Wounded Angel (The Earth Angels) (4 page)

All too well Ella remembered how uncommunicative she’d been when she first came to Chicago. Her obsessive drive to learn every trick in self-defense had landed her at The Body Electric, first as an addicted gym rat, then as an instructor recruited by Phoebe. Her wariness and personal proximity issues had been obvious to both Phoebe and Ella’s then-personal trainer, Jacob, and it had taken the better part of a year to give them the barest explanation of her past. Only when she’d started to work there and experienced a snafu with her Social Security number had she been forced to come completely clean with them regarding her former life. From that point, Phoebe and Jacob had been her fiercest allies, and at times—like now—her overbearing protectors.

“There are people who need you as a trainer, and there are people who could single-handedly defeat a Navy SEAL team.” Jacob’s chin was angle so high it was a wonder he didn’t get a crick in his neck. “Surely even you can see that.”

Phoebe shot him an exasperated look. “Jacob, stop helping. Ella, what we’re asking is that you just look at this guy who’s decided to latch onto you, and judge accordingly on how you’re going to manage your personal protection. That’s all.”

“Drop him as a client.” Ignoring Pheobe, Jacob instead chose to display why he had never worked in a diplomatic capacity while in the Mossad. “Or at the very least, hand him over to me. Give me one day and I will find out what his objectives are, or break him in the attempt.”

Phoebe sighed. “Jacob, seriously, you need to switch to decaf in the worst way.”

“You two must think I’m a complete idiot,” Ella interjected before Jacob could retaliate. “No matter what’s happened in the past, I assure you that I do have a functioning survival instinct.”

“We never said that you didn’t,” Phoebe began, but stopped when Ella scowled at her.

“Whether it’s conscious or not, most people have an underlying belief that those who find themselves preyed upon by others somehow wound up that way because they were stupid or careless. I was neither, then or now, so you and Jacob can get that thought right out of your heads.”

“No, Ella—”

“What’s more, while I appreciate your concern, it’s not necessary. After everything I’ve gone through, I’d like to think my survival instincts have been honed more sharply than most. I’ve got my eye on Nate da Luca, and he’s not going to take me by surprise. I can and will take care of myself, both against him and anyone stupid enough to think I’m an easy mark.”

Jacob’s eyes bulged. “I teach you a few techniques and you think yourself a trained killer.”

Ella froze from the inside out. “I am a killer. I’ve done it before and I have no problem with doing it again.”

Chapter Four

Chicago was colder than the backside of hell.

Huddled in his duster, Nate’s ass felt like a block of ice as
he sat on a bus bench on Michigan Avenue, his hands kept warm by the Venti
coffee cup he held. Thank God he could fortify himself with a heavy dose of
caffeine and sugar. Otherwise—thanks to his aversion to the cold and a night
filled with weird dreams—his misery would have been complete.

He stifled a yawn and tried to pull his brain out of the fog of
fatigue. After the hell Ella had put him through, he’d had high hopes of
enjoying a restful sleep for the first time in what felt like forever. But no.
No sooner had his head hit the pillow than he was once again dreaming about a
giant faceless man in a cathedral-sized snow globe. The color-stealing glow of a
full moon beamed down to spotlight this being that resembled a waxwork waiting
to be sculpted. Sometimes the faceless man was silent; at others he was
downright verbose. Last night he’d been in a chatty mood, and as always Nate was
left wondering how he could talk without a mouth.

“Don’t look my way, abomination. I’m not ready yet.” The voice
came from everywhere to echo all around the glass room, though it was like no
voice Nate had ever heard. Like a demented mix of squeaking brakes and
fingernails on a blackboard. “I hate that you can see me, while I cannot see
you. Don’t look my way. Don’t look my way.”

Nate had awakened chanting the phrase, suffering the dual
miseries of a king-sized headache and the sensation that he hadn’t slept at all.
It had been this way for weeks now and he was officially sick of it.

He glanced up at the frosty blue sky beyond the towering
buildings, urging the sun to hurry the hell up and turn the heat on. The manmade
canyon around him testified to how many people lived and worked in the Windy
City, but to his way of thinking it was a mystery why so many lived in a place
that had to be second only to Siberia when it came to the cold. It was the
beginning of April, for God’s sake, yet here he was watching his breath vapor
out in front of him. Back home in Atlanta, the azaleas were blooming. Here, with
the Wrigley Building behind him and the flag-studded Michigan Avenue Bridge in
front of him, there wasn’t a hint of green anywhere unless he counted the muddy
greenish-brown of the Chicago River.

Damn, he hated Chicago.

Ducking his chin into his coat, he pretended interest in his
smartphone as a redheaded woman rushed past. The thought of accidentally bumping
into her crossed his mind as she made her way toward the Wrigley Building, but
in the end he stayed where he was. He didn’t feel the need to get an up-close
and personal peek at her. Unlike the impulse he’d followed by deliberately
crossing paths with Ella Little, the idea of doing the same with Gabrielle Litte
left him flat. Which was odd; he usually had a soft spot for redheads. But for
some reason he couldn’t put his finger on, it just didn’t feel right.

