White Heat (4 page)

E
than paced inside his room. The Brethren were still meeting in the pit. He'd put in an appearance earlier, but he'd been too anxious to stay long. Watching them argue wasn't any fun. It made him feel as if this was the beginning of the end of everything he'd created. Were they right? Was the paradise he'd built about to come tumbling down? With all the bad publicity, it felt that way. The rest of the world seemed to be pressing closer, crowding him, banging at the gates. The Brethren, the twelve he'd designated as Spiritual Guides for his people, had tried to tell him that a local girl going missing on the heels of what Martha had told the press wouldn't be good. But he hadn't listened. Sometimes he felt as though he could get away with anything. Other times…

What had he been thinking? Of course they'd been right! The attention his actions had drawn would only hasten the confrontation he'd been preparing for from the start. That was what the Guides were discussing now. They were hashing out plans for the final battle. But had it really come to that?

He wasn't ready. He should've left Martha and Courtney alone. He'd screwed up, indulged himself one too many times….

It was the drugs, he decided. When he was tweaking,
he made mistakes, and he tweaked too often these days. But the thought of getting high only made him want to do it again.

Crossing to the bureau, he found the quarter gram of meth he kept close at hand, took his pipe from the same drawer and lit up.

When that first anticipated rush of euphoria hit his brain, he dropped onto the bed and stared up at the ceiling. Courtney came to him immediately, like a ghost. Or a memory. He knew what he was seeing wasn't real, that he was hallucinating, because there was no lust, no anger, no betrayal. He was completely objective, an indifferent bystander observing the unfolding of their relationship—until the final moment when he'd strangled her.

Another memory surfaced—the day he caught his father grimacing when someone said, “The apple doesn't fall far from the tree.” The person who'd spoken hadn't been able to see past their physical similarities long enough to realize they couldn't be more different if God had intended to make them enemies. Conservative and self-disciplined, Robert loved sports and business and took great pride in his financial success. Ethan preferred music, art, literature, fashion. Nothing he did could ever match what his father had accomplished. Even worse, he was emotional and high-strung, which irritated and angered his father.

Oddly, the differences hadn't really bothered Ethan until the day he'd heard his father tell his mother that he planned to order a paternity test. Robert hadn't doubted her fidelity; he'd been teasing when he said it. But Ethan's mother had laughed with him and that was when Ethan knew Valerie was in on the secret. She pre
ferred her husband to her son; she felt as embarrassed and ashamed of Ethan as Robert did.

Wincing at that memory, he took another hit on the pipe and then another.

Soon he seemed to be floating above his own body. Then the room began to spin and he could no longer remember what upset him so much. He had nothing to worry about. Look at what he'd become. His father had told him he'd never amount to anything, but he'd been wrong. Ethan had money
and
power and he hadn't had to work for any of it.

Suddenly, the silence seemed to press in on him like an invisible hand, holding him down on the bed, smothering him. Nearly dropping his pipe, he staggered to his feet, knocked over a lamp and cut his arm. He was standing in a stupor, watching the blood drip onto the carpet when Bart walked in.

“Holy One, you've hurt yourself,” he cried. “What happened?”

Ethan's mouth moved and words came out, but they sounded garbled, even to his own ears. Was he making sense? Somehow that didn't matter. The only thing that mattered was that Bart had come to take care of him.

Just like always.

 

The sun was up when Nate pulled into Rachel's driveway. Her house sat on a cliff overlooking the ocean a little south of Los Angeles. With one whole side made of glass, it was different—far more modern than the home of any other woman he knew. But Rachel was different, too. She tried to be so damn tough. In ways, she
was
tough. She could fight. She could play whatever part she needed to play. She'd gravitated to
the polar opposite of her sheltered upbringing and wielded a gun instead of the Good Book. But for all that, she didn't have the ability to protect her heart. He'd never forget the night he'd come home to find her waiting in his bed.

Working this closely together wasn't a smart idea. He saw how she looked at him when she thought he wasn't paying attention, could tell how she felt about him. Hell, she'd said as much when they were making love. What she wanted from him reminded him too much of Susan. He still heard from her on occasion and he knew that, in some ways, he'd never really be free of her or the memory of rushing to the hospital that cold January night….

But Milt was adamant he take this assignment, so Nate would have to protect Rachel—not only from the Covenanters but from himself.

“Just do it,” he said, and shoved the gearshift into Park.

He was getting out to ring the bell when she appeared, wearing a simple peach-colored sundress beneath a cardigan sweater and carrying a small suitcase.

“You can't take that case to Portal,” he said without a greeting. He didn't recognize the label, but he didn't need to know the designer to realize it had cost a bundle. “That's a dead giveaway. You're the wife of a cement contractor, not Paris Hilton.”

“I'm aware of that. But I tossed my crappy luggage after the last job. It was completely shot. We'll have to stop at a secondhand store along the way.”

“What will you do with this one?”

“Ship it home,” she said with a shrug. “The clothes I wear when I'm not working are too sophisticated, too
‘single woman supporting herself.' The ones I wear on other jobs are too ‘I'll do anything for my next fix.' I need something in between if I'm going to build the illusion of a sweet wife who recently got married and is trying to eke out a productive life with her husband. So we would've had to do some shopping, anyway.”

Maybe she needed additional clothes, but the dress she was wearing right now worked, he admitted grudgingly. The color brought out the golden tones in her hair and skin and contrasted nicely with the ice blue of her eyes. But he didn't tell her that. He knew better than to lead her on and still kicked himself for not sending her home when she'd let herself into his condo six months ago.

“This is all, then?” he asked.

“Except for my computer.” She reached in to get the satchel she carried almost everywhere, but he stopped her.

“Leave it behind.”

“That's like asking me to leave my gun!”

