Endgame (Last Chance Series) (19 page)

"You're saying it's different from the earlier murders." Harrison sat on the arm of the sofa, the wheels in his head obviously turning as he, too, considered the situation.

"The first ones, certainly. There's a degree of intimacy involved with injecting someone with a drug, particularly with Aston and Stewart as they were killed on home ground. It would take a certain amount of nerve, but the risk is only worth it if the killer knew them and therefore had easy access, or if he wanted them to know who he was before they died. That's a far cry from a hit."

"And that's what you think Bosner's and Patterson's murders were." It was a statement not a question, but Madison answered anyway, her gaze meeting Gabriel's.

"Yes."

"What about the others?" Nigel asked, his brows furrowed as he weighed her words.

"Even more personal than the injections. Especially Robert Barnes. If our theory of the crime is correct, the killer knocked him out before the fire. Possibly an act of passion. Anger or something else. But either way, again he was there facing his victim. We see the beginnings of the change with Dashal and Smith. Although both murders were still rigged to appear as accidents, there was the start of a move toward the impersonal."

She stopped for a minute, gathering her thoughts, trying to see with the eye of the killer—or killers. "The killer wasn't present when Dashal was electrocuted. Or if he was, it was secondhand. It's doubtful Dashal saw him. And Bingham Smith was killed in a crowd."

"Same M.O. though as Aston and Stewart," Gabriel said, watching her with something akin to approval.

"Yes." She nodded, her confidence growing as she trod on familiar territory. "But with a major difference. There was calculation here. A plan. Busy platform, quick jab. And the killer is gone long before Bingham even realizes something is wrong."

"So our killer is learning?" Harrison offered the idea, but didn't sound as if he believed it.

"No." She shook her head for emphasis. "I think it means we've got more than one killer."

"Which begs the question why." Gabriel had shifted so that he could watch her, his expression inscrutable.

"It's hard to say. Shift of motive seems most obvious." She met his gaze full on, determined to hold her own. "Maybe whoever's pulling strings got tired of getting their hands dirty."

"Or maybe—" Payton picked up the thought."—in the beginning he actually believed one murder would be enough to throw off the accord, and when it didn't work, he tried again."

"And failed again," Gabriel added. "But if that's the case, then we're most likely talking about an individual rather than a group. Whic
h would exclude our Chinese dissidents."

"Not necessarily," Payton said. "We've thought all along that they were using someone to do their dirty work."

"Yes, but that would mean they switched killers midstream." Gabriel frowned at his friend.

"It's not that unusual." Payton shrugged. "We're talking about a span of nearly three years, and our intervention has certainly changed the name of the game. If whoever is pulling the strings is worried that we'll get to the bottom of things, there'd be a need to escalate matters. That could easily explain the change of personnel and dropping any need to pretend the newest deaths were accidents."

"That makes sense, Payton," Madison said, her head starting to throb. "But it doesn't feel right. If someone overseas is pulling the strings, why not just use a professional from the beginning?"

"We don't know for certain that it wasn't a pro," Nigel said. "You said yourself that using potassium chloride isn't easy."

"No," she said, shaking her head. "I said it was personal. Shooting someone from a window across the street is impersonal. Looking them in the eye and stabbing them with a needle full of KC1 is pretty much in your face. And the personality that is capable of one may very well not be capable of the other."

"So we're at an impasse
, with one or possibly two killers and eight victims. And no sign at all of an answer." Harrison's voice seemed to be coming from far away.

Madison struggled to hear what he was saying, but the lights seemed to flicker, dark then light again, and she reached for the windowsill to steady herself. "I'm sorry, I..." A wave of dizziness washed through her, robbing her of speech, the reality of the evening's events suddenly hitting home with a vengeance.

Gabriel was at her side in less than a stride, his hard arms closing around her. She knew she should shake him off, assure him she was more than capable of standing on her own two feet, but just for the moment, she wanted nothing more than to let him hold her.

Damn it all to hell.

"I DON'T WANT TO GO to the hospital
. I want to go home." Madison leaned back against the taxi seat and closed her eyes. "There's nothing wrong with me that a hot shower won't cure."

Gabe glanced over at her, not liking the pallor of her skin. "I think you should be checked out."

She crossed her arms, her expression mutinous even with her eyes closed. "I said no."

He'd never met a woman as stubborn. Or if he had, he'd obviously had the good sense to walk away without looking back. "So you're telling me your collapsing in the brownstone was just an act? That Jeremy Bosner's death didn't touch you at all?"

"You know it did." She acquiesced with an overly dramatic sigh. "But that doesn't mean I need to go to the hospital. There's nothing physically wrong."

"That's just the point, Madison. You watched a man die tonight."

Her eyes fluttered open, her brows drawing together in a frown. "That doesn't mean I need psychiatric help, either, if that's what you're getting at."

"Maybe not, but it wouldn't hurt to talk to someone."

"Not right now." The lights from the city illuminated her beautiful face, the pain etched there palpably visible. She might want to deny it, but Bosner's death had hit her hard. Still, he couldn't make her do something she obviously didn't want to.

