Devil's Due (13 page)

She tore open the envelope to slide the thin sheet of paper out. No powder in it, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t deadly in its own way.

It read, THANK YOU.

That was all.

She ran the UV flashlight over the note.

The signature wasn’t Laskins’s. It was a different name, spiky and difficult to read, driven in straight-up-and-down strokes of the pen.

When she finally made it out, she felt a chill bolt down her spine.

Max Simms, psychic and serial killer, had sent her a personal thank-you note.

S
he fell asleep on the couch and woke up to a conviction that there was somebody in her apartment.

And she didn’t move.
Wait
, she told herself.
Listen
. She heard the steady, near-silent tick of the silver clock on the table, the whisper of the air conditioner, indistinct ghosts of noises from outside the windows….

And there, the scuff of shoes on carpet. The creak of leather as someone shifted weight.

She opened her eyes and stared hard at the window in front of her, focusing on reflections. Something dark moving behind the couch.

Lucia slid the .38 out of her robe pocket with a slow, gentle pull, trying to make it look like the natural movement of a sleeper. He hadn’t come closer yet, but she couldn’t let him see the gun. If he shot first…

She made her decision and rolled off the couch, gun held
flat, aiming up at an angle where she knew his head would be. Her injured arm screamed in pain, and she flinched, nearly dropped the gun.

Nearly.

“Easy, my lovely. I’m not armed.”

A male voice, low and faintly accented. Eastern European. She recognized it a split second before the moonlight revealed a pale face, thick dark hair, a goatee and mustache. Gregory Valentin Ivanovich.
Madre de Dios
…

The last time she’d seen Gregory had been outside a run-down, abandoned factory near Prague, and he’d been shooting over her head to make her escape look good. She’d been barely alive, barely together…and some of that had been his doing, too. She couldn’t forget the cold purpose when he’d told her to run for her life or he’d have no choice but to make his shots count.

“Gregory,” she said, and tried to slow down the panicked hammering of her heart. “If you start off with a lie, that just continues the same old cycle of disappointment between us.” Her voice shook only a little.

He smiled and leaned on the back of the couch. His hands were empty. Gregory had always favored black, and he was drowning in it today—a black knit shirt under a black leather jacket, black slacks. The only hint of color to him was his hazel eyes, and a thin red scar along one high cheekbone.

She remembered the scar. She remembered giving it to him, a wild and lucky swing with a piece of broken glass in the dark. And he’d looked down at her, chambered a round in his Glock, and said, “
Dorogaya
, you must still have fight left in you, if you can do that. Good. You will need it.”

He smiled at her now, and she remembered that, too.

“Very well,” he acknowledged. “I am armed. But, my lovely, we’re both always armed. It’s understood. It would be impolite to assume anything else.”

“Wouldn’t want that.” Was she having some kind of fever dream? It would make sense. Half of her worst nightmares featured glimpses of Gregory Valentin Ivanovich. The trouble was, so did half of her other dreams. It was…complicated, yes. Very complicated.

His eyes shifted and focused on her right arm. He couldn’t have seen the bandage through the robe, but he would have seen the flinch, and the weakness. “Are you injured?”

“Grazed.”

“Ah. Yes, I followed the afternoon’s heroics. Very stirring.” He shrugged. “Very stupid.”

“Thanks. So would you care to explain how you come to be in my apartment without an invitation?”

“Would you care to get off the floor while we discuss it?” he asked, raising those thick eyebrows.

No point in keeping the gun on him; Gregory would do as Gregory pleased, consequences be damned. She nodded and stood up, cinching her robe tight again and dropping the gun back in her pocket. “I’m assuming this isn’t a social call,” she said. “Since social calls don’t usually require breaking into a person’s apartment in the middle of the night.”

“Yes. High-security apartment, very nice. I approve. I have one like it in Chicago, you know, only mine has a better view.” No point in asking how he’d defeated that security either; he’d just smile and ignore the question. He’d defeated it the same way she would have, by simple and logical steps, and a terrifying amount of innate ability. She’d have to go over it later, trace back his modes of entry, see how he’d bypassed the systems….

“
Dorogaya
? Are you with me?”

