Authors: Coreene Callahan
A failing? No doubt. But nothing made her feel better than a pair of new shoes. A gorgeous handbag. Or hmm, boy, take her away…a beautiful piece of jewelry. And oh, how the list went on. Call her crazy.
Myst did. With unerring frequency.
Her throat went tight. Tania bowed her head, ignoring the organized chaos around her, and rubbed the bridge of her nose. She was so tired of crying, but God, she missed her best friend. Was so worried she didn’t know what to do. The cops still hadn’t gotten back to her. Three days and nada. Not one call. Nary a single text or e-mail. Something was really wrong. Tania huffed. Duh. What was her first clue? A very dead Caroline Van Owen. A missing baby. A still alive, but hiding, Myst. And two homicide detectives gone underground.
With a sigh, Tania tucked back into her closet, pushing more hanging clothes aside. She needed to find her—
“Ah, there you are,” she said, spotting her travel bag on the floor near the back in the black hole where handbags went to die. Though what her favorite duffle was doing way back there, she didn’t know. “Come to Mama, gorgeous.”
Grabbing the leather straps, she hauled the Louis Vuitton out, then headed to the bedroom. A quick toss and it landed on the bed’s silk duvet beside her neatly folded clothes. A weekend excursion was in order. Actually, it was a bimonthly event, one in which Tania visited her sister. At the Washington State Correctional Institution for Women.
Another failure. She’d missed all the signs. Had been so worried about putting food in their mouths—and decent shoes on J.J.’s feet—she’d failed to realize her sister had fallen in with the wrong crowd until it was too late. Now she made the drive every second week, bribing the guards with cookies to get a few extra minutes with her sibling.
This week it was chocolate chip.
Her heart aching, she made quick work of packing, laying two days’ worth of comfy clothes in the bottom of her bag. Ballet flats went in next. She didn’t plan on coming home tonight. Was in for a little more retail therapy after she got kicked out of the prison and left J.J. locked up behind bars.
“Buck up, Solares.” She wiped beneath both of her eyes. Damn it all. Not again. “No one likes a crybaby.”
With a quick zip, she closed the bag, then rounded the end of the bed and checked the answering machine on her night table. Nothing. No messages. None from Detectives MacCord or Keen. Zero info from the stupid reporter.
Crap on a crumpet.
She should never have talked to Clarissa Newton. But she’d been so flipping angry, and tweaking the police’s noses had seemed like a good idea yesterday. Now she regretted sitting down with the reporter. Too bad the interview was already in the can. They’d done it
60 Minutes
–style, sitting at the back of a café in a couple of armchairs while the camera rolled tape. The station had agreed to run her interview as part of an exposé on police corruption in Seattle.
Tania stared at the buttons on the phone and shook her head. Part of her hoped MacCord would have a cow when he saw the interview. Come banging on her door, demanding to know what the hell she thought she was doing. At which point she’d have to admit she didn’t have a flipping clue and kiss the heck out of him. For payback. And maybe just the tiniest bit of pleasure.
He deserved the tease. And let’s face it, she needed the delight. Especially after the dreams she’d been having about him. And well…wow. Just wow. Talk about hot. Add in some steamy. Toss it all with oh-my-God-I-want-you-right-now salad spoons, and the dish came out somewhere south of holy crap.
She rolled her eyes. Stupid fixation. It wasn’t healthy, particularly since—
The phone rang in her hand.
Tania gasped, fumbling with the thing before she found the talk button. “Hello.”
“Ms. Solares?” Filled with gravel, the deep voice rubbed her the wrong way.
Tania tensed, reacting to the undertone. “Yes?”
“Are you home for a while?”
“Excuse me?” A whisper—ultra fine, barely there at all—ghosted through her mind. A warning, maybe? She couldn’t tell.
“Oh, sorry, miss. Didn’t mean to alarm you,” the man said, no doubt reacting to her frosty tone. “It’s Nick…Mr. Cannon’s assistant?”
Oh, right. The superintendent’s assistant. Tania relaxed. Mr. Cannon was a gem. A potbellied, tacky-mustache-wearing, all-around good guy. Although the fact he had an assistant surprised her. Then again, her building was older. A real charmer with its 1920s throwback vibe, but one that needed the kind of upkeep that ran the super ragged most of the time. So, good for Mr. Cannon for getting help.
