Behind Closed Doors

Chapter 11

“Rise and shine, dude.”

Seth's arms jerked up, shielding his face. He dropped them, muttering a disgusted curse when he saw what he'd done.

Not since his early Army days had he woken up flinching away from a blow. He focused on Connor McCloud, holding out a steaming cup. “What the hell?”

“Whoa. Aren't you just a little ray of sunshine today.”

Seth swung his booted feet to the floor and grabbed the coffee. McCloud's penetrating stare was making him uncomfortable. He hated being studied like a rare bug.

“That couch is not long enough for you,” McCloud commented. “Use the bed, for Christ's sake. Is Lazar still out at the island?”

Seth glanced at his watch. “Forty minutes ago he was.”

Connor stuck his hands in his pockets. His eyes were worried. “You keeping it together? You look like shit.”

Seth gave him a freezing stare. “I'm fine.”

Connor shrugged. “Just checking. Just wanted to let you know that your video Barbie is headed out to Stone Island too.”

Scalding coffee splashed over Seth's hand and sprayed across the floor as he lunged for the computer. “Where is she now?”

“Hey. Relax. My guy at the parking garage told me the limo was headed for the marina. He overheard the Lazar staff that left an hour before bitching about the blonde being late and missing the ferry. That's how he knew. I just got the call about ten minutes ago.”

“Why the fuck didn't you call me then?”

“I was already on my way,” Connor's voice was calm, but steely. “You planted vidcams at the marina, right? So settle down. Open them up. Let's see if she's still there.”

Seth typed feverishly into the computer, flipping the marina vidcam windows open one after another until he finally found her, almost out of range, hanging over the railing of the deck that overlooked the marina. The wind had tugged some long, wispy curls out of her braid. The camera caught her delicate profile, gazing out into the infinite sky like an ad for expensive perfume. She fished a tissue out of her pocket, wiped rain off the lenses of her glasses, put them back on.

“Come on, man. It was inevitable,” Connor said. “Lazar had to want a piece of that sooner or later”

“Shut up and let me concentrate,” Seth snarled. He rested his elbows on the desk and dug his fingers into his hair, calculating the time it would take to get down to the marina to stop her. But she'd refused to be rescued last night Why would she change her mind now? He rubbed the grit out of his eyes, and grappled with senseless panic.

“Hey. Seth. Check out the guy in the trench coat.”

Seth jerked his attention back to the screen. He wished his body would stop pumping him full of useless adrenaline. Pure torture, being all jacked up and revving, with no saber-toothed tiger to grapple with, no river of molten lava to run like hell from. Just a computer screen to stare into, with mounting horror and disbelief. “Holy shit. Are you thinking what I'm thinking?” For the first time ever, Connor's voice was totally devoid of irony.

“No way” Seth said.

“Way.” Connor scooted closer to the screen. “The face is different, yeah. He's had surgery, someone really good But his vibe gives him away. He oozes slime.”

“This guy's taller. Thinner. And the hairline is different from Jesse's video footage,” Seth countered.

“So he's wearing lifts, lost weight and shaved his temples.”

Raine backed away. The man advanced with a predatory jackal's smile. Seth leaped to his feet, skin crawling. “I'm going down there.”

“You're too far.” McCloud's voice was flat and matter-of-fact. “Sean and Davy are both closer than we are. Besides, he's probably got six bodyguards armed to the teeth covering him.”

Seth's fist slammed down, making the keyboard leap and rattle.

“You were the one who pushed for the cold, patient approach, man,” Connor reminded him. “Calm down. Look at him. He's feeling confident, flirting with her, letting the whole world get a good, long look at his new face. He's getting cocky. This is good news.”

“Good news? What's good about it? She's there, he's there, we're here. This is not good news. This is fucked!”

Connor dropped into a chair and stared at the screen. “I could call the Cave,” he said slowly. “Nick lives down near the marina. I trust Nick. They're the cavalry, Seth. If we can't call them, we can't do shit.”