She felt a hot burn of embarrassment that he’d seen the lapse.
Damn
. It wouldn’t do to show him weakness. “Get to the point.”

He pushed away from the couch, crossed his arms and walked to the wing chair nearest the windows. He settled in, legs apart, watching her. He nodded to the couch. She sat, knees together, hand still in the pocket of her robe. Just in case.

“You know, of course, who I work for?” he asked.

“That depends.”

“On…?”

“What day of the week it is, and your mood.”

He laughed. A good, warm chuckle. His eyes never wavered, and the wolf in them remained unamused. “My dear Lushenka, I cannot believe they let you quit the business. What an asset you were. So amusing. But yes, you are right, of course, I have been known to be…less than consistent, since Mother Russia turned me out as a whore. To answer your question, today I work for the Cross Society.”

“Lovely. We’re coworkers. What do you want?”

He tapped a finger on the curling edge of his smile. “There is a need for secrecy.”

“Meaning what, exactly? You know something I don’t?”

“I know many things you don’t,
zolotaya
. Many, many things. For instance, I know that you will get another red envelope tomorrow.”

She said nothing to that. He might very well know it to be true.

“I also know that tomorrow, the Cross Society has arranged that someone close to you will die. Possibly you do not care that your new friend—her name is Jasmine, yes?—suffers an accident, but I know you well enough to
know that you
do
care about your own survival. I have seen in the past how hard you will fight for it.”

“How do you know what’s going to happen tomorrow?”

He shrugged. “How does any of this become known? They tell me. Simms tells them, or they calculate it on their little machines. I don’t know which it is and I don’t want to know. The process is unimportant. What
is
important is that their information is rarely wrong.”

“And they sent you to tell me this.”

He didn’t answer.

“They didn’t send you. You came on your own.” She felt something curdle in the pit of her stomach. “What’s going on?”

“A very large game. A game of the world, and men trying to control it. Villains and heroes, but my love, which are you? Do you know?” He shook his head. “You stop a killer here, abet a killer there. It’s no different than the game you hated before. Don’t you see?”

“We stopped a child killer not long ago. We stopped a pair of potential mass murderers today. I wouldn’t say we’re not doing good.”

“Yes, of course. There should be statues in the square in your honor. But you have no idea how small your victories are, or how many killers the Society decides not to stop, for its own purposes. Once you play God, how do you decide where to halt? Who to kill? Who to allow to live?” He gave another shrug, this one more heartfelt. “This is why I go where I am told, and where I am paid. It is easier than trying to be moral and upright.”

In his own way, Gregory Ivanovich was pouring out his heart. Lucia sat very still, listening, watching him, not quite believing the experience. His hand had, after all, been on plenty of triggers; he’d seen more than enough cruelty
and blind stupidity in his life. He’d been lauded, and betrayed, often enough to be realistic and cynical about both.

He’d stood in the dark and hurt her for money, once upon a time. And then he’d cut her bonds and whispered in her ear, “Run for your life,” and fired over her head….

“What are you trying to tell me?” she asked. Her voice, despite her best efforts, wouldn’t stay steady.

“I have told you. Unless you take steps to prevent it, someone close to you will be killed tomorrow. And sooner or later, it will be your turn. You are a Lead, they tell you, and yes, there is importance to what you do, or do not do. But not only importance.
Power
. And power corrupts what it touches.”

“I don’t—”

“You and your partner, Jasmine. You become one of the key points on which events turn. And you can’t be controlled. They are learning this. It is not a lesson they like.”

The sick feeling in her stomach grew worse. “And if we can’t be controlled….”

“This is about power. Power requires control.” Gregory put his hands flat on the arms of his chair and settled down in it more comfortably. His eyes fell half-shut, and his smile—she remembered it. Remembered that rare expression of approval.

“The Cross Society wants us dead? But the Society put Jazz and me together in the first place! We never would have met if—”

“My beloved, you’re not that stupid. They put you together for a reason. Now they want to take you apart for a reason. You’re just tools to them. And given our similar histories, I’m surprised that you didn’t consider that from the beginning.”

