Shadows at Midnight (12 page)

So another mystery had just been added, as if she didn’t have enough black holes in her life.

She leaned forward. “So then what?”

“I was going out into the compound grounds.” He frowned and she understood. Protocol was that the detachment security guard, and especially their commander, stay inside the embassy building in case of attack. He’d broken protocol for her. He could have been severely punished, could even have been given a dishonorable discharge for desertion. “I heard a woman’s whisper and then the bomb blew. I happened to be standing right behind a concrete pillar and that saved my life.”

“Oh, Dan,” she murmured. She laid her hand on his forearm. “I’m so sorry.” She’d put him in danger and she didn’t even know why.

He covered her hand with his and again, she felt the warmth creep up her arm. His jaw clenched. “I only wish I’d tried the grounds earlier. Maybe you wouldn’t have been blown up by a bomb. Maybe I’d have found you and brought you back inside. Maybe the past year wouldn’t have happened.”

Claire blinked. He meant it, every word. It was there in every sober line of his dark face. Had he been beating himself up this past year? Blaming himself for what had happened?

“Good Lord, Dan! You can’t blame yourself for the crazies in the Red Army! And you certainly can’t blame yourself if I was nuts enough to go outside. I had no business leaving the embassy, and I can’t imagine why I did.”

Dan’s face was even more drawn, narrow nostrils white with some strong emotion.

“I thought you’d died,” he said starkly. “I thought I hadn’t been able to keep you safe and you paid for that with your life. That you were dead, and it was my fault.”

Claire drew in a shocked breath. Both hands were on his forearm now and she could feel the steely muscle underneath. Everything about him was strong, grounded, healthy. She hated that he had been carrying this guilt when all he’d done was protect her.

And . . .

Her eyes met his. His head had moved forward, too, until mere inches separated them. This close to him, touching him, inhaling the clean, musky scent of him . . . something lit up inside her head.

The question came welling out from some hidden spot deep inside, completely unstoppable. It was out before she could clamp her mouth closed, another sign, if she needed one, that she was crazy.

“We weren’t lovers but—did we kiss?” she asked, shocked at herself as soon as the words left her lips.

This op didn’t require travel, just a little B and E and a little wetwork.

Uncle Sam had spent over a million dollars training him to do just this. He’d served two tours in Iraq and one in Afghanistan. Breaking into a bed-and-breakfast and taking out some woman—piece of cake.

And tomorrow there’d be 150K more in his account in the Caymans. Added to the cool million already there. Oh yeah, working for the Boss, that beat putting up with crappy XOs and sleeping on the stony ground and eating MREs for months. Not to mention getting shot at. He hadn’t yet been shot at once, working for the Boss.

Cushy jobs, superbly well paid. Man, that was the way to go.

And even better. He’d set up a network of operatives for the Boss, all over the country, good men all, and he got 10 percent of their fee.

Heston got out of his Ford Transit and started walking briskly toward Massachusetts Avenue. Just another businessman or lobbyist or lawyer. Washington DC was lousy with them and he was walking right through lawyer spawning grounds. Nobody even spared him a second glance, which was exactly as it should be. He had an excellent dark-haired wig covering his ash blond hair, dark contact lenses covering his light blue eyes, bushy dark moustache, big horn-rimmed glasses he didn’t need and shoes that surreptitiously added three inches.

The first things the police ask of witnesses: hair color, eye color, height and distinguishing characteristics.

Dark, dark, six feet, dark glasses, moustache.

All wrong.

Like many Special Forces soldiers, he was of medium height and whippy rather than bulging with muscles. What kind of man he was could be easily hidden underneath the Brioni suit, Izod shirt and Dior tie, carrying a Halliburton briefcase. You could stand in Dupont Circle with your arms out and touch someone just like him every ten seconds.

Ah, but the other men wouldn’t be like him at all. They wouldn’t have his stamina, for one. Heston could outrun anyone. He could run until his heart gave out. The other men wouldn’t be as proficient as he was with a weapon—rifle or pistol, made no difference. Or knife. Or a goddamn rock, if necessary.

