The Edge of Dawn (7 page)

Uncle Willie's booming laugh filled the room.

Ten minutes later the authorities descended on the house with siren screaming police cars, helicopters, ambulances, and swat teams. The neighbors lined the streets trying to see what they could see; TV people were running up and down the block, microphones in hand, attempting to find and interview someone who'd seen something—anything so the station could be first with the breaking news.

Narice was in one of Willie's upstairs bedrooms watching the circus through the curtain-framed window. Now that the police knew Uncle Willie had everything under control, they were trying to clear the street.

She turned away and flopped down on the bed on her back. The bedroom was the smaller of the two guest bedrooms in the house. It was the room she'd always slept in whenever her parents spent the night. Back then, the young Narice would never have imagined that in this house there would be a day like today. Never. The dead man's tarp-covered body had been taken out on a stretcher by the EMS and driven to the morgue. It would take a while for her to forget how he'd looked lying there on the floor. She shuddered involuntarily and turned over. She was tired. A heartbeat later, her eyelids closed.

Downstairs, Saint and Uncle Willie were finishing up their statements to the police. Uncle Willie took great delight in telling his former colleagues how he'd personally thwarted the band of foreigners who'd he said, targeted him as just another helpless senior citizen. Uncle Willie told the detectives he was convinced the foreign thugs had intended to rob him, “But I put a stop to that!” he boasted proudly.

In the end, the police believed the men were robbers, too.

Saint didn't say a word.

When the police were gone, Willie got himself a Molson out of the fridge, then gestured for Saint to sit, so they could talk.

Willie's first words were, “Man-oh-man. Haven't had that much fun in a while.” He then asked, “How do you think they found you?”

“Tracking device maybe. Probably planted somewhere on Narice.”

Willie took a draw on his beer and nodded. “You have a way of checking?”

Saint nodded.

“This is turning out to be pretty nasty. You'll keep her safe, won't you?”

“And have you coming after me with Arnold if I don't? I'll keep her safe, don't worry.”

“And keep your hands off her?”

Saint assessed the old cop for a long moment, before saying, “That's between me and Narice.”

Willie smiled, “Good answer. I respect a man who'll tell an old man to butt out. Break her heart, though, and it'll be me, you, and Arnold.”

Saint didn't doubt that for a minute. “I'm going up and see if I can't find the tracking device.”

Saint entered the room quietly when he saw her asleep on the bed. He didn't want to wake her but he needed to check out the contents of her purse.

He crossed over to the bed and stood over her for a moment to watch her sleep. Inside of himself, something was up. Earlier, after he'd run into the house to answer Uncle Willie's call then come back out to the patio to tell her the coast was clear, not finding her where he'd left her had scared him to death. In the space of those brief seconds while he visually and frantically scanned the yard, all kinds of bad scenarios concerning her whereabouts raced through his head.
Finally when he saw her stand and fight her way out of the milkweed, no words could describe the flood of relief he'd experienced. That's when he knew something was up. Although he'd only been around her a few days, he'd never been so concerned about a woman before. Sarita, his foster sister, yes, but not anyone else. Saint figured he could deny everything and chalk it all up to reactions to the drama surrounding the Eye, but that wouldn't be the truth. The truth—Narice Jordan was getting to him and he didn't know how to make it stop.

The shadows of dusk were creeping into the bedroom. Saint checked his watch. In less than an hour it would be dark. Willie had graciously offered them a bed for the night, but the cheetah in Saint was restless; he wanted to get on the road and drive. They'd hole up for the night in Detroit with family. They'd be safe there, and in the morning see about deciphering the quilt.

To Narice it seemed like a mere second had passed when she heard a soft male voice, “Hey, angel, wake up. We need to go.”

Narice really wanted to sleep. “Five minutes,” she croaked.

She heard him laugh gently, “Come on, baby doll. Time to roll.”

Narice opened her eyes to see Saint seated on the bed beside her. Dark glasses on. Beard on.
Lord he is gorgeous
. She scanned the faded green coat. “Do you ever go anywhere without that tacky coat?” she asked, humor lacing her groggy tone.

He drew back in mock offense. “No dissing the coat, woman. We could live on a deserted island for years with the stuff I carry around in this so-called tacky coat.”

The still sleepy Narice pondered living on a deserted island with him. He'd keep her safe, that she knew. She also knew that without him, this adventure would be a whole lot scarier. She slowly sat up. “I'm ready.”

Their faces were only a few inches apart. Time slowed. He ran his eyes lingeringly over her face, her mouth.

