Afterglow (11 page)

“Yeah.” He watched the road intently. “I’ll stop the guy.”

A PART OF RAND
hoped to hell this
was
a blackmail attempt. It would all be so much simpler. He’d find the guy and make sure every scrap of evidence was erased. Unless whatever footage he’d shot was being electronically beamed to every fucking news service as they were driving hell-bent for leather across southern Europe. But he doubted it.

If anything went down back at the hotel, if there was anything on the news, Cole, who was coordinating operations in his absence, would call him ASAP. If Rand hadn’t heard anything, it meant nothing new was happening back in Monte Carlo. As far as he was concerned, no news was good news.

Dakota suddenly opened her eyes and sat up straight. “He just stopped!”

Maybe he’d spoken too soon.

“What’s the gap?” He was going on blind faith and a desperate need to believe she knew what the hell she was doing. They’d crossed the border awhile back, and just turned off into the business center of Barcelona.

Dakota glanced at the vehicle’s GPS, then at the one in her hand. “Twenty-three minutes. We made kick-ass time. Can’t you go any faster?”

As it turned out, he could.

The streets whipped by at an alarming rate, and Rand’s lips twitched despite his intense concentration as she gripped the oh-shit handle above her window. They were in the center of downtown Barcelona in nothing flat, where the traffic became insane. There was no
faster
now.

“Plug your numbers in here, and see if we can pinpoint the address,” he said. “Then set this GPS.” Rand tapped the dashboard of the rental.

Dakota scowled at the car’s GPS. “I don’t understand this. What language is it?”

“The street names are in Catalan. Just read it off.”

“C slash Picasso s slash n.”

“That’s c for
carrer,
which is street, and
sense numero,
which means no number,” he explained.

“How can a downtown building not have a street number?”

“Punch it into the—”

“Ah-ha! It’s Banco Bilbao de Inversiones.”

“Why the hell would this guy drive six and a half hours from Monaco to Spain to go to the
bank
?” Rand demanded. “Doesn’t make sense. No blackmail attempt, no high-speed chase. The guy doesn’t appear to know or care if he’s followed. He’s kept to the speed limit all the way. He’s making it too damned easy for us to catch up.”

There was no logic to any of the guy’s moves. If he wanted caught, he was doing a good job.

Dakota tilted her head, as if listening to a voice only she could hear.
What the hell,
he thought,
maybe she hears voices too.
Evidently she came to the same conclusion he had. “Either this jackass doesn’t know we’re hot on his heels, or he
wants
us to catch up.” She slipped on her shoes and pulled a small compact out of her bag to check her makeup, which she didn’t need. “We must’ve passed hundreds of banks today. Why come all the way to Barcelona? Or is his destination somewhere beyond the city?”

He’d never made the mistake of thinking Dakota was stupid. Quick-witted, intelligent, beautiful—and a liar, but not stupid. “Not the bank,” Rand mused, taking a roundabout and weaving expertly across three lanes as he headed for a parking spot.

“Why not?”

“Banks typically close around one thirty or two thirty in Spain. It’s after three. Maybe he stopped nearby.”

“He hasn’t moved by more than a hundred feet.” Dakota shoved her wild ponytail over her shoulder.

Rand pulled over. “I’m going to see what I can find. Stay put.” He unlatched his seat belt.

She looked out the window, then at him. “You can’t go in there alone, Rand.”

He raised a brow. “
I
sure as hell can.
You
stay here. I have no idea what I’m dealing with.”

“That’s the point!”

He opened the car door, adjusting the weight of the gun in the shoulder holster beneath his jacket. “Cole gave you his number back at the hotel, right? If I’m not back in ten minutes, call him. If our guy takes off, call me. Stay put. I’ll be right back.” He got out of the car. If it didn’t involve a name, place, or time, he didn’t really want to hear what came out of her tempting mouth. The long drive tempered his temper. The damned small space had been filled with the fragrance of her skin, the stuff she’d always used on her hair smelled like a tropical beach, and butterscotch candy.

