Chains of Fire

  The creepy thing was—he was no longer sure there wasn’t a monster under the bed. When his grandmother was still sick from the plunge in the Atlantic, she’d babbled on about Isabelle Mason and how she had healing hands.

  Todd believed Isabelle had pulled his grandmother from the ocean and given her CPR and thoroughly screwed up his plans. But he hadn’t believed the woo-woo stuff.

  In frustration and rage, he’d put out the contract on Isabelle, figuring to get her out of the way and then take care of Granny himself . . . but the assassins he’d met made him believe in woo-woo. And not good woo-woo, either. They were scary in a way that made him want to call it all off.

  But it was far too late for that.

  Finally he couldn’t stand the silence anymore. Throwing back the covers, he locked his bedroom door, checked the locks on the windows in the bathroom and the bedroom, pulled the drapes so tight not a speck of light could escape and nothing floating outside on bat wings could look in. When he was satisfied nothing could come in, he got back in bed and pulled up the covers, and, in his first act of daring in two weeks, he turned out the light.

  And froze as a deep, cold, angry man’s voice said, “Now we’re closed in nice and tight . . . just the two of us.”

  Chapter 50

  Isabelle walked into her parents’ house, past a stiff and worried Darren, sat down on the bench in the entryway, put her face in her hands—and sobbed.

  She heard Darren’s footsteps hurrying away, up the stairs.

  Samuel. Samuel.

  She had never felt so betrayed. So broken.

  She should have known better.

  Hadn’t she done this before with him? Sure, they loved each other . . . or at least, she loved him. But five years ago, they’d been living together, loving each other, but she had known even then that they were very different people.

  She had been working at an abused women’s shelter.

  He’d been a lawyer making a name for himself.

  And when she’d held information he wanted, he took it from her.

  She would never forget the moment she realized what he had done . . . and what she had done. All unknowing, she had betrayed a woman whose very life had been nothing but abuse and betrayals. Isabelle had despised herself, and despised Samuel.

  And when she reproached him, he claimed not to comprehend her distress.

  So she had left him. Left him forever, because how could she live with a man who couldn’t understand that he could not take what he wanted from her? A man whose morality saw no reason for regret?

  Three years later, through the auspices of the Gypsy Travel Agency, she’d been flung into his company.

  She’d resisted the desire to be with him again.

  He’d helped by being a jerk.

  Then the forced proximity in the ski lodge had changed everything, and here she was, crying again over Samuel Faa when she should know better.

  “Honey?” Her mother’s voice. Her mother’s hand on her shoulder.

  Isabelle took a breath and looked up.

  Patricia Mason stood there, clutching her robe, frowning, gnawing her lip.

  How many times had Isabelle seen her polished, cosmopolitan mother flustered, anxious, searching for the right words to comfort her?

  So seldom.

  How many times had it been because of Samuel?

  Every time.

  Isabelle forced herself to her feet and faced her mother. “I, ah, I just ...” She tried to hang on to her dignity, but emotions roiled to the surface, scraping away her composure. “Oh, Mother. What am I going to do?” To her horror, she burst into tears again.

  “Isabelle.” Patricia put her arm around her daughter, led her to the office, and shut the door. “Tell me what happened, honey.”

  Crises like this were the only times Isabelle’s mother called her an endearment.

  Isabelle cried harder and, between sobs, told her mother the whole story.

  In a hard, angry voice Isabelle had never heard from her before, Patricia said, “This is what you get for signing that contract with the Chosen Ones.”

  Isabelle took a long breath, got control of her anguish, and pulled Kleenex out of the tissue holder. “Mother, I had no choice.”

  “What do you mean, you had no choice?” Patricia paced across her office, flinging her hands in the air.

  Isabelle noted that although it was three o’clock in the morning, her mother wore diamonds big enough to weigh down her hands.

  “Are you saying they blackmailed you?” Patricia asked. “Because if that’s the case, I know some good lawyers who will get you released from your obligation.”

