It certainly couldn’t hurt.
She shook the match out, grimacing, and dropped it in the little jug set aside for the purpose. The singing wound to a soft close, and a quiet, flat voice in her ear startled her.
“Did you come here to pray?”
She jumped, and might have fallen into the candle rack if his mutilated hand hadn’t closed around her arm. The grip was like a vise, and she looked up into weary, dark eyes with no trace of red.
He examined her, then cast a glance around the small room. “Where is your protector, fair Anne?”
Relief boiled up inside her. Relief, and fresh terror. I didn’t think this out very well, did I. “I…he has the key. He’s getting the ring. I came here.” Her throat was parched dry, despite rainwater dripping from her hair and clothes. “Aren’t you supposed to be—”
“Lying in a grave, appearing dead instead of passing my time in a papist church? Sanctified ground is not my enemy, and I had too much of sleep in my captivity.” He let go of her arm. His cheeks were flushed with unhealthy fever, and his hair was no longer as stringy and greasy. The livid scars on his neck and face were also rubescent, as was his mangled hand. All in all he looked much less like a corpse and much more like…a fresh corpse. Not much of an improvement. “I must apologize. I did not…last night, I almost did what I should not.”
I really wish I had some sort of idea what to say. “Oh, that’s all right.” Rain dripped from her hair. She studied him, he examined her, and the silence was full of small, sharp things. The singing intensified, and there was the sound of shuffling as people got to their feet. “I wanted to talk to you. Is it…can we go somewhere?”
“Not until dark. Not while I am as you see me.” Kit shifted his weight slightly, leaning back. He was still barefoot, and she wondered why nobody noticed a barefoot dreadlocked man with missing fingers and toes in here.
“Don’t you need shoes or something?” Why am I whispering? Her voice shook, but no more than it had been lately. “You look cold.”
He shrugged. The torn sleeve of his black T-shirt flapped, and she caught a glimpse of the horrible track marks underneath. “Why are you here?”
Here goes nothing. Her ankle almost rolled as she straightened, her lower back creaking. “I want whoever killed Eric to…to face the consequences.”
That was good for a long fifteen seconds or so of silence, during which Kit stared at her. His gaze ran down her body and back up, and Anna shivered. It was like being eyed by a shark. “And your canny young man?”
Canny’s a good word for him. Exactly the right one, in fact. “He says there’s no profit in revenge.” It’s a little too late to worry about what he’s going to think now. He’s going to be furious. I don’t blame him.
Kit nodded, slowly. Thoughtfully. When he moved that slowly, the reptilian quality of his movement was a little less marked. “He is right.”
Anna drew herself up to her full height. “Eric’s—was—my brother.” Her conscience gave a sharp twinge; she told it to shut up. “I want whoever killed him to pay and I want his story on the front page. I don’t care if there isn’t any profit, or if nobody will believe in you or what those people did to you.”
The candle-flames reflected in his eyes, little points of brightness in the endless depths of his pupils, before he looked down at the floor. Fat snakes of matted hair fell across his forehead. “Women,” he muttered. “The Queen her Grace had a mother like you, except her gaze was darker. I heard she witched the king, God save his soul.” He winced, his lip lifting in a swift snarl that thankfully didn’t show much of his canines. “Imagine that. Here in a popish church, after so long, I still beg God’s forgiveness for that whoring peacock. You should beware of men, fair Anne, they are creatures of habit.”
She swallowed dryly, tasting metal and dusty stone in her mouth. Tell me something I don’t know. “I thought you could help me.”
“How could I? Does the lamb ask the wolf for help? No. The lamb cowers in fear, and well she should.” He cocked his head. “Mass is heavily attended today; they must suddenly fear for their souls in this city. Come with me.”
He brushed past her, the candles bowing away from a sudden cold breeze. The flames danced as her skin rose in goosebumps. He seemed to take it for granted she’d follow, so she did.
The end of the hall was a blank stone wall, but he turned aside just before that. An ancient dusty velvet curtain hung, pulled back from a niche where a painting of a thin bearded man sitting cross-legged on a pillar peered at her from under his halo. He wore a beatific smile, and two fingers pointed to heaven. The perspective was wrong; she automatically corrected a few lines inside her head, her busy brain suddenly worrying about how to fix the mistake.