“Brilliant,” Seth snarled. “The last time you called the Cave, my brother was slaughtered and you spent eight weeks in a coma.”

Connor's haunted eyes slid away from Seth's. “I don't get it. Those guys are my friends. We've risked our lives for each other.”

Seth's fingers danced over the keys, opening a new window as Raine backed out of range. “Shut up, McCloud,” he muttered. “You're making me cry.”

The mystery guy lifted his hand to her face. Raine flinched, and they both stopped breathing, noticing the missing last joint on the index finger. Proof positive.

“He’s ditched the prosthetic,” Connor whispered. “Arrogant prick.”

Seth shook his head. “He just took it off to creep her out”

“It worked,” Connor said.

Seth flipped open the other windows one by one, following Novak until he walked out of range and disappeared

The group of people getting off the catamaran climbed up the stairs to the deck, hustling past Raine. She stood there as if hypnotized. Someone jostled her, and she jumped, looking around like a bewildered, lost little girl. She hurried down the stairs to the dock.

“The day's got off to a hell of a start for your girl,” Connor commented. “Off to the island to service Lazar, all cuddly and tight with Novak. Who knows what else the day will hold?”

Seth ignored him. He fought off nausea as he watched the catamaran pull away from the dock. Moving away, getting smaller. No stopping her now.

“... yo, Seth. Anybody home? You in there?”

“Huh?” He swung his focus back to McCloud's frowning face.

“I was just saying that this could be an interesting slant. If Novak is interested in her, which he obviously is, and who can blame him, then we've got another lead. Maybe one of us should ask her out. Find out what she knows. Plant a transmitter on her. Excellent, huh?”

“She doesn't know anything,” Seth growled

“You don't know that. I'd even give her a try myself.”

Seth spun around so fast he knocked the mouse off the desk.

“You have first refusal, of course,” Connor added hastily. “I know you've had your eye on her, but if you don't have the heart for it, I could shave and comb my hair and give her a whirl. No hardship. She's hot.”

“McCloud—”

“Or I could pass her on to Sean,” Connor said thoughtfully. “He's better-looking than me, and he likes juicy blondes with great tits as much as the next guy. I don't think Sean's ever fucked information out of a woman before, but hey, there's a first time for everything.”

Something snapped. Everything got weird and faraway, as if there were a blood-red filter across his eyes. Space and time distorted. He flew through the air in slow motion, slamming into Connor. He knocked him off the chair, onto the floor. Electronic equipment crashed down with them. His hands were around Connor's corded throat, squeezing. Connor’s hands were jammed against his own jaw. He was talking, his voice thick and strained. The words began to register.

“D—don't, Seth. Don't do it. Chill, man. You don't want to get into it with me. Big waste of time and energy for us both. St—stop.”

The red haze subsided. Connor's face emerged through it, slowly. Strained, but controlled. Squinting. Watching him like a hawk.

Seth forced himself to relax and let go. He rolled up into a sitting position and dropped his face into his shaking hands.

Connor dragged himself upright. “I think you threw my back out,” he said. “And you've wrecked some of your gizmos.”

Seth didn't even look up. “I’ll fix them,” he said dully.

“Oh, thanks for your concern. Don't trouble yourself. I'll be fine.”

Seth's hands dropped. He stared down at the dingy gray carpet. He groaned and covered his face with his hands again.

“You've had her already, haven't you?” Connor demanded. “You sneaky son-of-a-bitch. Why didn't you tell me?”

Seth met his eyes, and looked away quickly.

“Aw, shit.” Connor flopped back down onto the floor. He shoved back the tangled mass of hair that had fallen across his thin face and stared up at the ceiling. “Look, if you want out, just say so. Take her off to a desert island. Do whatever it is you do with her, I don't give a flying fuck. Just stop screwing with my investigation.”

“It's our investigation, McCloud, and I haven't screwed anything.”

“Nah, just Lazar's mistress,” Connor spat back. “If that's not screwing with the investigation, then—”

“She's not his mistress. Lazar offered her to me. She knows jack shit, so don't push me. You won't be able to talk me down a second time.”