“No, it's not. Where we're going, there probably won't be Internet service. And when we need a computer, we can use mine.”

“What about other gear?”

He motioned toward the truck. “I've got everything we might need.”

“Fine,” she muttered, and he put her bag in the truck while she locked the house.

Rachel was seven years his junior, but today she looked even younger. With her hair pulled into a messy bun and minimal makeup, she could pass for twenty. Had he spotted her on the road, he might've mistaken her for a teenager heading down to the beach.

But she wasn't going to the beach. She was wearing his pretend wedding ring and packing a gun so Milt could thrust them both into the middle of a potentially dangerous situation.

“Why do you do it?” he asked as she climbed in.

She blinked. “You mean, the bag? I told you. I had to bring it. I didn't have another one.”

“I'm not talking about your suitcase. Why are you in this business?”

She slammed the rusty door of his old truck. “It's a living, isn't it?”

A good living. They'd only have to devote ten years to their work to be set for life. But he knew Rachel's involvement wasn't entirely about the money. According to what he'd read in her file, and the bit of information she'd revealed, she'd had a difficult childhood with an overbearing father. That made him suspect her attraction to undercover work had something to do with slipping in and out of character, of being anyone she wanted to be except the child who'd known almost nothing of the real world until she was seventeen. She wasn't comfortable in her own skin, didn't know who she was or who she wanted to be.

“The danger doesn't bother you?”

“No more than it bothers you.”

He almost told her to get out. She didn't need to be mixed up in Ethan Wycliff's twisted world. The auto accident involving Ethan's former roommate had left skid marks suggesting he might've been run off the road. There were no witnesses to say if he'd swerved to avoid an animal or another car. So the possibility of murder was there. For all they knew, Ethan was as bad as Charles Manson, which made this assignment worse
than usual. “Maybe we should try talking some sense into Milt,” he said, suddenly second-guessing his decision to comply with his boss's orders.

She flashed him her wedding ring. “Too late. You already tried that, anyway. Let's go.”

His thoughts gravitated to a former Department 6 employee. Enrico had lost his right eye when someone he knew in regular life happened upon him while he was on the job. After that friend inadvertently blew his cover, Enrico had been forced to fight for his life. Nate didn't want something like that to happen again—to any member of his team, but especially one of the women.

“This could be unpredictable,” he warned.

“They're all unpredictable.”

“You're sure you're up for it?”

“I'm positive.”

“You didn't seem so certain when you called me a few hours ago.”

“How would you know? You didn't give me a chance to talk.”

“I'm giving you a chance now.”

“Someone's got to do this. Might as well be me.”

She was right. Someone had to do it. He doubted Milt would change his mind, anyway. As she'd just said, Nate had already argued with him about it, to no avail.

Ultimately, this was Milt's decision. And Rachel's. Not his.

Taking a deep breath, he backed down her long drive. She'd chosen this line of work, applied of her own free will, knowing full well the dangers she'd encounter. And she'd proven herself effective.

While he made the turn onto the winding road that would take them to the highway, she dug through her purse. He had no idea what she was searching for until he smelled the distinctive scent of fingernail polish.

“Hey, that stuff stinks,” he complained.

She pulled off her sandal and hugged her left knee to her chest so she could paint her toenails. “I need to get into character. Rachel Mott is the kind of woman who likes her nails a delicate pink.”

“How do you know?” he countered. “That wasn't in the dossier.”

“There wasn't much in the dossier. So I figure the role is subject to interpretation. I've got to sell it, make it real.” She moved to the next toenail. “And the way I picture her is sort of sweet and naive and madly in love with her nice but none-too-bright husband.”

He shot her a dark look. Where was she going with this? “Did you say ‘none-too-bright'?” he grumbled, but it was really the “madly in love” part that disturbed him. He didn't want to get anything started.

“It's just a role.”

“I don't mind playing dumb as long as you remember I'm the boss here. Milt's sending me with you for a reason.”

“I think Milt is sending us together because there's safety in numbers, not because he expects you to exert your authority while we're there.”

“He doesn't need to specify that because I'm already your boss.”

“And I'd never question that.” She gave him a saccharine smile to take the edge off her sarcasm, and he seemed to accept the statement at face value.

“Glad we're on the same page.”

“Back to that incomplete dossier.” She waved one hand rapidly over her toes. “What was Milt thinking, being so vague?”

“He said he didn't have a lot of time. He thought we could finish strategizing today while we drove.”

“I'm glad to hear I'll have some input, because we need to come up with ways to seem more like a
real
couple.”

What was she up to? He narrowed his eyes as he looked at her, speculating on what it could be. “Such as…”

“I don't know. Something that makes it appear as if we've been together for more than, say…a
day.
”

He decided to go along with her. “Like what? Like…getting my name tattooed on your neck?”

She didn't argue as he'd expected; she frowned in contemplation. “Exactly. Only…not on my neck. That's too…overboard. But maybe my arm.”

“No way! I was joking, and you know it. There's no telling how long we'll be there. A fake tattoo might wash off.”

“Which is why it would have to be a real one. Right here.” She indicated her deltoid.
“Nathan's woman.”

She was pushing his buttons. After the way she'd avoided him the past several months, it seemed out of character, but now that they'd been forced into this situation, he wondered if she was overcompensating. “That might be just the thing,” he said, refusing to take the bait.

“As long as it's designed to be turned into something else when this is all over,” she murmured. “I've been meaning to get one, anyway—maybe a skull to impress the drug dealers I usually work with.”

His name—turned into a
skull?
The kiss of death. The image hit far too close to home. But, of course, she wouldn't know that. “Tattoos take time to ink and to heal. And they hurt. Are you sure you want to go through all that pain just to put your manager's name on your arm for one assignment?”