He could outgun and outrun more or less any man alive. And
his
briefcase wasn’t filled with depositions and briefs. It held a lock gun, four ounces of C-4, his broken-down AR-7 in foam cutouts with the thermal imaging scope, a Walther P38, ammo for both and a laser light, in case the B and B had security cameras. The thing weighed fifty pounds but he carried it as if it weighed nothing.

And it
was
nothing compared to the hundred and fifty pounds he carried when making HALO jumps in Helmand. For which the fucking US government paid him a grand total of forty thousand fucking dollars a year.

He earned twenty times that with the Boss, and no rules of fucking engagement, either, except for
get the job done
.

Heston walked down Warren Street, right past the pretty, flimsy front gate with a discreet brass plaque. Kensington House. Fancy carved gate on a latch. No lock. No security cameras. No bars on the first-floor windows. He shook his head. Some people had shit for brains.

He pulled out his cell phone and dialed the Kensington House number.

“Kensington House.” A brisk male voice.

Heston breathed heavily, turned his voice into a rheumy, phlegmy geezer’s voice. “Hello?” he quaked. “Is this—” Heston rustled a piece of paper close to the cell. He breathed heavily in and out, putting a wheeze in it. “Is this K-Kensington House?”

“Yes, sir,” the voice on the other end said patiently. “How may I help you?”

“My niece is staying there. Claire. Claire Day. My brother’s girl. Can you put me through to her?”

“I’m sorry, sir,” the voice said politely. “Ms. Day is out. May I take a message?”

Perfect.

Heston hacked a cough, drawing it out. Old geezer, one foot in the grave. “Yes. Please tell her Uncle Charlie called. I’ll call again.”

Heston walked quickly back to Massachusetts, to a small sidewalk florist. He spent over a hundred bucks buying every rose the guy had left. Once white things the florist called baby’s breath and some big green leaves had been added, the bouquet was as big as a soldier’s rucksack.

Fifteen minutes later, he was walking into the quiet, elegant lobby of the hotel with a big, friendly smile on his face. Briefcase in one hand, white roses in the other. Lawyer Guy on a romantic mission.

“Hey.”

A dark-haired young man with wild hair looked up from a book and smiled faintly.

Heston looked around the lobby, as if in appreciation of the elegant wall sconces and antique armchairs. No security cameras here, either. Not one. Jesus.

“May I help you?” The clerk’s voice was very formal.

“Yeah.” With a big shit-eating grin, Heston placed the hand holding the big bouquet in its fancy wrapping on the counter. His left hand. “You’ve got a guest staying here tonight. A Ms. Day. Ms. Claire Day.” He winked heavily. “Looker, know what I mean?” Heston had no idea whether Claire Day was a looker or not. She could have seven chins for all he knew, or cared. “We, ah, had a little disagreement.” His grin widened. “All my fault, and I want to make up for it.” His hand wagged the bouquet a little. Christ, it was big enough to atone for murder.

The clerk looked him in the eyes, not smiling, reaching for the bouquet. “I’ll be happy to see that Ms. Day gets this.”

Heston pulled the bouquet away from the clerk’s hand. “Ah, ah, ah. I was hoping to leave it in her room. Actually, I was hoping you would let me into her room so I could wait for her. She should be back soon.”

The young man’s face was stiff with disapproval. “I’m afraid that’s impossible, sir. If you wish to leave the bouquet and a message I’ll be glad to give them to Ms. Day when she returns. Or you’re welcome to wait in the lobby for her.”

Heston’s eyes flicked to the cubbyholes behind the clerk, keys dangling from brass hooks. There was a folded sheet of paper in the cubbyhole of room number seven. A message from good ole Uncle Charlie.

Oh yeah, Uncle Charlie’ll call back real soon.

Heston leaned forward again, a hundred-dollar bill folded between his fingers. “She’s really, really mad at me,” he said, his voice low and coaxing. “It wasn’t all my fault, but you know what women are like, there’s no reasoning with them. But you know what I think? I think if she opens the door to her room and sees me with a bouquet of roses and, say, a really good bottle of champagne and two flutes, well I think she might start to forgive me, what do you say?”

