“It doesn’t have to be about the job.” She stepped closer, well within reach. The night suddenly didn’t feel so cold. Her hair gleamed beneath the streetlights. Her eyes were soft and inviting. “Or him.”
He wavered, on the verge of giving in. “Denise…”
A horn honked at the corner. Brakes squealed loudly. “Hey, watch where you’re going!” a bellicose voice cried out. “You trying to get someone killed?”
Denise flinched. All the blood drained from her face. She looked sick to her stomach.
He reached for her. “Denise?”
“No.” She backed away from him. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe we… should call it a night.”
It’s too soon, he realized. Maybe it always would be. “You going to be okay?”
“I’m fine,” she insisted. She forced a smile to patch over her reaction to the near collision at the corner. “It was a wonderful evening, Eliot.” She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you.”
He knew when it was time to go.
“Okay, then.”
He walked away quickly, before he could change his mind. Second thoughts strafed him like sniper fire as his feet stomped down the pavement. Every moment of the encounter, every word and look, played on a continuous loop inside his head as he debated whether or not he had made the right call. Was it too late to turn around and go back? If he hurried, maybe he could still catch her before she turned in for the evening. The night didn’t have to end this way… did it?
What did he want to do? What would Gavin want him to do?
“Damn it.”
He was less than a block away when grunts, curses, and the distinctive smack of meat and bone slamming into flesh yanked him out of his own head. Adrenaline jolted his system into overdrive. He knew a fight when he heard one, and where the commotion was coming from.
Denise!
He raced back the way he’d come. Rounding the corner, he saw Denise tussling with three tough-looking goons who were trying to hustle her into the back of a waiting black limousine. Artfully applied mud obscured the limo’s license plate.
Denise was putting up a pretty good fight, much more than her would-be abductors seemed to have expected. As Eliot ran toward the fracas, she drove an elbow into the gut of the goon behind her and, with practiced skill, flipped him over her shoulder into the thug charging her. The men collided loudly and crashed onto the sidewalk, landing in a tangle of limbs and profanities. A third man already had a split lip and bloody nose—Denise’s handiwork, presumably. A fallen gun rested on the pavement, where it must have landed after being knocked from one of the assailant’s grasp. Bloody Nose scrambled for the weapon.
No way, pal, Eliot thought. He didn’t like guns.
Dashing forward, he kicked the gun into the street, under the limo. Bloody Nose swore and took a swing at him. Eliot saw the blow coming from a mile away and yanked his head out of the way while simultaneously checking out his opponent. The guy was a beefy Nordic bruiser who looked like he was descended from a long line of Viking marauders. Cropped blond hair and blue eyes did little to soften his thuggish features. He was built like a tank, with a blocky head, bull neck, and bodybuilder’s physique that practically screamed steroid abuse. He had probably four inches and thirty pounds on Eliot. Most people would find him pretty intimidating.
Eliot wasn’t most people.
His fist slammed into Bloody Nose’s jaw, knocking the other man’s head to one side. The thug staggered backward, a stunned expression on his ugly face. Eliot guessed he was more used to hitting than being hit.
Turnabout’s a bitch, Eliot thought.
Getting in close, he delivered a couple of rabbit punches to the guy’s gut. There wasn’t a lot of flab there, just solid muscle. The guy grunted, but didn’t go down. Eliot tried to finish him off with an uppercut to the chin, but the thug blocked the blow with his forearm and shoved Eliot away with a meaty hand. He glowered angrily at Eliot, raising his fists.
“Bad idea, Romeo,” the thug snarled. A deep, gravelly voice made Arnold Schwarzenegger sound like a castrato. He wiped his bleeding snout with the back of his hand. “Should’ve stayed out of this.”
“Not a chance,” Eliot said.
They circled each other on the sidewalk. Eliot threw a couple of feints at the guy’s head, but Bloody Nose didn’t bite. This gorilla was more than just local muscle, Eliot realized; he’d had some training. But he wasn’t Eliot’s match.
Few people were.