One would think that none of those smells was a turn on. One would be wrong. He slammed the door with a little more force than necessary.

She shook her head and scowled at him through the window as he pressed the door-lock button on the remote control. A distinct
click
drove home his point.

The bank was an imposing gray stone building with enormous metal-studded doors. The street was lined on both sides with cars. Plenty of traffic, both vehicular and foot. The sun beat down on his head, and Rand felt a sense of anticipation as he paused before crossing, his eyes scanning the area even though he had no idea what he was looking for. His bad guy was unlikely to be wearing a trench coat and a fedora.

The women wore summery, sleeveless dresses, and everyone walked with purpose. He waited for a break in the traffic before sprinting across the four-lane street. He checked out the people around him as he moved. The metro station was right outside the building. People came and went. Organized chaos—the studied kind of flow every city cultivated.

In the distance, the unique Gothic spires of Santa Maria del Mar were sandwiched between modern glass-and-steel skyscrapers and quaint little shops in narrow alleys. Tucked on one side of the bank building was a dry cleaner, beside that a closed newsstand. Plenty of office buildings. In the crowded outdoor seating area of a nearby tapas bar, a group of young office workers were saying their good-byes near the black-painted doors. The street was alive with people; the savory fragrances of the many outdoor cafés permeated the afternoon air; and the smell of strong coffee made him consider a to-go cup.

Business as usual.

Except somewhere close by was a killer.

Rand looked up and down the car-lined street. Everyone seemed focused on whatever it was that brought them out—shopping, business, going back to work after lunch. It was a pretty summer day. Nothing looked unusual. Nothing appeared out of place, yet his gut told him everything teetered on the edge of horribly wrong.

He had to trust that Dakota was correct. That the person who’d last held the case containing the vials was somewhere close by. The bank? Why? And damn it to hell,
who
? Had he wanted to do some banking? Pick up a payoff? Make an after-hours deposit? But then, this whole fucking mess was odd.

He stood in the canyon of tall office buildings. Hundreds and hundreds of businesses. Thousands of places to disappear. He had no idea whom he was looking for in the metropolitan haystack.

Bank first, he decided. A highly polished brass plaque on the stone wall at the foot of the stairs gave the hours of business. The bank had closed an hour earlier. Either his guy was still inside—which was highly unlikely—or he was somewhere else. In which case, Dakota was wrong and they were screwed.

Would he have thought differently of her had he known about her ability to track people? He’d like to think that he’d have been fair. Shaking his head, he took out his phone to see if any of his team had called in updates. He frowned. They hadn’t. What’d happened to reporting in? Oh, right—he’d told Cole to have everyone report to him. His assistant wouldn’t call him unless he had news.

No news was good news right now.

Rand took the deep granite stairs three at a time. The towering, bas-relief–paneled bronze doors were closed. Of course they were. Fuck. Just for yucks, he tried the handle. His gut clenched in anticipation as the door swung open a few inches. With a quick glance over his shoulder, he slipped inside.

All the lights were on, he presumed for the cleaning crew. Not that there was any sign of life. No sound of floor polishers. No voices. No music; whatever piped Muzak the place used must have been shut off at closing time. Perhaps the guy was meeting someone in one of the private offices. Someone who’d orchestrated the ten-thousand-euro payoff to the waiter?

The floor in the vestibule was glossy cream-colored marble. Ahead was a set of elaborately carved wooden doors with heavy polished-brass handles. The doors had large panes at eye level, and as he approached, he could see into the vast interior of the bank. Even though there was no sign of anyone around, he withdrew the Glock from the shoulder holster and walked cautiously, listening for sound, aware of his surroundings as he moved.

As he cautiously opened the door, he was struck again by the unnatural, absolute quiet. Shouldn’t there be someone around? Security? Janitors? Managerial types with paperwork to catch up on?

Then he saw the bodies.

