Kincannon tapped his fingers against the battered and aged tabletop, his brow knit with worry. ‘‘Why now? We haven’t worked together for seven years. It makes no sense.’’
Annabelle didn’t say anything for a moment, a worry line creasing the skin between her finely arched brows. ‘‘I intend to investigate these deaths and disappearances. In the meantime it’s imperative that we all take measures to protect ourselves.’’
‘‘I’ll help you, Annabelle,’’ Kincannon said.
‘‘We had better all help.’’ Harrington picked up his beer and tossed back a swallow. ‘‘Sounds like our asses are on the line.’’
‘‘I’ve already started,’’ Mark said, smiling grimly. ‘‘I told Frances when she called me in Seattle that I would find out what really happened to Russo. I’ve spent much of today hounding the police.’’
‘‘What have you learned?’’ Kincannon asked.
‘‘Not much. The police still say accident. Honestly, if I didn’t know Russo, I would have reached the same conclusion as the cops. It was a classic flammable-gas explosion. I suspected someone held a personal grudge against Russo. Now with Annabelle’s news . . . I have to reassess.’’
‘‘What do you want me to do, boss?’’ Harrington asked Mark. ‘‘I may be rusty at fieldwork, but I do remember how it’s done.’’
Mark noted the annoyance that flashed across Annabelle’s face. The role of subordinate had always chafed her, even before the team disbanded, before the two of them married. After Las Vegas, she quietly asserted herself as an equal in their relationship. Reverting to old roles wouldn’t be easy for her, but their roles
would
revert. Mark had always been the überalphain this pack filled with alphas, and that would not change. He was the leader of this team.
So he assessed his assets. He had three team members—the Fixers’ sniper, their ghost, their siren— and himself, their e-man. Tag Harrington, the shooter, had spent the past few years as head of security for a high-end retailer—not exactly the occupation to keep his skills sharpened. Noah Kincannon ran a company that specialized in providing security systems to art galleries and museums. He’d told Mark earlier that the systems his people installed weren’t considered finished until Kincannon attempted to breach them and failed. No rust on his skills.
That left Annabelle. The siren, the distraction, the Woman-as-Weapon. She could sidle up to a target and take him down without chipping a nail because, generally, they were too busy gawking at her assets to take a look at her hands.
She practiced her skills without even trying every time she went out in public.
Not a bad team to have at his back. Not bad at all. Mark exhaled a heavy breath. ‘‘First priority is to track down the others and warn them of the potential danger. After that, we need to look into each one of these deaths. If we’re right and they are murders, whoever is behind this will have left a footprint somewhere—whether it’s electronic or physical. Now, has anything crossed y’all’s desks that could in any way be related to our old work?’’
The others took a moment to think. Then the men gave their heads a negative shake. Annabelle slowly nodded and Mark raised an eyebrow and met her gaze.
‘‘Boris Radovanovic,’’ she stated quietly.
Mark scowled.
‘‘Who’s that?’’ Kincannon asked, frowning. ‘‘Russian?Was he part of that god-awful insertion we did in Kazakhstan?’’
‘‘No.’’ Mark shook his head. ‘‘My dealings with this particular dirtbag were a long time after the Fixers’ days.’’ He gave a brief sketch of his history with Rad, including events in Hawaii last year. ‘‘Even if he broke Annabelle’s cover and somehow connected the two of us, it’s a stretch to think he’d go after the team.’’
With the subject of Rad leaving a sour taste in his mouth, Mark fished in his pocket for a peppermint. ‘‘That said, we can’t afford to ignore anything at this point. Annabelle, has he contacted you at all since that night?’’
He popped the piece of hard candy into his mouth as she thumbed a line of moisture dribbling down her glass. Quietly, she said, ‘‘Yes, I’ve heard from Rad. He appreciated the job I did that night. He paid my invoice and . . . sent me roses.’’
Mark damned near swallowed the peppermint whole. Roses. From Radovanovic. Jesus.
Because he suddenly needed to move, he pushed to his feet and crossed the room to the dartboard, where he grabbed the steel-tipped darts from the corkboard. Events of that night in Hawaii flashed through his mind as he took a warm-up throw. His mouth flattened in a grim smile when his dart hit the triple ring at 10. ‘‘I’ll put my brothers on Radovanovic.’’
She frowned. ‘‘I could—’’
‘‘No,’’ he snapped. He whipped his head around and glared at her. ‘‘You’re done with him.’’