Connor jerked up onto his elbows. His astonishment was satisfying, but he had good recovery time. “I wouldn't bother,” he snapped. “I'd just proceed directly to beating the living shit out of you.”

Seth's hands clenched into fists. “Like hell.”

“Then you'd have a big macho ego crisis about being flattened by a guy with a cane. Fucking pathetic. I want to spare you that, you know? Being as how you're such a sad, sorry son-of-a-bitch already.”

Seth stared at him for a long moment, and then looked down. He suppressed a snort of reluctant laughter.

Connor scooted on his ass across the floor to retrieve his cane, and struggled to his feet. “Let's beat our chests some other time. When all this is over, we'll do some sparring. Find out whose balls are bigger and hairier. Until then, peace. Deal?” He held out his hand.

Seth got to his feet. He reached out and gripped Connor's scarred hand. “I'm holding you to that.”

The two men stared at each other for a long moment.

“You were deliberately messing with my head, weren't you?” Seth asked. “Don't do that again, McCloud.”

“I wanted to see how far out of your mind you really were,” Connor said coolly. “I feared the worst, but this is worse than the worst. You're not just obsessed. You're in love.” “Bullshit,” Seth growled.

“Is it? Whew.” Connor mimed wiping the sweat away from his brow. “You don't mind if we use her as bait then, right?”

“Do not get anywhere near her. Do not factor her into your plans, do not even think about her, McCloud. She is out of the game. Got it?”

“Get real,” Connor said sagely. “She's out at the island with Lazar. She's chatting up Novak. And now she's screwing you. How much more in the game can she be?”

Seth shook his head, feeling hunted and desperate. “She's out of it,” he repeated.

“Hey. Take it easy” Connor said gently. He brushed the grit from his jeans and shook his head, letting out a muffled crack of laughter. “What a joke,” he muttered. “Why should I feel sorry for you? You're the one who just got laid. We'll see how far out of it she is when we hear what Novak said to her. The gulpers at the marina caught it, right?”

Sean clenched his teeth. “Yeah.”

“Good. Go get it, then. And, uh ... how long has it been since you've showered and shaved? You look like a derelict, man. You skulk around the marina looking like that, you'll get arrested for vagrancy.”

“Fuck off, McCloud,” Seth said wearily.

Connor swatted him on the shoulder with a grin. “That's my boy.”

Raine's mind expanded, hushed and awestruck, as the dark hulk of Stone Island grew closer. A sense of silent immensity extended in every direction from the place. Wind sighed through the pines, and swollen clouds hung heavy in the sky. The morning fog was beginning to lift, revealing the familiar shape of the shore. The scent of moss, damp wood, algae, pine and fir filled her nose.

Clayborne, Victor's personal assistant, was waiting for her on the dock. He was a middle-aged man with a pencil-thin gray mustache on his long, twitching upper lip, and a manner of perpetual anxiety.

“Finally,” he fussed, waving for her to follow. “Come along. We needed your French during business hours, and it's past seven in the evening in Morocco. What on earth kept you?”

“Sorry” she murmured absently. The house rose up before her eyes as they ascended the path, a sprawling but still somehow graceful structure. It was deceptively simple from the outside, sided with wood shingles that had mellowed to a glowing silver-gray.

The scents of the luxurious interior shocked her sense memories to life. Bowls of lavender and pine potpourri were in every room, and the walls were faced with fine cedar paneling. Alix had always complained about the rich smell of the wood, claiming that it gave her headaches, but Raine had loved it. The scent had lingered in her things for months after they had run away. She still remembered how bereft she had felt that day in France when she had buried her face in the folds of her coat and realized that the perfume of cedar had faded entirely away.

Clayborne led her directly to the bustling office on the second floor, shoved her behind a desk and began to fire instructions at her at full speed. Just as well. She was grateful to him. There was so much to do, and all of it in such a tearing, anxious hurry that there would be no time to work herself into a state. It was the perfect way to hold memories at bay.

