“I’ll call them while you shower and change. Going to loan you one of my coats too. It’s freezing out.”
She rolled her eyes. “A tich on the over-protective side, are we? Thanks though, for the coat.”
He waited until she closed the bathroom door, grabbed his cell, sweats, and a T-shirt from the dresser. Taking the steps two at a time, he hustled down to the library. He found her purse wedged under the sofa, fished out the business card for the limo, and made the arrangements for the vehicle to be there within thirty minutes.
The clutch had an external cell pocket. He removed the phone and frowned. Why would she still have a disposable cell after living in the U.S. for four months? Not only that, the woman hadn’t password protected the damned phone. And she had only about a hundred contacts in total. Curiosity piqued, he filed the information for later research.
Satan added his name and info to her list of contacts. The temptation to snoop proved irresistible. He searched on the word.org and found one organization listed—Haven. Ten-to-a-dozen Haven was her ISIS-fighting foundation. He entered Haven’s data into his phone, along with her cell number. He located her red shoes and placed them and her purse on the table, and then snapped her phone into the all-of-a-kind fast charging unit the Hades Squad utilized.
After showering in the cabana bath adjacent to the kitchen, he dressed and brewed two cups of coffee. He returned to the bedroom to find Angelica wearing her little black dress. Unaware he stood in the doorway, she fluffed her hair in front of the mirror, straightened, and jumped when she caught his gaze in the mirror. She met his reflected stare with a shy smile, and her glance dropped to the cups he carried.
“Coffee.” She whirled around and padded to him hands outstretched for the mug.
“It’s black.”
When he offered her the brew, she wrapped her fingers around the cup and waved the steam curls wafting from the liquid to her nose. “Perfect. That’s how I take my java.”
“Limo’s on the way. Should be here in fifteen. Want breakfast? I can heat up an egg and cheese frozen sandwich. You can eat it on the way in.”
They stared at each other over the rims of their cups.
“Can’t face food first thing in the morning. I know, I know, breakfast’s the most important meal of the day—yada, yada. I force myself to have a power juice. You know—berries, coconut milk, fresh herbs, and kale.”
“I have a juicer, but haven’t got a clue what fresh veggies are in the fridge.” He waved her into the corridor. They walked side-by-side to the landing and down the stairs in cozy companionable silence, sipping their coffee.
“That’s okay. I’m sure there will be some sort of food available during the meeting. Bagels and stuff. I’ll grab something then. Where’re we going for lunch?”
They entered the library together.
Angelica made straight for the sofa. She sat, set her mug down on the coffee table, grabbed her shoes from said table, and strapped the red stilettoes onto her feet.
“Katz’s Deli. It’s a block away from your condo. I’ll pick you up in the lobby of your building. What time do you expect the meeting to finish?”
“Around noon-ish, if I’m lucky. You know how it is with meetings. If you get one idiot who likes the sound of his own voice, you’re done for. I’ll have a better idea of how long it’ll go on once I see the agenda. Shall I call you then?”
He put down his cup, reached for her hand, and tugged her into his arms. “I charged your phone. It’s got enough juice to get you into the city. I also put in my contact information and took yours. Call me when you get to your place and when you know it’s going to end.”
“Okay.” She kissed his chin, fingered his stubble, and shot him the sexiest up-from-under-peep. “Thanks.”
She ducked out of his embrace, grabbed her purse, and stood just as the doorbell rang.
Satan unsnapped her cell from the charger and handed it to her. “The last time the doorbell rang, it was you.”
She blushed, accepted the phone, and tucked it into the outside pocket of her clutch. She tiptoed and brushed her lips to his. “I think I’m going to miss you. Silly, huh?”
Not as much as he was going to miss her. The thought drew him up short. “Not a chance.”
He walked her to the door, pulled a long tweed coat out of the closet, and draped the warm fabric around her shoulders. He didn’t want her to leave. He hated not accompanying her into the city. He disliked her not being with him. When he opened the door, the limo driver, cap in hand, stood on the top step.
Satan escorted Angelica into the vehicle, closed her door, had a few words with the chauffeur, and paid the man. He watched the luxury automobile until it vanished around the corner of his driveway.
