Deadly Pursuit (34 page)

Come again? Kira would sooner expect Wanda to run Max over with her car than help find him.

Kira was so unspeakably grateful that she couldn’t quite stop another surge of tears, embarrassing as they were. Wanda brought her in for a kiss, and the women were standing together when Kerry Randolph appeared in the doorway, making them both jump.

Whoa.

Kerry had no idea what he’d walked in on, but it was some serious shit. Serious and bad. Staring at the boss’s wife was never a good idea, especially when
the boss was a known killer and the wife was standing half naked in her bedroom, where Kerry had no right to be, but Kerry couldn’t help staring at Kira Gregory on a good day, when she was fully dressed.

This was nowhere close to a good day.

The women jumped with surprise and then huddled together, trying to hide Kira without being obvious about it. Kira did something with the belt on her dress, but it was too late and the neurons had started firing in Kerry’s brain. Blinking, he added it all together: the dress … the hair … the puffy eyes and streaked makeup.

Trying to be discreet about it, he shifted his gaze lower, to what he’d thought he’d seen. And, yeah, it was … Blood. On the insides of her legs.

Holy fucking shit.

Kira had been attacked. Probably worse than that, but let’s go with
attacked
for now. The boss’s wife had been attacked and the boss wasn’t screaming for anyone’s head. That must mean that …

“Kareem did this to you.”

It wasn’t a question, so Kerry didn’t treat it like one. If he’d had any doubts about what’d happened, they disappeared when he saw the way the women’s gazes skittered away from his.

Then Wanda started lying, to protect her piece of shit son, no doubt. “There’s nothing here for you to worry about, Kerry.” Wanda handed Kira a tissue from the pocket of her slacks and finally looked at Kerry with anger flashing in her eyes. “What are you doing here?”

Kerry barely heard her because he was so focused on Kira and his sudden, blinding need to kill Kareem. Something about the way she kept her head low, as
though she needed to be ashamed or something, infuriated him worse than he’d ever been in his life.

Kareem had taken this woman, his
wife,
who was proud and strong and had delicate bones and fine skin and probably didn’t weigh one-twenty-five soaking wet with four layers of clothes on, and used her the way no one should use a ten-dollar pro on the street.

Kareem had killed Yogi, too, but this was somehow worse.

This was
Kira.

Kerry wanted to find Kareem, clip his balls off with a pair of gardening sheers and shove them down his throat, one at a time.

“Did Kareem do this to you?” he asked, his low voice vibrating with the effort it took to remain calm. “Did he touch you?”

She flinched and turned away, to look at a blank stretch of wall, and Kerry felt like a slimy-ass garden slug for making her feel worse than she already did, but, Jesus, he had to know.

“No,” she said.

“Bullshit.” Kerry wheeled around, heading for the door with murder in his heart. “Where is he? In his bedroom?”

Both women cried out and Wanda hurried over to dig her manicured nails in Kerry’s arm. Kerry shook her off, but she just grabbed him again.
“Don’t.”
Wanda all but dropped to her knees in a full-out beg. “He’ll kill you. You know he will.”

If Kerry had been in his right mind, he’d’ve taken a moment to reflect on and laugh at the irony of Kareem’s mother finally opening her eyes to the fact that she’d raised a murderer for a son. But the only thing on his mind right now was Kareem’s blood, and
how satisfying and hot it would feel flowing through his fingers.

Jerking free a second time, he stalked out of the room and ignored the women calling after him. It was all he could do not to roar with bloodlust like the Incredible Hulk or a rampaging tyrannosaur. He thought of Kira’s abused body and the slump to her shoulders. He thought of the blood and her tear-streaked face. He thought of the quiet despair in her eyes and knew that she was irreparably damaged if not ruined. And he thought of how sick to death he was of being scared and doing nothing and letting his life be ruled by Kareem Gregory, psychopath.

“Kareem.”

Kerry banged into the bedroom, not bothering to knock. That in itself was a serious offense punishable by beating, if not death. Looking around, he took a minute to get his bearings. The place was an Egyptian palace, with all kinds of moody lighting, black and gold furniture and chairs and shit, and a massive four-poster bed that could fit half of Texas in it.