At some point, sandwiches and fruit were left on the sideboard, but nervousness got the better of her and eating seemed unthinkable. The house beckoned and whispered to her. If she turned her head fast enough, she would catch a glimpse of her former self: a silent scrap of a girl with big, startled eyes magnified behind coke-bottle glasses.

Wind sighed and moaned outside, whipping the pines into a frenzy. Raindrops trickled down the windows by her desk, and bit by bit, the frantic activity and the roar of white noise ceased to shield her from the memories. There had been no other children to play with on Stone Island when she was small. Her father was closeted in the library with his books, or out sailing with only his silver flask as a companion, and more often than not her mother stayed at the apartment in Seattle. Raine had made friends with silence, with trees and water, stones and gnarled roots. The whole island was her own private fantasy landscape, inhabited by dragons and trolls and ghosts. Later, amid the noise and chaos of changing cities and languages, the remembered silence of Stone Island had become like a dream of paradise to her. That fantasy world pulled at her now, whispering in a thousand hushed voices.

Towards the end of the day, Clayborne bustled into the room. “Raine, go to the library, please,” he said importantly. “Mr. Lazar has correspondence that needs to be Fedexed as soon as we get back to the mainland. Go on, hop to it”

She grabbed her notebook and set off, and was halfway there before she realized that she hadn't asked where the library was. A stupid lapse, but too late to fuss about it now.

It was strange how she had forgotten how lonely and chilly Stone Island was. The only warm, colorful thing about the place had been Victor. Compared to her father's detached melancholy and her mother's self-absorption, Victor had been a hot blast of dynamism and danger. She stood in front of the library door, her hand trembling.

Too much dynamism and danger. She pushed the door open.

The familiar room reached out and twined sensuously around her, pulling her in. It was lined with books from floor to ceiling, with tall windows between each bookcase. The windows were adorned by borders of stained glass, designs of curling vines and morning glories, rain-spotted and glowing with the deep blue of early evening.

She stole in to the empty room, drawn by a shelf of photographs that bore the look almost of an altar. There was a photo of Victor and her father as a skinny boy of twelve. The eighteen-year-old Victor was wearing a thin tank top. His muscular arm was flung over his little brother's neck, and a cigarette dangled out of his mouth.

There was a faded pencil portrait of her grandmother, a pretty dark-haired girl with pale eyes, and a photo of her when she was a handsome older woman, from which the portrait that hung over the credenza was copied. Raine studied a school photo of herself, in the sixth grade at Severin Bay Middle School. She remembered the itchy lace on the collar of that hateful green velvet dress.

The last photo was of her father's sailboat. She stood in front of it, along with her mother, Victor and an unknown man. The strange man was dark-haired and handsome, with a thick mustache. He was laughing. Something about him made the back of her neck prickle, but the thought would not rise to the surface. It flashed away, like a fish disappearing into dark water, accompanied by a pang of sharp, sick anxiety. She forced herself to pick up the photo and examine it.

It was a rare sunny day, and her mother was glamorous and beautiful in a yellow halter sundress, her hair tied back with a silk scarf. Victor’s arm was flung over Alix's shoulders, and his other hand was ruffling Raine's hair. She remembered the bathing suit with the green frogs on it, the green frog sunglasses that matched it. Victor had yanked on her braid for some reason, hard enough to bring tears to her eyes. Then his cool, dragging voice, faintly accented, echoed through her memory. “Oh, for God's sake, Katya, toughen up. Don'/ be a crybaby. The world is not kind to crybabies.”

She'd blinked the tears back, glad to have the sunglasses for a shield. She could at least pretend not to cry.

The same frog sunglasses were sitting next to the photograph. She reached for them, convinced that her hand would go right through them like a hologram. They were real. Cold, smooth, hard plastic. She stared down at them, marveling at how small they were. It started in her stomach, a sick roiling. Fear, spiraling wider, higher. Running, screaming. Water. A dizzy green blur; Blind panic.

“Katya,” came a low voice from behind her.

