After a small struggle that only increased Catlin's anticipation, Lindsay managed to undo his stubborn jeans zipper. The small sound of metal teeth parting was like a ragged breath. Her fingers sought the opening in his briefs, found it and released his hot male flesh from confinement.
Catlin clenched his teeth at the sweet torment of Lindsay's hand loving him. Slowly his fingers slid into her, stroking her until her hips moved in the rhythms of hunger and desire. He watched the languid movements in the mirror, felt her heat and sensual abandon and saw her hand warm and hungry around him.
And then he could bear watching no more. He closed his eyes and moved his hips as she was moving. For long, aching moments they caressed each other, wanting more but unable to do anything about it because what they had right then felt too good to stop. Finally he forced his fingers to withdraw from the wild honey of her body, only to return again and then again for the sheer pleasure of feeling her melt in his hand.
"You look like you'd be better off lying down," Catlin said, slowly releasing her hot, soft center.
Lindsay took a deep, ragged breath. "I think " Her voice broke. "I know. You too."
Catlin ran his palms over the firm swell of Lindsay's bare buttocks, flexed his fingers sensually into the resilient flesh, and watched her tremble in response. Knowing he shouldn't, unable to stop himself, he smoothed each hand around her waist and then up beneath the teddy once more, caressing her erect nipples until she bit her lip in an effort not to moan aloud.
"Catlin-"
With a reluctance that said more than any words could have, Catlin squeezed Lindsay's breasts once more, then slowly pulled her teddy into place between her legs and fastened it, knowing that if he saw her uncovered just once more he would lose control and take her wherever they were, whoever might be listening.
As Lindsay brushed past Catlin on her way into the bedroom, she gave his exposed, aroused flesh a possessive look that made him bare his teeth in something more than a smile. He stepped out of the bathroom and closed the door, watching while she lay on her side and turned toward him. Her breasts were taut, full, and her nipples were the tempting centers of lacy flowers.
Catlin pulled off his clothes with impatient motions, wanting only to be naked. She watched while he came to her with a soundless, powerful stride that made her weak with anticipation. When he bent over her and his hand moved from her ankle to her thigh, she shifted, opening her legs in answer to the silent, hot pressure of his fingers.
"I thought " Lindsay whispered, then bit back a cry as Catlin's nails raked lightly over the teddy's snaps, making her feel as though she had brushed against a live electrical wire. "I thought you didn't want to," she whispered, the words as ragged as the breath tearing through her body.
"Do I look like a man who doesn't want to?" he retorted very softly, smiling as her glance swept down his body and lingered with open hunger.
"Then why did you " Lindsay's breath hissed in suddenly as Catlin's fingers toyed with the teddy's snaps.
"This?" he asked, running his fingertip maddeningly over the fastenings.
She nodded, unable to speak for fear that her words would come out as a passionate cry that would carry all too clearly.
"Because," Catlin whispered, sliding his finger into the opening between the snaps, "I like undressing you."
Lindsay's body arched in a sensual reflex that opened her completely to Catlin. He moved swiftly, kneeling between her legs, teasing her until she moaned very softly and he smiled.
"I fastened this," he murmured, watching her, feeling her heat come to meet him again, "because I knew if I saw you again, I would take you right there in the bathroom until we both screamed with pleasure. Then I remembered that damn bug."
"Does that mean we can't "
Catlin's probing, teasing touch took away Lindsay's words, took away her breath, took everything from her but the hot race of pleasure as he found and caressed the tight feminine nub hidden within her folded softness. She twisted, trying to increase the pressure of his caress, and he evaded even as he teased her until she shivered and melted in his hand.
"Ahh, dragon, you're killing me by inches," she moaned.
"No, I'm not. Not yet." The teddy's snaps gave way with two soft sounds. Catlin slid his hands beneath Lindsay's knees and pressed until her legs flexed deeply, giving her to him without reservation. "But I'm going to."
As she looked from his hot golden eyes to the hard male body slowly, slowly taking her, she felt the tiny shuddering ecstasy well from deep within her. He felt it, too. She saw the pleasure that was almost pain tighten his face while he withdrew from her as slowly as he had entered. Then he was pressing against her again, filling her even as she melted around him, withdrawing, coming to her once more, slowly, slowly.
The incremental withdrawal and even more gradual return made Lindsay moan helplessly. Catlin caught the sound with his mouth as he slid by slow inches into her again. Her eyelids fluttered down and she moved with abandoned grace, matching his movements as though the two of them lived in slow motion, a lifetime in each joining, each retreat, and she moaned with each tiny movement, wanting him fully, all of him buried in her softness.