Seeing him, feeling him, Narice trembled with anticipation.

Saint had to call upon every discipline he'd ever learned to keep from reaching out and tracing his finger over the sultry shape of her mouth. He vowed to leave this woman alone, and he thought he'd meant it. Now he wasn't so sure.

Before getting her degree in childhood education, Narice's job on Wall Street had put her in contact with some pretty powerful men, yet none of them exuded the intensity and purpose pulsating from inside this shade-wearing man. Just being near him made her dizzy. He was dangerous in so many ways. Grabbing hold of herself she scooted away and off the bed. Standing now, she croaked, “I'm ready when you are.” Feeling self-conscious, she cleared her throat.

Saint smiled to himself. She was shaking like a virgin at a Thai whorehouse. He found that surprising.
Since hooking up with him, she'd been all business. He was now even more curious about the woman lurking beneath the iron maiden exterior. “I think you may be bugged. Let me see your purse a minute.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, that might be how the cockroaches tracked us here.”

“Where might it be?”

He smiled.

Confused, she asked, “What's wrong?”

“Nothing. Just love the way you speak. ‘Where might it be?'”

She put her hand on her hip. “Sorry. Didn't mean to offend you with my
perfect
speech.”

He help up his hands. “Whoa, whoa, baby. I wasn't mocking you. It was a compliment. Really.”

Narice retracted her claws. “Sorry. Too sensitive.”

He eyed her. “No kidding. You always so defensive?”

“Depends on the situation. Now, what were we saying?”

Saint noted that she'd gone icy like that on him before, but sitting next to her on the bed just now, and the heat he'd experienced down in the kitchen, let him know that the glacier wasn't as rock-hard he'd first believed. “We were talking about where the bug on you,
might be
.”

She cut him a look. His shot her a teasing grin in reply.

Narice turned away to hide her smile.

“Where's your purse?” he asked with a chuckle.

Narice walked over to the old upholstered chair in the corner of the room. Her purse was on the seat.

After she turned on a lamp, he dumped the contents of her handbag onto the bedspread. Out of his coat pocket he withdrew a device that was about the size of a lipstick.

Narice asked, “What's that?”

“Bug finder. It's a prototype. The German company that made it wanted me to field test it for them.”

“So, what, you're the Consumer's Reports for the spy industry?”

He grinned. “She's got jokes, folks.”

Saint scanned everything; the contents of her small makeup bag, her wallet, keys, comb, brush. Nothing. He looked her way. “Zip.”

She'd moved closer to him so she could watch what he was doing. When he turned the little scanner her way, she instinctively took a step back.

“Hold still,” he told her easily. “It might be in your clothing.”

He waved it up and down, then began slowly circling her. “Did anybody else handle your things besides Fulani?” Stepping closer he moved the detector up and down her legs, then across her waist.

“I don't know. There were two other women with her.”

He was circling her now, silently teasing her with his nearness and making the butterflies she'd had while sitting on the bed beside him return. For a woman who
prided herself on her control, her reaction to him was all new. Logically she knew it didn't make sense to be attracted to him, but she was and she didn't know how to proceed other than to try and pretend it away.

He continued his scan. “I think we may need to check Fulani out.”

A beep sounded.

He waved the scanner across her chest and the beep sounded again. “Might be your bra. I need to take a look.”

Narice responded with a sisterly I-don't-think-so look.

Saint dropped his head to hide his smile. “Sorry. How about I step out in the hall. You take off the bra and hand it out to me. Will that work?”

“That's better.”

He grinned and left the room, closing the door behind him.

The idea that someone may have planted a tracking device in her brassiere made Narice angry, feel violated and embarrassed. She quickly removed the Tee and then her black silk bra. Shrugging back into the blouse, she then walked over to the door and opened it. Ignoring the mischief emanating from behind the shades, she dropped the lacy garment in his outstretched hand.

Saint slowly scanned the bit of silk and tried not to imagine how she'd looked removing it but he couldn't. It held her scent and the warmth of her skin. He could
feel himself hardening and forced himself to pay attention to what he was supposed to be doing instead of wondering what a schoolteacher was doing wearing undies sexy enough for a lingerie supermodel.

The bug was in the bra strap. It was made of a lightweight metal and so small that it might never have been discovered without the scanner. He'd have to remember to tell the Germans their prototype worked well. Now, though, he had to scan her again to make sure there weren't more. “You can have it back. But let's make sure that was the only one.”

Narice stood silently while he moved around her again. Truthfully, he'd handled the situation with her bra as respectfully as she could have wanted, so there was really no reason for her nipples to tighten the way they had at the sight of her bra in his hand. They had, though, and she hoped he hadn't noticed.

