The moment she touched the dog she knew it was completely under the control of the other intruder. Her heart accelerated abruptly and she had to breathe deeply to counteract the sudden flood of adrenaline. "Rat bastard," she whispered to herself. "You only think you have the edge."
She slid farther into the darkness behind the hedges and vines crawling up the side of the massive house. She knew exactly where the safe was and how to get to it. She was fast and strong and could be in and out in minutes. Whitney's hunter had no idea what she was doing or where she would go in. She went up the side of the house, clinging like a spider, moving with stealth and speed to gain the second-story balcony. She went up and over the wrought-iron railing, dropping into a crouch and remaining still while she listened.
Flame glanced at her watch. The guard would be patrolling on this side of the house. She'd timed his movements several times and the idiot always took the same route. He was as reliable as a Swiss clock. She stayed very still, waiting until he had gone around the corner before unzipping her pack and pulling out her crossbow and hook. This balcony was the only real access to the tower roof and the skylight above the office where Saunders kept his safe. Smug jerk that he was, he thought he had it covered with his narrow staircase, the only exit in and out with two guards situated in the house at the bottom of the stairs. The tower had no balcony and no other access, only sheer walls and wrought-iron stakes below should one fall in an attempt at climbing it.
"Amateur," she sniffed. Saunders was as dirty and as greedy as they came. She had no compunction whatsoever about proving him an amateur in the area of crime.
The angle to reach the roof was tricky, and there was only one small target she could hook, but she was sure of her aim and took the shot without hesitation. She controlled the sound, keeping the noise of metal grinding on the roof from reverberating through the night. Crouching, she waited for a reaction, hoping the darkness would cover the line pulled taut from balcony to roof. Saunders had some very good guards, but he also had a few lazy ones. She didn't imagine that he would have many intruders and the guards had to be bored. Still, Saunders had the reputation of being as mean as a cottonmouth. He'd probably put a few dead bodies in the swamp over the years. She didn't plan on being one of them.
The guards wouldn't hear the hook, but she had to believe there was a possibility that the man hunting her might if Whitney had sent him. The smart thing for him to do would be to kill her while she was breaking into Saunders's tower, but it would be nearly impossible for him to collect her body and Whitney would definitely want it. Flame weighed the odds. More than likely, her stalker was sure of himself, certain he could take her when she came out, but much more likely, he was sent to bring her back. Whitney wouldn't want his multimillion-dollar experiment axed if he could still find a way to use her.
She shrugged, shouldered her pack and hooked her legs around the line, sliding hand over hand out above the grounds toward the tower. She couldn't help the little twinge of fear rushing through her at the expectation of a bullet, but she held on to the fact that she was worth more alive than dead to Whitney.
Whitney was a man who liked answers and his adopted daughter was very much like him. Flame had hacked into Lily's computer a couple of times and had recognized the quick mind and the same driving love of science. Traitor. That was how Flame saw Lily. There had been so much favoritism on Whitney's part, Lily had done what he wanted, become his willing puppet, his accomplice, his doting daughter so he could continue his vile experiments.
What did Lily think happened to the rest of them? Did she believe the bullshit stories in the computers? How could she when Dahlia had been locked in a sanitarium and a hit squad had destroyed everything she held dear? Lily would pay for that too. Flame would find a way. The Whitney money was an easy and obvious target, but Lily had too much, and hitting a few accounts here or there wasn't going to make much difference.
As Flame began her hand-over-hand climb to the roof, she focused on finding the man stalking her. She was positive he was the same man she'd noticed at the gas station. He had been putting gas in the Jeep, but he had been back in the shadows, almost impossible to see, and something about him had had her warning radar shrieking. Several times on the way to Saunders's estate, she'd had the eerie feeling she was being followed, but there was no sound and no headlights. He had to be one of Whitney's experiments. She knew she wasn't wrong.
She gained the roof without incident and stored her supplies in the pack just to the left of the skylight. Now, the biggest danger was that the hunter might follow her to the tower roof as well. She rigged the line to slip should he attempt to use it. He had to think she was going down the same way she'd come up. Flame made her way to the skylight, gliding with care so her footsteps couldn't possibly betray her presence to anyone inside.
Saunders was hunched over his desk, glass of whiskey in hand. He looked pleased with himself. "Slimy little weasel sitting in your ivory tower thinking no one can get to you, but I'm going to take you down." Flame sank down beside the skylight and lifted her face to the stars. She had to concentrate on the small things, the things she could do, the people to whom she could bring a little justice, not her past.
She couldn't think about the rigorous training, the long days and nights locked in a cage like an animal, feeling deprived of all dignity, of company, of anything that mattered. In the end, she had triumphed because she'd learned to be what they'd wanted her to be and she was far better than any of them had ever discovered. She'd escaped. She smiled, thinking of the bogus trust fund in the computer all set up in her name. She'd made it real and the money came in handy on the run. She'd stolen it from the monster, just as she'd stolen the money for the others, and had it locked up in offshore accounts where the bastard couldn't touch it. If she succeeded in finding the girls they would at least have money to start some kind of a life. Computer skills came in handy.