Sprawled in groups on the floor throughout the silent marble and mahogany space, they were dead still. A faint cloying aroma of roses mingled with the stench of death. Holding his breath in case it was an airborne contagion, he did a quick visual scan of the large, open area. He’d gotten many gigs for his ability to hold his breath underwater—and thanked God for that training now. Because it appeared that the patrons of the bank had been gassed, and he could feel the insidious lethargy pouring through him as he stood there.
Crapshitdamnfuck.

Bank customers and personnel were scattered about like dead houseflies, all in various stages of undress. Old, young. Didn’t matter. They’d died while fucking like bunnies. Even after seeing something similar at the wedding, the sight was still shocking. A pornographic still life that was as disturbing as it was chilling.

Lungs burning, Rand crouched beside a conjoined young couple, felt for a pulse behind the guy’s ear. Still warm, but dead. From beneath him, the woman looked up with eyes filmed a hazy white. A quick glance showed him that everyone had milky eyes.

Everyone had been interrupted mid-coitus.

Everyone was dead.

“Jesu—” The sweet rush of rose filled and expanded Rand’s lungs. A surge of adrenaline flooded his body as euphoria engulfed his senses. His heart began to race, and his dick came to life with a vengeance.

He muttered “Fuck” under his breath, then held it on the exhale as he yanked the empty plastic bag from his back pocket and slapped it over his nose and mouth.

Was this the same shit administered to the wedding guests in their champagne? The positions of the bodies provided a graphic answer. Hell yes. It must’ve been introduced through the ventilation or air-conditioning system.

Just the couple of whiffs he’d taken already had a profound effect on his body. Rand was fully, painfully aroused, his senses heightened, his reflexes maddeningly slow. All he wanted to do was fuck. Anything. Anyone. It was a powerful, driving force, a directive he couldn’t ignore. His skin felt too tight, his lungs constricted, and his dick so hard it was excruciatingly painful.

Get the fuck out.
Pressing the plastic hard against his face, he craved a deep, liberating breath.
Now! No, damn it! Get a grip… . Get the hell …

His breath tight in his lungs, sweat rolling down his temples, he forced his sluggish brain to take in as much data as possible. He tried to pin his focus inside the aura of light surrounding everything in a magical, truly beautiful way. It was the light he’d seen in religious paintings throughout Europe. The light of purity and love and holy fucking—

He slammed the Glock into his cheekbone. Barely felt it. He slammed his fist on a nearby marble counter. Pain, distant and disconnected, jolted up his arm. Behind the long teller counter, the vault door stood wide open. No one had stopped the robbers. Everyone had been caught in the throes of the powerful aphrodisiac, just as the wedding guests had been yesterday. A brief glance showed several security cameras smashed. No witnesses. No record.

His brain felt light. Fantastically light. Brilliant. Buoyant. Invincible—

Get … fuck … out …

His lungs burned with the need to breathe. He
needed
to breathe. And why the hell not? His body felt powerful, expansive, fucking incredible. He wanted Dakota in here.
Now
. He wanted to bare her breasts and taste the freckles on her skin; he wanted to plunge his hardness into her wet heat—

Drug talking! Get a fucking grip, Maguire!

The sunlight streaming through the high windows illuminated in exquisite detail the half-naked bodies, limbs entwined. Pants shoved around the men’s ankles, the women’s dresses askew, blouses ripped, breasts bared. Everyone had died in the throes of sex. And good sex, by the looks of rapture on their faces.

He
wanted
—

He
needed—

Goddamn it—

“Rand?” The voice—sultry, feminine, fucking hot as sin—split the heavy silence of the corpse-strewn bank. “Rand, we have to go. The bad guy is on the move agai—oh, crap!”

He turned too fast, almost falling to his knees because his body was racked with overwhelming, clawing lust that felt like a raging, rabid animal inside him. Her red hair floated in slo-mo around her slender shoulders like living flames and licked the luscious swell of her breasts, outlined to perfection by the thin white T-shirt. He could practically taste the rose flavor of her nipples. Her hips looked womanly and lush, encased in tight jeans that accentuated her long legs.