She was silent, staring at him. Aware of a lot of things,
suddenly—of the fever still burning inside of her, a heavy feeling in her lungs, the carefully hidden trail behind the FedEx that had delivered something deadly to her offices. It could have been Eidolon, trying to throw suspicion on the Cross Society. It could just as easily have been the Cross Society using a double-blind.
They hadn’t sent it through Borden
. Maybe Borden was still too valuable to them. Maybe James Borden, with his heart lost to Jazz Callender, wasn’t going to play their game anymore, especially if it turned deadly for his friends.

Any of it could be true.

Or none of it.

“So,” she said after a quiet moment, “what do I do?”

He shrugged. “I leave that to you. But were I you, and did I care anything for your friend—which I do not, you might note—I would be sure to stay alert during the morning hours of tomorrow. Events would conspire, as they say.”

“Tomorrow morning. It’s that specific.”

“I imagine it’s more specific than that, my love, but that is what I heard. Or, more accurately, overheard.”

“So you’re telling me you came here to warn me out of the kindness of your heart. For old times’ sake.”

He laughed. Not a chuckle this time, a full-throated bray of amusement. “Oh!” he gasped, when he got some control again. “Oh,
zolotaya
, you never fail to amaze me. You know what
zolotaya
means, yes?”

“Gold.”

“In Russia, wealth is endearment, and you, my
zolotaya
, are beyond measure. I’ve always wondered if you would marry me someday. Would you?”

“No.”

“As I thought. I am bereft.” He stood up, and she got to her feet as well. The important thing with Gregory, as with
all beautiful wild animals, was to never take your eyes off him. “Will you let me tell you one last thing?”

“I don’t see how I can stop you.”

“I don’t think they want you dead yet, although I think soon they will. No, I think they want you frightened, and alone, so that you will do what they say. I don’t think they understand what a silly hope this is.”

“They don’t know me,” she said.

For just a moment, there was something other than the wolf in those beautiful eyes. “That is entirely their loss,” he said, and the comic-opera Russian was gone. “Take care. I’ve done as much as I can for you without inconveniencing my own plans.”

That was as much truth as she could ever hope to expect. She inclined her head slightly. He bowed his a fraction less.

And then he left.

She sank down on the couch, not bothering to lock the door after him—there didn’t seem much point—and thought about things one more time.

Sometime in the middle of it, unexpectedly and without drama, her body simply decided that it had had quite enough of the stress, and sent her into a deep and dreamless sleep. She didn’t know how long it lasted—not long enough for morning to arrive, at any rate—and she woke to the insistent electronic tones of a ringing phone.

It was Manny.

The anthrax culture was positive, and Jazz was on her way over.

Lucia was dressed when Jazz arrived, and was putting her hair up in a ponytail to keep it out of her face. It was a practical habit she’d developed over the years, a sort of ritual for going into battle. And she knew it was a battle now,
whether that was likely to be obvious or not. She had just put on her shoulder holster when the bell rang.

“No way,” Jazz said flatly when Lucia opened the door. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding. You think you’re actually going somewhere, other than to the hospital? Manny called, didn’t he? You were supposed to pack a bag.”

“Sit. I have things to tell you.”

Jazz didn’t, but Lucia wasn’t in any mood to wait for compliance. She started with the red envelope on the counter—Simms’s creepy note of gratitude—and saw a flash of genuine irritation come over Jazz’s face.
Of course. She’s the one who pulled the trigger. Why would he thank me?

But when comment came, it wasn’t about the details. “I got one, too,” Jazz said. “Courier brought it. You wouldn’t believe the full-out paranoid lockdown that went into effect when Manny saw the van drive up.”

Lucia could only imagine, and shook her head in wonder.

Jazz was still frowning at her. “Look, that doesn’t explain you being out of bed and ready to rumble, okay? If there’s any work that needs to be done,
I’m
doing it. Not you. You’re flat on your back for the duration, getting good IV antibiotics. Doctor’s orders.”

“Not yet. I’ve got things to tell you—”

“Sit. Down.”

Lucia put up her hands and sat. And truthfully, she hadn’t slept well, or woken up that way, either. She still felt hot and sore, but at least the tickle in the back of her throat had died to a memory, and her lungs seemed clear. Surely she’d be worse, if this was going to go badly.