Bloody Nose blocked a jab, then took another swing at Eliot, who was ready for it. Ducking beneath the blow, he slipped behind the thug and pounded him in the back. Bloody Nose stumbled forward, smashing loudly into the rear of the limo. A string of oaths, all of them unprintable, escaped his lips.
Eliot tackled him from behind, hoping to pound his face against the side of the car, but Bloody Nose threw his head back, butting Eliot in the face with what felt like a hairy cinder block. Eliot reeled backward, momentarily stunned. Blood dripped from his own nose now.
“Take that, pretty boy,” Bloody Nose said. Sophie might surmise that the man had issues with his looks. “Looks like you should’ve minded your own business!”
Pushing off from the limo, he spun around and took the fight back to Eliot. His apelike arms grabbed onto Eliot’s head, bending him forward to take a knee to the gut. A stomach full of wine and fine Italian cuisine absorbed the impact as Eliot gritted his teeth and kept on fighting. Doubled over, he took advantage of his hunched position to administer an openhanded blow to the thug’s exposed solar plexus, hitting him right where it would deliver the most oomph.
“Awwwk!” Bloody Nose gasped and doubled over as well. Eliot returned the favor by taking hold of the man’s thick skull and yanking it down. His knee rose up to meet the thug’s already damaged face. Eliot heard a wet, satisfying crunch. The thug yelped in pain.
Bloody Nose became Broken Nose.
Serves you right, Eliot thought, for going after Denise.
He swung the thug away from him into a nearby trash can. The man knocked the can over as he reeled across the sidewalk, spilling trash on the sidewalk. Eliot followed up with a roundhouse kick to the jaw that left the guy sprawled upon the pavement. He clutched his nose, moaning.
“This is my business,” Eliot said.
The fight took longer than Eliot liked. He checked anxiously on Denise, who was holding her own but outnumbered two to one. She had assumed a defensive stance, her weight on her forward leg, open hands held up in front of her. She moved to keep both bad guys in her line of sight, staying aware of her surroundings. Alert green eyes were on guard for attacks. Concentration, not panic, could be seen on her face. Her tactics indicated krav maga training, and maybe a few other disciplines.
How about that, Eliot thought.
The thugs closed in on her from north and south, blocking both ends of the sidewalk. One of them had a cheap crew cut; the other was bald and bearded. Crew Cut nodded at Baldy, who charged at Denise, seizing her attention. She adroitly sidestepped the lunge so that the thug grabbed only empty air. A back fist strike nailed Baldy, who toppled backward. He landed flat on his back.
A flicker of a smile appeared on Denise’s face.
The move, as effective as it was, distracted her from her other adversary, who rushed forward to pistol-whip her from behind. Cold steel cracked against her skull and she crumpled to the pavement. Crew Cut kicked her in the ribs.
“Denise!”
Eliot saw red. An empty beer bottle had spilled from the overturned trash can. He snatched it up and hurled it at Crew Cut’s gun hand. The missile slammed into the gunman’s wrist, knocking the weapon from his grip. Eliot threw himself at the unarmed thug even as Baldy scrambled to his feet to join the melee. It was two against one, again.
Works for me, Eliot thought.
The trick to taking on multiple opponents was to hit hard and fast and never give them a chance to gang up on you. While Crew Cut was still c
lutching his hurt wrist, and looking around for his lost gun, Eliot took the initiative and punched him in the throat, then shoved him into the path of Baldy, who grabbed on to his buddy instinctively. With Crew Cut coughing and choking and hanging on to his body, Baldy could not get to Eliot. Charging ahead, Eliot rammed into Crew Cut, driving him backward into Baldy. His fist flew over the first man’s shoulder directly into the chin of the other, landing a solid blow that left Baldy reeling. He teetered uneasily on his feet, even as Crew Cut sucked down air.
“Crap!” Crew Cut wheezed. “Who do you think you are?”
“More than you bargained for.” Eliot figured that the goons had been waiting to get Denise alone, only to find that their simple smash-and-grab had gotten a lot more complicated. Tough, he thought.
