Rapture: A Novel of The Fallen Angels Read online

  “You talk like you know about them firsthand.” When he didn’t comment, she leaned in. “Is there any chance you’re in the federal witness protection program?”

  No, he was on the other side of the law…whatever that meant.

  “If that’s the case,” he said, “they’re not taking very good care of me.”

  “I have an idea. Let’s go back to the cemetery—right where the accident occurred. See if it brings anything to your mind.”

  “I can’t ask you to do that.”

  “You didn’t. I offered—” She stopped. Frowned. Rubbed at her eyebrow. “God, I hope I’m not turning into my mother.”

  “Does she like cemeteries?”

  “No, long story. Anyway, I borrowed my friend’s car—I can drive you over there after we’re done eating.”

  “No. Thanks, though.”

  “Why’d you bother to ask about your name if you’re not going to keep digging?”

  “I can take a cab, is what I mean.”

  “Oh.”

  The waitress showed up with “the usual,” which turned out to be a chicken salad on wheat with what appeared to be extra tomatoes, and fries instead of chips.

  “I think I should take you,” she said, reaching for the ketchup.

  Matthias watched as two cops came in through the front door and sat at the counter. “Can I be honest with you?”

  “Please.”

  He dipped his chin and stared at her over the tops of the Ray-Bans. “I don’t want you to be alone with me. It’s too dangerous.”

  She paused with a French fry halfway to her mouth. “No offense. But considering your physical condition, I could break both your legs and have you unconscious in a New York minute.” As his brows shot sky-high, she nodded. “I’m a black belt, licensed to carry a concealed hand gun, and I never go anywhere without a good knife or my heat.”

  She gave a quick smile, picked up her chicken salad, and bit into her usual. “So, what do you say?”

  Fortunately, this wasn’t a date, Mels thought as things went quiet. Because telling a man you could wipe the floor with him was not a good beginning, middle, or end to a meal.

  This was business—yeah, sure, this man’s story, whatever it was, wasn’t likely to end up in the pages of a newspaper, but it was something to solve, and God knew she never passed that kind of opportunity up.

  “Quite a résumé,” he said after a long moment.

  “My father made sure I could defend myself. He was a cop, one of the real old-school types.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  She wiped her mouth with a paper napkin, took another hit of her coffee, and wished she’d ordered a Coke. “Put it this way…Now, in the days of video cameras in squad cars, and internal affairs boards, and binders full of procedurals, he wouldn’t have lasted a month before he got suspended. But back in the day, he got the job done, and people were safer in this town because of him. He took care of things.”

  “Rough guy?”

  “Fair guy.”

  “And you approve of his methods?”

  She shrugged. “I approved of him. His way of operating, on the other hand…let’s just say it was for a different era. Before DNA and the Internet.”

  “Sounds like my kind of man.”

  Mels had to smile at that. Except then sadness at her father’s loss made her look out at the river, and the seagulls which coasted over the sluggish current. “He was never out of control or mean. But sometimes, the criminal element only responds when things are explained in their language.”

  “You have any brothers or sisters?”

  “Just me. And Dad didn’t care that I was a girl. He treated me as he would have a son, trained me, taught me self-defense, insisted I learn about firearms.” She laughed. “My mother nearly had a heart attack. Still does.”

  “He retired now?”

  “Dead.” She went back to the sandwich. “Killed in the line of duty.”

  There was a pause. And then Matthias said softly, “I’m sorry.”

  She didn’t dare look up, because she’d said too much, and with those sunglasses on, she didn’t know where his eyes were—though it didn’t take a genius to know they were on her.

  “Thanks. Enough about me, though—and enough with that I’m-too-dangerous-for-you crap. I’ve been taking care of myself for a long time now, and I’m good at it. I wouldn’t have made the offer if I didn’t think I could handle you.”

  He laughed in a short burst. “You’re awfully sure of yourself.”

  “I know what my limits are.”

  “But you don’t know me. Neither of us does.”

  “Which is what we want to fix, right?”

  The man sat back. “Yeah.”

  When she was finished with the sandwich—she skipped the rest of her fries—she paid the bill and got to her feet. “So let’s do this.”

  As he looked up at her, that shaft went through her again, that sizzle of attraction which made no sense heating her up.

  “Promise me something,” he said quietly.

  “Depends on what it is.”

  “You won’t take any chances with yourself.”

  “Done.”

  With a nod, he gathered his cane, slid his legs around and then waited for a moment, like he was bracing his body for an onslaught. Her first instinct was to hitch an arm under his to help, but she knew he wouldn’t have appreciated that. And staring at him in his frailty wasn’t respectful, either, so she did a half turn and pretended to be checking out the backlit menu mounted on the wall over the counter.

  A groan told her he was up on his feet, and she led the way to the door. As they passed the few other diners, she felt their eyes go to the man behind her, lingering.

  God, what it must be to go through life like that, constantly being stared at. Although…chances were good the women saw what she did. Which was nothing limited in the slightest.

  Quite the contrary.