"All right. You can go home. But only if you let me stay with you." He regretted the words as soon as they came out of his mouth. He had no interest in spending time with her. Especially not when she was so obviously vulnerable.

"I don't need a baby-sitter." She was so insulted she'd missed any sign of innuendo.

"No. You don't. But you also don't need to be alone. So here are the choices. Me or the hospital."

If he'd been a sensitive man, he'd have found fault with the length of her pause, but finally she sighed. "All right, then. I choose you."

He leaned forward to tell the driver, then sat back with a sigh. The undercurrent had returned, connecting them, the enclosed space of the cab adding to the intimacy. He shook his head, determined to ignore it, turning instead to her recent brush with death. "Have you ever seen someone die before tonight?"

"Not up close and personal." She released a breath, the sorrow in her voice ripping at him.

"
Well, it takes a toll." His grip tightened on the armrest, dark memories giving credence to his words in ways she couldn't possibly understand.

"You've seen a lot of men die." There was a finality about the statement that resonated through the car.

"More than I'd have liked," Gabe admitted, uncomfortably aware that she was staring at him.

"Any of them your fault?" It was a fair question, but not one he particularly liked having to answer. Still, considering she was trying to deal with similar guilt, he felt compelled to do so.

"Most of them."
All of them
, his mind whispered. "I think you always believe there was something you could have done. Some precaution or other you should have taken. But hindsight is harsh. All your actions and their results clear to see. Carved in stone. In the heat of the moment, though, when things are happening too fast to process, all you can do is trust your instincts, rely on your training and then try and live with the results."

"And how do you do that?" Her voice was soft now, almost wistful.

"I don't know." He stared out the window, keeping his mind firmly on the present. "Day by day, I guess."

She nodded, the accompanying silence almost peaceful, the fragile thread of connection strengthening between them. He found himself wishing it could last, but knew from experience it would not.

"I'd gone to warn him about security, there's a laugh." It was a non sequitur, and there was nothing resembling humor in her voice.

"I'm the one who told you to talk to him."

"Not in the middle of the night." She was looking out the window now, staring without really seeing. "But I was restless."

"Madison, Jeremy would have died whether you were there or not." He pointed out the fallacy of her logic, knowing that she wasn't really listening, locked instead inside of her guilt.

"Oh, shit." She blew out a long breath, her hands clenching, knuckles white.

They had pulled up in front of her building, and he reached for her hands, surprised at how cold they were. "What is it?"

"That's my father's car." She tipped her head toward a black Beemer parked just across the street. "He must be up there waiting for me." She sighed again. "This is going to sound awful, but I don't think I'm up to seeing him right now."

"Madison..." He stopped, realizing his reassurance
s weren't enough. She needed time to deal with it all on her own. He leaned forward and barked a new order at the driver, who quickly pulled out into traffic again.

"What are you doing?" Equal parts of hope and relief washed across her face.

"Getting you out of here." He shot her a grin, and received the ghost of a smile in return, the gesture making him feel reckless. Playing knight errant certainly had its benefits. "The great Philip Merrick will just have to wait."

*****

MADISON STOOD in the doorway of the hotel suite, torn between gratitude and apprehension. On the one hand, Gabriel had saved her from an unpleasant confrontation with her father. On the other hand, they were now alone together in a hotel room, which, however innocent the reason, didn't negate the fact that the current running between the two of them was becoming impossible to ignore.

Gabriel was checking the room. Force of habit, no doubt, since no one knew where they were, or as far as she knew was threatening them. Still, it made her feel oddly protected to watch him checking the windows, light fixtures and telephone.

"It's clear," he said.  "Why don't you take that shower? And I'll see about getting us something to eat."

She wasn't the slightest bit hungry, and the idea of being naked with him just on the other side of the door seemed
, at the very least, a blatant come-on to temptation. But the idea of warm water won out, and she nodded, not certain she could actually find words, and headed for the bathroom.

There wasn't a lock, but she told herself it didn't matter. Just because her body was primed and ready didn't mean his was. He was watching out for his partner. Nothing more, nothing less. And she'd do well to get her mind out of the gutter.

She turned on the taps, and then turned to face the mirror, its candor not exactly welcome. Pale was an understatement; her eyes seemed three times their normal size. She'd been through far more horrific situations, and come out the other side without a scratch. But none of them had been personal.

Jeremy Bosner's life had been in her hands, and she'd failed him. She swallowed a sob, knowing that if she let the tears come, she'd never be able to stop them. And the one thing she was certain of in this life was the fact that you had to stay strong, no matter the obstacles. Only by focusing on facts and squeezing out emotion could she come out the winner.

She sighed, recognizing that she wasn't just thinking about her profession, she was thinking about her life. Stripping off her clothes, she stepped into the bathtub, and sank down into its soothing depth. Her problem was she thought too much. Overanalyzed everything. And just because the men in her life all seemed to think she needed protecting didn't mean she had to give in to the notion.