“Screw this!” Broken Nose hollered, lurching to his feet. “Fall back! Fall back!” He had clearly decided to cut their losses. Clutching his gushing schnoz, he shouted at his buddies. The men piled into the limo, dragging Crew Cut with them. “We’ll get the bitch another time!”
Not so fast, Eliot thought. Abruptly finding himself with no one to hit, he started after them, intent on keeping them from getting away, only to be distracted by an anguished groan from the sidewalk. Denise! He turned to see her lying facedown on the pavement. A crimson halo spread outward from her head.
“Damn it.”
He turned back toward Denise. The limo peeled away, running over the lost pistol in its haste. Eliot hastily took note of the car’s make and model. It looked to be a 2010 six-passenger Lincoln Town Car; he’d know it if he saw it again. He scowled as the bad guys made their escape, but seeing to Denise took priority. He prayed that she was only stunned.
First, Gavin. Now Denise, too…
He dashed to her side.
“Denise! Talk to me!”
He knelt beside her, cursing himself for leaving her alone on the sidewalk. An excruciating moment stretched on forever until she stirred and lifted her bleeding head from the pavement. He gasped in relief.
“Denise?”
“It’s all right, Eliot.” She sat up unsteadily, holding a hand to her head. Dark red blood seeped through her fingers from a nasty cut on her forehead. “It’s just a head wound. It looks worse than it is.”
Possibly, he thought. Cuts to the head could be deceptive that way, and the blood seemed to be venous, not arterial. Just the same, he wasn’t inclined to take chances. Peeling off her scarf, he used it to apply pressure to the wound. He checked her eyes for any signs of a concussion. Thankfully, the pupils were not noticeably dilated. His fingers gingerly explored a swollen bump at the back of her skull.
“Ouch,” she protested.
“Sorry.” He handed her the scarf so she could keep pressing it to her head. Her injuries looked minor, thank God, but he wanted a professional opinion, pronto. “We need to get you to an ER.”
She shook her head, which made her wince.
“I’m just shaken up,” she insisted. “I’m fine.”
“No arguments.” He wasn’t taking no for answer. “If nothing else, you might need stitches. And trust me, you don’t want me handling that.” He managed a grin. “I cook much better than I sew.”
“Okay,” she relented. “I’ll take your word for that.”
He helped her to her feet. She sagged against him, using him for support. He fished his phone from his pocket and hit the speed dial.
“Damn it, Hardison. Pick up.”
He knew the hacker often worked late, doing mission prep. He always complained that Eliot and the others didn’t appreciate the long hours he spent at the keyboard, getting their cover stories and aliases online, as well as digging up dirt on their targets. He was probably right, not that Eliot would ever admit it.
“Eliot?” Hardison answered on the second ring. “What’s up? I thought you were taking the night off.”
“Turns out not so much.” Eliot glanced down the street, where the limo was nowhere to be been. He guessed it was halfway to Brooklyn or Queens by now. “Looks like Brad’s getting desperate. Some goons just jumped Denise, tried to abduct her.”
“Seriously?” Hardison sounded appropriately shocked. “That’s messed up, man. What happened? She okay?”
“I’ll give you the full story later. Right now I need you to get me an ambulance or a cab or a horse and buggy… you got me?”
He could’ve called 911, but he figured Hardison was faster and more efficient than some overworked switchboard operator. Hell, Hardison had once managed to take over an air-traffic control tower on a few minutes’ notice—and even land a plane or two.
“Is Denise hurt?” Hardison asked. “How bad is it?”
“Damn it, just get me that ambulance!”
The geek got the message. “Okay, I’m locked on to the GPS signal from your phone. Stay right where you are. Help is on the way.”
That was more like it. “Thanks, man.”
“No problem. Anytime, you know. We also serve who only sit and click.” Hardison tapped away in the background while he talked at Eliot. “They really tried to snatch Denise, huh? Just wait until Nate and the gang hear about this. Guess we really rattled Brad’s cage.”
“Seems like it.” Eliot kicked himself for not seeing this coming, especially after what had happened to Gavin. Just how greedy was Brad? He heard an ambulance siren heading toward them. “Hang on,” he told Denise. “I think our ride’s almost here.”