Kit pulled the curtain aside, and she saw a small wooden door. He pushed it open, with not even a theatrical creak. “You have no idea what I almost did last night, do you?”
Behind the door, stone steps went down, lit by a bare bulb overhead. “No.” But I think you might have wanted to bite me, too.
I don’t think I’d like that very much, thank you.
A ghost of a smile touched his garish flushed lips. “That is very good. And you also have no idea, fair Anne, of who is also lurking in this church, waiting for me to show my face.” He stood aside so she could go through the door and followed her down, his step silent behind her as the door swung shut.
Chapter Twenty-One
Josiah leaned against cold concrete, hot blood slipping through his fingers clamped around his shoulder, and marveled again at how a simple job could go completely fucking sideways without even a shred of warning.
Hassan racked a fresh clip into his 9mm, chambered a round. “How you doing, mate?”
They’ve taken her by now. Or killed her. Dear God. “Fine. How did you find me?” The machine inside his head was stalling, a product of cotton-gray shock. He squeezed his shoulder; the resultant flare of spiked, scalding flame pushed the gray cotton back. Have to be careful; keep using the wound like that and it’ll lose its punch.
“Police scanner. They were watching the PO, started chattering about ten minutes ago, Willie tagged it and told me to go. I got down here in time to see you coming out the front door.”
What Hassan didn’t add was, right into a trap. The only thing saving Josiah had been the animal consciousness of something not right, the little intuitive tickle on his nape sending him back into the post office, glass shattering as he dove for cover. The back door had been watched, too, but Hassan had dropped in, neat as you please, and rid the alley of two plainclothes John Q. Laws with some very illegal and powerful rifles.
They weren’t taking any chances.
So someone had known about the post office box. Of course, there were ways of finding those things out. A simple pawing through Eric’s desk would have probably yielded the information on a receipt or a reminder note.
Eric, for all his shrewdness, had been a fucking amateur.
Josiah swallowed, his throat slick and dry. “Anna.” A hundred wet stinging needles from the slice of iron-gray sky visible overhead kissed his face, a fine penetrating rain. The bite on his throat throbbed, a star of fetid heat. “Jesus. I left her in a car. Second level, garage across the street.” They have her, or they’ve killed her. Anna.
“Let’s hope she’s still there. Come on, soldier, move. Willie’s coming for us.”
Josiah squeezed again, the pain a bright red smashing kaleidoscope inside skull. Make your brain work, you idiot. “How did they ID me?”
“You haven’t exactly been inconspicuous lately.” Hassan eased back, taking a look at him. Water ran down his face. “Vanczy, probably. Let’s go, old man.”
Hassan took point, leading Josiah farther down the alley. The gun was a warm, comforting bulge under his left arm, his right hand clamped over the bleeding hole in his left shoulder. A high-powered rifle, capable of taking a good chunk of him wherever it hit; he was lucky.
Too much goddamn
luck going around lately, good and bad. This isn’t normal. He gulped down cold, wet, exhaust-laden air, intense prickling flushing along his skin. The most unpleasant part of being shot—aside from the pain and the blood—was the feeling that he might simply vomit from the agony.
It never got any easier.
“If I know Willie, she’ll nip over to the parking garage and collect your girl; their units on the roof must’ve moved by now. Hurry up.” Hassan kicked at a door, taking it down in two hits, then fished in his pocket and extracted a cell phone. He thumbed a call and Josiah wanted to laugh, the past curving over onto the present. Anna’s voice through the phone, soft and husky.
I need your help. I need your help.
Too bad this was all going south. He didn’t have enough backup to run this type of operation successfully. He wondered what type of backup would be better—a priest, maybe? Or just anyone with garlic and stakes.
And guns. Lots of guns.
His head was getting fuzzy. His throat hurt, the bite molten-hot. Was it infected? Christ.
“I need eyes, woman,” Hassan snarled into the phone. “Where are they?”