Saint couldn't help but see the points of her bare breasts through the thin white silk, nor could he ignore how the sight affected him. The more he tried to resist the siren call of the curvy Ms. Jordan the stronger he heard it. He pocketed the scanner. “You're clean.”

“Thanks,” she said. “We're having enough of a cockroach problem without me leading them straight to us.”

He agreed and tried not to look at the tempting buds of her breasts. “We need to get rolling, so get dressed and I'll meet you downstairs.”

“Okay.”

Downstairs, the time had come to say good-bye to Uncle Willie. Narice didn't want to leave; he didn't want her to leave. She had to go, though, and so gave him a great big hug.

He hugged her back just as emotionally. “You let me know how you're doing, okay?”

Her tears were wetting his shirt. “Will do.”

“If you need me just call. Me and Arnold will jump in the Buick and be there faster than Jackie Robinson.”

She hadn't heard that old saying in a long time. It made her smile, and then she stepped back. “Okay.”

Uncle Willie put an arm around her waist and walked her outside to the porch. “If you didn't have Cyclops with you I'd worry, but he's a good one. He could watch my back anytime.”

“I'll tell him.”

Saint was already in and running the SUV, waiting for her to finish her good-bye. Narice asked Willie, “Are you going to be okay?”

“With Arnold here? Silly question.”

She supposed it was. She gave him one last kiss on the cheek. “Bye Unc.”

“Bye, baby girl. Send me an invitation to the wedding.”

She laughed. “You'd better get back in the house. I'll see you when this is done.”

He grinned.

Seconds later, Narice was in her seat next to Saint. He eased the truck away from the curb. Uncle Willie waved and Narice waved back until he was out of sight.

Once they hit I-75, Narice asked, “Where to now?”

“To my sister's place in Detroit—actually, it's my brother's house. We'll catch some sleep and in the morning go after that book you say we needed.”

Narice peered at him through the darkness filling the interior. “Your family won't mind us showing up on their doorstep in the middle of the night?”

He shrugged, “Probably not, but let's ask.” Reaching down, he flipped up the console face, hit a button, and said, “Big brother, you there?”

A cheery female voice responded, “Hey, Outlaw Man. Little Touissant here. How are you?”

Narice saw his smile by the green light of the dials. He opened his mouth to speak when out of nowhere,
big bright lights flooded the car, blinding them. Then came a sound so loud Narice had to cover her ears. Panicked, she turned to look out of the rear window and her eyes widened. There was a helicopter on their tail, hovering no more than ten feet above the highway!

Saint checked it out in the rearview mirror. Cursing, he stepped down hard on the accelerator and the SUV's big engine leapt up to speed.

Little Touissant came over the speaker. “What's that noise?”

“A chopper. I'll talk to you later!” He hit the button and cut off communications.

Narice pulled her seat belt tight. She kept sneaking glances back at the thing. When it veered to the right, disappeared for a moment, then appeared again on her right, she bit back a scream and drew away from the window. In the dark it looked like a menacing black insect. When it swung closer and tried to run them off the road, she yelled out, “Saint!!”

Cursing again, Saint swerved sharply. The copter swung closer, repeating the attempt, making him swerve again.

The SUV was now rumbling at 110 mph. Saint did his best to drive, keep his eyes on the dark road, and stay ahead of the chopper. When the bird came around to the front and tried to intersect him on the road, he took it up to 120. The big truck was shaking, but rolling. “Hold on, angel!”

In spite of the warning, Narice was unprepared for the hard right he took as he left the highway and
headed into the trees lining the road. The truck bounced across the bumpy terrain with such force Narice swore her head hit the ceiling more than once. The copter had been unprepared also. With its prey now off road and in the trees, all it could do was climb above the tree line and follow.

Saint was driving through the night like a bat out of hell. The body and tires of the big Chevy were taking hits and jabs from unseen objects that banged and pinged, but he didn't slow down. Narice could hear the chopper droning ominously above but she was too busy trying to keep body and soul together to worry about what it might be doing. She called out, “More cockroaches?”

He hollered back, “Yeah, but my gut says government kind.”

“The U.S. government?”

“Yeah.”

“Why? I thought you worked for the President?”

“I do. Remember me saying parts of the government want to get the Eye and run their own candidate?”

“Yes.”

“Well, this might be them. Hold on!”

He did a doughnut on the edge of a field and Narice's head whipped around in concert. They were plowing forward again, heading back the way they'd come. The helicopter swung to follow.