She should have left New Orleans the moment she realized she wasn't going to find Dahlia, but she'd heard about a missing girl. Joy Chiasson. For some terrible reason she identified with the girl, was afraid someone like Whitney had her. It made no sense, but she thought she'd poke around a little and just make certain.
Her throat was sore from singing so much in the last couple of weeks. She'd done three sets in a small club just a half-mile from the station where she'd gassed up her motorcycle, and her vocal cords were feeling the strain. The idea had been to see if anyone was abnormally interested in her because of her voice, but that idea had been sheer idiocy. Too many people followed her from club to club to know if someone was fixated on her the way they might have fixated on Joy.
Practically everything dirty in New Orleans led back to this place, this man. Kurt Saunders. He sold property and stole it back. He was behind most of the gambling, whores, and drug trafficking. His house was in the most elite part of the Garden District and he rubbed shoulders with politicians and celebrities. Men like Saunders didn't come down easily, but it was just possible that while she was helping out a friend tonight, she might also stumble across something to do with Joy's disappearance. It wouldn't surprise her in the least.
Flame focused back on the stalker. She felt him. Knew he was somewhere close to her, but couldn't pinpoint his location. He couldn't have a scope on her; she wasn't visible from the ground. He had to be the man from the gas station. He hadn't shown any interest in her at all. She tapped her thigh with her index finger, replaying the small moment over and over in her mind. She hadn't gotten a good look at him; he'd seemed to blend into the night. What made him memorable to her? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. She sighed and rubbed at her temple. She was getting a killer headache, something that often happened when she used psychic talents for long periods of time.
The splash of lights and a sudden flurry of activity at the gate, accompanied by the ferocious barking of the dog, had her crawling across the tower roof to peer over the edge. The guards had arrived, guns in plain sight, as the gate swung op
en allowing a black town car to sweep onto the circular drive.
Flame narrowed her vision, studying the car. She'd seen it before. A photographic memory helped keep small details filed away until she needed them. She'd seen the car several times on the frontage road out by the houseboat where she was staying. She'd also seen it around several of the clubs where she sang. The car always had the same driver. He stayed out of sight except to open and close the door for his passenger, Emanuel Parsons. Parsons was an older man, whom Flame guessed to be somewhere in his sixties. He carried a silver-handled cane, but she doubted he really needed it. He seemed to like the distinguished look and the deference everyone gave him.
She made a face as the driver opened the door and Parsons emerged wearing a long coat, his silver hair gleaming in the lights flooding the entryway. It didn't surprise her in the least that the man knew Saunders. Emanuel Parsons was the head investigator for the DEA and more than likely investigating Saunders for laundering money while playing friends with him. In the clubs he held himself aloof from everyone else, insisting on extra attention. He brought his grown son with him a couple of times, but most of the time he surrounded himself with other businessmen hardly deigning to notice most of the locals. He and his son had sent her a drink twice. And his son had dated Joy Chiasson. That alone put them on her radar screen.
She watched Parsons until he disappeared under the roof of the giant columned porch. With a little sigh she crawled back to the skylight. Why was it that in every town there were men who believed themselves above the law, men who had such a sense of entitlement? She didn't get it, probably never would get it. Dr. Whitney, just as these men, was a respected professional. He had the ear of people in high places. He had trust and even high security clearance, yet he was a predator, ruthlessly destroying the lives of others to further his own cause. Saunders was also such a man, and she had no doubt, just by observing Parsons in the clubs, that he was the same, even though they were on different sides of the law.
"It's like a damned secret society," she whispered under her breath. "To get in you just have to screw everybody." And why did people believe that sharks like Whitney and Saunders would eventually be brought to justice? In her experience they were never brought to justice. They schemed and muscled and killed and grew fat on their profits and everyone turned a blind eye. More than likely Parsons would end up dead someday, alligator bait in the bayou while Saunders got fatter off of his illegal profits. Her headache was getting worse and if she didn't tamp down her anger, the house was in for an unexpected shaking. Did Louisiana get earthquakes? She hadn't bothered to check.
The light in the room below went off suddenly, alerting her to the fact that Saunders was heading downstairs to greet his guest. The door to the office closed and she could hear the distinct click of a lock. Immediately she moved to the skylight and peered down. Sure enough, the tower room was empty.
Flame smiled--securing a little justice went a long way in curing headaches. Staying low to prevent skylining her body, she examined the skylight, looking for evidence of magnetic switches or motion detectors inside the frame. It didn't seem possible that Saunders could be so arrogant as to not install security on the skylight itself. Surely he wasn't that stupid? She'd come prepared for a difficult task, but she found nothing to do but use her laser cutter to open the glass dome. Before lifting the glass free with the attached suction cup she once more checked for security, this time using all senses, not just visual.
The sound was much too high for the human ear to detect. Flame froze without pulling away the glass. Saunders was using an old-fashioned ultrasonic motion detector. It was placed inside the skylight where little would disturb it. She rarely encountered them anymore because they were just too sensitive and often produced far too many false alarms. And that meant when she lifted the glass away the slight rush of air into the room would trigger the alarm.