  “No, I’m saying I was taught to do the right thing, and giving of my gift to help people is the right thing.” Isabelle stared at her mother meaningfully. “Do you know who taught me that, Mother?”

  Patricia breathed hard, lifted her chin, and admitted, “I did.”

  “I signed with the Chosen Ones because you told me I had an obligation to make the world a better place.” As Isabelle spoke, she realized the ugly truth.

  Samuel or not, she had to return to her duties with the Chosen Ones.

  “I only wish he hadn’t ...” Isabelle shook her head. “But why wish something that can never be? Samuel is Samuel, and as you said once, he’s a charming, deceitful beast.”

  “Yes, I know I said that, and I believe it, mostly.” Patricia stopped pacing. “Yet after he was rescued from the avalanche, he seemed so dedicated to the two of you being together. I thought for sure ...”

  “He’s Samuel. He’s always a disappointment.” Years ago Isabelle had sworn she would never cry about him again. “In the plane, he reminded me what he’d done wrong. He still doesn’t regret betraying me. And he said it was a good thing we’d found out we were incompatible before we did anything stupid, like getting married.”

  Her mother stared at her, head slanted to the side, face puzzled. “I don’t understand. I don’t like Samuel, but I saw him in Switzerland. Right or wrong, good match or bad, he would marry you in a minute.”

  Isabelle wiped the tears off her face, took a few deep breaths, got ready to argue, and realized . . . Patricia was right.

  Samuel had instigated a fight with her. He’d said all that purposely—to make her angry.

  The question was . . . why? Why, when she’d scarcely discovered that she was the target of an assassination attempt, would he try to get rid of her?

  What is he planning?

  “Oh, my God.” Isabelle stood up, arms tight against her sides, fists clenched.

  “What?”

  “That skunk. He manipulated me.”

  “It sounds as if he did.” Patricia leaned toward her daughter, brow furrowed. “Darling, what do you intend to do?”

  Chapter 51

  Winter nights were long and cold, and at five o’clock in the morning on the Boston docks, dawn was three hours away. The city lights shone up on the cloud cover, providing a dingy light as Samuel walked toward the warehouse on dock thirty-seven A.

  Nothing moved. Anywhere. But he knew they were inside. According to Todd Winstead, the Others’ contract team was stationed here.

  Samuel believed him.

  But then, Samuel hadn’t played fair.

  Todd admitted to a lot of stuff, including trying to kill his grandmother and getting so pissed at his failure that he hired assassins to kill Isabelle. He blamed her, of course, for making him do it. If she hadn’t interfered, she wouldn’t be on the list for a short life span.

  A single industrial-size light hung over a narrow, dirty, banged-up metal door.

  Samuel stood outside and listened closely.

  It sounded like a poker game was in session. Sounded like someone was losing and taking it badly.

  The most important thing Todd had admitted was that, yeah, once the contract was taken out, it couldn’t be rescinded.

  So Samuel had no choice. John Powell had texted that he should wait for backup. Yet
two attempts in one day convinced Samuel the Others were getting desperate. He wasn’t going to take the risk that their next attempt would succeed. He had to cancel the contract his way, and he had to do it now.

  With one hand flat on the door, he pushed it open and called, “I’ve been told this is the place to come to pay for a contract.”

  All sound ceased.

  Had they not set a watch?

  Sloppy.

  He backed away from the building into the open air. The boards beneath his feet were damp; the air he breathed was also damp, full of the scents of Boston Harbor, and he listened to the slosh of the tide as the waves splashed beneath the dock.

  Men slipped from some unseen entrance and gathered in the shadows just outside the light cast by the flickering fluorescent lamp, a half dozen in a semicircle around him. The players were in place.

  He stood relaxed, his hands visible and loose at his sides.

  Finally, the least of the assassins, the one most easily expendable, stepped out into the open. “You want to put out a contract?”

  “You do them?”

  “For a price.”