With the tires squealing and the engine booming, he steered the truck back onto the highway. Up ahead Narice could see faint flashes of light off in the dis
tance. Seconds later, tiny raindrops began to appear on the windshield. The chopper was nowhere to be seen and she hoped the rain had sent them home. She almost relaxed, only to be scared to death by the chopper now hanging directly in front of them.

To her surprise, Saint growled, “Oh, they want to play chicken, huh? Well, let's see what their balls are made of!”

Narice couldn't believe her ears. Was he really going to challenge them?

He stepped down on the accelerator once more. The rain had picked up, coating the glass with a sheen of rain. Through the swing of the wipers a terrified Narice could see the watery lights of the waiting copter. She could feel her heart pounding loud in her ears. The SUV was going at full throttle and the chopper hadn't moved. Her fear increased and she dug her nails into the leather handrests. They were now close enough to see the pilot, and the recognition in his eyes when he realized the truck was not going to stop. The bird rose up seconds before the truck intersected and Saint sped below it, screaming like a triumphant banshee. Mother Nature then threw a lightning bolt beside the highway that lit the night like day.

Narice fell back against her seat. Her heart—what was left of it—was beating like a drum. “Don't ever do that again!”

He grinned. “You didn't like that?”

She stared at him. “No. You scared me to death. How did you know they'd blink first?”

“I didn't.”

Had Narice been in a cheesy romance novel, she would have fainted dead away. Instead, she said, “Not funny. You're not the only one in this car you know. What if they hadn't moved. “We could have been killed.”

Saint didn't like being fussed at. Danger and risks went with the job, and sometimes you had to deal with both to stay alive.

When he didn't reply, she asked, “Doesn't that bother you?”

“Sure. I like living as much as the next guy, so next time I'll just pull over and say, ‘Okay, we give.'”

Narice didn't care for the sarcasm, but she got the point. “You just scared me, that's all.”

“Not my intent. Just trying to be around to see tomorrow.”

The storm was upon them with full force. Rain, lightning, and thunder. She looked back, but the copter was nowhere in sight. “It's gone.” She'd never been so glad to be in a thunderstorm in her life.

“Good. Let's slow our roll here. Don't want to escape then die in a crash because we spun out on wet pavement.”

Narice agreed. Only now was her adrenaline starting to slow.

Little Touissant came on again. “You two okay out there?”

Saint answered, “Bogey's gone. We're a little shook up, but in one piece.”

Narice cracked, “Speak for yourself.”

He chuckled. “I don't think the angel's going to want to date me again after this.”

Narice drawled, “You got that right.”

The female voice laughed, “Well, are you two heading this way?”

“Yep. She wanted me to ask and make sure its okay.”

“Of course, but I appreciate her manners. Your angel need anything?”

Narice called out, “Yes, clothes and some insect cream.” As if being chased by helicopter wasn't bad enough, the anxiety of the last few minutes seemed to have awakened all the bites she'd received while hiding in Uncle Willie's milkweed. She scratched at her arms through her silk jacket. “I've got bites all over me.”

The voice sounded concerned. “Bites?”

“Mosquitoes.”

“Oh, okay. We'll fix you up.”

“Thanks,” Narice said, trying not to scratch but wanting to very badly.

Saint said, “Thanks, general. See you in about an hour.”

“All righty. Stay safe.”

“We will.” He hit a button and closed the console.

“Is that your sister?”

He looked her way and nodded.

“She sounds nice.”

“Yep.”

“Why do you call her the general?”

Saint laughed. “Because she's always in charge.”

“I see,” Narice replied, even though she didn't see at all. She was looking forward to meeting the family of the mysterious St. Martin, though, then to a long hot shower and a good night's sleep. She scratched at the bites on her arms.

“They got you pretty good, didn't they?”

She scratched some more. “Remind me to choose a different hiding place next time.”

“I was worried when I came back out and didn't see you.”

She paused and looked his way. “I know. I could hear it in your voice.”

Saint held her eyes for a moment, then redirected his attention to the dark highway. “We'll go shopping tomorrow so you can get some new things.”

“That'll be great.”

Narice studied his bearded profile in the dark. She sensed that he too felt the attraction rising between them, but then again, he'd probably been attracting women since birth; being attracted to her was probably just another day at the office for him. With that in mind, Narice reminded herself that when this adventure was over, he'd go back to his life, and she to hers. It made no sense to even think about forming an attachment.