The house’s silence got to him the second he slammed the front door shut. He made his way to the library, fished his cell from his sweats’ pocket, and called Devil’s wife, Jess.
“Satan? Did you mean to call Devil?”
“Nope. It’s you I want Jess. Tell me everything you know about Angelica O’Malley.”
“Angelica? Oh, I’d forgotten that was her real name. She hardly ever uses it.”
“Her real name?”
Fuck.
He ought to have known better. Everything about Angelica O’Malley had seemed too good to be true.
“Angel Dare.” Rutger Harlowe’s smile was definitely not reflected in his obsidian eyes. He glanced at Angel’s outstretched hand, sat, and folded his arms. “What do you want?”
Angel hoped her flinch wasn’t obvious. She drew her hand to her side. “I’m aware that you objected to this meeting—”
“Damn right. Get to the point.”
His pointed predatory glare and the dangerous glint in his brown eyes coated her fingers and toes with glacial ice. She didn’t know a body could drip with perspiration and shiver with cold at the same time. Angel concentrated on the notes page on her phone. She read the first note she’d jotted down not two hours earlier, visualized the execution of her brother, and did that dis-association thing that happened when her mind threatened to detonate.
Focus. Make
him
go on the defensive.
“I’ve proof that you’re the sniper who shot and killed my brother.” She returned his stare.
Harlowe blinked. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Your security’s been hacked. You came down with a case of pneumonia on your last deployment. Your son, Fortune Jason Harlowe, was born during your deployment to Afghanistan. You eat three eggs and ten rashers of bacon along with three sides of pumpernickel toast for breakfast every single day. Your favorite weapon is a M11 Sig Sauer P-228—want me to continue?”
He shoved his chair back and jacked to standing. The metal edges squeaked on the tiled floor. “I can throw you in jail for hacking into my security.”
“I didn’t hack into your security. Someone else did. That same someone sent me all that info on you. Whoever it was said it would get your attention.” She wished he’d sit back down. The man intimidated the spit out of her mouth. Nervousness made her fiddle with the legal-size brown envelope she’d placed on the table before Harlowe arrived.
“I don’t believe a word you’ve uttered.”
Shit.
This wasn’t going well.
Show him the recording.
That
would wipe the sneer off his face.
Angel was so not going to let him walk out of the meeting without getting the information she desperately needed.
“I received this two weeks ago.” She pulled the disposable phone that had been sent to her from the brown envelope and shoved the cell across the table. “Hit play. It’s all set to go.”
He raked her features. His lips curled into a sneer. “Not a chance I’m playing your little game lady.”
She bounded to her feet, slammed her hands onto the table, and said through clenched teeth, “I will leak that tape if you don’t sit back down and answer three questions. That’s all I want—the answers to three questions. And let me tell you this—what’s on that tape will compromise you and your SEAL team mates.”
“I despise journalists. And I do not allow anyone to threaten me or the national security of this country.” Rutger Harlowe was an enormous man, and when he leaned across the table his hot coffee-scented breath fanned her face.
“Three questions. That’s all I’m asking. According to that tape, you shot and killed my brother, Martin O’Malley, who at the time was calling himself Habib Aziz, after he executed five ISIS prisoners in northern Iraq.”
That captured the hostile SEAL’s attention. He blinked again, frowned, and picked up the phone. She watched him like a hawk, but the man’s stoic expression remained in place when he viewed the video that had been sent to her. When the clip ended, he pocketed the phone. “How many copies of this do you have?”
Thank God the cell was one of those disposable jobs, and she had multiple copies of the two clips on the phone.
One of the clips showed Rutger Harlowe shooting her brother, Martin, who was on a rooftop opposite him. Whoever filmed the event had been on a higher building somewhere between the two spots. She’d grown obsessed with trying to identify the location and had spent countless hours Googling Iraq, Iran, and Afghanistan landscapes to no avail.
Angel couldn’t quite puzzle out the other clip, but the message accompanying it had also said it would secure Harlowe’s attention and cooperation.