Catlin lifted his head, wanting to watch Lindsay, wanting to memorize each moment, to make it last forever because he had never felt so alive, so much a man, so many currents of wild pleasure making him tighten until he wanted to scream the release he felt gathering inside him.
Catlin withdrew again, drawing a husky groan of pleasure and protest from Lindsay. Her eyes opened slowly, dazed with the sensations consuming her. As he took her softness again, he felt it happen for her, tiny convulsions of ecstasy rippling through her, caressing the rigid male flesh held within her body. Gently he covered her mouth with his hand, muffling her husky, helpless cries. He watched ecstasy transform her as he continued the tender penetration until he was so deeply a part of her that he could feel her climax as though it were his own. And then he realized that it was his, a shuddering wildness sweeping through him that was both gentle and more overwhelming than anything he had ever known, coming in slow motion, exploding softly.
He saw her watching him, smiling in the knowledge of his release even as ecstasy swept through her again. He started to say her name but could not, for the intimate ripples of her body were his, too. He thought he would die from the endless, gentle explosions that were hotter and sweeter with each shuddering pulse. He had no breath, no thought, no sight, nothing but the ecstasy consuming him, and he wondered if this was what it felt like to die.
25
"Come on, come on," O'Donnel muttered urgently, looking at the luminous face of his watch. "I told you to let Catlin lose you after six minutes and it's been "
The sound of the radio cut off O'Donnel's words.
"This is Five. Is One on?"
"One here," Stone said, thumbing down the transmit button on the radio that had a built-in scrambler to discourage the thousands of citizens and crooks who enjoyed eavesdropping on police communications frequencies.
"I let them get away on Market. Am heading for the rendezvous on Stockton. Out."
O'Donnel sighed as Stone replaced the mike on its bracket beneath the dash. Stone gave the younger man an amused look.
"Relax, Terry. This is the easy part."
"No way," O'Donnel retorted. "Waiting is the hardest part of all. What if the whole thing was a ruse to draw Catlin and Lindsay off alone and then scrag them?"
"Easier said than done, with Catlin."
"He isn't armed."
"He still had his hands when I last checked," Stone said dryly.
"Not much range in them."
"Catlin didn't argue the toss," pointed out Stone. "It's his ass. He's used to covering it."
O'Donnel leaned back and settled in to wait. Just down the street was Wo Pong's All-Night Grocery at least, O'Donnel assumed that was what the ideographs translated into. Catlin had told them the address and the name. The address on Stockton Street had been easy to decipher. The name they had to take on faith.
On either side of the street there were bars bearing flashing scarlet ideographs, two movie houses showing old spaghetti Westerns and Brace Lee kung fu epics, several hotels that looked as though they asked no questions and told no tales and an "adult" bookstore for the unimaginative reader.
"Wonder if the pornography is in Chinese?" O'Donnel asked idly.
"What makes you think it needs translation?"
The younger man thought about it for an instant and laughed. "You're right. Grainy black-and-white close-ups transcend linguistic boundaries. Sort of an international hands across the water, as it were. Well, not hands, exactly."
Laughter faded into silence as both men watched Pong's All-Night Grocery in the truck's side mirrors. There was little chance of the agents being noticed, for they were more than a full block from the store and were driving a grimy Ford pickup with a camper shell. They could have been working men looking for somewhere to relax the night before beginning the weekly grind. Several collapsed beer cans decorated the dash, wordlessly explaining why the occupants were inside the car rather than prowling the streets along with the mixed Anglo and Chinese crowd outside.
Both agents wore work clothes that matched the grubby truck, although the effect would have been somewhat diminished if anyone had gotten close enough to see Stone's neatly clipped silver hair beneath the crumpled Giants baseball cap. Both men sipped coffee that had been substituted for Budweiser in their beer cans. Regulation FBI pistols and holsters were hidden beneath dark windbreakers. Sawed-off shotguns were clipped in a holder beneath the dash. A battered tool case under Stone's feet held extra rounds and binoculars that had been developed for night fighting in Vietnam.
"Uh-oh," said O'Donnel, setting aside his coffee. "Here come two more whores."
Stone watched the tightly dressed women stroll down the sidewalk toward them, rolling their hips and eyes at passing men. He let out a sound of relief when two eager customers snagged the women from a passing car. Short of flashing a badge, it was almost impossible to discourage streetwalkers looking for a fast fifty bucks and a few minutes out of San Francisco's raw night wind.
"How much more time?" Stone asked.
"Three minutes."