Whatever he heard must have been good news, because he barely slowed, bursting through another door that gave onto the sweat-hell chaos of an industrial kitchen. Someone gasped at the sight of two men, one with a gun and the other bleeding, both running hell-for-leather, the tiles underfoot slippery with steam. The smell of food made his stomach turn hard, and suddenly he was sure that this time he really was going to puke.
Anna. I’m coming. If they get to you just hold on, hold on—
“Good.” Hassan slapped the phone back into his pocket and snarled a curse in Spanish at a wide-eyed busboy, who scurried out of the way. “Come on, Wolfe. I get a little tired of dragging your ass out of these things.”
Josiah knew Spanish, but what came out of his mouth was strangely slurred and in Muscovite Russian as well. “But without me you’d never have any fun.”
“You have the strangest idea of fun, mate.” Another door swinging open, and they were in a long concrete hall lit by fluorescents. Hassan whipped out a red bandanna and paused long enough to prop Josiah against the wall, fishing another square of cloth out of his pocket. The rough compression bandage helped, though Josiah couldn’t lift his left arm now. “There we are. Good thing your coat’s dark.” A few sani-wipes to get the worst of the blood off his jacket and hand, then Hassan checked his pupils and nodded. “Here. Take one.” He popped a bitter-tasting pill in Josiah’s mouth and snorted at the resultant involuntary grimace. “Good enough. Willie’s got the first-aid kit; she’ll pick us up on the other side of this block.”
Josiah let out a sigh, the world snapping back into its accustomed dimensions, shock receding. His eyes burned, and before long the pill would start to work. “Let’s do it, then.” God help anyone who gets in the way. I’m not feeling cautious right now.
The wall inside his head lifted and the machine took over, turning over percentages, working angles, alternatives, possible moves. First objective, getting the hell out of here. Second objective, get to Anna. Make sure she’s okay.
If she’s not—no, don’t think about that. You can’t think about that.
Outside, the rain made a dull leaden curtain. The alley was long and crooked, the type of terrain perfect for escape or ambush. They went quickly, not running but loping, a ground-eating pace any mercenary or agent could keep up, even wounded, for a long time. Everything depended on getting enough of a lead to disappear into thin air. Neatest trick of the week, put a rabbit into a hat and watch a Wolfe disappear.
Just be safe, Anna. Hold on.
Hassan slowed, reaching into his pocket again and producing the cell phone. “Make it quick,” he said, short of breath. His hair was soaked by now, droplets shaken free as he moved. The alley was drawing close, and Josiah could see cars gliding past at the end, people walking. They would come out on Madison and hopefully be lost in the lunchtime rush; Willie would swoop by with Anna in the car and pick them up. Neat as you please. His side ached, a stitch tearing into his ribs and the bandage mercilessly tight on his shoulder. Lucky. He was lucky.
Get to her in time, Willie.
Hassan flipped the phone shut. He didn’t say anything, just slowed to a safe crowd-insertion pace. Josiah didn’t ask. If it was trouble, Hassan would tell him soon enough. If it wasn’t, he didn’t need to know.
Thank God he had left her in the car. If she’d been hit in that crossfire—
No, I went around the block, there was no way for them to see where I came from. Willie only knows about that garage because of that time we went to the Bach concert.
His brain jagged sideways again. They were shooting to kill. Oh, God. Anna. Be safe, baby.
He should have dropped the whole thing and gotten her out of town after meeting Chilwell. They could have been on a beach by now, Anna with a sketchpad balanced on her pretty knees, listening to the rhythms of heavily accented foreign words or sucking on lemon ice. He could be watching the sun pick out gold highlights in her hair instead of stumbling behind Hassan, hoping like hell his backup was good enough because the shock from the bullet had come back, closing around him in a heavy gray blanket. The pill made everything very calm, a placid blue lake with veins of orange pain spearing down his arm.
Be safe. Just be safe.
The crowd closed around them without a ripple, and Hassan’s shoulders were tense. The guns were gone, holstered automatically. Now was not the time for firepower; now was the time for blending in. Rain blurred down, telescoping the sound of sirens in the distance. Drips of water falling from Josiah’s numb fingers were pink. Nobody noticed, too occupied with seeking shelter from the intensifying downpour. The world rippled underfoot, then Hassan ducked aside, opening a car door. Josiah followed.