She spun around with a sharp gasp. The glasses dropped to the carpet with a thump. No one but her mother knew her former name. No one had addressed her by it in sixteen years.

Victor Lazar stood in the door, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his fine wool trousers. “Sorry, my dear. I didn't mean to startle you. I seem to be making a habit of it.”

“Yes, you are.” She breathed deeply, trying to stop trembling.

Victor indicated the photo still clutched in her hand. “I was referring to the photograph. The little girl is my niece, Katya.”

“Oh.” Raine placed Hie photo on the shelf. The obvious next move was a polite inquiry as to his niece's well-being. She didn't want to draw more attention to the photo, but with every second that ticked by, her lack of comment drew more attention to it than any comment ever could. “She's... a pretty little girl,” she faltered. “Where is she now?”

Victor picked up the photo and looked at it. “Fm afraid I don't know. I lost touch with her many years ago.”

“Oh. I'm sorry.”

He nodded towards the glasses that lay on the carpet. “I kept those as a memento of her. The same ones she is wearing in the photo.”

She scooped them up and put them back in their place. “Um, excuse me,” she stammered. “I didn't mean to—”

“Think nothing of it.” He gave her a soothing smile. ''Speaking of spectacles, I see you are still wearing your own.”

She was ready for this one. “I'm afraid I don't see well enough to do my work without them.”

“What a pity,” he murmured.

She summoned up a businesslike smile. “So. Shall we begin? I need to hurry if you want the letters Fedexed tonight, so—”

“How goes your fiery romance with our mysterious security consultant?”

She pressed her trembling lips together. “I thought I made myself clear last night. I have nothing to say about—”

“Oh, come now. Last night you told me you never wanted to see him again. He must have made a very strong impression indeed.”

“I am not interested in discussing Seth Mackey. Now or ever.”

“He is using you, too, you know,” Victor said. “Or if he is not, he soon will be, the world being what it is. Does he deserve such stoic loyalty from you just because he is capable of giving you an orgasm?”

He was doing it again; twisting the world around himself like a black hole with his low, insinuating voice. Making her doubt herself. “What you ask is inappropriate,” she said. “This whole conversation is inappropriate.”

Victor's laugh was beautiful, rich and full. It made her tight, nervous voice sounded ineffectual and prissy. It made her feel dull and humorless. A fool for not agreeing with everything he said.

He pointed at the photos. “Look here, my dear.” The faint Russian flavor in his voice intensified into a perceptible accent. “See this? My mother. And this boy here, my little brother, Peter. Nearly forty years ago I ran away from the Soviets. I worked and schemed, made money for the bribes and the papers to bring my mother and brother here. I built this business for them. To do this I made many compromises. I did many, many inappropriate things. One must, because the world is not perfect. One becomes accustomed to it—if one wishes to be a player. And you do wish to be a player, no?”

She gulped. “On my own terms.”

Victor shook his head. “You are not yet in any position to dictate terms, little girl. The first step toward power is to accept reality. Look the truth in the face and you will see your way more clearly.”

She clenched something deep inside herself and resisted the pull of his charisma. “What on earth are you talking about, Mr. Lazar?”

Her voice was clear and sharp. It broke his spell.

He blinked, and an appreciative smile flashed across his face. “Ah. The voice of truth. I talk too much, do I not?”

She wasn't touching that one. Not with a ten-foot pole. She kept her mouth shut and concentrated on inhabiting her world, not his.

He chuckled and placed the picture back on the credenza. “No one has had the nerve to tell me that in years. How refreshing.”

“Mr. Lazar... the letters?” she reminded him. “The ferry will be here soon, and I—”

“You are welcome to stay here tonight, if you wish.”

Her skin crawled at me thought of a whole night at Stone Island with no one but Victor for company. “I wouldn't, ah, want to put your staff to any extra trouble.”

He shrugged. “My staff exists to be troubled.”

Your world, not his, she repeated to herself, with a deep, calming breath. “I would prefer to go home tonight”

He nodded. “Good night, then.”