It was a simple enough device. A transmitter sent out a frequency too high for the human ear and the receiver picked up the sound waves reflected in the area under protection. Motion would cause a shift in the frequency of sound. The larger the object the greater the shift in frequency. Most detectors were configured to ignore the small shifts that might be caused by insects, but a larger shift would trip the circuit and set off the alarm.
"You have the old Doppler effect going, don't you, Saunders?" Flame murmured aloud, under her breath. "Well, sound just happens to be my specialty, you cheap slimeball. Your little old detector is simply comparing the frequency emitted by the transmitter when no motion is detected to the frequency of sound that results when motion occurs. And that, my lovely little mark, is easy enough for someone like me to work around."
She cocked her head to one side, pressing close to the dome to listen, determining the pattern in the high-frequency sound. With no motion present, the sound bouncing back was an even, steady configuration. She simply had to find that exact frequency and pattern and make certain that nothing interrupted it when she removed the glass and dropped down into the room.
Flame nearly laughed. Here she was with all the latest high-tech equipment a cat burglar could possibly need, and she had to run into someone with an old-fashioned setup. "Cuz you're just too cheap where it counts, Saunders. You think because you rip off a lot of really nice people that makes you smart. It only makes you a mark, just like the ones you steal from."
It was gratifying how all those government-given talents came in handy when she went to work. Dr. Whitney and his little team of scientists would be so pleased to know their work had gone to a good cause.
She maintained the high-frequency pattern even as she pulled the circle of glass away and set it aside so that the sudden air shift wouldn't trigger the alarm. She dropped a line slowly, careful of the pattern, as she lowered her body into what Saunders believed was his impenetrable fortress. Landing lightly, she began a thorough search of the room all the while making certain the high-frequency signal remained a nice steady pattern. Saunders had money in the bank, but everything he stole was going to be in the tower room, in cash, hidden away.
She found the safe behind a section of wall panel looking just as smooth as the rest of the walls, but as she tapped lightly with the pad of her index finger along the textured surface, she could hear the slight differences in sound. It took only seconds to locate the hidden mechanism to slide the panel aside.
The safe gleamed at her, outrageously shiny in order to provide as many great fingerprints as possible should it be broken into. Flame smiled at it. "Hello, baby. Mama's come to free your soul." She peered closer. "You're a primo model, aren't you, hon? I'll just bet you've got a few layers of hard plate behind the door, don't you? I'll also bet you have a few ball bearings in the hard plate to chew up the drill bits too. That's just not nice, but then I'm not going to drill into you. That would hurt, wouldn't it, gorgeous?"
The safe also had a remote relocking device. If she punched out the combination, the remote relocker would engage, but she had no intention of cutting out the lock. She did everything by sound. She closed her eyes as she spun the tumbler, listening for the drop in sound. The first number was six and dropped easily into place. Flame spun the lock and heard the drop at nine. The third number was six. Scowling, she wasn't surprised when nine came up again. Four more times the numbers repeated.
"Idiot. You're such a freakin' cheesy sleazebag," she said as she swung open the safe's door. Four briefcases fit snugly into the safe. All four had combination locks. She didn't bother to ascertain they contained cash. It stood to reason they did. Scooping out all four, she secured them to her belt and carefully, without haste, put everything back exactly as it had been.
The climb hand-over-hand up the rope back to the roof was easy enough, and she kept the high-frequency pattern going in a nice steady beat the whole while. Back outside, she restored the skylight glass, using a high-end glue to replace the cutout, holding it in place until it sealed. They would find out, but it was always fun to make
them work a little to figure it out.
Stashing the four briefcases in her bag, she crawled quickly to the hook, retrieved the anchor, and shoved it in her bag with the other tools. She left the line, to provide the illusion of an expected escape route to whomever the Whitney Trust had sent against her. Let him wait for her. If she was really lucky, when the breakin was discovered, he might even get caught.
She slipped the pack on her back and slithered over the roof to the front edge. It was a long drop to the ground, but she had no intention of going down that way. She'd already calculated the jump between the tower roof and the small guesthouse at the back of the property Saunders used for his playtime. During surveillance she'd seen his men bring several different women there. Saunders liked to play rough. The women always came out looking battered and bruised rather than happy with whatever he paid them.
The distance between the tower and the guesthouse was far too great for anyone to believe she could use it as an exit. A sweeping lawn and several flower beds separated the two buildings. Flame straightened up, a momentary risk as she took a running start across the tower roof to leap for the roof of the guesthouse. She landed in a crouch, gaze already probing the darkness for danger.
Best scenario, the theft wouldn't be discovered until morning and she could leisurely get away, mask the sound of her motorcycle and hope one of Saunders's really alert guards didn't spot her. If so, well, that was one of the reasons for having the motorcycle in the first place.
Flame ran along the side of the guesthouse to the back of the property. The guards occasionally gathered to play a game of cards where Saunders never bothered to look for them. She made out two large men sitting in the gazebo housing a hot tub. Saunders went for the intimidation factor in his men, wanting them pumped-up in order to bully people with appearance alone. She could hear the murmur of conversation as they discussed a club in the French Quarter both were particularly fond of.