  “First I want to know I’m in the right place. Some people in this town say they can take care of my job for less than you charge.”

  “But we’re the only ones who really deal. Anyone else who says they do, you should let me know. I’ll take care of them.” The little guy swaggered forward.

  He was five-five, a hundred and thirty pounds, looked like he’d been doing drugs since he was twelve. He had a gold-toothed smile, a sixties haircut, a voice like a New Jersey gravel pit.

  Samuel recognized him. He’d seen him earlier in Mathis’s vision. He’d been in that room in Switzerland.

  So Samuel was definitely in the right place.

  Too bad the little shrimp held a pistol pointed right at Samuel’s gut.

  Samuel lifted his hands over his head. “I’m not the one I want killed.”

  “I get that. I have to know you’re serious about the contract. That you’re not a reporter.”

  “Or a cop?”

  Shrimp’s nostrils flared as if scenting something rotten. “Not a problem. The cops down here are ours.”

  “Good to know.”

  “But did you bring money?” Shrimp’s breath puffed white in the cold air, and two of the onlookers betrayed their posts every time they exhaled.

  “I’d be a fool to bring money here.” Samuel waved his raised hand around at the warehouses. “All I’ve got is a recommendation from a friend of mine.”

  “Who?”

  “Todd Winstead. He said he had hired you.”

  “What a weenie he is.” Shrimp’s voice was full of contempt.

  “See? We can do business. We already agree on something.”

  Shrimp laughed.

  Samuel laughed with him. “But also, Winstead said you were the best.”

  “Best or not, we’ve taken over this business. You want someone killed? You deal with us.” Shrimp wasn’t saying too much.

  He wasn’t saying what Samuel needed to know. “Tell me who you work for.” Samuel sent out a feeler, pressed on the little guy’s mind.

  No resistance there. Shrimp didn’t have much of a brain left. “We work for the Others,” he said.

  A voice spoke from the shadows. “Shut up, man.”

  “I’ve heard of the Others.” Samuel lashed out with his mind, blasting not the little guy, but the voice of caution behind him.

  The man in the shadows grunted in pain, stumbled, and plunged backward into the water.

  Shrimp turned and looked. “What happened?”

  Samuel didn’t give him time to find out. “Who do the Others work for?”

  Shrimp said, “What do you care? You want somebody dead.”

  Samuel pressed on the little guy’s brain.

  “Osgood. They work for Osgood.” Shrimp gained control, realized he’d been indiscreet, and added, “But he’s given us a free hand down here. We’re the ones you need to talk to.”

  “Right.” Samuel saw movement in the shadows. He reached out, found the mind there, and broke it.

  Another splash.

  “What the hell ...?” Shrimp looked at Samuel. “You got people out there? Taking our guys out? Are you challenging us?”

  “You ought to know whether I have guys out there. Surely you have a guard posted?” Samuel shoved at Shrimp’s mind.

  Shrimp stumbled backward, dropped his pistol. Looked up furiously. “Yeah, we do.”

  A pole slammed Samuel in the back of the neck.

  A woman’s voice said, “Take that, asshole.”

  He fell to his knees, shook his head, tried to send out a blast.

  She whipped the pole around, aimed at his ribs.

  Grabbing the end, he rolled backward and yanked it out of her hands.

  He swung, aimed the pole for her—and she vanished.

  Men stalked out of the shadows, holding guns, holding knives, and one of them laughed.

  The woman was gifted. One of the Others.

  He swung wide, hoping to catch her, and by chance caught her behind the knees.

  She stumbled out of her concealment, fell to the dock.

  Samuel smashed her on the back, knocking her flat, then used the pole to vault toward Shrimp.

  Shrimp scrabbled around for the pistol, got it just in time—and shot.

  The bullet struck Samuel in midair. In the hip. Hit the joint and broke it. Hurt like nothing he’d ever felt in his life.

  He landed. The leg collapsed.

  The second bullet missed, punched through the dock, sprayed splinters everywhere.

  No time for mind control.

