Crave (Fallen Angels 2)

There would be no talking to her, no denying the shift he'd made. And maybe that was for the best. They had no business being together anyway--and that was before he layered on his professional pursuit of excellence in the field of deading up people.

Isaac got his Merry Maid on and headed for hall. "I need to move the body."

"Don't you turn away from me," she barked out.

He heard Grier coming behind him as if she had every intention of yelling at him some more, so he stopped short and pivoted around just as he got to the archway. As she pinwheeled to keep from running into his body, he pegged her in the eyes.

"Stay here. You don't want to see--"

"Fuck. You." She shoved past him, marching by until--"Oh . . . God . . ." She choked off the word, her hand coming up to her mouth.

Bingo, he thought grimly.

Fortunately, her father was on it, going over to her and gently maneuvering her out of eyeshot.

Cursing himself and everything about his life, Isaac continued down the hall, more determined than ever to take care of the problem . . . except his urgency took a time-out as he came up to the body.

A cell phone was in the corpse's hand and the thing was sending a message; the little screen on the phone was glowing with a picture of an envelope going into a mailbox over and over again.

Okay. Time to back the bus up, here: Guys who had no frontal lobe geeeenerally speaking didn't reach out and touch something with their T-Mobile.

A little glowing check mark appeared, indicating success.

"Isaac, you're going to need more than a dustpan to handle that."

At the sound of Jim's voice, he looked over his shoulder. And had to blink a couple of times. The man was standing in the dark part of the hall, well away from the light that came through the arches of the study and library . . . but he was illuminated, a glow surrounding him from head to foot.

Isaac's heart did a couple of jumping jacks in his chest cavity. Then seemed to take a little breather.

There had been a number of times when he'd been out in the field, in the middle of an assignment, and things had gone tits-up on him: You thought you knew your target's patterns and resources, weaknesses and protective covers, but just as you were about to move on him, the landscape changed sure as if someone dropped a bomb in the middle of the town square of your perfect plan. Weapon malfunctioned. A potential witness f**ked your timing up. The target stepped out of range.

What you had to do was a fast recalibration of the situation, and Isaac had always excelled at that. Hell, that video game he'd unwittingly trained himself on had made his mind totally open to the lickety-split.

But this shit was out of his expertise. Big-time.

And that was before Jim took out a long dagger . . . that was made of crystal. "You're going to let me handle this now. Step away from the body, Isaac."

Chapter Forty

Matthias spent way too much time in the stone embrace of that church. And when he finally forced himself to leave, he assumed he'd been there a good hour or so, but the instant he looked at the sun's position in the sky, he realized he'd wasted all of the morning and most of the afternoon.

Yet he would have stayed longer if he could have.

He was hardly a religious man, but he'd found a shocking and rare peacefulness beneath the stained glass gallery and before the glorious altar. Even now, as his mind told him that it was all bullshit, that the place had been just another building, and that he was so tired you could have put him on a Disney ride and he would have fallen asleep, his heart knew better.

The pain had stopped. Shortly after he'd sat down, the pain in his left arm and chest had disappeared.

"Whatever," he said out loud as he got in his car. "Whatever, whatever . . ."

Getting back in the game was something he felt compelled to do, and there was a pleasurable, needling sting to it, as if he were picking a scab. On some level, he was captivated by what he'd found in the church, but his job, his deeds, his very way of life was a whirlpool that sucked him in and kept him down and he just didn't have the energy to fight it.

Still . . . maybe there was a middle way, he thought, when it came to Isaac Rothe. Maybe he could get the guy to keep working only in a different capacity. The soldier had obviously responded well to the threats against Grier Childe--that could be enough to keep him in line.

Or . . . he could let the guy go.

The instant the thought crossed his mind, some inner part of him slammed it down as if it was an utter blasphemy.

Annoyed with himself and the situation, he started the engine and checked his phone. Nothing from his number two. Where the hell was the bastard?

He sent a text demanding an update and giving his ETA, which would be well after dark at this point. Out of state his ass. That f**ker had better be there with Isaac Rothe duct taped to a chair before Matthias rolled up--and God help him if he'd killed Rothe.

As impatience cranked his hands down on the wheel, Matthias eased away from the curb and headed for the highway thanks to the GPS screen on the dash. He'd gone less than a mile before the pain underneath his sternum came back, but it was like a familiar suit of clothes after he'd been trying on someone else's wardrobe: easy and comfortable in a f**ked-up kind of way.

His phone went off. Picture message. From his number two.

As he accepted the thing, he was relieved. A little visual confirmation that Isaac was alive and in custody was a good thing--

It was not a picture of Isaac.

It was the remnants of his second in command's face. And that snake tattoo that ran around the man's throat was the only way he was sure who it was.

Underneath the picture: Come and get me--I.

Matthias's first and only thought was . . . the f**king nerve. The goddamn cocksucking nerve. What the hell was Rothe thinking? And shit, if threats against dear sweet lovely Grier Childe didn't work, Isaac was utterly uncontrollable and therefore he had to be put down.

Raw fury cast aside the last lingering remnants of his time in that church, a wellspring of vengeance letting loose to roar. As it hit him, in the back of his mind, he had a thought that this wasn't him, that the cool, knifelike precision of thought and action that had always been his hall-mark would have precluded this white-hot burn. He was, however, incapable of turning away from the need to act--and act personally.

Fuck delegation. . . . There were countless operatives he could have called in, but this he would handle himself.

In the same way he'd had to see Jim Heron's body with his own eyes, he was going to go and take down Rothe himself.

The man had to die.

Chapter Forty-one

As Grier sat on the couch in the corner of the kitchen, she revisited her choice to go into law instead of medicine and knew she'd made the right decision: She'd never had the stomach to be a doctor.

Her grades and test scores could have gotten her into either graduate school, but the tipping factor had been Gross Human Anatomy, that first-year med-school staple: one look at those muslin-covered dead bodies on all those tables during her pre-admission tour and she'd had to put her head between her knees and try to breathe like she was in yoga class.

And what do you know. The fact that there was someone in an even juicier condition in her front hall was so much worse.

Surprise, surprise.

Another shocker at the moment--not that she needed one--was her father's hand making slow, calming circles on her back. The times he had done something like this were few and far between, as he was not the kind of man who handled shows of emotion well. And yet when she'd really needed it, he'd always been there: her mother's death. Daniel's. That horrible breakup with the guy she'd almost married right out of law school.

This was the father she had known and loved all her life. In spite of the shadows that surrounded him.

"Thank you," she said without looking at him.

He cleared his throat. "I don't believe I deserve that. This all is because of me."

She couldn't argue the point, but she didn't have the strength to condemn him; especially given that terrible ache in his voice.

Now that her rage had passed, she realized that his conscience was going to haunt him to the day he died, and that was the punishment he'd earned and was going to carry out. Plus, he'd already had to bury one child, an imperfect son who he had loved in his own way and had lost in a horrible manner. And although Grier could have spent the rest of her days alienating him and hating him for Daniel's death . . . was that really a burden she wanted to carry around?

She thought of the body in the front hall and how life could be snatched away between one breath and the next.