The Prey

CHAPTER 14

John had to force himself to do his job that morning when he and Rowan set out to jog along the beach. He wanted to watch her, but that would be dangerous. He had to watch the houses, watch the ocean, watch for anyone walking on the beach.

He craved her again. If he didn’t know Michael would be at the house by the time they were done running, he might have considered making love to her on the beach. But it would be better if Michael didn’t find out yet what had happened.

John wondered if he could keep his face blank.

After making love the second time, they’d slept a couple of hours. John woke with a start at four in the morning. Rowan was moaning in her sleep, crying out for Dani. He gathered her in his arms and felt a rare sense of peace as she quieted and held on to him. He didn’t want to delve too deeply into his feelings. After all, he didn’t doubt as soon as the murderer was caught that Rowan would go on with her life. And he would go after Pomera.

But his problems, his pain in losing Denny and others to drug-dealing killers like Pomera, seemed pitiful compared to what Rowan had endured every day since she was ten. Even before then. That Rowan had the courage to continue, albeit less than perfectly, gave him additional strength.

Rowan paused at the base of the stairs and took deep, cleansing breaths. She smiled at him, her eyes bright. She seemed almost carefree, and he was pleased he’d given her a little peace after the turmoil of the last two weeks.

“Want to join me for a shower?”

He was already semi-hard just watching her sweat, her small breasts straining against her damp T-shirt. He grabbed her and kissed her passionately, relishing the salty taste of her lips, the sweat on her back, her glow from exercise and the aftermath of good sex.

He quickly broke the embrace. This wasn’t the right place. “Let’s go.” His voice was husky and he cleared his throat.

He didn’t forget his responsibility. He checked out the deck and the house before declaring all was safe. He glanced at his watch. Seven.

“We don’t have a lot of time,” he said.

“Then we’d better get started.” She jogged up the stairs to her bedroom and he followed, locking the door behind him. She stripped in front of him and he could only watch and admire her lean muscles. But all the right places were soft.

“Rowan, I-”

She put a finger to his lips. “Like you said,” she said softly, “we don’t have a lot of time.”

He didn’t miss the double meaning. He didn’t know why it bothered him when she said it, even though he’d been thinking the same thing.

Rowan led him into the shower, relishing the connection they had forged the night before. She’d never felt so wanton, so incredibly desirous.

They began in the shower where she started to wash him, and he took over. She let him. He took the soap in his large, confident hands and rubbed her body until she quivered with more than simple lust. A longing grabbed her, a need to draw out this close intimacy. It was delicate and bright, and like anything new could easily be destroyed.

She didn’t want to lose him.

He rinsed her, kissed her skin until she moaned out loud.

“Rowan,” he whispered in her ear as he pushed her against the tile wall of the shower.

“I want you.” Her voice was low and husky and sounded nothing like her.

He slid into her and she wrapped her legs around him, the wall holding her up. She tasted his rough, unshaven skin and moved to his lips, drawing in his tongue, loving the taste of him, wanting to stay here and forget the world outside. To give him the love she’d never been able to share before. To take his love in return.

They didn’t have a lot of time. She planned to make the most of it.

Her muscles clenched and she groaned into his mouth. She pushed her pelvis hard into his, and he pulled out.

She opened her eyes and frowned. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

John picked her up and carried her wet body to the bed. She was more relaxed than he’d ever seen her. She reached up and touched his face, her gesture endearing, and his heart skipped a beat. Slowly, he entered her, watching her face react to his sensual invasion. Her lips parted as she closed her eyes.

“Open your eyes,” he said huskily, and they popped open.

He held her hands above her head and watched her face as he made love to her. As her pleasure mounted, she wrapped her legs around his waist, meeting him thrust for thrust. When her eyes grew hazy with passion, he gathered her up in his arms as he poured himself into her. She climaxed with a moan and murmured his name.

They lay wrapped in each other’s arms, breathing heavily. He pulled the sheet around them, holding her close. He knew they should get up, but he didn’t want to let her go. Not now.

Her hand lay on his chest, over his heart, and he felt her own heart beating against his arm. He brushed a stray lock of wet hair from her face and kissed her forehead.

“I heard you worked for the DEA and quit,” Rowan said after several moments. The change from passion to business surprised him. “I-I guess I’m just curious. What makes you tick.”

She started to move away from him, but he pulled her back close to his side. If she thought she could distance herself from him now, she had another thing coming.

“After five years in Delta Force, I decided I’d had enough and sought one of those cush government jobs.” He tried to laugh, but it fell flat.

“Hmm. And I joined the FBI because I wanted to be Dana Scully.”

A joke? From Rowan? But John didn’t smile. He saw Denny’s empty-eyed death stare as if he’d found his body yesterday.

