Trask gazed at the picture of Carmela Ruiz in the newspaper in angry disgust. How the hell had she escaped Firestorm? He'd been sure that the fire would travel too fast for her to get away before the flames devoured her. He'd been wrong. She'd managed to get to the roof and somehow whipped up her courage to jump.
And Kerry Murphy had made sure that those firemen were there to catch her.
That didn't mean he'd failed and Kerry had won. The warehouse had still burned to the ground and he'd walked away free and powerful as ever.
Screw the warehouse. He wouldn't lie to himself. It had been Carmela who was to be the pièce de résistance of that delicious event, and she'd escaped. And it had been Kerry who'd called the firemen who'd saved her so she could claim the victory.
His hand clenched on the newspaper as fury tore through him. Calm down. It was only the opening gambit. No, it wasn't. He'd failed at that fire in Macon at her brother's house. Two failures chalked up to Kerry Murphy. It was an unbearable humiliation. No, he could bear it because it would only make him stronger and more determined.
But she had to be shown that he was the one with a power that could reach out and scar and twist her life. Carmela? Or go after Kerry herself? He'd have to think about it. He'd have to reconsider a good many things in light of this defeat. His priorities had been clear before Kerry came on the scene, and he'd allowed her to disrupt and disturb those plans. Should he ignore her and go on as if—
No! The rejection came with unexpected violence.
Very well, then certain adjustments might have to be made.
He reached out and punched in Dickens's number.
Dickens.” George walked out of the library as Kerry and Silver were coming down the stairs the next morning. He waved a sheaf of fax papers in his hand. “Donald William Dickens. Age forty-two, and every year after the age of ten devoted to petty and not so petty crime. Theft, rape, suspicion in two murder cases. According to the dossier the FBI managed to pull up, he grew up in Detroit and was associated with the Mafia for a few years, but then broke away and started to freelance. He's not supposed to be the sharpest tool in the shed, but he has the reputation of being very thorough and reasonably loyal to his employers.”
“The FBI had a record?” Kerry asked. “But how did Trask get hold of him?”
George shrugged. “Dickens spent twelve years in Asia involved in drug and artifact smuggling before he came back to the States. He had a lot of contacts in North Korea.”
“You're thinking he was a gift to Trask from Ki Yong?” Silver nodded slowly. “It's possible. Trask could have made the providing of help a part of his price.”
“Where is he?” Kerry said. “Now that we know who he is, can we find him?”
“We're trying,” George said. “Remember, he's a professional, and it won't be easy.”
“Nothing's easy,” Kerry said. “Do we have a photo?”
“I wouldn't fail you.” He handed her the sheaf of papers in his hand. “The second sheet down. The third is his rap sheet.”
Dickens was a heavyset man with bulldog jowls and unruly red hair sprinkled with gray. She handed the sheet to Silver. “Since he doesn't know that we know who he is, it should help.”
He nodded. “And Trask must have had him doing the legwork before he approached you. I don't think there's a question that he'll have him on your heels when he finds out that Carmela is still alive.” He glanced at George. “Is her rescue in the papers yet?”
“You've got to be kidding,” George said. “Pretty, homeless teenager rescued from a fiery death by our city's finest? It's a story made in media heaven.”
“Then Trask knows about it already.” Kerry had to make an effort to keep from shivering. It was stupid to feel this bolt of fear that had come out of nowhere. It wasn't as if she hadn't expected Trask to learn that he'd falled to kill Carmela. “You're sure Carmela is well guarded?”
“I'm sure.” Silver handed the sheaf of papers back to George. “But Trask may not think it's worthwhile to target her again. She was only a random victim.”
“Random.” The word left an ugly taste in Kerry's mouth. It was a cold word for a cold act. The idea of anyone casually choosing a victim as Trask had chosen Carmela was terrible. She moistened her lips. “Maybe you're right. But I'm not a random victim, and there's not a chance in hell that Trask won't go after me. And he'll probably need Dickens's help.”
“Probably.”
“So maybe we should make sure I'm accessible.”
“No way,” Silver said flatly.
“Wait a minute.” George's eyes narrowed on Kerry's face. “I don't believe she's talking about making herself a martyr. What do you have in mind?”
“Just moving around town a little. Dickens isn't going to show himself as long as I'm barricaded behind these walls. If I make a few trips, it will give him reason to follow me. And that will give Ledbruk's agents a chance to identify or apprehend him. Isn't that right?”
George nodded. “It makes sense.”
She turned to Silver. “And if we manage to identify him without him realizing we're doing it, we may be able follow him back to Trask.”
“And what if Trask decides not to use Dickens? What if he's out there with his little dish all set to burn you to a crisp?”
“Then it's up to you to make sure he doesn't. I can't do everything.” She turned and strode down the hall toward the kitchen. “But I can make myself coffee and some toast, and that's what I'm going to do right now. You argue with George about it, if it makes you feel better. But you know I'm right.”
She heard him mutter a curse behind her, but she ignored it. She had no desire to argue with Silver right now. She was having to exert all her effort to shake off this sense of . . . what? Fear, anxiety, foreboding? Maybe a little of all those emotions.
Or maybe her imagination was just working overtime. She had a right to a case of nerves after what had happened at the warehouse.
She had the coffee brewed and was on her second cup when Silver came into the kitchen. “It took you long enough. I thought George was more persuasive than that.”
“I didn't waste my time. I knew you had your mind made up.” He poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down across from her. “I just talked to him and Ledbruk and set up your surveillance. If you're determined to do it, I want to make sure the security is iron-tight.” He took a sip of coffee. “But understand this. I go with you every trip. I'm with you every minute.”
“I've no objection.”
“And one trip a day. Never at the same time. Never going to the same place.”
“That makes sense.” She met his gaze across the table. “Now admit I'm right. This way we have a chance at Dickens.”
“Okay, you're right.” He scowled. “Satisfied?”
“My, that hurt.” She smiled. “Jesus, you're a surly bastard. I don't know how I managed to get past that sulkiness to realize you weren't a complete asshole.”
His scowl disappeared. “Shall I tell you?” He leaned across the table and took her hand. “Sex is always the bridge.” His thumb slowly rubbed her palm. “I may be an asshole, but I'm damn good. Now you admit I'm right.”
Dammit, he knew how sensitive her palms and wrists were to touch. He knew everything about her body. He only had to touch her to cause her to be ready. She drew a shaky breath and pulled her hand away. “No big deal. Stop bragging. It's not as if you didn't start with a gigantic advantage over most men.” She looked him in the eye. “And I'm not talking physiology.”
He frowned and then started to laugh. “My God, Kerry. You really know how to deflate a guy. I hope you'll concede the physiology is adequate?”
She smiled. “Quite adequate.”
“Then let's go back upstairs and test it out.”
Her smile faded. He wasn't joking. “You can't be serious. We just got out of bed an hour ago.”
“I didn't get enough. I don't know if I'll ever get enough. I told you, we're pretty extraordinary together.”
She wasn't sure that she would ever get enough either. She had never believed she could be addicted to sex, but now she wasn't sure. And that uncertainty was enough to make her very wary. “That doesn't mean we should spend all our time in the sack.”