“What can I do for you, Nick?”
“The tenant two floors below you just reported a leak,” Nick said. “We need to check your apartment to see where the water is coming from. We’ve turned off the water, and the plumber is on his way. Can you let him in when he gets there?”
Ah, crap. She didn’t want to wait around for some repair guy. “Yeah, sure. When will he be here?”
“Shortly.”
“All right,” she said. “I’ll be here.”
Hanging up, Tania grabbed the latest
Cosmo
off her bedside table and plopped belly down on the silk coverlet. Looked like she had some time to kill.
Chapter Twenty-five
Lying belly down in the damp dirt, Angela adjusted her grip on the M25. The butt of the rifle nestled against her shoulder fit just right as she sighted her target through the scope. The smell of fall swirled on a rising breeze, tousling the tops of huge oaks above her head, sending colorful leaves pirouetting toward the ground. It was a slow dance. Colorful. Grace-filled. A yearly event in which the trees got a haircut and lost their abundant foliage.
She measured the distance to her target. Checking her windage, she zeroed in on the yellow flag that waved from a steel pole planted at the edge of Black Diamond’s compound.
Nope. Not good enough. Time for a readjust.
Without lifting her head—or losing sight of the pumpkin sitting on the stone wall—Angela uncurled her finger from the trigger and fine-tuned her long-range optic scope with a click. Seven hundred and fifty feet sat between her and the target. Two and a half football fields. Big, big distance without any room for error. She needed to be bang-on accurate. The slightest miscalculation and the bullet wouldn’t reach its intended target.
Another click and…
Jackpot. Oh, so much better.
Resighting her mark, she listened to the treetops rustle as a north wind blustered, bringing a glorious chill with it. She loved it when fall turned cold, dipping closer to winter, moving into the beginning of her favorite season. The days got shorter. The nights grew longer. Soon, she’d enjoy the nip of frosty air while skating outside.
There wasn’t much better.
Although some things topped a triple salchow jump. And one came to mind right away. Rikar. A close second to her man was the rifle in her hands. She tested its weight, loving the M25’s smooth contours and elegant lines.
God, what a gift.
She appreciated it even more than the 9 mm armor-piercing ammo, and considering how much she loved the Glock strapped to her thigh, that was saying something. So yeah, as much as she enjoyed skating, the activity came in a distant fourth on her
best of
list, ’cause…duh. Gourmet coffee always landed in the top three. No matter what.
Addicted to Rikar. Addicted to guns. Addicted to caffeine.
In that order.
Her mouth tipped up at the corners. She was really going for addict of the year here. Not that she cared. Rikar made her happy. She laughed with him. Loved with him. Missed him when he was away from her. Wanted to be with him the second he came home, and despite the unfamiliar tether of dependence, felt more like herself than she had in years.
Gag…just shoot her now,
please
.
With a snort, Angela shook her head even as she accepted the inevitable. She was good and caught. Too far down the rabbit hole to ever get out.
Not that she wanted to. No way. She was locked and loaded, sights set on him. So screw the hardcore independence. Rikar was worth the adjustment. Her job. The few friends she possessed and the life she knew. She was all in, 100 percent AWOL…out of the human world and now a part of his.
Not that it was perfect. Oh, no, nothing quite so humdrum.
Perfection had its perks, she supposed, but she didn’t want it. Not with Rikar. She wanted what they’d had this afternoon. A wicked good argument that ended in a spectacular round of lovemaking. Angela hummed, remembering his touch, reliving his taste, wanting another romp with him oh, say…five minutes ago.
Giving her head a shake, she gave herself a mental jolt. Freaking guy. He’d turned her into a nymphomaniac. Not a bad thing if only he were around to take care of the problem.
“Concentrate, you idiot,” she said, hoping the sound of her voice would KO her sex fixation. No such luck. Rikar stayed with her, but at least she managed to see straight enough to sight the target. “One more bull’s-eye, then it’s homeward bound.”
Or rather, kitchen bound.
Daimler was cooking up a storm, trying to keep Mac’s stomach full. Angela grinned against the M25’s stock. She’d never seen her partner eat that much. Then again, he’d been through a huge change, so she guessed they were in for a new normal. Fine by her. She didn’t mind. Although the whole sun allergy Dragonkind had going on bothered her. Especially since she was outside shooting alone.