She was bewildered. “And the dictation?”

He gave her a charming smile. “Another day.”

The man at the marina flashed through her mind. “Oh, yes. Mr. Lazar, I met a man this morning who gave me a message for you.”

His smile hardened. “Yes?”

“He was a well-dressed blond man in his thirties. He wouldn't tell me his name. He was missing a forefinger on his right hand.”

“I know who he was,” Victor said curtly. “The message?”

“He said to tell you that the opening bid had doubled.”

The humor and charm that animated Victor's face was gone. Beneath it was cold, hard steel. “Nothing more?”

She shook her head. “Who was he?” she asked tentatively.

“The less you know, the healthier you will be.” In the fading light, he looked suddenly older. “Do not encourage this man, Raine. Avoid him in every way possible if you should see him again.”

“You don't have to tell me,” she said fervently. “Ah. You have good instincts, then.” He patted her shoulder. “Trust them. With trust, they grow stronger.” He picked up the frog glasses, turning them over in his hands. “Another thing. Take these.”

“Oh, no, please.” She backed away, alarmed. “They're a memento of your niece. I couldn't possibly—”

He pushed the glasses into her hand, closing her fingers around them. “You would be doing me a service. Life marches on, there is no stopping it. It is very important to be willing to let go of the past, no?”

“Ah... yes, I suppose so,” she whispered. She stared down at the glasses, afraid that the strange panic would seize her again.

They lay quiet in her hand. Cool, inanimate plastic.

“Good night, Raine.”

It was a clear dismissal. She hurried out of the room. God forbid that the boat leave her here, stranded on an island full of ghosts.

She thought about Victor's cryptic words on the ferry, with icy wind whipping through her hair. Let go of the past. Hah. Her hand dug into her pocket and closed around the frog glasses. As if she hadn't tried. As if it were that easy. Her life got more complicated by the day. Now she had the mysterious blond man to watch out for, as well as Victor.

And then there was Seth Mackey. Her knees buckled, and she grabbed the railing. She shouldn't get involved with Seth. He was a wild card, strong and restless and arrogant. He could derail her. But he countered the sad, lonely chill Stone Island had given her. He was a roaring furnace of life-giving heat She craved it, even if it burned her.

Her heart hurt when she thought of the halting, bare- bones story he had told her of his mother's death. She ached for the pain he'd tried so awkwardly to gloss over. It made her furious. She wanted to punish anyone who had ever hurt or neglected him, to protect the innocent little boy he had once been. Tears sprang into her eyes. She thought of Victor's long-ago words at the dock.

Toughen up, Katya. The world is not kind to crybabies.

All her life she had tried to follow Victor's hard advice. She was finally realizing the truth. The world was not just unkind to crybabies. The world was unkind to everybody.

She blinked as the wind blew the tears out of the corners of her eyes, mourning for all that foolish, wasted effort at self-control. The lights on the shore melted and swam into a soft wash of color. So did something inside her chest that had been brittle and frosted for years. She let it melt, with a dawning sense of wonder. More tears slipped out, and she let them fall. She might as well cry. It didn't necessarily mean that she was weak. It meant that her heart wasn't dead.

And that was good news.

He was going to kill them. Both of them. Then he was going to kick his own ass, hard, for having been stupid enough to collaborate with such dickheads as the McCloud brothers.

Connor stopped limping up and down the room, and flopped into a chair with a disgusted sigh. “Get over it, Mackey. She's the best bait we're ever going to find. You saw the tape. You heard them talk. He wants her. We could wrap this up quicker than we thought if—”

“She froze him out He may never approach her again.”

Davy McCloud grunted and crossed his long legs. “Nah. Not Novak. Now he probably wants to teach her a lesson.”

Seth’s stomach rolled. “That's why she's leaving town. First plane to anywhere out of SeaTac tonight.”

The two brothers exchanged long, knowing looks. “Oh yeah?” Davy asked. “Gonna tell her everything?”

