Willing to Die (Alvarez & Pescoli)

All spoken in hushed tones. As if she couldn’t hear.

And now this.

She squeezed her eyes shut and brought to mind the manipulators who had made the decisions, those who had determined that she was “unable,” or “unwilling,” or “incapable.” More words she wasn’t supposed to hear. And then there was the harshest of all: “unfit.” Her teeth gnashed as she remembered the callousness with which that word was tossed about. How would they know? Yes, she’d been unstable—she knew that—though the word “insanity,” which she’d heard throughout her life, surely was extreme. She wasn’t “insane,” and never had been.

Especially not tonight.

No, as the rockets screamed into the sky, blooming in wild explosions of color and light, she’d never felt more sane. She’d spent so much time searching for her son only to find him buried here—that bit of hope she’d felt at the thought of reconnecting with him, of seeing him, of explaining to him and holding him . . . that tiny flame of expectation was now dead. Extinguished. And in its place rose a new emotion, raw and acrid.

Vengeance.

Swallowing the lump in her throat, she gazed at the small grave marker again and now, dry-eyed, thought of what lay ahead. “They’ll pay,” she promised her child, hoping that he would somehow know. Her fingers twisted in the drying grass of the hillside, the long blades and dandelions that were tucked close to the marker and had escaped the gardener’s mower clutched in her fingers. “Every last one of them. I will hunt them down and, I promise you, they will pay.” In her mind’s eye she saw them all. As she pushed herself upright, a series of smaller fireworks exploded over the bay, flashes of kaleidoscopic colors disappearing in fading fingers until the darkness was unbroken again.

She knew who they were, those who had betrayed her.

She knew where they lived.

She also knew she had the element of surprise on her side.

And she would destroy them all.

Tossing the dried weeds from her fingers, she dusted her hands.

She had a mission.

As she headed down the hill, stepping carefully between the marble and granite sentinels of the dead, she plotted just how to wreak her vengeance against them.

A sense of cold satisfaction displaced her desperation.

She turned at the locked gate, then climbed atop the wrought-iron fence and looked back over her shoulder. Spying the tiny gravestone, she whispered, “I love you,” and waited for an answer that didn’t come.

Armed with her new purpose, she hopped lithely to the ground, shoved her hands into the pockets of her jacket, and felt the cold reassurance of the Beretta Pico, a small .380. Jaw set, she strode through the darkness, avoiding streetlights as the explosions burst overhead.

No one would stop her now.

No one would dare.

Chapter 1

San Francisco, California

Six Months Later

Brindel wanted a divorce.

Correction: She needed a divorce.

From Paul Latham . . . make that Doctor Paul Latham. He always did.

Self-important bastard.

Glancing out the bathroom window to the night beyond, the lights of the city pinpoints, the view even from this room stunning, she was ready to give it all up. But of course, Paul wouldn’t go down without a fight. Not that it was about her or love. She actually laughed at that ridiculous thought, then took a sip from her second—or was it her third?—glass of wine. Didn’t matter. She finished the last drop, considered pouring another, then decided against it, leaving the glass on the marble counter. Whatever love she and Paul had shared nearly fifteen years before had shriveled and died long ago, like a worm on a hot sidewalk. All that was left was a hard, heartless shell of their marriage. No, the reason he would fight her was that he wasn’t a man who could lose. Not in his life, not in his marriage, not in his job, and especially not to her.

She shook her head. She’d been such a fool. She’d suspected early on, and discovered a few years into the marriage, that he’d expected her to raise his two sons, Macon and Seth. Which she had. Both disgustingly like their father.

Angrily she swiped off her makeup, scrubbing carefully, though she noticed a few irritating and stubborn lines on her face that needed a good shot of Botox. Afterward, she massaged cream into her skin, then brushed her hair until it gleamed. It now was blonder than her natural shade and streaked to hide any hint of gray, then cut in the most fashionable style money could buy, perfect layers framing her face to fall softly to her shoulders.

A glimpse of her closet showed off racks of shoes—heels, pumps, sandals, running shoes, a pair for every occasion displayed on lighted shelves that were slightly elevated. Neat rows. Each pair worth a small fortune.