Gabrielle Litte had been working at the historic Wrigley
Building for seven months now, pulling the seven-to-three shift as a janitorial
manager. As far as he could tell, she’d never missed a day and her arrivals were
better timed than the clock up on the historic building’s tower. Supposedly she
was a transfer from northern Kentucky, had few friends, no family or boyfriend.
She was a loner, the right height and weight of the woman he was looking for; in
short, a decent fit. But the eyes and hair color were off—red hair and pale
brown eyes instead of blond and blue.

Like Ella, Gabrielle Litte wasn’t an exact match.

He sipped his coffee and went over his mental checklist. After
observing this woman for nearly a week, he was all but certain Gabrielle wasn’t
his true target. For one thing, the redhead was slightly bow-legged. If there
was one thing Nate remembered about the woman he needed to find, it was that her
legs were magnificent. For another, he could trace Gabrielle Litte’s personal
history back all the way to high school, something he shouldn’t be able to do if
she had done her best to cover her tracks.

It was Ella Little’s past that was MIA.

This should be the deciding factor to jettison Gabrielle Litte
off his list of possibilities, but the poisonous insecurity gnawing away at his
insides kept her there. Six months ago he would have been happy to listen to
that instinct. Even when his gut feelings had let him down, they’d still
whispered to him in a constant stream that eventually pointed him to his goal of
finding that which had been hidden.

Now, there was nothing. No whispers. No feelings. As far as he
was concerned, that meant
he
was nothing.

His mother would have been thrilled.

Jaw knotted, Nate curbed the urge to once again reach down
inside himself in the hope of finding that special
other
sense that went deeper than emotion or thought. There was no
point in looking for something that was gone. For six months he’d groped around
like a blind man for the internal compass that had nudged him toward the hidden
and the lost, only to come up against a blank and terrifying darkness.

Maybe this was his punishment for not hating his family’s
genetic gifts.

Frustration clawed at Nate’s insides until there was nothing
left but bloody strips. Unlike everyone else in his family, he’d been
proud—hell, he’d been honored—that he’d been born special, even if he was the
weakest. That pride had turned to arrogance, and in that arrogance he’d taken
his meager gifts and wielded them without thought. He’d delighted in proving his
mother wrong, that the family curse she’d rejected was in fact a worthy trait.
With every case he’d solved by using his gifts, he’d thought he was validating
his existence.

Never once had it crossed his mind that while he was proving
how goddamned awesome he was, there were some things that needed to remain
hidden.

The buzz of the smartphone startled him. His expression
collapsed into a grimace of distaste when he saw who it was. “Nate da Luca.”

“Good morning to you, Mr. da Luca. I trust I didn’t wake
you?”

“Mr. Archibald.” It was almost scary, how easily Nate could
imagine smashing his fist into the soft, unlined face of Carver Archibald,
senior attorney of Archibald and Associates. He was the epitome of the old
Southern gentleman, with his snow-white coronet of hair, waxed pencil moustache
and a penchant for looking down his bourbon-flushed nose at every being who
dared to breathe his air. The less time Nate spent dealing with the well-paying
but self-important prick, the better. “I’m working, so I’d appreciate it if you
made this quick.”

“How admirable, to have such dedication to your job,” came the
drawling praise that wasn’t really praise at all. The need to Hulk-smash the
pompous blowhard inched up another notch. “I’m afraid I must have missed your
update yesterday.”

“You didn’t. I didn’t contact you yesterday.”

“That’s what I thought. Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear the
last time we spoke. My client has made it quite plain he would like for you to
report in on a daily basis regarding your search.”

“You made yourself abundantly clear, Mr. Archibald.” Nate
glanced up at the clock tower. By now Gabrielle Litte would be heading
downstairs to the sub-levels, where the janitorial offices and supply areas were
located. “You seem to be the one who didn’t understand our last conversation, so
allow me to repeat myself. When I’m positive I’ve located Gabriella Littlefield,
you and Richard Rainier will be the first to know. Until then, I have nothing to
report.”

“It’s been six weeks since the death of Claudine
Pierpont-Rainier. Six weeks since you were retained to carry out that gentle
woman’s final wishes. Need I remind you of the time constraints?”

“Not at all. And if you think you can do a better job at
locating someone who doesn’t want to be found, by all means be my guest.” Not
that Nate was certain another private investigator couldn’t do a better job.
Without his inner compass to nudge him in the right direction, he had no idea if
he was on the right track. “The reason you hired me specifically was because I’m
the one who found Gabriella Littlefield as she stumbled her way out of the Smoky
Mountains, naked and more dead than alive. I know what to look for in this woman
who’s done everything possible to make sure she can’t be found.”

“The question is, are you capable of doing that job, Mr. da
Luca? Correct me if I’m wrong, but it seems to me that a competent investigation
would have borne some fruit by now.”