Seth spun around in the chair, and rubbed his reddened eyes. His mind swam with grisly images of what that man had done to Jesse before he killed him. He couldn't stop the images, couldn't block them. Couldn't let Novak get his hands on Raine. Couldn't.

“Look at it this way,” Connor said, in the voice of one trying to reason with a lunatic. “She's bait whether we use her or not. Now you have a God-given excuse for sticking to that chick like glue. It's all you ever wanted to do, so get into it, already. Enjoy it.”

“No. I want her out,” Seth repeated. “It’s too dangerous.”

Connor shook his head. “You can't pull her out of this without ripping out all the stitches, Seth,” he said gently. “Don't fall apart on me. I need your techno magic to pull this off.”

“Do not condescend to me, McCloud,” he snarled.

Connor just stared at him, his pale gaze calm and unnerving.

He hated admitting he was wrong. It made his jaw hurt. He closed his eyes and tried to organize his thoughts. “I have to be right on top of her. Guarding her” he conceded grimly. “Not just tailing.”

The two brothers exchanged long, silent looks, and Seth turned away. It reminded him too much of Jesse. Not that there had ever been much silence when Jesse was around. Jesse had never shut up.

God, he was so angry. At the McCloud brothers for still having each other when his brother was dead. At Jesse for getting himself killed like an idiot. At Raine, for getting herself mixed up in this fucking snakepit when she obviously didn't know enough to come in out of the rain.

What maddened him most of all was the image of Jesse in the back of his mind, doubled over laughing. One would think that the ungrateful little jerk would appreciate his big brother's efforts to avenge him. But no. In death, as in life, Jesse just had to be original.

He opened up one of the black plastic cases full of Kearn's gizmos. He grabbed a cell phone, pried it open, and started messing with it. “What are you doing?” Davy asked

He sifted through the transmitters in the case. “Putting together a present for my new girlfriend,” he said. “A cell phone with a Colbit beacon in it. I'll dust the rest of her stuff, too. I want to know where she is at all times, when I'm not with her. Which won't be often.”

Davy looked thoughtful. “Novak's less likely to make a move if you're always lurking around.”

“Tough shit” he snarled. “Whenever I'm not with her, one of you guys will be watching. Armed and ready to kick ass. Is that clear? Now get out. I can't concentrate with you guys breathing down my neck.”

Davy nodded in farewell and slouched his tall body out the short door frame. Connor started to follow, but he turned back, his eyes full of reluctant sympathy. “Look at it this way. The sooner we wrap this thing up, the sooner you can settle down and have ten kids with her.”

“Fuck off, McCloud.” The words popped out, an automatic reflex.

For the first time, he wondered why he reacted like that.

Connor nodded as if Seth had said good-bye, or later, dude, or have a nice night. “Take it easy,” he said. “Keep in touch.”

Seth turned back to his preparations, but the image Connor had put in his head quivered like a freshly shot arrow in a wooden post.

He had never contemplated fathering a child. He was a textbook example of a guy who would make a rotten father. He was rude and crude and arrogant, he had a mean streak ten miles long, his moral development was questionable, to put it mildly, and he lacked basic social skills. Other than crusty, irascible old man Hank, he had no models for fatherhood Except for Mitch, of course. That said it all.

As for the things he was good at, well, the list was short and telling. Spying. Stealing. Fighting. Sex. Kicking ass. Making money.

Not the best skills for a babbling baby to learn at its daddy's knee.

He'd grown up fully aware that his life bore no resemblance to what he saw on TV sitcoms and commercials for life insurance and breakfast cereal. Cynical little bastard that he was, it hadn't taken long for him to start suspecting that TV's perfect normal world didn't really exist anyway. He was comfortable with his own dark, gothic underworld. He knew its rules, its pitfalls. He didn't pine after fairy tales of marriage and family and cozy domestic bliss.

Oh, he kept it together, more or less. He was registered to vote, he had served his country in the armed forces, he paid his taxes, they had his picture down at the DMV But his public persona was a means to an end. Hank and Jesse had been his points of reference, ambassadors to the world of normal. Without them, he was lost in space. So far off the grid, he didn't even appear on the screen.