Leaning down casually, the fingers of his right hand opened the briefcase, out of sight of the clerk, and came out with what he wanted. He palmed it.

The clerk was stiff as a board, features pulled tight in disapproval. “I’m sorry, sir—”

Heston’s right hand snaked out from the open briefcase, KA-BAR knife gripped in his fist while with his left he dropped the flowers and grabbed the clerk’s jacket lapels, jerking him halfway across the counter. A second later, Heston gently slipped the KA-BAR between the third and fourth rib and punctured the fuckhead’s heart.

The clerk opened his mouth, but only a gurgle came out, eyes wide and shocked, as his mind tried to grapple with the unthinkable. His olive skin turned pale as the blood drained from his face. They stood there, face to face, so close Heston could kiss him, while Heston watched the clerk’s face cycle through shock, despair, hopelessness. Waiting for death.

Heston knew precisely what was happening inside the man’s chest. He’d punctured the aorta and the blood was pumping out at three feet per second, straight into the chest cavity. Heston had knowingly sliced sharply down, severing the aorta. If a heart surgeon were here right this second, he could do nothing to save him. The damage was irreparable and death came fast. After a minute and a half, the clerk stopped breathing, the light fading from his eyes.

Always a good moment.

Heston let go, letting the clerk slide back down behind the counter. He worked quickly, but carefully. Good soldiering was all in the details.

Pulling on a pair of latex gloves, he pulled a bleach-soaked rag from a Ziploc bag and wiped the doorknob, the counter, all the surfaces he’d touched. The cleaned knife went back into the briefcase. He circled the counter, stepping over the dead man, and gently lifted the key to room number seven from its hook, together with the slip of paper. He pulled the body into the back office, turned off the light and quietly closed the door.

There was a Dumpster across the street. He threw the bouquet in, then jogged back up the front steps, opened the door to room seven, then back down the hall to put the key back on the hook. The key board was on the left-hand wall. When the clerk didn’t come out, she’d just reach up to get the key herself. The hotel was small, guests probably did that all the time.

Inside Claire Day’s room, Heston stopped and took stock. The Boss wanted the computer, first and foremost. Okay. The netbook was small—and
pink
, for fuck’s sake!—and fit easily into his briefcase. He stuck in the cloth carrier and the charger and carefully put the usual hotel crap—stationery, a pen, a brochure on Washington inside a big folder—at the center of the small desk. There was nothing there now to even hint that she’d been carrying a computer with her.

He checked the closet and the chest of drawers. Wow, the chick traveled light. There was nothing in the closet except one pair of wool pants, a pair of shoes and a roll-on trolley suitcase. The chest of drawers held a nightgown, a change of underwear and a sweater.

Heston picked the bra and panties up in his gloved hand. Ms. Day might not be a clothes hound, but she sure had sexy underwear. Silk and lace, pale lilac. He brought the silky under things to his nose and sniffed. Some fancy perfume. Pure woman.

Man, that would usually be enough to give him a hard-on, but not now. Not on an op. When he was on an op, he forgot thirst and hunger and horniness.

He became a tool, like a hammer or a gun. Hard and cold and unfeeling.

He’d learned that lesson the hard way. It had cost him a dishonorable discharge.

And anyway, he wasn’t here to moon over underwear, he was here to take away evidence that might hurt the Boss, and to get rid of the woman.

He brought out his folder. The KA-BAR was too unwieldy for this kind of work—he needed a tool, not a weapon, for this.

Inside of twenty minutes, all Claire Day’s clothes and underwear were slashed into small pieces of fabric that floated around the room, the curtains were slashed, as were the pillows and the mattress and the cushions of the two chairs.

Heston looked around, pleased. The effect was of rage, of intimate threat. Guaranteed to send the cops on the lookout for a violent killer, probably one who knew Claire Day.

He eyed the curtains. Part of one panel was still relatively intact. That wouldn’t do. When he finished, he’d switch off the lights and sit on the wrecked mattress, rifle in hand, ready and waiting.

Phase one of the mission was almost complete.