  Samuel wielded the pole like a lance, rammed it into Shrimp’s gut. The gun hit the ground, went off.

  Shrimp shrieked.

  The three assassins rushed Samuel.

  Still on the ground, Samuel swiveled on his good hip, punched the pole up underneath one guy’s crotch.

  That guy screamed, too.

  The fight was getting noisy.

  One attacker projected so much excitement, he was easy to find. Samuel blasted him with a thought.

  He went down.

  Samuel pulled his pistol. For one fleeting second, he felt a rise of triumph.

  Isabelle will be safe.

  With his mind, he groped for the remaining uninjured assassin—

  The guy shot him.

  The bullet slammed through his shoulder, cracked his shoulder blade. He couldn’t feel the pistol. No—he couldn’t feel his hand. The pain was agonizing.

  But it didn’t matter. He was bleeding to death.

  He tried to gather his mind control, send out a blast.

  The Other stumbled backward, then picked up the pole and smashed him on the side of the head.

  He lost consciousness for a second. Came back to pain, anguish, and piercing regret.

  No second chance to save Isabelle.

  He’d failed.

  Her life was in the hands of John and the Chosen Ones now. Perhaps they could do what he could not.

  Through the buzzing in his ears, he heard a voice. Opened his eyes. Saw the vultures gathering.

  The Other had blood smeared across her face.

  One guy was holding his ’nads.

  Shrimp was awash in blood, and his face looked funny. The gunshot had torn his ear off.

  “You look like shit,” Samuel said.

  Shrimp kicked him in the hip.

  Samuel screamed.

  The guy with the gun lifted it, pointed it.

  The Other pushed the barrel aside. “No. That’s too easy.” Picking up her heel, she stomped it into his face.

  A pack of vultures?

  No, they were hyenas, and they all wanted a piece of his flesh.

  Chapter 52

  Isabelle knocked on Todd Winstead’s door.

  No one answered.

  Like she cared. Pulling the pick from her pocket, she went to work an
d was inside in thirty seconds.

  The place was a mess—a shattered lamp, a broken coffee table, blood. . . . “So Samuel has been here,” she said with satisfaction.

  She was on the right trail.

  There were two doors leading out of the small living room, both of them shut. The first was the bedroom, also trashed. The second was the tiny, darkened bathroom with nowhere to hide except in the tub behind the shower curtain. A stupid place to hide . . . and there she found Todd, pasty with fear, holding a vase over his head.

  She stepped back. “Auditioning for a role as the Statue of Liberty?” she asked.

  He lowered the vase, breathing hard.

  He had a black eye, a split lip, a broken tooth.

  Seeing his battered face, she felt briefly sorry for him.

  “You!” he said. “You’ve ruined my life.”

  Good to be finished with compassion.

  “Samuel’s been here. He questioned you. Where did you send him?” she asked.

  He stepped out of the tub, put the vase in the sink. Looked in the mirror and dabbed at his face. “To hell, I hope.”

  “For your sake, you had better hope not.”

  “What are you going to do?” He looked her up and down insultingly, at her dark, formfitting catsuit. “I may not be a gorilla like your boyfriend, but I can still defend myself against a woman.” He pushed past her.

  “I’m a healer. If we made a deal, I could fix your face as good as new. You realize that, right?”

  He halted in midstride. Hopeful, he turned toward her.

  Catching his hand, she twisted his arm behind his back, and savagely slammed his face to the floor. Pulling her pistol from the holster strapped to her shoulder, she pointed it at his head. “But I won’t. I want you to suffer.” She felt his pain and exulted in it. “Now—tell me what I want to know.”

  The clouds were clearing. The sun was a hint in the eastern sky. The retreating tide sucked at the pilings.

  Isabelle ran the last half mile to dock thirty-seven A, keeping to the shadows, pistol in her hand. She turned the corner toward the warehouse. Paused and scrutinized.

  The area looked empty. No movement.

  It sounded empty. No voices.