired breath and hung up without leaving a message.

Maybe calling tonight hadn’t been such a bright idea after all. Just a gut reaction skewed by the vandalism. This, she surveyed the mess once more, was enough to throw off anyone’s instincts.

“Tomorrow.” She righted the coffee table and braced the corner with the broken leg on the edge of the couch, dropping her cell phone on the mostly level surface.

Closing her eyes, she sank into the big oversized sofa. Who cared if the fabric was shredded and the stuffing was ripped open? She might just sleep right here... after a couple more shots to settle her nerves.

The catastrophe in her apartment suddenly seemed somehow symbolic of her entire history on this planet... well, except for work. Work was amazing. It was the one thing she lived for. The one place where she knew she made a difference.

Her cell vibrated against the wooden table.

Bernie would want to check one more time that she was safe. He’d apparently made it home in record time. Reaching out to pick up the damned phone zapped the last of her energy. Amelia was spent.

She checked the name and number on the screen.

Not Bernie.

Anticipation made her tremble.

John Noble
.

* * *

Saturday December 21, 12:59 a.m.

John sat in the dark, the one place in his existence that afforded some level of comfort. The tabletop felt gritty beneath his bare forearms, the tiny flecks of dust cutting into his sensitive flesh as if it were shattered glass. His work boots and clothes lay on the floor where he’d discarded them as soon as he’d walked through the door.

They’d sold him on the idea of being stronger, better equipped, for the harsh missions he’d be assigned without giving him any idea what the flipside of that new strength would be.

Because they hadn’t known.

The essence of Messenger’s arrival lingered in his nostrils, on his clothes and his skin despite the long, hot shower he’d taken.

Messenger. As codenames went, he didn’t like it any better than Bulletproof, but that’s how the program worked and John’s opinion meant little to the people calling the shots.

It had been so tempting to use the man’s given name right there in the bar, to break rule one and to hell with the consequences. It might even have been worth getting roughed up by Gabriel’s guard dogs.

John stretched his neck right and left as he worked to block the stimuli, refusing to acknowledge the reactions simmering deep in his gut. He closed out the images, the thoughts, and stared at the nothingness. The thick black nothingness that cocooned him in this twelve by fifteen room had served him well enough for a couple of years now.

The ragged couch was his bed, when he bothered to sleep. The table was a battered veteran he’d reclaimed from the sidewalk where it had been abandoned by a previous owner. A stack of shirts and a change of jeans leaned haphazardly on a shelf next to the bathroom door – the only other space in this rented room. There was no food in the cupboards. Nothing but a couple of beers and a mostly empty bottle of tequila in the fridge. He’d never once turned on the microwave or stove. There were no photos from his past. No mementoes of his history.

This was his sentence. The walls and the meager furnishings changed, as did the city. A new location and name were the only variables. But this meaningless existence remained the same. Day after day adding up to weeks, then months, and now what felt dangerously close to countless years. Even time seemed to repeat itself, moving past the same array of numbers over and over in a vicious, endless cycle.

The effects of the tequila had faded, leaving him to face this new, unexpected reality more sober than he would have preferred. He could get up, snag a beer from the fridge, or down the last of the tequila.

Fear kept him seated in the rickety mismatched chair.

No, not fear. Terror.

The resurrection of hope evoked sheer terror, taking root deep in his chest and ballooning outward.

Resisting the weakness, he focused on her, on what he’d learned of her so far.

“Amelia Bennett.”

He licked his lips, tasted her name. A sharp tang infused with a wild sweetness.

Strange. When they had spoken by phone her voice wasn’t what he’d expected. This Amelia Bennett – his assignment. He’d anticipated weakness, vulnerability, perhaps some level of innocence. He’d heard strength, determination and an underlying distrust, but not the slightest inkling of weakness and surprisingly little innocence. And something else he couldn’t name.

That something called to him, piquing his curiosity.

John pushed back his chair, the scrape of metal on wood shattering the heavy silence. He walked naked to the window and opened the blinds. The stars remained hidden by the dense cloud cover but the moon managed a feeble showing. It hung low, its visible outer rim scarcely topping the rundown buildings of this neglected block. On the street below, the few lamps still in working order cast an equally feeble glow along the cracked sidewalks. Fog drifted like sinking clouds, cloaking the dark world outside his window in a sinister faded gray.

He braced his hands on the window frame. The faint moonlight highlighted the scars on his wrists. He dropped his head, acknowledged the matching scars on his ankles. Voices...images flanked his defenses and attempted an invasion of his consciousness. The soft creamy flesh of the women he’d plundered... the savage violence and the spilling of blood necessitated first by his career and later by other poor choices.

Closing his eyes, he forced away the memories. He centered on Amelia Bennett... the name... her silky smooth voice that resonated with determination and strength. His fingers tightened into fists before he could restrain the reaction. He ordered his mind and body to relax and he focused on the remembered nuances of her voice to reach that place hidden behind the courage she boasted.