"It was kismet. I couldn't pass up such an opportunity on your behalf. And fringe benefits are plentiful with a job well done. Do you approve of my idea of job satisfaction, Mr. McBride?"
"I don't know how you arranged it, Blue Blood. I am truly in awe of your influence and abilities. But surely you must know how much I hate cops and that I have a long memory when it comes to settling an old score." McBride's eyes darted to the TV, clearly avoiding his.
He knew McBride had no appreciation for the raw power portrayed on the small screen. So for a brief moment, he allowed himself to indulge in his pleasure, but one thought nagged him.
Perhaps McBride had become a liability.
The music began a foreboding crescendo, rousing his blood. Yet despite the tension in the moment, he remained calm, unreadable. His gaze settled on the man.
"I knew you would want to tempt fate with a little retribution, but this mustn't interfere with my plan. What you do with her after our business arrangement is concluded, that is certainly up to you. Do we have an understanding, Mr. McBride?"
Silence. A long moment passed between them.
Logan finally replied, "I have no doubt we understand each other."
On the surface, the man's remark might appear conciliatory, but Charboneau suspected otherwise. McBride had indeed become a liability.
"For now, you have the ability to shape our future association, Mr. McBride. And I, for one, eagerly await your course of action. Whether you work with me or choose another direction, I assure you I am up for the challenge."
Without saying a word, Mantis tensed, her muscles preparing to attack if necessary. He felt her body stiffen, anticipating trouble.
"I'll consider your advice." Logan glanced out the window, then returned his stare. "Let me out here. I believe we've conveyed our intentions."
"I believe we have," he agreed, his expression rigid with contempt.
Signaling his driver to pull over, he watched in silence as McBride left the limo, but the man turned back for a final point.
"Sometimes an animal must remain true to his nature, don't you agree?"
"You will get no argument here, sir." A lazy smile crooked his lips. "I'm sure this goes without saying, but if you divulge our business arrangement to the authorities in any fashion, being torn apart and devoured by savage beasts will seem like the mythological Elysian fields. And as you've seen, my influence transcends many boundaries. Consider your future carefully, Mr. McBride."
As the door slammed shut, he watched the smug expression of the man standing at the curb, waving farewell as the limo pulled away. McBride would be too impetuous to heed his warning.
"It would be quite gratifying to kill that man, in a most painful manner."
"Yes, it would, Nicky." With a demure smile, Mantis slid her slender arm through his. "Would you like me to take care of that?"
"Eventually, my dear. But for now, Mr. McBride will determine his own fate. If he can postpone his revenge, then he might prove a useful ally, and live awhile longer."
"And if he cannot?"
"Then you and I may contrive a DVD of our own, featuring the vulgar Logan McBride."
Her soft, feminine laughter made him smile as his cell phone rang.
"Yes?" His greeting was cryptic; very few people had his personal cell phone number. The familiar voice on the other end needed no introduction.
"The package that you wanted traced? We've located it. When can I meet you to discuss the particulars?"
"Good work. Meet me in an hour at the usual location." Without a word more, he ended the call and turned to his lovely companion.
"Mantis, my dear, I'm afraid I must indulge in another diversion before we have dinner. I hope you don't mind."
Her only response was to softly touch his cheek with a velvet stroke of a finger. Shifting his gaze toward the window, he inhaled deeply, then slowly released it, in anticipation of his next meeting.
He'd paid a lot of money to locate Fiona Dunhill. In his heart of hearts, could he destroy her, or would he ultimately settle for something short of complete annihilation? Regardless, he steeled himself for the next step of his plan.
Only a face-to-face would determine her fate.
CHAPTER 7
The afternoon sun burned off the gray morning clouds, and glistening streams of melted snow held the promise of a break in the weather. None of it lightened Christian's mood as he drove his SUV down a deserted side street. His gut twisted over what he might find inside the old abandoned armory.
Would he be opening a Pandora's box of Fiona's creation?
After pulling a paper from his coat pocket, he confirmed the address. A gray cyclone fence, laden with rusted metal signs, declared the red brick armory to be the property of Dunhill Corporation. Set amidst other forsaken hulls of warehouses, the place looked like a disaster. In the fading gray of winter, even under the warming sun, it looked bleak and ominous.
"Why here, Mickey?" he muttered as he brought his vehicle to a stop. "This place is not exactly your style."
Christian parked next to the main gate, then walked toward the entrance. He reached for the padlock and metal links dangling from the fence. No need for the set of keys in his slacks pocket. The chain had been severed, leaving the gate open.
And just ahead, a discarded shell of a black Mercedes lay atop cinder blocks, stripped of anything valuable. Neon spray paint marred its once sleek finish. The local criminal element had marked their turf with cryptic taunts, thumbing their nose at law enforcement with bright paint. No attempt made to hide the metal remains. Through the vehicle identification number, the police would have identified it sooner or later. He had no need to check DMV records to know. It had once belonged to Mickey.
Hunching his shoulders against the cold, he shoved his hands deeper into his coat pockets. "You sure loved that car, Mick."
Shadowed by the old building, a metal door lay to the right of the elevated delivery bays. The door looked like it would've been Mickey's only option. With a tug, Christian found the entry locked. He tried his keys and gained access.
The sun poured in from the doorway, only dimly lighting the skeletal core of the old munitions factory. The gloom repelled the light as if the shapeless void were a sentient being, cowering from view and hoarding its secrets. Looking overhead, he noticed every window had been blackened, embellishing the sinister nature of the chamber. A faint smell of paint lingered in the air, making him believe the modification had been recent— and very deliberate.
He stepped farther into the darkness, but stopped short. Tiny feet skittered across the floor. With a frenzied screech, a rat darted to his right, shocked by the sudden exposure to daylight. The commotion caused a ripple effect. An army of unseen creatures slithered for more suitable places to hide, puckering the skin at the nape of his neck. God, I hate rats!
The old building gave him a bad case of the creeps.
The darkness came alive, seizing Christian with panic before he had mentally prepared for it. Despite years of therapy, he succumbed to the sensation, an unavoidable reaction. He kept the door open to reinforce his control over his phobia. If he shut it now, he'd be drawn into it, without footing. As if he were lying in a sensory deprivation tank, or had been set adrift in dead space, he sensed his equilibrium faltering. The oppressive silence weighed heavy, tightening his chest. He felt his breathing grow shallow.
An old, familiar affliction.
One thing was certain. The place could harbor his worst nightmare. No one needed to tell him Mickey had died here. Death loomed heavy in the putrid air. How he knew this, he couldn't quite grasp. Christian no longer questioned his bizarre link to the Grim Reaper. He just knew.