Prescription: Makeover. Jessica AndersenЧитать онлайн книгу.
idea, her inner voice hissed, but she silenced it with three whispered words. “I owe Zed.”
He’d still be alive if she’d been more careful. Instead he’d been buried while his parents and sisters had wept. She couldn’t bring him back. But moments before they’d closed his casket for the last time, as she’d pulled the black diamond stud from her ear and placed it in his cool palm, she’d vowed to make sure his killers didn’t get away with their crime.
Now, thinking fast, she withdrew a small hand-held computer from her pack and pulled up the Coach House blueprints on the tiny screen. She could swear she’d seen—ah, there it was, a small alcove near the meeting room. If she could get into the sheltered nook safely, she should have a better angle for photos. If being the operative word.
Breathing lightly through her mouth, she looked down to make sure the coast was clear. Nerves hummed beneath her skin, reminding her that although some of her freelancing had skirted over the edge of legal, most of her work was done via the keyboards and high-speed connections of her three trusty computers, Tom, Dick and Harry.
Until now, that is. But there was a first time for everything, and Ike was all about trying new things.
Seeing nothing below but Dumpster shadows and wet pavement, she worked her way over to where a ladder of sorts was formed by the regularly spaced braces that attached a wide gutter pipe to the building.
She was halfway down the pipe when something metal snagged her fanny pack, then pulled free, snapping back against the pipe with a loud clang.
Damn! If anyone were keeping an eye on things from the outside, they were guaranteed to have heard the noise. Heart drumming in her ears, she scrambled down the makeshift ladder and dropped to the cracked tarmac. Then she froze and listened for the sounds of an alarm.
Nothing.
Relaxing slightly, she shifted her fanny pack, more for reassurance than anything, and headed toward the nearer corner of the building, hoping there was a ground-level door she could slip through. She was halfway there when a heavy blow hit her from behind, driving her forward.
Ike bit off a scream as her attacker slammed her face-first into the building.
“What have we got here?” His voice was rough and a little mocking. “Looks like a spy. Kind of cute, too.”
She fought the instinctive fear, telling herself she could handle this, she could. But panic spiked when he pressed closer, his body crowding her, trapping her so she couldn’t move, couldn’t escape. Fear exploded, making her whimper a protest.
Her captor chuckled and swiped his tongue along her ear, getting off on her terror. He shifted again, pressing into her.
“Knock it off,” a second man’s voice ordered, sounding older, more cultured, and annoyed. Ike turned her head and saw a trim gray-haired man wearing a dark charcoal suit. He gestured to the building and said, “Bring her along. She may prove useful.”
Chapter Three
From the hallway William heard a man’s voice say, “Odin is planning to take care of Lukas Kupfer personally before the press conference.” Then he and Berryville entered the room and all conversation ceased.
Feigning nonchalance, William glanced around, seeing a wood-paneled room decorated with leather-upholstered furniture and heavy rugs, with an ornate dining table at one end. Dark wooden book shelves lined the walls, giving the place an oppressive air. Or maybe that came from the three similar-looking men seated at the table, which was set for nine.
William nodded. “Gentlemen.” Then he turned to Berryville and raised an eyebrow. “Are you going to introduce us or should I do it myself?”
Berryville shot him a dark look before turning to the others and saying, “This is the one I told you about. Emmett Grant.” He didn’t introduce the seated men.
“Has Paul described the proceedings to you?” the guy in the middle asked.
“Not in any great detail,” William said, careful to tread the middle ground between knowing too little and too much. “Only that you need a unanimous vote to induct a new member into your organization.”
The guy on the left shot Berryville a look. “Then he didn’t bother to tell you what would happen if you don’t get a consensus?”
The threat was clear—William had seen their faces and he knew Berryville by name. Either they voted him in or he’d quietly “disappear.”
Even as nerves flared to life beneath his skin and his hand itched for the feel of the weapon he’d left behind on Berryville’s orders, he grinned. “Guess I’d better make sure you like me, which means I should skip sports and politics. Any interest in a blonde joke?”
There was a moment of absolute silence. Then the guy in the middle said, “My wife’s a blonde.” He cracked a smile. “Lay it on me.”
And just like that, the tension disappeared from the room. Berryville let out a relieved sigh and motioned William forward. “Have a seat. Get you a drink?” He made a beeline for the bar.
“Sure,” William said, glancing at the empty seats. “I’ll have a—”
There was a sudden scuffle out in the hallway, and the door opened, slamming against the wall with a bang. A big guy in his midtwenties wearing a black-on-black driver’s uniform shoved a struggling, swearing woman into the room.
An older man, neat in a silver-gray suit, followed behind, tugging at his cuffs. He looked up and smiled faintly. “Look what we found snooping around outside.”
William was so deep in character that his first reaction was anger at the interruption. Then he got a good look at the woman—who was wearing all black, with pixie-short hair and two earrings in one ear—and his blood ran cold.
Oh, Christ. It was Ike.
She stopped struggling and glared around the room. Her eyes passed over him without a flicker of recognition, and damned if that didn’t tick him off almost as much as her pigheaded stupidity at being there in the first place.
William was careful to keep the emotions out of his eyes even as adrenaline flared in his bloodstream. You just couldn’t leave it alone, could you? he thought with a mental snarl. You couldn’t trust this to Max and me.
“What are you going to do with her?” asked one of the seated men.
The guy who’d come in with Ike looked pointedly at William before he said, “We can’t afford witnesses. I’m thinking we should kill two birds with one stone, so to speak.” He held out a hand to his driver, who passed over a mean-looking Glock. The older man racked the weapon, popped the clip out and tucked it in his pocket, then checked the chamber and offered the gun to William butt first.
The challenge was clear. One bullet. Enough to kill the spy, not enough to fight his way out of the room.
When William didn’t move, the man said, “Make your choice. Are you with us or against us?”
IKE’S BLOOD FROZE when William looked at her, expression cold and calculating. She recognized Max’s irascible partner from the multiple times they’d butted heads at Boston General and from a quick sighting at Zed’s funeral that she’d later tried to tell herself was her imagination. But now that she saw him again, she knew her mind hadn’t been playing tricks on her. She’d recognized him then and now by the contrast of cool blue eyes and brush-cut brown hair, by the aggressive jut of his jaw beneath sharp cheekbones and by the leashed power in his every movement, which supported the whispered rumors that he knew ancient fighting arts that didn’t even have names anymore and that he could kill a man with a touch.
Oh, yes. She recognized William Caine.
Apparently she hadn’t made nearly the same impression, though, because he took the Glock without hesitation.
Don’t do it! she wanted to scream.