New York to Dallas (In Death 33)

“I dunno. They were just there. Want more candy.”

“In a minute.”

The van, he decided. They’d managed to track the van. He’d really thought he’d had at least another week there. He should have had another week.

Ah, well, on to Plan B.

“Suitcase,” she muttered.

“Hmm?”

“We going? We packing up, and going somewhere nice?”

He followed her stare. He had

n’t meant to leave the suitcase out in plain sight. He’d just been so rushed. Had so many things to think of, to decide on.

“Mmm,” he murmured, strolling behind the sofa.

“Get a nice new place, and when we get that Dallas bitch, you’ll let me have her first. Bleed her good. Make some money off her, right, Rich? Make a whole lot of money off her.”

He lifted his brows at the name she called him. That was women for you, he supposed, couldn’t keep their men straight.

“I’m going to have to disappoint you there.”

He yanked her head back, slit her throat with quick, almost surgical precision.

Good, he thought. Good. Now he felt much better.

When she gurgled, tried to clutch her throat, he shook his head, let her slide to the floor. “You’re useless to me. Absolutely useless.”

He pulled off his shirt, tossed it aside as he went to the kitchen to scrub his hands and arms.

He’d already carried most of what he needed to the car, though he intended to travel light. He changed his shirt, brushed a hand over his hair. Slipped on his sunshades.

Picking up the suitcase, he blew a kiss toward the door, toward Melinda and Darlie.

“Fun while it lasted,” he said, and strolled out without a backward glance toward the woman bleeding on the floor.

16

As Roarke drove, Eve worked the ’link, coordinated with, strategized, updated the team Ricchio put together.

“Four uniforms on scene, pulled a block back from target,” she muttered, while Roarke roared through the gap between a truck and a Mini with a stream of spit to spare. “He doesn’t know we have this location. Has to know she wouldn’t go back if we did—and they’ve spotted the stolen car just inside the apartment’s garage. So she’s there.

“We need to keep them back,” she said into the ’link. “Right now he has bait, a new start to his collection. If he sees cops, the bait become hostages. And he only needs one.”

“SWAT’s ten minutes out,” Ricchio told her. “We’re right ahead of them.”

“We’re under two. We need a way in. He’ll have security. He’s on guard now, wondering what we know. Or he’s already poofed.”

“We’ll ascertain with EDD on arrival.”

“Heat sensors won’t show them in the room he’s prepped for them. If they’re all in there—On scene now. I’ll get back to you.”

She leaped out before Roarke braked at the curb.

“Status.” She snapped it out, flashed her badge at the uniforms.