They arrived in Detroit about an hour later. Saint pulled into the driveway and cut the engine. Narice was sleep; had been for the last thirty miles. Once again, he hated to wake her up, but he was sure she didn't want to spend the night in the truck.

He reached over and put his hand on her shoulder, then shook her gently, “Wake up, Narice.”

Narice swam up to consciousness. Still half asleep, she mumbled, “Are we here?”

He smiled, “Yeah, babe. We're here. Want me to carry you?”

She sat up straight, and said groggily but firmly, “No. I can walk.”

Saint chuckled at her refusal to be pampered. “Okay.”

He went around to her side and opened the door for her. The half-asleep Narice grabbed the rolled up quilt, stumbled out the vehicle, and followed Saint to the front door of the large house.

His sister met them there. She was short, brown-skinned, and wore her natural hair cut very short. Dressed in a Detroit Lions T-shirt, a pair of shorts, and some Scooby-Do slippers, she greeted her brother with a long welcoming hug, then wrinkled her nose. “God, Saint. When are you going to burn that coat?”

He backed up and said in mock offense, “Hey. Lay off the coat.”

Narice liked her right away.

Sarita smiled at Narice. “Come on in. I'm Sarita Chandler.”

Narice smiled back and stuck out her hand, “Narice Jordan.”

“Glad to meet you, Narice. Welcome.”

As they were led into the house, Narice scanned the beautiful furnishings and artwork on the walls. She
wondered if the Chandlers had personally picked the pieces or if the interior had been done by a professional designer. Either way the rooms were stunning.

Sarita looked at Narice's dirty clothes, wrecked hair, and no longer perfect makeup and said, “I'm guessing you want a shower first.”

A grateful Narice gushed, “Oh yes.”

Sarita told her, “Then come on with me. Afterwards, we'll get you some clean clothes and you can relax.”

She then looked to her brother. “Myk's in his office. He said come up when you get the chance.”

“Okay.”

The women headed off.

Saint climbed the stairs to find his brother. Technically, Sarita was Saint's foster sister. Her grandmother had taken him in during his preteen years, and he and Sarita were raised together. Last year, Saint discovered that he had two half-brothers, Mykal Chandler and Drake Randolph, Detroit's mayor. Saint and Myk still weren't as close as Myk and Drake; those two spent their childhood summers together. Saint still wasn't sure just how close he wanted to be. He'd been a loner most of his life. Sarita's family had been his only family; word was still out on whether he needed more.

Myk turned from his chair and greeted his brother with a smile. “Glad you made it.”

“Me too.”

Saint took a seat in one of the leather recliners, laid his weary head back against the head rest and closed his eyes. “Sorry about your car.”

Myk shrugged. “Couldn't be helped. The SUV was a better idea, anyway. Just like you said.”

Saint didn't open his eyes. “Just like I said.”

“I figured we needed speed.”

“Well, I wanted bulk. If the bomb hadn't got us, that chopper certainly would have had we been in that small car. Remind me to send General Motors a fan letter.”

Myk laughed. “We got a make on the chopper from the rear camera.”

Saint turned his head. “What camera?”

Myk said slyly, “You're not the only one with prototypes, my brother. There's a camera mounted in the taillights and the headlights. Here are the pics.”

The photos were black-and-white shots of the helicopter. Saint's jaw tightened grimly. It wasn't possible to know whether the clowns flying the chopper were intent upon murder, but it sure seemed like it. “Do you know who they were?”

“I ran the make of the copter through some channels and all I got back was—it's government issue. Could be Justice, Defense, could be stolen for all we know.”

Mykal Chandler was head operative for a clandestine government group called Nia. In Swahili the word meant
purpose,
and the purpose of Myk's organization was to rid the city of crime and drugs by any means necessary. Myk and Sarita met during one of Nia's stings. “Well, the pilot was a good one. Flew that bird like he ran folks off the road for a living.”

“That might be an angle to check out.”

“Maybe, but don't spend too much time on it. I know your plate's full.”

“Never too full to help if you need it.”

Saint was unaccustomed to asking for help; he usually operated on his own, using his own people, contacts, and resources. He knew his brother was being sincere and that Myk in his own way was offering the help to strengthen their bond, but Saint's personal issues kept him from wholly accepting the friendship and familial ties his brother wanted him to embrace.

“How's the lady holding up?” Myk asked.

Saint smiled almost wistfully. “Real well, considering there have been three attempts to stop her in the last twelve hours.”

“Three? I know about the bomb and Sarita told me about the chopper. What else happened?”

Saint spent the next few minutes telling the story of Uncle Willie, Arnold, and the fake Jehovah's Witnesses.