  Out in the parking lot, Tony’s car was a beater, but not in the kept-neat sense that Fi-Fi was. His ride was more like a roaming trash bin.

  “Don’t mind the clutter,” she said as she unlocked the Toyota.

  Getting in, she reached over and batted the The New Republics and the Newsweeks off the passenger seat. Not surprisingly, it took Matthias some time to lower himself, and when he swung his knees in, his boots crunched into the litter in the footwell, mashing Taco Bell into the golden arches, and BK Lounge into Wendy’s.

  “Your friend’s into fast food,” he remarked.

  “And he eats quick, too.”

  Hitting the gas, she barged into traffic, shoe-horning the sedan into a hatchback-size space between a cab and a NiMo truck.

  “Seat belt,” he said.

  She glanced over. “Yup. You’re wearing one.”

  “Do you have a death wish?”

  “Seat belts don’t always save lives.”

  “So all these people around us are wrong?”

  “They can do what they want, and so can I.”

  “What about tickets?”

  “I haven’t been pulled over yet. If I do, I’ll pay up.”

  “When. That would be ‘when.’”

  Pine Grove Cemetery was a good ten minutes away—except for the way she drove. Mels was never reckless; she was just efficient, picking routes that avoided traffic lights and the construction that was going on around the park.

  “It’s up here on the right.” She leaned into the wheel and looked out the windshield. “The place is beautiful, actually. There’s something so peaceful about cemeteries.”

  Matthias made a “meh” sound. “All that eternal rest is just an illusion.”

  “Don’t you believe in Heaven?”

  “I believe in Hell, I’ll tell you that much.”

  There was no time to follow up as they came to the front entrance. “The accident happened around here…past the main gates. Right about…little farther—here.”

  As she pul
led Tony’s car over and went to turn off the engine, Matthias was already getting out. Walking quickly with his cane, he stopped in the middle of the road, at the stains where he’d landed. He looked left and right; then doubled back, going over to Fi-Fi’s tire tracks, and the busted tree…and finally up to the ten-foot-tall fence that surrounded the cemetery.

  Talk about Gothic. Made of iron slats and topped with fleur-de-lis cappers, Pine Grove’s boundary was imposing…and dangerous if you tried to scale it.

  And what do you know, as she approached, she saw blood on the top of one of the sharp points—as well as a piece of cloth. Like someone had pulled an up-and-over.

  “I’ll get it,” she said, jumping up and snagging what had gotten torn. “Here.”

  Matthias took the remnant. “Oil cloth, and I’ll bet that dried blood is mine. I have a fresh wound on my leg.”

  Why hadn’t he used the front gate? Then again, it would have been locked as it had been after dark.

  “Can we go inside?” he asked.

  “Right now.”

  Back in the car, she took them through the entrance and went left, heading in the direction of where they assumed he’d jumped the fence. When she got to the point where they’d found the cloth, she stopped again, got out, and waited for his memory to speak up. If it did.

  As he looked around and she gave him some space, the breeze coming through the fluffy green pineboughs whistled in low notes, and sunshine warmed her shoulders…and she tried not to think about where her father was—

  Further back by some two acres, over in the middle, between the Thomas family’s plot and three brothers by the name of Krensky.

  Guess she remembered.

  The last time she’d been here had been the day her father was buried. She’d been in New York City working for about half a decade at that point. He’d been so proud of his daughter in the big city, doing what she’d gone to school for. Journalism—

  “This way,” Matthias said absently.

  As he strode off across the patchy spring lawn, she let go of her past and focused on his present, and together, they made good time even though his stride was uneven and he leaned on his cane for support. Every once in a while, he paused, as if recalibrating his direction, and she didn’t interrupt him with questions.

  The outbuilding they eventually came up to fit in with all the headstones and tombs, its stone construction echoing the architecture of the entryway gatehouse and the stanchions that regularly marked sections of the wrought fencing.

  “I was naked,” he said. “I came here and I broke in, and I got—”

  He pulled on the door and it creaked as it opened. Inside, he went to the rear wall and matched the torn fabric to some oilskin overalls in the back.

  Naked? she wondered. “Where were your clothes?”

  He shrugged. “I only know I was here last night.”

  Outside once again, he started off in the direction they’d been going in, and now things went zigzag—whether it was from keeping the trail or trying to find it, she didn’t know and didn’t ask. Going along, they passed endless headstones, as well as groundsmen mowing and weeding, and other visitors to the dead.

  Finally, after they were nearly a half mile from where they’d left the car, he stopped. “Here. This is…Yeah, it started here. I’m sure of it.”

  The headstone he focused on stood over one of the fresher graves—and on top of the semiloose soil that had been recently put over the coffin, sure enough, there was the imprint of a body, as if someone his size had lain there in the fetal position.

  “This is where it started.” He leaned on his cane and got down on his haunches. Fingering the dirt, he whispered, “Here.”

  “James Heron,” she said, reading the simple inscription on the grave marker. “Do you know him?”

  Matthias looked around the cemetery. “Yeah.”

  “In what context.”

  “I have to go.” He got to his feet and stepped away from her. “Thanks.”

