‘I don’t want to take you. I want to kill you.’ Ken fired another burst, most of the bullets hitting Stone’s broad chest. Stone was thrown back, rolling to his side in agony so that the next burst hit his left leg.
Gayle whimpered. ‘Stone. Nooo. Please no.’
‘Where’s Diesel?’ Ken demanded.
‘I don’t know,’ Gayle gasped. ‘Not here. He left hours ago.’
‘I don’t believe you. His car is outside.’
‘He leaves his car here. No parking on the street where he lives.’ Gayle grabbed his wrist and pulled it down, trying to get away from the gun under her chin. Ken just shoved the barrel into her chin harder.
He’d started to drag her toward the back door when he heard the cocking of a rifle. To his right was Cal Booker, holding a shotgun in his hands.
Cal lifted the shotgun to his shoulder. ‘Let her g—’
Cursing, Ken shot another spray of bullets into Cal’s chest. The older man staggered and fell to the floor and Ken resumed dragging the now-hysterical Gayle out the back door. Opening the door set off an alarm, ironically enough. ‘Watch your step, ma’am,’ he said as he dragged her down the back stairs to his vehicle. He shoved her through the front passenger door and told her to kneel on the floorboard with her head on the seat. Then he set the child locks so she couldn’t escape and cuffed her hands behind her back. He tossed an old blanket over her trembling form and drove away.
Not the best op he’d ever done, but he had been out of practice.
As soon as he got his new guest settled in the basement cage, he’d call Marcus. That was a call he was totally looking forward to.
Cincinnati, Ohio
Wednesday 5 August, 7.20 P.M.
Marcus really wanted to get out of the interview room, but Agent Coppola had asked him to stay. He guessed it was because his presence seemed to be keeping Alice Newman on edge and that was what Coppola wanted. The redheaded agent was waiting for something. From the way she kept checking her phone, she wanted Alice to know that.
He hoped Coppola would get whatever she was waiting for soon, because he wanted to get back to Scarlett, who he knew was waiting for him behind the glass. He couldn’t see her there, but he knew.
He hadn’t even looked at the mirror, actually. There was no way he was taking his eyes off the viper in the chair next to him. Alice was facing dead forward, one hand cuffed to her chair, but her uncuffed hand was curled into a claw and he had not a single doubt that she’d take off a layer of skin or even go for his eyes if she had the chance.
He wasn’t going to let her touch him. His skin and eyes belonged to Scarlett.
The thought made him smile despite the seriousness of the situation.
‘You think this is funny?’ Alice murmured, not looking at him directly. She was staring at his reflection in the mirror.
He sobered abruptly as his blood ran cold for the umpteenth time since he’d walked in the room. ‘No, Alice. I don’t think this is funny at all. I think it’s terrifying that someone as reprehensibly evil as you is walking around among decent people. I think it’s terrifying that evil can wear such a pretty face. I think you’ll go on deceiving people until you draw your last breath. But you’ll have your work cut out for you, because I’m going to make sure people know who you are. Who he is.’ Marcus pointed at the photo of Alice with the older man. ‘I’m going to make sure that anyone with a TV, a radio, a newspaper or a computer knows exactly how inhuman you are.’
Alice raised her brows. ‘Should I start humming “Glory Hallelujah”?’
‘I wish you wouldn’t,’ he said mildly. ‘Your voice is like a rusty gate.’
‘Oh pardon me, please.’ She shot him a smiling look that instantaneously changed her from evil and rotten to the happy, caring young woman who’d visited him in the hospital. She was taunting him, showing him that she could wear her sweet face anytime she wanted to. ‘I didn’t mean to offend. You singers have such sensitive ears.’
Marcus went still. He’d never told her about his music when she’d visited him in the hospital. He’d been too raw when Mikhail died to think about singing, and he couldn’t imagine where else she might have heard him sing. His first thought was that she had been stalking him even in the park, and that was entirely possible. Except that she probably would have gone after Tala earlier had she seen her. Especially if she was the woman who, along with Demetrius, had brought the Bautistas to Chip Anders.
Since Alice hadn’t eliminated Tala in the park, it was more likely that she had heard him singing through the girl’s ankle tracker. It was another link in the chain connecting her to Demetrius. He owed it to Tala to make that chain as thick and as strong as he could.
Behind him, Agent Coppola’s phone buzzed. ‘Yes,’ she hissed.
She’d finally received what she’d been waiting for. Thank God. Marcus rocked back in the chair he straddled, still not taking his eyes off Alice. ‘You want her to hum “Glory Hallelujah”, Agent Coppola?’
Coppola’s chuckle was delightfully happy and confident. ‘No, Mr O’Bannion. But she can start practicing the theme song from Dead Man Walking.’ She walked around to Alice’s cuffed side and put her phone on the table. ‘Your customer kept records.’ She flicked through a series of photos showing Chip Anders with the man in the graduation photo, then with Demetrius. ‘Do you remember this day, Alice?’ She flicked to the third photo, in which Alice sat at a desk. ‘Chip Anders came to visit you.’
Alice’s ‘pretty face’ had slid away, leaving her hard and grim.
Coppola flicked to the fourth photo. ‘And here you are with Demetrius Russell and Kenneth Sweeney.’ A flicker in Alice’s eyes was the only reaction she had to Coppola revealing the man’s name.
‘Are you sure you don’t want to start talking to me?’ Coppola asked soberly. ‘Attempted murder for hire would have gotten you a lengthy sentence on its own. Now I can connect you to a conspiracy to traffic human beings. And successful murder – that of Agent Spangler. You seem like a sharp woman, law degree and all. Think carefully about this.’
‘Immunity,’ Alice snapped. ‘You have nothing that isn’t circumstantial.’
‘Not yet,’ Coppola said quietly. ‘We’ve got records from Woody McCord’s computer that we haven’t even started going through. Mr O’Bannion, you’re free to leave anytime you’d like. I appreciate your help.’
Marcus pushed off the chair, watching Alice as he backed toward the door. ‘A lot of circumstantial can add up for a jury. She knew I sang, Agent Coppola. She had to have had access to the audio feed coming through Tala Bautista’s ankle tracker. You’ll want to make sure you find those recordings when you search her office and residence.’
Coppola’s mouth curved, even though she didn’t look at him, her gaze also fastened to Alice. ‘Again, my thanks, Mr O’Bannion. You’ve been a big help.’
Marcus paused in the hallway outside the interview room to draw a breath, steadying his nerves. He didn’t want to let Scarlett see him so rattled. It would worry her and distract her. Given that they didn’t know how many assassins this organization had at its disposal, he couldn’t afford for her to be distracted. It was only a matter of time before Alice’s colleagues realized that Scarlett was important to him, painting a target on her back.
Once he felt steadier, he entered the observation room, but stopped short. Scarlett stood watching him, her arm around the waist of an older man in a starched uniform. Her father, he thought. Even in the semi-darkness he could see that they had the same eyes – and that her father’s eyes were giving him a very thorough study. Marcus wondered how long the man had been watching him, then realized he must have been there since he and Scarlett had arrived.
She slipped away from her father, stopping in front of Marcus, not quite close enough to touch him. But she wanted to. And that was enough for now. ‘Are you all right?’ she asked.
Marcus forced himself to nod, feeling her father’s scrutiny. ‘Yes.’ There was so much more he wanted to say, but it would have to keep. But he couldn’t ignore her puffy eyes. Not caring who was watching, he cupped her face, brushing his thumb over her cheekbone. ‘You’ve been crying. Are you all right?’