Stone bent down until he could use the radio without being noticed from the sidewalk. He punched in the transmit button.
"This is One. Anyone in place besides Three, Four and Nine?"
"Twelve." "Five." "Ten." "Two."
The calls came in. Stone waited for five seconds but no more units answered. "All right. Three and Four will follow the subjects. Ten will take the left parallel. Twelve will take the right. Five, stay in reserve behind Twelve. Two, back up Ten. Six, Seven, Eight and Eleven, call in when you get close enough to do us any good."
The units checked in one by one, acknowledging their orders. Stone glanced around casually, but could spot only unit Three, a man and a woman sitting close together in the front seat of a Plymouth parked just outside one of the bars.
"You know," O'Donnel said conversationally, looking at the stream of Toyotas, Nissans, Hondas, BMWs, Saabs, Volvos and Volkswagens surging down the city streets, "some day old Uncle Sam is going to get smart and realize that on the West Coast, damn near the only inexpensive American cars sold are bought by the federal government. Or state and local police." He made a disgusted sound. "We might as well wear a neon sign when we're on surveillance as drive a cheap American car."
"Don't hold your breath waiting for the light to dawn on Congress," Stone said. "Can you imagine the stink in DC If politicians were asked to appropriate funds for buying a fleet of unAmerican surveillance cars? Shit Marie. You'd hear the screams of outrage all the way to Alaska."
"Do the politicians want us to catch crooks or prop up Detroit?" retorted O'Donnel.
Stone gave the young agent a sideways look. "Guess," he said succinctly. What O'Donnel said in return was lost in the sudden crackle of the radio.
"This is Twelve. A cab just turned onto Stockton two blocks south of rendezvous. Male and female Caucasians in backseat. Could be them."
"Twelve, this is One. Are you north or south of the store?" asked Stone.
"North."
As one, O'Donnel and Stone checked the mirrors. There were several taxis in view. One turned right at the stoplight behind them, one drove on past and one turned into the glass-sprinkled parking lot of Wo Pong's Ail-Night Grocery. A man and a woman got out. They were too far away for the agents to distinguish faces, but the man moved like Catlin.
"This is Two. Subjects just entered the store,"
"Ten, this is One," Stone said tersely. "Can you see the back door?"
"This is Ten. The alley is covered. No one Shit!"
Stone didn't bother reprimanding Ten for breaking federal law by swearing over the airwaves. "Were you burned?" he demanded urgently.
"Close. I saw the lights coming on in time to duck. I'm parked right on top of the damn thing. Black late-model Mercedes, tinted windows, four doors. Gee, can you imagine that," Ten added sarcastically. "The license plate light is out so I can't give you the numbers. Car is pulling into the back of the parking lot. I can't see any more.''
There were a few seconds of silence, then a different voice came on.
"This is Two. Subjects are being frisked. Professional job of it, too. Looking under collars for bugs and up sleeves for knives. They're getting into the Mercedes now. Can't read the license plate on the front, either. Confirm black and four doors. It's turning south on Stockton."
"I don't envy Ten," said O'Donnel, starting up the track without turning on the headlights. "I'd hate to follow a snail through the center of Chinatown on Saturday night, much less attempt a parallel surveillance down Grant Street."
Stone grunted. "Ten is Jackson. He's worked here for years. He should be used to the crowds, the narrow streets and the god-awful hills. Lord, to think people come from all over the world to this place. No accounting for tastes, I guess."
The Mercedes moved south. Around it, surrounding it, unseen watchers fell into position.
Stone reached for the mike. "Two, this is One. Take the next street over so that if Ten gets bottled up on Grant you'll be in place."
"Roger."
Using a small, carefully shielded flashlight, Stone looked at a street map and tried to anticipate the Mercedes. He picked up the mike again.
"Five, this is One. Pull ahead and take Powell to Market. Turn south on Third. I've got a feeling they're headed for the docks."
As soon as Five had acknowledged, another unit came on.
"One, this is Seven. We're on Powell right now, heading north, between Post and Sutter."
"One this is Eight. We're on Taylor heading north, between O'Farrell and Geary."
"Roger, Seven and Eight. Five, try to stay at least a block ahead of the subjects. Seven and Eight will take Third. Do you copy?"
The units acknowledged. A half mile away, two inexpensive American cars simultaneously made illegal U-turns in the center of different blocks and headed south to converge on Third Street. Back in Chinatown, Four and Three switched places, changing the profile of the car that was working in close to the Mercedes.
"One, this is Four. Subject is pulling over to the side of the road just past Maude."