He'd gotten so good at shoving thoughts and feelings away. Now look at him. Fantasizing about Raine, pregnant. Holding his baby in her arms. The feelings that image provoked were so strong, they terrified him. Fear, for how unspeakably vulnerable that would make him. Anger, because anger always followed on the heels of fear. Anger of the ugly, gut-wrenching, teeth-gnashing variety.

Anger and fear were a hell of a recipe for fatherhood Better if he stuck to kicking ass and making money. He'd inflict less damage on the world that way. He forced himself to concentrate. What was he doing? Gathering the hardware to take to Templeton Street. Right Revenge and ruin. Now there was something he could wrap his mind around. There he was on solid ground. Stick to what you know, the experts said. He threw his bag into the Chevy and drove through the streets, trying not to think about Raine or Jesse.

He needed to think about ruin and revenge. Cold, careful and methodical. Novak wanted Raine. Seth wanted Novak. The formula was simple. She was bait Once he'd killed Novak, he would be free to take out Lazar, and that would be the end of the matter, unless some tight-ass tried to prosecute him for it. In which case he would fade discreetly out of sight and live the rest of what would pass for his life outside the bounds of respectable society. The prospect held few terrors for him. He'd spent half of his life there anyway. The rules weren't all that different. He had several alternate identities already set up and waiting for him: passports, credit histories, the lot. He had money socked away in out of the way places, and when it ran out, no problem. There was plenty of lucrative work in the underworld for a man of his skills.

But he couldn't take a woman with him there. At least not a certain type of woman. Keeping a woman was definitely an on-the-grid proposition. Women liked family reunions, Christmas cards. Babies.

It occurred to him that he hadn't been such a terrible brother to Jesse. Maybe he wasn't the type to remember birthdays, but he'd always been there when the chips were down, ready to kick ass.

God. What was he thinking? A guy didn't qualify for domestic bliss because he could kick ass. Any thug on the street could kick ass.

No, there was some other, far more mysterious set of credentials.

The conclusion he came to as he parked in front of Raine's house was that the mysterious list of credentials probably did not include spying on a woman, or bugging her apartment, or planting transmitters in her stuff, or deliberately not telling her that she was the chosen prey of a sadistic arch-villain. It probably centered more on tedious, inconvenient crap like following rules, respecting boundaries, telling the truth like a good little Boy Scout.

Too bad. The truth was too dangerous to tell. So much for his newfound moral scruples and his attack of conscience. He smiled grimly as he inserted the pick gun into her lock. He was cured. Hallelujah-He stole into the dark house and wandered through it. She had left no visible trace of herself in the place, just a bright, humming awareness of her presence. Her refrigerator was empty, cupboards bare. It was the first time he had been inside since she'd been living mere. He smelled her everywhere—whispers of her soap, her lotion, her own sweet, ineffable smell. He sank to his knees by her bed and buried his face in her pillow, aroused to the point of pain.

He logged onto his computer and deactivated all the wall sensors and vidcams in the house's interior. He needed total privacy for what was going to happen in that room tonight. No witnesses, no records.

The smart thing to do now would be to go out and sit in his car until she got home, and then ring the doorbell. Ding-dong, lah-di-dah. Good evening, don't you look lovely tonight. Mr. Civilized, faking social skills. Another lie, on top of all his other deceptions.

Fuck it. Why pretend? She was on to him, anyway. She knew what kind of man he was, ever since he'd taken her to bed. And he liked it that she knew. Twisted and dangerous though that was, he liked it that at least one person on earth had a clue who he was inside.

He settled into the chair and pulled up the vehicle beacon display. The Stone Island boat was finally heading towards Severin Bay. He pulled up the ferry schedule, calculated the length of a ferry ride, then the cab ride. Then he was going to find exactly what part she was playing in this game. He'd never fucked information out of a woman either, but hey, like Connor said—there was a first time for everything.