  She frowned. “What are you talking about?”

  “You have to leave, now—”

  “You’re in no condition to walk back to town. And good luck finding a cab.”

  “Please, you need to go.”

  “Tell me why and I’ll think about it.”

  With a sudden surge, the man stalked up on her, getting close…oh, so close. Catching her breath, Mels had to force her feet to stay put…and it was a shock to realize it was because they wanted her body to finish what he’d started.

  All it would take would be one step forward, and they’d be chest to chest, hip to hip.

  Not the brightest idea considering that the predator in him seemed to have come out. But she didn’t want to be sensible.

  She wanted him.

  But that was not going to be part of the plan.

  Tilting her chin up, she said, “If you think this simmering aggression thing is persuasive, you’re wrong. And I’m waiting for an explanation.”

  He leaned in, the shift at his hips making her keenly aware of how much taller than her he was. How much stronger, even with the injuries. How much his eyes burned even through her sunglasses.

  In a low, dangerous voice, he said, “Because you’re going to die if you don’t get away from me.”

  Undisclosed location,

  Washington, D.C.

  “This is your target.”

  The photo that landed faceup on the glossy table found its way over to the operative by virtue of momentum.

  The face was instantantly familiar. But who in XOps didn’t know the man.

  The operative looked up at his superior. “What’s the location?”

  “Caldwell, New York.”

  The address was given over verbally, as would any other instructions. And he would not keep the photograph. And this room, in an absolutely unremarkable building in the nation’s capital, recorded none of this. No trail. Ever.

  “Obviously, he is considered armed and extremely dangerous.”

  Damn straight the guy was. Always had been—but laurels were nothing that lasted, and there was no “former” in XOps. There was “active duty” and “dead.”

  And he was going to be responsible for the “dead,” in this case.

  “The usual rules apply,” he was told.

  Of course they did: He was going in alone, was solely responsible for the mission, and if he was compromised, he should pray for death—or make it happen himself. All of this was well-known to the small cadre of operatives who had been handpicked by the devil himself….

  Matthias. The one who had led them for the last ten years. The cunning chess player, the manipulative mastermind, the violent sociopath who set the tone for them all.

  For a moment, it was strange to be taking orders from someone else—but given who the target was….

  XOps needed to keep going, however, and his current superior had come up fast through the ranks, clearly positioning himself as the heir to the throne. Which explained what he was doing now. Loose strings were unacceptable.

  “Anything else I need to be aware of?”

  “Just don’t fuck it up. You have twenty-four hours.”

  The operative reached out a gloved hand and brought the photograph closer. Staring at the face, he thought that if someone had told him the changes that were going to happen in the last two years, he’d have been convinced they’d lost their damn mind.

  Yet here he was, looking at the supremely powerful man in the photograph who now had a death warrant hanging over his head: If the operative failed to kill him, the organization would send someone else. And another. And another. Until the job was done.

  And, knowing the target, it might take a couple of tries.

  His superior picked up the photograph and went for a door that only looked normal. In reality, it was bullet-, fire-, bomb-, and soundproof. As were the walls, ceiling, and floor.

  After a retinal scan, the panel opened and then closed, leaving the operative alone to consi
der his options, which was SOP: Once an assignment had been given over, the methods of execution were up to the delegatee. The brass cared only about the ends.

  Caldwell, New York, was merely an hour away by plane, but better to drive. There was no telling the resources his target had, and aircraft could be tracked easier than unmarkeds.

  As he left, the fact that he might well be going to his own death was irrelevant—and that was part of the reason he had been chosen from all the other soldiers and civilians who “applied” to get into XOps. Careful psychological and physical screening was conducted over years, not months or weeks, before you were tapped on the shoulder. Then again, the job required an unusual combination of urgency and disassociation, logic and freethinking, mental and physical discipline.

  As well as the simple enjoyment of killing other human beings.

  At the end of the day, playing Grim Reaper was fun to him, and this was the only legally sanctioned way to do it. Even the canniest serial killers got caught after a while. Working in this capacity for the U.S. government?

  His only rate limiter was his ability to stay alive.

  Matthias had had to let Mels go.

  There hadn’t been any other choice. Standing in that cemetery with her, staring across Jim Heron’s grave, it had been very clear to him that they were separated by life and death—and she was on the vital side.

  He wanted to keep her there.

  After they’d argued for a while, she’d left him, walking off with a quick efficiency he approved of. In the wake of her departure, he’d stayed by Heron’s final resting place for as long as he estimated it would take her to return to her friend’s car—and sure enough, when he eventually returned to the cemetery’s front gates, the Toyota trash bin was gone.

  Turned out she’d been right about the lack of taxis, but there’d been a bus stop not too far away, and though he’d had to wait a while, he had managed to get himself back downtown.

  Better this way. Clean break—at least physically. Mentally, he had a feeling it wasn’t going to be quite so cut and dry.

  Although there was still a part of her with him in the concrete sense: the sunglasses. She hadn’t demanded their return, and he’d forgotten they were on his face.