“One. And it’s not in my keeping. If anything happens to me, it
will
be released.” Angel tried not to let her voice wobble. She was frantic for a glass of water. Her throat scratched from the inside.
“I abhor blackmailers even more than I do journalists.” He folded his arms. “Three questions. Start."
“Are there any photographs of Malik Mansoor?” Angel held her breath.
“No. Next.”
For a second she glimpsed a hint of a reaction on him, his eyes widened a tad. About time. Rutger Harlowe scared the crap out of her. About time she had
him
reacting to
her
. She straightened and squared her shoulders. Glanced down at the notes on her phone and the second point.
“Can
you
identify Malik Mansoor?” Shit. Her pulse roared in her ears. A wave of barometric-like pressure compressed her chest. The room did a three-sixty spin, and she had to concentrate on the abstract Pablo-Picasso impression hanging on the wall to keep her burgeoning panic at bay.
He didn’t answer for so long her knees wobbled, and she had to lean on the table to keep standing. “Yes.”
“Is this him?” She retrieved a black and white photograph from the envelope on the table in front of her and slid the glossy square to him.
He focused on the picture and shot her a narrow-eyed glare. “Where’d you get this?”
“Just answer the damned question. Is that Malik Mansoor?”
“You first. Where did you get this photograph?” The blasted, arrogant SEAL pocketed the picture. Thank the Lord she had copies of that too.
“From my brother.” Hah! The look of surprise on Harlowe’s face was well worth the admission.
“How did he get the pic to you? When did you get it?”
“Snail mail. Seven months ago.” The envelope with the picture had arrived the day the first batch of her brother’s executions were leaked on the Internet. “Does Admiral Halsey know you have this photograph?”
“No.” The admiral had been her father’s fishing buddy and her godfather. The two men had roomed together in college. “Why did you sit on the pic for so long?” Harlowe shoved a hand over his buzz cut.
“It was apparently misplaced and was forwarded to me recently. I received the phone with those clips in the mail two weeks ago.”
She had no clue who’d sent her the phone and the video clips. The timing of both deliveries, a mere two days apart, had all her instincts pinging. It felt like a trap, but that made no sense at all.
“Your brother died six months ago. Malik Mansoor was his commander. Malik is zealous about his identity. Why would your brother send you a picture of him?”
Angel had anticipated the question. She shrugged. “I don’t have a clue.”
She had no intention of sharing what her brother had written with anyone. For her revenge scheme to work, she had to confront Malik Mansoor face-to-face.
Rutger straightened and inspected her with a piercing intensity. “Ms. Dare. You need to speak to my superiors immediately.”
“I’m meeting someone for lunch.” For her last fling, for her last everything, for Angel knew with certainty revenge for her brother came with the ultimate penalty—her death.
“Cancel lunch.” Harlowe’s glance swept the long table, and he focused on her coat thrown over the back of a chair near the entrance to the conference room.
Annoyed at his dictatorial tone, she snapped, “I’m not under your command.”
“Trust me. You are until we get to the bottom of this. We can do this two ways. You can come with me voluntarily, or I can cuff you and throw you over my shoulder.” He stalked to the chair, retrieved her mid-calf gray wool coat, moved to stand next to her, and held the garment open for her.
Angel wished she had tucked her new gun into her purse. “I told you. I have a lunch date.”
“And I’m telling you—cancel it. You, Ms. Dare, need to be debriefed.”
Realizing the grim determination written in Rutger’s clenched jaw and fierce scowl, she shrugged into the sleeves of her coat and glowered at him over her shoulder. “How long will this debriefing take? It’s the day before Christmas, and I have plans for the holidays.”
“Bank on a couple of hours.” Rutger hadn’t taken off his leather jacket, and he gestured her to precede him out of the room.
She snatched her purse from where it hung on the back of the chair and shot him a piercing glare. “Do you mind? A little privacy so I can cancel my lunch date?”
“I’ll be right outside.”
Angel picked up her cell phone and searched through her
Recents
. She dreaded having to break their lunch date. When she’d called Satan upon arriving at her condo earlier, he’d told her of a change in lunch venue, but refused to reveal the new “surprise” location. She pressed the first number on the list.