“How badly is he hit?” Willie, her accent turning the words guttural. Dark hair scraped back into a huge bun, a welcome sight in the driver’s seat. Rain bulleted against the windshield, the wipers going full speed.
“He’ll live. Get us the fuck out of here.” Hassan pulled the coat down Josiah’s arm; there was a sharp barking inhale of pain that didn’t sound like it was coming from Josiah at all. “Sorry, mate.”
“Anna…” His voice, slurred and slow, as he fought to hold on through the gray carpet of shock. His neck burned, burned, jolting him. “Anna…”
“You didn’t tell him?” Now Willie sounded shocked, and Josiah registered something.
Anna wasn’t in the passenger’s seat next to Willie. She wasn’t in the backseat, now full of Hassan and a bleeding, suddenly very tired Josiah. Nada. Zip. Zilch.
That managed to rouse him. “Where is she?” I’m yelling. Can’t yell, attracts attention, dammit—
“She wasn’t in the car!” Hassan yelled in reply as Willie took a left turn and accelerated. The sirens were very close, and Josiah found himself in a wrist lock, his wounded shoulder screaming, too. “She wasn’t in the bloody car, now calm the fuck down!”
I left her there, I left her safe, think I have got to think my God where is she?
Hassan had his wounded arm as Josiah feebly thrashed, shock and blood loss finally taking its toll. A sharp prick, needle sliding home, and numbness rolled up to his shoulder. The bite was a necklace of fire. “She wasn’t in the car,” his backup—and best friend—repeated. “Willie would have brought her, if she was. The bloody bint’s got snatched; she’s bait. Or she’s dead. Just calm the fuck down, Wolfe, and let us work. You’re no good to us half-dead.” It was ’alf-dead, his accent wearing through, too.
They were frightened, and well they should be.
Hassan sighed. “That’s right. Relax.” He probably had no idea how unsoothing he sounded. “Just bloody relax, mate. We’ll sort this all out. We’ve got you, mate. You’re in good hands.”
Josiah passed out.
* * *
The bullet had gone right through the meat of his upper arm, a wing sh
ot. He was damn lucky it hadn’t hit bone, and even luckier shock hadn’t disabled him further. To top it all off, he was fucking lucky that both Hassan and Willie hadn’t even considered leaving him to the tender mercy of his pursuers. Loyalty, that one variable hardly ever accounted for in operations going sideways, had saved Josiah’s ass.
He should have been grateful.
Another fog-wrapped night pressed hard against the windows of yet another dim motel room as Willie stitched and bandaged his arm properly. Hassan poked around in the kitchenette, making sandwiches and heating up soup. This place was an extended-stay motel; they had paid for two weeks in a two-bedroom suite. Hopefully it wasn’t a waste of money. There was ready access to cash just about anywhere in the world they landed; it was simply an agent’s habitual running over alternatives that had him worried about liquid resources.
The lights in the kitchenette and bathroom were on to give Willie enough to see by, but not enough to silhouette any of them in the draped window. The television was on, the sound muted. He stared at its flickers as Willie, her touch butterfly-light, finished the bandaging. “You’re going to have good scar there.” Her tone was deliberately soft, soothing.
She was trying to be kind. He searched for something to say. “I shouldn’t have left her.” Flat, hopeless, the words came out of the hole in his chest, the whistling emptiness widening another few centimeters. “Shouldn’t have left her there. But if I’d taken her in…Rifle fire. They meant business.”
“Of course they meant business. They had two SWAT teams coming in. Whoever opened fire on you made a mistake. Probably being disciplined right this moment.” She laid the bandaging aside on the table, pushing aside the pile of bloody cotton balls. There was a hole in the sleeve of his jacket now. Someone’s aim had been off, or Josiah’s reflexive dive had saved his life.
Anna had no reflexes. She would have been standing up as the bullets plowed past, making their deadly little whistles, cleaving air and smashing glass.