Vigilante Mine (16 page)

Ryan stifled a blistering curse. Their endgame depended on Murphy, and now Shiv had caught Klepto in a moment of weakness. Inattention on Ryan's part could have cost him and his brothers' dearly. If he'd known Klepto had plans to undermine his power in Murphy's organization, Shiv wouldn't have let them go.

"Where are we going?" The doubtful waver in her question cut like an accusation.

Lord, he'd dragged her into a syndicate deal on top of everything else. How many ways could he fail this woman? Frustration came out on a puff of condensed air. He needed shadows. Whispers. A minute to listen and get his bearings.

"Here," he said, drawing her to a halt behind a vertical sign with more than half of its colored bulbs missing. "He's got someone following us and I need to know where he is."

Light caught the entrancing scar on her cheek as she nodded. "Wouldn't want to lead him back to your lair."

"When did we get a lair, Spiritwalker?"

The smile caught his lips and pulled without mercy. "I have no intention of leading you there, either."

"Then where
—
"

"Station eight," he said. If their tail was close enough, he'd hear.

Her body remained motionless but her eyes came alive with possibilities. He could see the detective's mind at work through her cloudy blue gaze, loaded down with questions, working through reasons why he'd drop her at the nearest rail station.

Ryan stepped behind her and pulled her to his chest, his chin and the side of his hood pressed against her cheek. "No more talking. I need to think, sweetheart."

She shoved backward with her elbows, a wordless objection to . . . what? The endearment? The order? Their new position? Ryan's train of thought veered for his bedroom, where the night could have ended willingly in any number of positions. He spread his palm over the front of her coat, trying to brace his imagination against the fantasies. Unfortunately, his cock didn't take cease and desist orders from his brain.

Romeo gave a little cough inside Ryan's head. The doggie version of clearing his throat? Ryan closed his eyes and locked his hands around her waist.

He bent his head to her ear to whisper. "I let you go, the Jones' Group syndicate follows you home. Is that really what you want?"

She tilted her head back. Her teeth clamped down on her lower lip while she studied the side of his hood. She lowered her gaze and her rigid stance loosened slightly. "No."

"Then give me a minute." A terse nod against his hood. "Not a word until I say it's clear."

Ryan needed silence, and if Zach's adjustments hadn't fixed his filters regarding Amanda, pushing his ability too hard with her by his side could cripple him. She nodded again and he spun his hearing into the night.

Too close, he found their tails. Three of them. Ryan frowned. He would have to pinpoint and evade them to see Amanda home safely. Pushing harder, he let the sounds of shifting fabric and breathing wash over his filters. He had them. Ryan reached to the edge of his comfort zone and encountered the residual junkie skirmishes. He abandoned the sounds of fists and curses to the background and narrowed his focus to quieter targets. Sneakier ones.

"What's Murph gonna do 'bout the bodies?" Barely audible, the question tugged at Ryan's curiosity, but syndicate boss business wasn't what he needed.

He heard a fourth tail snap the safety on his weapon. Shiv did have a passion for overkill.

Just as he was about to hone in on hired monkey number four, the low response came, "They ain't even reporting 'em all. You know there was more'n one up in OT?"

Ryan tensed. OT. A body. Old Town? He shoved his power toward the conversation.

"Only one on TV," the first speaker confirmed.

"So why else those cops and newsies all hot 'n' bothered up there tonight?"

"Old Town's dead, man."

"You high?" A low hiss from the second man. "Someone hears you name it, you're the dead man."

"What, Old Town?"

"Christ." Slow footsteps, toed into the snow, as if the second man had backed away. "You know he gots rules. He don't like it brought up."

The strain to hear pinched Ryan's temples, but he couldn't pull back now. Old Town was neutral, sure, avoided by most, but not feared. What did Murphy Jones have to do with Old Town?

"Maybe I ain't chickenshit."

"Maybe I ain't dyin' tonight."

"Sadly, you're both wrong," Shiv said.

A sickening slice, followed by a gurgling noise and a heavy crunch of snow. Ryan's gut twisted. Shiv had gone after someone's throat with one of the myriad daggers he hid under that damned ridiculous jacket.

"I didn't say nothin' . . . I
—
"

A second compression of snow hit Ryan's ears and a shudder ran up his spine. Bodies lost to the night were commonplace in the treacherous syndicate world. What made the mere mention of Old Town worth killing for?

"Some things are best left dead, gentlemen."

Zach and Jay need to know
—

"Nice doggie," Amanda said.

Ryan reacted with a jerk of his arms, squeezing her too tight. His fingers unlocked in a hurry as he released her, but her yelp punched his eardrums. He slapped his hand against the sign to keep himself upright. The ringing in his ears solidified into a single, loud tone, drowning out everything else. Including Amanda. Her mouth moved as she gripped his forearm and pointed to Romeo. The German shepherd sat on his haunches a few feet away.

"She fears me."

You'd like to think so, wouldn't you?
Ryan drew in a deep breath and tried to untangle his power. He tossed his spirit guide a warning look.
Your teeth are showing.

"I'm only smiling."

Ryan snorted aloud. "He's harmless."

Amanda's gaze never left the dog. "He's . . . yours?"

He heard her now, her sultry voice carrying over the mash of sound clamoring for center stage in his head. Ryan laid his free hand on her shoulder and felt a fine tremble despite the extra layer of her coat. Concern bolstered his adrenaline and Ryan wrapped his arms around Amanda. To his surprise, she leaned into him. Away from his spirit guide.

"He won't hurt you." Ryan used the opportunity to blast his white noise filters, counteracting the constant drone of sound. It worked. Pressure lifted from his head and his feet were surer underneath him.

"Okay." Her teeth chattered.

Cold? Fear? Ryan paused. The mute had worked. His ears weren't overwhelmed by ambient noise, but he'd heard her again. Just Amanda.