"Probably checking for tails. Go on by," Stone ordered. "Ten, switch with Four where Stockton crosses O'Farrel. Wait until the Mercedes moves before you take up position. Five, take the backup on the right parallel. Two, you're the lead on the right parallel now. Units on left parallel be ready to take over primary surveillance if subject U-turns."
Units acknowledged one after another. O'Donnel waited with no outward impatience, watching traffic in the driving mirrors, ready to pull out onto Stockton at a moment's notice. The Mercedes stayed parked.
"Okay," Stone said to O'Donnel. "Nice and slow. Make up about six blocks on them."
O'Donnel switched on the lights and pulled into traffic. Thirty seconds later the radio crackled to life again.
"One this is Three. Subject U-turned. Going away fast!"
"Five and Twelve, do you copy!" said Stone.
Both units acknowledged.
Stone sat tightly, swearing beneath his breath. Half his units were arrayed along the waterfront that the Mercedes was now heading away from. But the waterfront was the logical place for an overseas shipment to arrive. Stone was betting heavily on that. He was also betting that anything as old, cumbersome and valuable as the bronzes wouldn't be moved around any more than absolutely necessary.
"What if they shipped them into Marin County?" O'Donnel asked suddenly.
Stone didn't answer. The same thought was haunting him.
"Subject turning left onto Bush."
Stone waited, prayed.
"Subject turning left onto Powell."
Stone held the microphone as though if he just squeezed it hard enough, the right words would come out.
"Subject turning left onto Sutter."
"Come on," muttered O'Donnel, visualizing the Mercedes making a complete circuit of a city block. "Come on, baby. One more time."
"Subject turning right onto Stockton."
O'Donnel let out a subdued whoop and then held his breath in case the Mercedes decided to do another lap just for the hell of it.
The Mercedes did just that, then pulled into a parking place along Stockton and watched the traffic go by for five minutes. The headlights of the cars had a subtle nimbus now, telling of moisture rapidly condensing hi the air, forerunner of the city's famous fog. Stone watched the hands of his watch and tersely ordered the units to find a spot and stay there until further notice. Then he sat tight and thought of all the ways a surveillance could go sour. He had gotten up to fifteen separate disasters when the radio came to life again.
"U-turn. Repeat. U-turn. Subject now heading south on Stockton."
Stone's fingers loosened on the mike. He settled the map across his thighs and went back to positioning his units. Reports came in steadily. When the Mercedes turned south on Third Street, heading for the waterfront north of Hunters Point, Stone allowed himself a small feeling of triumph. He pushed down the transmit button.
"Unit Thirteen, this is One. Have you spotted the subject on Third?"
The distinctive whap-whap-whap of a helicopter's rotors accompanied Thirteen's response.
"That's a roger. We've got them dead center on the night scope. Southbound on Third. Patchy fog. Hardly any traffic. Better tell the guys down there to hang way back or they'll take a burn if he goes to ground again."
"Roger, Thirteen. All ground units, this is One. Rendezvous with me as per Plan Alpha. Thirteen, call me the instant that Mercedes chooses a warehouse."
Stone listened to the acknowledgments, then settled in and began to worry in earnest about the streamers of fog that were condensing across the face of the night.
Inside the Mercedes, Lindsay tried not to show her dismay when the driver shut off his headlights, made a sudden U-turn on the wet, gray waterfront street and pulled off onto a cross street that led between unlighted buildings. Though the engine remained on, the driver settled back in the seat, obviously not planning on going anywhere right away.
As before, Catlin had braced Lindsay during the sudden maneuver and then held her, letting her feel his relaxation, silently reassuring her that everything was all right. Privately he wasn't all that certain that everything was proceeding according to Stone's schedule. The Mercedes hadn't gone blasting the wrong way up a one-way street, but it had done most of the other things that were guaranteed to flush tails.
On the other hand, the FBI had a lot of highly trained manpower. That was what was required to combat evasive maneuvers on the part of a surveillance subject. The Bureau could afford to put a moving net of units around the Mercedes without giving away the game. Only once, back at Wo Pong's Grocery, had Catlin seen any sign of the Bureau's presence, and that had been a block away from the store, where Wu's men weren't likely to be anticipating surveillance.
But the waterfront road where they were now parked was deserted. The sheer numbers of the FBI would work against them here. Headlights would stand out like beacons against the drifts of fog. Catlin stared out the window and wondered if one of the aircraft he saw dancing above the city lights belonged to the FBI.
"It's all right," Catlin said softly against Lindsay's hair. "Look at all those lights across the bay. You don't get many nights as clear as this in San Francisco."