“Oh, right. That was bitch.”
Caleb grinned, and Owen could see the adrenaline junkie gearing up to go.
“I know I told you I could be a mile out, and I didn’t think I’d need to be this close. But this is kind of a rush job. I haven’t had the time to lock onto him before now. I’ll be on his block. I figured they’ll see me, but I’ll be in disguise, working on the neighbor’s house. My papers check out. An electrician is due to visit the blue house a block down tomorrow morning. No biggie.”
“Dying the hair?”
“Black.”
“Not platinum blond? You’d look even more interesting as a redhead.” Owen grinned at the look Caleb gave him. “Hey, I can make jokes, or I can dwell on how much I don’t want to do this.” His smile faded. “DeSanta needs to die. The things he’s done…” Owen’s gift—or curse—was that he connected with his targets long enough to see through them, to know, in that split second before everything ended, how they’d lived.
When he’d ended Linda Cavendish’s life, he’d seen her greed, how many people she’d had a hand in hurting with her illegal cage fights and senseless rumor mongering. In addition to murder, she’d broken careers and ended more than her share of marriages. Led by greed, she’d also died by it. But DeSanta took bad to a whole new level.
Owen had dealt with scumbags and murderers, but defiling innocents definitely took the cake. He knew Kerr was a deviant bastard, but this man, DeSanta, was the epitome of evil. He feared what he’d see before DeSanta succumbed, but even more, Owen worried he’d be forever tainted by the darkness he’d be forced to confront. As if the evil would bleed through to him and stain him forever. Sometimes after an op, it took him months to recover deep inside. And he feared losing himself more than anything.
Caleb clapped him on the back. “Don’t worry. Yeah, it’s gonna suck. But I’ll be here for you as fast as I can. Keep a gun close, and stay conscious for maybe half an hour. You don’t have to physically touch him, so you should be good to go.” He paused. “I still think we could call in—”
“No.”
“Shit. Fine. Then you just need to hang on long enough for me to get back.”
Caleb would have to stay by DeSanta until Owen made the connection. The minute Owen did, Caleb would beat feet back to Owen.
Once Owen started destroying DeSanta, he’d be vulnerable, unable to process outside of the kill. And after the deed, he’d be unfocused, confused. Unfortunately, there would be a short lag time between Caleb fixating on the mark and arriving back here at the hotel. But it couldn’t be helped. Owen refused any other offer of assistance. The fewer people who knew what he could do, the better. Frankly, he didn’t trust anyone with his most closely kept secret except Caleb, the admiral, and Heather. And he’d be damned if he’d involve his sister in danger.
“Besides,” Caleb continued. “Just think of all the kids you’re saving by doing this.”
“Yeah.” Still, the mess left a bad taste in his mouth. If he didn’t know better, he’d think he had a hint of foresight in his skill set. Because he had a bad feeling about the mission, a sense unlike what he’d experienced on similar ops, when he’d been raring to take down the bad guys. And he couldn’t have said why.
“He took the bait, sir.”
Carl gripped the phone tighter. When he’d heard about plans to eliminate DeSanta, he’d planted a seed with his contact in DC. It seemed they’d made good on the idea about asking Owen for help. And now Owen would be even more vulnerable in a foreign country without his usual backup. Perfect.
Talk about a good day. He nodded at his supplier, who dragged another stoned woman from the cattle car in the warehouse. Carl inspected his merchandise, nodded, and said into the cell phone, “That’s good, Fielder. Keep me apprised of developments as they come in.”
“Yes, sir. Also, Koffman spoke with Neever. Though they haven’t spotted anyone else out there, he swears they have company in Bend.”
Carl gave Owen credit. The man was no slouch. Knowing he had to leave his precious estate and staff behind—and aware Carl would know he’d gone—Owen had left more than his spare security to watch the homestead. Probably Jack Keiser and his little bastards patrolling the area.
Yet another reason Carl preferred not to engage Owen on his own turf. Recollections of his father and brother dying, without any trace of Owen’s guilt, unnerved him. If Owen indeed knew people who could kill with a thought, what prevented him from taking Carl out the same way? That Carl had lived this long told him Owen might be psychic, but he couldn’t kill on command. Had he been able, the bastard would no doubt have killed him long ago.
No. Owen had contacts to do his dirty work for him. Men like that Caleb Dalton. Unfortunately, Carl had yet to find his own psychic to help him out. Although… “Fielder?”
“Sir?”
“Any word on that other matter I had you looking into?” A search into a psychic for hire, one who could use his or her ability to kill. Tit for tat, Owen.
“Maybe. I had a phone call from someone claiming he knows about the program that disbanded. Someone with skills you might need, except…”
“Yes?”
“He seemed a little…off, sir. I’m not sure how much of a help he’d be.”
“No matter. If he can do what needs to be done, we’ll bring him on board. Have Harry set up the meeting. Oh wait, he’s no longer with us, is he?” Harry had been a bit too wheedling about money, and Carl had been in a foul mood of late. So just yesterday, Harry had enjoyed his last minutes gagged and strapped to Carl’s special table, fucked to within an inch of his life. Poor Harry hadn’t enjoyed the buggery, but Carl thought the slash across his throat had given him the respite he’d begged for, there at the end. Carl, on the other hand, had thoroughly enjoyed his time with Harry. Though a disappointment in some ways, Harry had proven to be a stellar fuck.
He smiled at the remembrance, then focused once more on the present. “I’d like you to screen our new friend, Fielder. See to it.”
“Will do, sir.”
Carl disconnected the call and got down to business. Trading guns for women would serve its purpose today, especially as some of the females seemed more than unwilling and just young enough to be considered illegal in most states. Just what Carl’s new clients had been looking for.
He wrapped up the deal and hurried back to his limo, careful to keep himself free to take calls. He couldn’t wait to see what happened in Caracas. Owen and Dalton had no idea what was coming their way. It would be fun to watch them squirm, fearful for their lives. What great stories they’d have to tell their pathetic friends when they returned. And they’d know just how far Carl’s reach extended.
He laughed and poured himself a scotch. And waited.
Owen spent that day and night unable to stop thinking about Ian. Had his little thief found the new Whistler etching he’d intentionally left in his personal, less secure safe off the bedroom? He’d bought it for three hundred thousand, only because he had a feeling Ian might like it. Was Ian making good use of his time painting? Though Ian had refused to admit it, Owen thought he liked the artistic challenge in copying the works, more for art’s sake than for the money he’d get when he sold the forgeries.
Ian had a creative streak that meshed well with Owen’s own ability to generate income. He had no idea why, but he’d always been able to know when to invest and when to pull out. Granted, he’d gotten burned a few times when he’d let sentiment rule logic. Yet even then, he’d known he should withdraw and intentionally ignored his instincts.