“Really?” she cracked wise. “What took them so long?” She nestled against him, holding the bloody scarf to her brow. He was glad to see that the bleeding already seemed to be slowing. She gazed into his eyes. “Thanks for coming to my rescue, by the way.”
“Looked like you were doing pretty good on your own,” he said, holding her up. He eyed her suspiciously. “Where’d an office temp pick up moves like that?”
“YMCA,” she supplied. “How do you think I keep my girlish figure?”
“I don’t know. You tell me.”
“One of these days.” A pained smile lifted her lips. She hugged him tighter. “Maybe next time you’ll stick around a little longer?”
“Try and stop me.”
| | | | | | SEVEN | | | | | |
LONG ISLAND
“Just one more chapter,” Parker pleaded. Her eyes were fixed on the screen of Hardison’s ebook reader. “Hang on. Yvette has the rebel leader in her sights, but she doesn’t know that Dmitri was detained at customs…”
Hardison sat at the wheel of a flashy red sports car they had acquired for this occasion. The spiked iron gates of Brad Lee’s estate lay at the end of a long private drive. Security cameras tracked their progress. He turned toward Parker, who was tucked into the passenger seat beside him. Exasperation tinged his voice.
“Woman, will you forget about the damn book for a minute?”
Parker scrolled through another page. “But I thought the book was what this job was all about?”
“Well, yes, but—”
“I’ve only got about thirty pages more,” she announced. “I can’t wait to read the sequel.”
He shot her a look. “Er, you do know there is no sequel, right? Not for real?”
“Then why are we here?” she asked.
Hardison opened his mouth to explain, but decided it probably wasn’t worth the effort. Sometimes Parker just took their scams a little too literally. Like the time they had faked Sophie’s death and even held a mock funeral for her: it had been weeks before Parker had stopped poking Sophie to make sure she wasn’t a ghost.
And, of course, she still wanted to know what happened to that time machine.
“Never mind,” he said. “Just stick to the script.”
He pulled up to the barred front gate and honked the horn. A mounted security camera swiveled toward them. A moment later, an electronic buzz signaled that they were clear to proceed. The gates swung open automatically.
Parker frowned as they drove onto the estate. “I don’t like this. It f
eels like cheating.”
“You can break into the next mansion,” he assured her.
“Promise?”
The driveway led to Chez Brad, which was the size of stately Wayne Manor but twice as tacky. There were enough chimneys, dormers, pilasters, columns, ornamental stonework, and other flashy architectural bling to keep a dozen Real Housewives happy. The conspicuous grandeur of the estate was even more ridiculous when you considered that only one greedy ex-con was currently residing there. Living large was one thing; Hardison could appreciate a little pizzazz. But why did one person need ten bathrooms?
“Back again,” Parker said. In theory, she had left her hacksaw behind.
They parked the car and headed for the house. Hardison was dressed to impress in a hip urban ensemble, while Parker sported a belted black blazer, tunic, and leggings.
Brad met them at the front door in a blue velour tracksuit that made room for his girth. Imposing marble columns dominated the two-story-high portico. Stone lions guarded the wide front steps.
“Ah, Mr. Lee!” Hardison put on his Cockney accent, which he thought sounded bloody brilliant… or maybe smashing. One of those. “So good of you to meet with us like this.” He introduced Parker. “I believe you’ve already met my lovely assistant, Miss Lincoln?”
“Oh, yeah,” Brad said sourly. “I remember.”
“All of that was just to make your acquaintance,” Hardison assured him. “Trust me, you won’t regret it.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Brad said, not wasting breath on pleasantries. “Let’s hear what you have to say.” He stepped aside to let them enter the foyer, where a naked chain hung from the ceiling. “You owe me a new chandelier, incidentally.”
Parker shrugged, unrepentant.
“Forget the chandelier,” Hardison said. “With what you stand to make from the sequel, you’ll be able to outshine Versailles.”
“Ver-what?”
Okay, we’re going to need to dumb things down, Hardison realized. He made a show of glancing around cautiously. “So, you’re all alone here, as we discussed. No snoopy servants or bodyguards?”