So much for Zach's new filters.

Romeo lowered his head and stood.
"I will guard her way home."

Ryan almost protested, sure he could do so himself. But the news about Old Town couldn't wait. Jay and Zach needed to know, and Amanda needed to be seen home safely. His original escort service to the rail would have to suffice.

When the dog inched into shadow, Amanda relaxed.

Ryan tilted his lips to her ear. "Breathe."

She pulled away with a start and he let her go. For a long moment, she looked at the spot where Romeo had been sitting. Definite fear of dogs. Strong enough to override her need to stop a serial killer. Ryan waited for her to say something. Anything.

When she turned around and still didn't speak, he shrugged and started walking.

She fell into step beside him. "Did our stalker give up?"

Ryan tried easing his hearing back to normal. The ringing had subsided. His ears tagged each remaining gunman's location. "No."

Fifteen minutes later, they'd lost all but one by dodging behind station eight and pressing forward to nine. Amanda seemed to recover somewhat as they picked up to a jog through the snow, but when they passed station nine at a slow trot, Ryan knew they'd both resorted to energy reserves. Fumes, and little else.

He circled around behind station nine to avoid the cameras. Klepto had to remain a ghost. He couldn't accompany her on the railcar, and he couldn't be seen on the security footage. When their final follower rushed past, Ryan pulled Amanda close.

"Which station's your stop, sweetheart?"

She hit him with a look heated enough to flash-boil water, and Ryan suppressed a grin. The endearment drove her crazy. Mad, Amanda got a sexy little glint in her eye full of promised retribution. Her lips pursed in a plump, bitable fashion. Her whole body simmered with aggressive energy Ryan wanted to sweep into bed and put to good use. He jotted a note in a mental file: Drive her crazy more often. When he was more awake, and not dressed as Klepto.

"Sixteen L."

Truth.

"Lovely neighborhood." He paused for effect. "You will wait for me there and we'll discuss our arrangement. Free of prying ears."

She stared at him for a moment, nodded, and strolled through the turnstile. Ryan's unease rose, but he let her walk away. As he headed for the old motorcycle he'd selected for the evening he tapped on his mic and relayed Jones' possible involvement in Old Town. His brothers had stopped swearing by the time he'd ditched the bike and caught up with Amanda. She seemed to sense his mood. Sharp looks came his way, but the walk to her house remained silent. Murphy warranted closer study. They'd picked him because he ran one of the weakest syndicates in the city, but if Murphy had something to do with their mother's death . . . Ryan shook his head. Whether or not Jones' Group was involved, he and his brothers still had to put an end to the war. Friday morning didn't leave them much time to make alternate plans.

He might very well turn to coffee at this rate.

"Coming in, Klepto?"

He tipped his chin down. Amanda braced herself in her front doorway. Seductive, with a casual lean and half-lidded eyes. She had to be chilled, exhausted, but her determination won over everything else. Admiration tugged in his chest. He could walk through that door, taste her once more before Friday . . . No. His brothers needed him working. "We part ways here."

"No discussion about our arrangement?" Her eyebrows furrowed and her feet shuffled uneasily.

"You wanted in. We have a date with a syndicate boss in a little over 24 hours." When she didn't retreat into her house, his hands slid up her biceps. He brushed his lips over her earlobe. "How much more of a rush does my new associate need?"

CHAPTER TEN

Amanda locked the
deadbolt with one eye on Klepto through the narrow window pane that ran up the right side of the door. Flurries rushed to cover his tracks. Good packing snow. Traitorous weather. Traitorous body. His touch still simmered on her upper arms like twin brands, but as she watched all visible evidence of the masked criminal vanished.

Her hand massaged the shoulder that bore the scar of her first Klepto encounter. A true adrenaline junkie would be overjoyed with her evening's work. Amanda just wanted to live past Friday without adding "dirty cop" to Dale's list of screw-ups.

Sighing, she tugged off her boots and dropped them onto the rubber mat to keep the carpet dry. She headed straight for her laundry closet and tossed her scarf and coat over the washing machine. Atlas pages peeked out of the jacket and she pulled them free, then threw them in the small trash can she used for dryer lint. Her research had been useless
—
she'd found him without trying.

"No, he found me," she murmured.

Too tired to analyze further, Amanda forced her body into rote motion, checking the front door locks again, the windows. She peered at the digital display on her phone. No missed calls, no messages. Sleep beckoned like a neon sign from her bedroom doorway. Her muscles relaxed, ready for rest before she could hit the mattress.

Hair at the nape of her neck lifted and intuition froze her steps. She listened, caught the sound of scratching at the back door. Once. Twice. The lock? Her muscles did a 180 so fast it hurt. No one broke into a detective's house
—
even if she was suspended.

The scratching stopped, and then someone knocked.

She peered through the curtain. Charlie. Winter blew into her home as she cracked the sliding door. "Is your clock broken?"

"Email wasn't safe. I just got out and I thought I'd leave my notes for you, but I saw lights and I figured since you were up . . . wow." Charlie's gaze took in her damp clothes and bare feet and one bushy red eyebrow popped up. "You look like hell."

"Why are you here?" She planted her fists on the imitation-marble counter.

His look was strained. "I've got a friend in the morgue."

"Where
don't
you have friends?"

"This one was found with one bullet in the chest, and one to the back of the head."

She crossed her arms over her chest. "His M.O. is not news, Charlie."

"Ah, but the bullets?" He smiled and dropped a thick envelope on the island. His other hand extended a half sheet of paper. "Merry Christmas."

She snatched the evidence report and skimmed. Small cal, like her gun. A cop's gun. Syndicates went for automatic weapons, knives, and bigger showpiece bullets. Gold, silver tipped. The killer used red.