There was no sign of Kareem, but … whoa, the heavy-sweet smell of wine hit him in a wave and he reeled from it, nearly getting a contact high. Was Kareem shampooing his carpets with the stuff?

“Kareem,”
he said again, and that was when he heard it.

The soft, broken sounds of a wounded animal or a man crying.

The shock glued Kerry’s feet to the floor and he paused, listened, and heard it again—quiet but unmistakable sobbing.

It was coming from the walk-in closet, which was one of those deals like the men’s department at Nordstrom,
with lighted wooden shelves and the clothes hanging in neat rows, separated by color.

In the far corner, sitting on the floor with his back to the wall, a spilled bottle of wine next to him and his shoulders heaving with his face buried in his hands, was Kareem.

Kerry stared.

Kareem looked up. His face was a destroyed mess of snot and tears that he didn’t bother to hide. Apparently he was beyond pride at this moment, beyond dignity. “She doesn’t love me, man. She doesn’t love me.”

Kerry said nothing.

Kareem seemed to take this as encouragement to continue wallowing in his self-pity. “I’ve got nothing.”

Kerry glanced around at the dozens of thousand-dollar suits, the shoes, the ties. He thought of the money, the house and the cars. All of it might well be seized by the DEA at any second, but it was Kareem’s at the moment and it was worth a pretty penny.

Then he remembered Kira’s blood and tears.

Yeah. Kareem had nothing.

After a while, Kareem’s crying tapered off to sniffles, and then he got himself together and stood. Producing a tissue from somewhere, he swiped at his face, taking care of most of the snot, but not all.

Kerry tried not to vomit and wondered why he wasn’t man enough to pull out his piece and shoot Kareem through the eyes right now. God knew he’d be doing the world a favor.

Kareem slung his arm around Kerry’s shoulder. “You’re a good man, Kerry. I know I can trust you. You’re all I’ve got left.”

Resisting the urge to throw off that arm, Kerry listened. Waited. Hoped.

“My trial should end tomorrow,” Kareem said. “Hopefully by tomorrow I should have my life back.”

“Right.”

“Are you ready to do some work with me?” Kareem continued. “Get some new responsibilities?”

At last. Kerry’s heart rate kicked up with relief and excitement, but he kept his expression blank and, he hoped, humble. He nodded. “Yeah. I’m ready.”

“Good.” Smiling with satisfaction, Kareem clapped his free hand to Kerry’s jaw, pulled him in, and planted a kiss on his cheek, the twisted fuck. “Let’s go.”

Get her out of here.

That was all Jack could think.

It was all a trap; he knew that.

Assassin 101: throw a firebomb in the house, wait for the targets to run for their lives, and pick them off as they stream out. Either a bullet kills them or the fire does.

Simple.

So if they ran out now, there was a pretty good chance of being shot. On the other hand, if they stayed in here, they were certain to burn. Already smoke was seeping under the door and he could almost swear the floor felt hot against his bare feet, which meant that the flames below were soaring to the ceiling already.

Not good.

Sammy’s scream was bad news, but Jack’s responsibility right now was making sure Amara lived even if no one else did.

So he took a chair and smashed it through the back window, the one that faced the small woods behind
the house. Then he grabbed her arm and swung her around.

“We’re going out this way.” He tucked his gun in the waistband of his underwear. “We can’t risk the stairs. I’ll go first so I can break your fall. It’s not that far.”

“Jack—” Terror was wide in her eyes. A gun was one thing but the roaring flames of hell were quite another and damn if he couldn’t hear them coming closer.

He shook her. “Don’t argue with me, Bunny.”

“Okay.” She took a deep breath and, just that quick, got herself together. “Okay.”

“Okay.” Pressing a quick kiss to her lips, for luck, he swung himself over the sill, cutting his legs all to shreds in the process. He ignored the pain. Flipping over, he eased himself out until he dangled by his fingers. Then he said a quick prayer and let go.

The ground and the outstretched branches of a tree rushed up to meet him and he landed in a crouch that strained his tight ankles nearly to the breaking point.

Straightening, he looked to the window for Amara, well aware that the house was now an inferno that lit up the night sky, so hot that he almost couldn’t stand even being in its perimeter. Soon the flames would burn through to the second floor and this whole place would be a smoldering heap of embers.