Her eyes widened, then narrowed. She snapped her mouth shut and he could hear her toe begin to tap against the hardwood floor.
Kincannon and Harrington shared a droll look. Then Harrington observed, ‘‘It would be nice if you two learned to work together without bickering, but in a way, it’s good to know that some things never change.’’
Mark shot two more darts in rapid succession. ‘‘Tell us everything you know about the others, Annabelle. Where did Parsons go to raft? Where are Stanhope’s cabin and Holloway’s workplace? I want details.’’
He could all but hear her grind her teeth before she opened her mouth and gave a succinct and thorough report. As she talked, his concern deepened. He didn’t like this one bit. When she was done, he plucked his darts from the board and dropped them onto the table. ‘‘Sounds like you’ve done everything possible with the information you have so far. When I get back to my hotel, I’ll get on my computer and see what else I can ferret out.’’
Annabelle opened her mouth to comment, then abruptly shut it. Kincannon gave her a sidelong look and murmured, ‘‘He
is
a gold-star hacker.’’
Mark blazed ahead, rapidly making plans. ‘‘If I find anything we can move on tonight, I’ll yell at one of you. Tomorrow before the funeral, I’ll speak with Colonel Warren and get his take on all this. I’ll ask him to review our mission files and see if he can connect anything from those years to something going on now.’’
‘‘I know this is a bit off topic, but how about his new bride?’’ Harrington asked. ‘‘Day-yum! I’ve always admired the colonel, but now . . . he’s a god.’’
Kincannon and Mark gave him an amused look while Annabelle said drily, ‘‘It’s reassuring to know that you haven’t changed, Tag.’’
Kincannon smirked at that, then observed, ‘‘I had heard that Stefan Jankovic died. He was a brilliant mind and doing some important work for the Defense Department. It’s a shame we lost him so young.’’
‘‘The DOD’s loss, our commander’s gain.’’
‘‘You’re a pig, Tag,’’ Annabelle said.
Harrington winked at her, scooped up the darts, and handed Kincannon three of them in a wordless challenge. He took a place behind the strip of green tape on the worn wooden floor and lined up for his first throw.
‘‘So, what do you think, boss?’’ Kincannon asked, frowning as Harrington hit the bull’s-eye. ‘‘We have a lot to cover. Are we going one-on-one on this?’’
‘‘I’ve already done some follow-up on Dennis’s death,’’ Annabelle interrupted. ‘‘The accident happened in Tuscany. Paulo Giambelli offered to help me look into it.’’
I’ll just bet he did.
Again, the image of Radovanovic and red roses flashed through Mark’s head, only this time, the Italian Stallion stood right beside the Croat, holding a bouquet of his own. Annoyed at his own nonsense, Mark spoke testily. ‘‘We’ll work in pairs. Kincannon, you and Harrington can take Parsons, Sundine, Anderson, and finish up here with Russo. Annabelle and I will cover Stanhope, Holloway, Nelson, and Hart. Let’s connect after the cemetery service tomorrow morning and we’ll go from there.’’
‘‘Sounds like a plan,’’ Harrington said as Kincannon nodded his agreement. They all exchanged cell phone numbers, and then the two men returned their attention to the dart game.
Annabelle sat staring down into her half-full beer. Mark watched her and knew he’d have been better off to pair her with one of the others, but he couldn’t make himself do it. Though he trusted both Harrington and Kincannon, if somebody was gunning for the team, then he wanted to be the one watching Annabelle’s back.
He needed to say something to ease the tension between him and his ex. Trouble was, anything he said to her was liable to make her mad. Still, he had to try. ‘‘Annabelle . . .’’
As she glanced up, a ring tone sounded. She fished in her bag and pulled out a cell phone. He saw a smile flicker on her lips as she checked the number. ‘‘I need to take this,’’ she said. ‘‘Excuse me.’’
She rose and left the table, crossing to a window on the far side of the room. Her gaze shifted between the street and the staircase as she carried on a conversation that lasted a good five minutes. During her call, Mark tried to concentrate on the mission before them, but time and time again, his attention drifted to the woman he’d left behind.
Damned if she didn’t giggle into the phone. Mr. Diamond-Ear-Stud Giver must be a real comedian to get a laugh out of her under these circumstances. She’d been on edge from the moment he saw her walk through the funeral home door.