She didn’t like it. Not because it frightened her. She was okay flying solo for a few hours and safe inside Black Diamond’s energy shield. Angela just missed his company…and her spotter. Mac always came with her to the gun range. Always coached her through each shot, gauging the windage, the distance to target, giving her pointers on grip and trigger-finger speed.
Thank God tonight would be different.
She wouldn’t be laid out on the ridge waiting for Lothair to show all by herself. Mac and Forge would be with her every step of the way while Rikar and the other Nightfuries drew the rat-bastard into the trap. They’d been over the plan a million times. Or at least it seemed like it. Every time Rikar got anywhere near her, he drilled her, making her repeat each detail until her head ached and she wanted to hit him.
Or shag him again.
Both strategies worked really,
really
well. But the second option was her favorite and usually the go-to plan. He never said no to making love to her. Which always made him forget about the plan and shut his yap.
Hallelujah. She needed the peace and quiet from time to time.
Which was the reason she’d come out to the shooting range and was currently KOing members of the squash family. Setting the scope’s crosshairs on the fruit, Angela drew in a steady breath, exhaled slow, and squeezed the trigger. One potato. Two pota—
Splat!
Bingo. Mission accomplished. Pumpkin annihilated.
Angela pushed the bolt up, then forward, and emptied the rifle’s chamber. The casing ejected, the chick-chick sounding brutal amid nature’s charm, the creak of tree branches, and the soft twitter of birdcalls above her head.
Policing her brass, she picked up the 308 shell casing and, rolling to her feet, slipped it into her side pocket of her army pants. Angela’s lips twitched. The BDUs (aka battle dress uniform) were another gift. One Rikar insisted she wear when she stepped outside the lair. She didn’t need to be camouflaged while on Black Diamond grounds. No way the Razorbacks could find her here, but…
Whatever.
If wearing the camo gear made Rikar feel better, she’d do it without hesitation or complaint. She understood the concern—his need to shelter and protect her—because she worried just as much about him. Maybe more.
She
wasn’t the one going out night after night to fight the rogue idiots mucking up the planet. Rikar was, and although Angela knew he was more than capable of taking care of himself, she worried anyway. Had paced around the lair, drunk way too much coffee, praying he returned home safely at dawn for the past week.
And that wouldn’t change any time soon. At least not if she stayed at Black Diamond. But who knew, right? Circumstances changed. Relationships tanked all the time. Particularly when things went unsaid between couples.
Cradling the gun, Angela headed for the lair, trying not to worry about that too. She didn’t want to doubt Rikar, but uncertainty was circling. Not on her end. She wanted him, but other than saying he wouldn’t let her go—and making love to her every chance he got—he’d gone silent on the commitment front. Hadn’t told her he loved her. Hadn’t asked her to marry him. Hadn’t mentioned the future at all. Well, except to plan how to take down the rat-bastard, and well…crap. That just wasn’t good enough.
She needed him to love her as much as she did him. Craved the words. Needed the ceremony. The whole kit and caboodle.
Calling herself an idiot, Angela trotted up a set of flagstone steps. As her boots met the patio, a gust of wind came up, rattling the windowpanes of the French doors. The dining room lay on the other side of the glass—her office for the last week. She’d started out in the computer lab, but Sloan liked his privacy, and Angela understood. The high-tech com-center was the guy’s baby, and even though he tried to hide it Sloan didn’t want anyone else in there.
So she’d packed up the boxes—all the missing persons reports—and moved upstairs. Which, of course, delighted Mac. It put him a hop, skip, and a jump away from the kitchen and his new best friend…Daimler, the culinary wizard.
With a snort, she closed the distance to the house. A soft click. A hard yank. The door swung wide and she stepped inside, out from beneath the setting sun. Night wasn’t far off. An hour, maybe two, and the Nightfuries would be itching to set the trap and line up a bunch of Razorbacks to kill.
Angela couldn’t wait. She needed to feel powerful again. To sight down the barrel of her M25 and put a hole in the rat-bastard’s forehead.
Her gaze on the neat stacks of folders piled on the glossy tabletop, she kicked the door closed behind her and approached the table. Two new files sat in the center of her work space, yellow Post-it notes with Sloan’s messy scrawl front and center on the cover of each one. Crap. More missing women. Angela swallowed past the sudden lump in her throat.