“Jump, Amara,” he roared, holding his arms out to catch her and break her fall.

She had her head stuck out the window and nodded. Raising one foot to climb over, she was almost out when she screamed.

Jack’s heart stopped dead.

A shadow of a figure moved behind her and suddenly
she disappeared, yanked back away from the window. Jesus. No.

“Amara,” he screamed. “Amara!”

Nothing.

No. He wasn’t going to let that woman go. No, no, NO.

And if she was going to die tonight, he was damn sure going to die with her.

Wheeling around in his panic, he spotted the tree and its beautiful, beautiful branches.

Climb, motherfucker.

He climbed.

Scraping his already torn legs, he gripped the rough trunk with his bare toes and shimmied for all he was worth. Then the ledge was under his fingertips again and he was vaulting back inside the burning house.

He wasn’t prepared for the scene:

Amara and another dark figure in black, struggling. Amara screaming and raising her hand—what the hell was she holding?—high overhead. Amara lowering her arm with a slash. The man’s horrified and disoriented surprise as she buried her knitting needles in the side of his neck, near the shoulder.

One stunned moment passed. The man teetered, wide-eyed and stunned, not quite sure what’d happened to him. Then he lunged for her again.

Uh-uh. Not on my watch.
Jack grabbed his gun from behind his back, steadied his hand, aimed and fired.

This latest killer grimaced and dropped, hard, leaving a sobbing and hysterical Amara to collapse into Jack’s waiting arms.

“Honey?”

Dwayne Barber stretched and yawned that first jaw-cracking yawn of the morning, the one that always felt so good and got the day started just right. That, and sex, which was why he’d woken up. His morning erection was the size of the oak in the front yard and if they were quick about it, he wouldn’t have to jerk himself off in the shower right before he left for work.

Where was that woman? “Honey?”

No answer.

But … oh, yeah, there was a thread of light seeping out from under the bathroom door. She was definitely in the bathroom. Again. Clearly some digestive issues were going on there. He’d have to ask her about it later. For now, he slipped out of bed, tiptoed across the cold floor and tapped on the door.

It was ajar.

“Honey?”

The silence was becoming a little weird when the smell saturated his nostrils with the slamming force of a poorly executed dive into the deep end.

It was a catalogue of the most disgusting stenches in the world: shit, vomit and urine, all layered together.

Jesus—no. Please,
no.

The finality of it registered before the sight did.

Marian. His beautiful wife. Lying on the floor in puddles of her own filth, a bottle of prescription pills at the tips of her outstretched fingers.

“Amara,” Jack said.

Amara couldn’t bring herself to look at him, so she
stared out the window instead. They were at their third hotel together, where the agents had smuggled them after they’d all nearly been killed. Sammy had been badly burned and Amara and Jack had jointly killed a man. Another hotel. Funny, huh? A hotel was where she and Jack had begun their short-lived non-relationship.

Would they also end it in one? This one?

She tried not to hear the agents moving around in the other room, getting ready to take Jack to court to finish his testimony and let him watch the rest of the trial. She tried to pretend she’d see Jack later, but the stark terror in her gut and the silent knowledge in her heart said otherwise.

“Amara,” he said again. “It’s time.”

Time.
Yeah. Okay. She could do this.

It took more strength than she’d known she had to turn around and face him and then more again to muster up a quarter smile. She wouldn’t tell him. What would she say?
I think you’re going to die today, so be sure to drive safe, you hear?

He had on that awful bulletproof vest over his clothes and she tried to let that be some comfort, but it wasn’t. She almost wanted to tell him to take it off and be comfortable. A bulletproof vest wasn’t going to stop Kareem Gregory. If she’d learned anything since this whole misbegotten adventure began, it was that. How many times already had Jack dodged Death? Three—no, four. Death would only be denied for so long.

Their gazes held across the distance of the room and he hovered just inside the doorway as though he felt, like she did, that getting too close right now wasn’t the brightest idea in the world. He had no smile
for her, reminding her of the days back at the Twelfth Street Diner, and his dark eyes were filled with darker emotions that she couldn’t read.