Her father meant well, she knew that. But it didn't excuse his cavalier behavior. In that
, he and Gabriel Roarke were cut from the same cloth. Or were they?

She settled back into the water, letting the warmth seep in. He'd been so different in the cab. More open than she'd ever seen him. Vulnerable, even. She laughed at the notion. Nothing about Gabriel Roarke was vulnerable.

He was one hundred percent man. The very definition of alpha male. And she'd had her fill of testosterone. The chest-thumping, hair-dragging, me-Tarzan-you-Jane scenario left her cold. Been there, done that.

So why, the
little voice in her head nagged, did she still feel so attracted to him? She closed her eyes, willing the water to wash away her troubled thoughts, but instead it enhanced them, the soft lapping erotic, lover-like, against her skin.

In her mind's eye
, she pictured Gabriel's body hard against hers as he filled her, the exquisite sensation threatening to shatter her into pieces. Stifling a moan, she pulled herself out of the water, pulling the drain, and started the shower. Cold water was what she needed. Something— anything to banish her current train of thought.

Exhaustion played havoc with the mind, and she'd be wise not to give in. Even in fantasy, Gabriel Roarke was a dangerous man.

*****

GABRIEL REPLACED THE TELEPHONE in its cradle, trying hard to ignore the sound of the water running and the torrid pictures it invoked. He'd called Cullen and assured him that they were all right, at the same time refusing to divulge their whereabouts. Madison needed some time, the night at least, to deal with things in her own way. And having seen her father in action, he understood her need to escape—at least for a few hours.

What he didn't understand was his need to help her. Something about her called to him in a way he couldn't explain. He'd fought against it, distancing himself from her in every way possible, but somehow despite the anger they always seemed to generate, he still was drawn to her. And if something had happened to her tonight...

But it hadn't. She'd performed like a pro. And he should be commending her, not wishing she'd change professions. A woman like Madison couldn't be coddled. That was the mistake her father was making. Sequestering her away from the world and all its dangers wasn't the answer, despite Gabriel's desire to join forces with the man and make it so.

Someone knocked on the door and he jumped, reaching automatically for his gun. A glance through the peephole assured him it was room service, and with a rueful shake of his head, he holstered the weapon and opened the door.

The kid behind the trolley looked all of sixteen, his uniform immaculate and about two sizes too big. Handing the kid a five, he closed the door, locked it, and pushed the cart to the center of the room, inhaling the wonderful aromas of the food.

He hadn't known what she'd want, so he'd ordered across the board. Appetizers, main courses, a salad, and even waffles for good measure. Surely something there would appeal to her. Again he marveled at the realization that he cared what she thought. When exactly had things changed?

Or more precisely, when had he accepted the fact that she was different from the others? An equal with whom he could share not only his body, but his thoughts? He frowned, pushing his rambling thoughts aside. He was acting like the kid with the trolley, all elbows, knees and hormones. And it didn't suit. Not at all. She was a colleague, and he was protecting her. He repeated the words again aloud, just to make sure they sank in.

Hormones were nothing more than a chemical reaction, and that was something he could control. There was nothing between him and Madison Harper. She wasn't his type, and he wasn't in the market anyway. Just because they'd been thrown together didn't mean he had to act on every foolish impulse he had.

For a moment he was tempted to call room service and have them remove the tray. Afraid suddenly of what she'd read into his apparent thoughtfulness. But he didn't have the chance.

A muffled sob caught his attention. At first he thought he'd imagined it, but then he heard it again, and as he stepped closer to the closed bathroom door, he was certain of what he was hearing.

Madison was crying.

He knocked, softly at first, and then when there was no answer, more firmly. He heard her moving, and what sounded like an answer, followed by more tears. A part of him wanted to move away, to ignore what he'd heard, but another part of him wanted to help, to make it better.

Without giving himself time to retreat, he pushed open the door, the misty steam pouring out around him. She was standing in front of the mirr
or, clad only in a white terrycloth robe, her hair slicked back to outline the curves of her face, her feet and calves bare, the sight making his heart pound and his mouth run dry.

Both hands gripped the counter, as if by sheer force she could will away all emotion, the tense line of her shoulders an obvious contradiction to the effort. She turned to face him, still fighting for control, her pallor indicative of her torment.

But what touched him, what unmanned him, was the stark vulnerability in her eyes. He knew that look, had been there himself. She was doubting herself and her actions, uncertain suddenly of her ability to cope with a job that she loved.

Lust fled in a wash of empathy, the need to comfort overriding all other thoughts. He took a step, and without realizing it, opened his arms, and with a strangled cry, she threw herself against him, sobs ripping through her as if the world had gone mad. Maybe it had. He pressed his
lips against her hair, the sweet smell of soap arousing in its simplicity.

"It's going to be all right." He knew that it was a senseless phrase, that it had no real meaning as he hadn't the power to make it okay. But he said it anyway, repeating it for good measure, holding her close, letting her cry, knowing that in doing so there was healing.