Fool that he was, Mark resented the fact that the boyfriend was the person in position to relax her. After all, he knew just what position relaxed her best. Annabelle wore herself out when she was on top.
He stuck a fry in his mouth and scowled. Now even salt tasted sour.
‘‘Doesn’t count.’’ Harrington’s voice intruded into his brooding. ‘‘The dart must stay on the board for at least five seconds after your final throw to count.’’
‘‘You’re the one who can’t count,’’ Kincannon replied. ‘‘That was five seconds.’’
Annabelle shook her head over their bickering as she returned to the table, a faint grin on her lips. Even as he opened his mouth, Mark knew he was making a mistake. ‘‘So, does your new boyfriend give you flowers along with diamonds for your ears, or it is just gangsters who do that?’’
That took the smile off her face. Temper snapped in her big brown eyes, but she kept her voice cool as she spoke in a voice pitched low so the others couldn’t hear. ‘‘Hold it right there, Callahan. We’d better get this straight right from the outset. You aren’t my husband anymore, so you don’t get to make those sorts of remarks to me. You don’t get to comment on my personal phone calls, my social life, my jewelry, or my freaking hairstyle.’’
‘‘Look—’’
‘‘No, you listen. I didn’t plan on ever seeing you again, but since I want to be alive to spend Memorial Day with my family, and I’d just as soon not have to go to another funeral for one of our team—even yours—I’m willing to put my personal druthers aside. We need to figure out who is after us, and we need to do it without egos or pride or tape measures.’’
Tape measures! For God’s sake.
‘‘I’ll accept you as team leader, but that’s as far as it goes. You signed away any right you have to play alpha male with me beyond the mission. So, what do you say, Callahan? Can you bridle your tongue long enough for me to help save your ass?’’
Mark knew he should defend himself. He knew he should probably apologize. He knew without a doubt that he should get his mind back on business and leave it there. For good.
Instead, all he could do was stare at her and imagine her naked. Imagine her sinking down on top of him, taking him into her sweet, slick heat. Riding him, her head flung back, her eyes closed, the tip of her tongue centered at the top of her lip. Her full, coral-tipped breasts swaying. The throaty moans of pleasure she made when she came.
‘‘Well, Callahan?’’
He blinked. Came hurtling back to reality. She looked angry as a wet hen in a wool basket.
I am so screwed.
He opened his mouth to apologize, but was saved by the scream.
The noise came from downstairs and immediately, the four Fixers shifted into work mode. Four guns appeared. Four former team members silently took position as shouts followed the scream. Tag and Noah lined up on either side of the staircase, and Mark took point with Annabelle directly behind him, ready to provide cover. Four pairs of eyes connected. Then Mark nodded and started downstairs.
Bar fight, Annabelle confirmed at first glance at the scene. From her spot overlooking the street, she’d watched these thugs arrive just about five minutes ago. They hadn’t worried her. Experience convinced her that any threat to the Fixers would come from a more subtle source. Behind her, she heard Tag ask, ‘‘So when did biker gangs start frequenting Irish pubs in Philly?’’
Annabelle tuned in to the shouts flying around the bar’s interior and replied, ‘‘Since an Irish-pub waitress started dating a Southern-fried do-rag, apparently.’’
‘‘They’re probably all corporate executives playing dress-up,’’ Noah observed.
‘‘Or dress down,’’ Tag fired back.
‘‘I doubt it,’’ Annabelle said. ‘‘Too many piercings and tats in places you can’t cover up.’’
She counted seven grimy, leather-wearing thugs who hadn’t been there when they’d arrived. They were breaking glass and shouting at patrons, but so far it didn’t appear as if fists had started to fly. Yet. Their leader was a big bald guy with bad teeth and gold chains who had to be cold wearing a black leather vest with no shirt. The focus of his ire was the manager of the pub, a woman about Annabelle’s age who called the biker ‘‘honey’’ and begged him not to throw the chair in his hands at the mirror behind the bar.
Mark glanced back over his shoulder, an unyielding set to his jaw. ‘‘This has nothing to do with us. Let’s go.’’
The Fixers put their guns away and continued downstairs. There, Mark paused to pay their tab by shoving a hundred at a terrified waiter as Annabelle and the others threaded their way toward the door. She had just begun to think that they would make it outside without incident when the biker sent the chair flying, then made a terrible mistake. He grabbed a handful of the manager’s dark hair with his left hand and punched her face with his right.