“After Gabriella Littlefield legally changed her name, she was
granted the right to have her records sealed,” Nate went on while the need to
destroy something enveloped his muscles in an embrace of heat. It was a familiar
sensation, one he’d had—and ignored—his entire life, mainly due to a genuine
fear that he’d kill someone if he ever let that nuclear-hot power off its leash.
“The only family she’d had in Asheville was her mother, who died three years
ago, so that’s a dead end there. She quit her job as an LPN, and as far as I can
tell she hasn’t returned to the nursing profession. She abandoned it, just like
she abandoned everything else in her life. Do you realize what a rare kind of
determination that takes?”

“Yes, well, her gumption is admirable, to be sure. Considering
that tawdry business between Ms. Littlefield and my client’s family, she’d have
to be quite the spitfire, wouldn’t she? Nevertheless, as she’s not some superspy
trained by the government, I’m confident it should be a simple matter to track
her down. Have you tried looking into her finances?”

“As she was the sole beneficiary of her mother’s life insurance
policy, Gabriella Littlefield was able to pay off all her debts. She then
canceled her credit cards, closed her bank account and deleted all of her
profiles on every social network the internet has to offer, including an obscure
medical-trade forum for nurses that she belonged to. And as much as this makes
my job that much harder to do, she has every right to disappear. After what
Charles Rainier put her through, the least this world owes that woman is a
little peace and quiet.”

“There’s no need to get so impassioned. No one is questioning
Ms. Littlefield’s right to privacy. But really, procedure must be adhered
to.”

“What is at question is your client’s apparent belief that it
should be a snap to find her. Gabriella Littlefield could be anywhere in this
world, living under any name imaginable.”

“Then why, pray tell, have you focused all your energy on
Chicago, of all places?”

If there was one thing Nate hated, it was explaining himself.
“Though Gabriella Littlefield was born and raised in North Carolina, in her teen
years she spent several summers here in the Windy City with her cousins. I
talked with the one cousin who still lives in the area, and he swears he hasn’t
seen her in years. While I don’t really believe him on that score, I do believe
Gabriella would be more comfortable in a place that’s not completely unfamiliar
to her.”

“But if she were trying to disappear as completely as you’ve
demonstrated, wouldn’t she avoid having anything to do with her past?”

“Humans are a funny breed. Even when they’re trying to create a
brand new life for themselves, there’s something instinctive about holding onto
one or two things that remind them of who they once were—sort of like an anchor
that keeps them from drifting into dangerous waters. And that leads me to
another point. I had a friend in the Atlanta PD search several real estate and
property rental sites around the country, looking for every iteration of the
name Gabriella Littlefield I could think of. Three hits showed up in
Chicago—Briella Fields, Gabrielle Litte and Ella Little.”

“Goodness, that does sound like a bunch of guessing to me.”

Nate gripped the phone so hard it was a wonder it didn’t
crumple into a teeny ball of circuitry and high-impact glass. “It’s an educated
guess, derived from an old undercover trick—choose a cover name that’s similar
to your real name. That way you won’t be caught being oblivious when someone
calls out to you.”

“So, just to be clear...have you found her or not?”

Seriously, this guy was brick-thick. “I’m narrowing it down.
Until I do find her, keep those names confidential. We don’t want another media
circus on our hands.”

“I beg your pardon, Mr. da Luca.” Archibald’s scolding tone was
enough to sour the coffee in Nate’s gut. “I do know how to do my job. Please
continue to do yours, and in future be so kind as to leave your schedule open
for continued daily updates. Thank you and good day.”

Nate scowled as he disconnected the call, trying his damnedest
to ignore the pent-up tension thrumming through his muscles. What he’d like to
do to vent that tension was open up a can of whoop-ass on the pampered priss
Archibald and his client, Richard Rainier. Every last one of the Rainiers was
jacked up in ways that only old money, power and privilege could do, with each
successive generation proving itself to be more twisted than the last. But as
much as he yearned to tell Archibald to shove this case where the sun didn’t
shine, there was no way he was going to do that. For one thing, it wouldn’t stop
them from hounding Gabriella Littlefield to the ends of the earth. For another,
the fee they were paying him to fulfill the last wishes of an old woman would
pay the bills for the next couple of years, and then some.

Besides, his cause was just. Before accepting this case, he’d
investigated the motivation behind it from top to bottom. Though part of him
still felt vaguely scummy intruding on the new life Gabriella Littlefield had
built, there was no doubt that what he was bringing to her would make her road a
smoother one. If anyone deserved that, she did.

The muted chime on his phone sounded just as he was tucking it
into his coat pocket, and this time he brought it back out with more enthusiasm.
There were very few internet message boards that grabbed his attention, but he’d
stumbled onto this site after researching the loss of his own powers. One link
had led to another, and after answering a complex questionnaire, he’d landed in
carefully guarded territory—a web site created for the descendants of an ancient
race of angelic-human hybrids known as the Nephilim.