“I had an idyllic childhood,” he said after a moment. “A regular Leave It to Beaver house. My dad was a cop, straight as an arrow, honorable. My mom stayed home. Baked cookies, drove us to every activity under the sun, always there to listen. It was a good life. Hell, it was perfect.”

He missed his parents. They’d died less than a year apart. His dad from an unexpected heart attack, his mother-John suspected-from a broken heart. That was three years ago, but it still hurt.

“They’re not around anymore?” Rowan asked softly.

“No.” He cleared his throat, swallowing the sudden sorrow that had crept up. “My best friend was Denny Schwartz. He lived down the street and we did everything together. Michael usually came with us, but Denny and I were the same age, in the same classes; we both liked the same games. Mickey always wanted to be a cop, like our dad. So when we played cops and robbers, he was always the cop.”

“You were the robber?”

“Sometimes. Usually, I found some other role to fill, sometimes siding with Mickey, sometimes with Denny. We had other guys in our little gang as well, but Denny was-the best.”

Denny had always come up with the most original and complex role-playing games. Had always smiled. Always made him laugh. John was surprised at the intense emotion that swept through him when he almost heard Denny chuckle in his ear. Can’t believe you’re mourning me when you have that hot mama in your arms.

“Denny was a joker. Practical jokes. My mother didn’t particularly cotton to him, but she accepted him into her house because he came from a broken home. His father left when he was five and he had two younger sisters. His mom worked two jobs to make ends meet. It wasn’t easy, but Denny never complained.”

I have a plan, Johnny. I’ll take care of Mama and the girls, you’ll see.

“I wanted him to join the Army with me. I enlisted when I was eighteen. Didn’t really care much about going to college, though I did end up there after my five years, courtesy of the GI Bill.”

“Good program.”

He shrugged. “Yeah. Well, Denny didn’t want to go. He had plans. Always a new scheme.” He paused, stifled an urge to scream. Had he known what Denny’s big plan was, he would have quit the Army and hauled him as far from L.A. as he could.

“This big plan of his involved drugs. Big-time.”

“You didn’t know.”

“I didn’t even suspect.” He was still disgusted that he’d been so clueless about his friend’s illegal activities. “We were young, didn’t write back and forth much, e-mail wasn’t around yet. Tess wrote, told me Denny had gotten into a rough crowd, but she wasn’t that close to him, didn’t know how rough, how bad. And Mickey was still in high school, then the police academy and night school-Denny didn’t have anyone else.”

“You blame yourself for leaving.”

Of course John blamed himself. Had he stayed in Los Angeles, Denny wouldn’t have died. He’d never have gotten involved in drugs, sold them to kids, gotten himself killed for stealing from the hand that fed him.

Rowan’s hand roamed his chest. Not in lust, but in understanding. He took it with his free hand and brought it to his lips. She smelled of soap and sex and he couldn’t imagine being anywhere else but here, with her. Sharing a story he hadn’t shared with anyone, not in any detail.

“I came back to L.A. and started classes at UCLA. Looked up Denny. He wasn’t living at home, and his ma hadn’t seen much of him. Which was strange. He’d always been close to his mother and sisters.”

Mrs. Schwartz looked tired, worn out, from years of two jobs and raising three kids on her own. “Johnny, I don’t know where he’s living now,” she said with a shrug. “He comes by every now and then, hands me a roll of money, and leaves. I don’t know where he gets it.” She paused, looked at him with watery eyes. “I can’t spend it. I think-I think he’s doing something wrong.”

“I tracked him down through old friends. Right away I knew he was up to something. One of his get-rich-quick schemes. One of his big plans. Of course he didn’t tell me about it. Didn’t clue me in to the fact that he was hawking drugs to high school kids. And younger.” His voice cracked. “No, I had to learn that on my own. When I followed him.”

“I’m so sorry. That must have hurt.”

“No, it didn’t hurt. I was too pissed off for it to hurt. I brought my father down to talk to him, straighten him out, when I couldn’t do it on my own. Dad could do anything. He was that kind of guy. Knew how to talk sense into young punks who thought they knew everything. Punks like Denny. Because that’s exactly what he’d turned into. A drug-dealing punk.”

“Denny boy,” Pat Flynn said as he looked around the opulent house in Malibu that Denny had somehow bought at the age of twenty-four with no known job or means of support, “I think you’ve gotten yourself in too deep.”

John watched from his father’s side, positive he could talk sense into Denny. His arms were crossed, defiant.

“Uh, Mr. Flynn, you shouldn’t be here.” Beneath his cockiness, Denny looked scared.

He should be afraid, John thought. He was getting kids killed over a temporary high. Using the stuff himself, judging by his runny nose and red-rimmed eyes. Dammit, they’d made it through four years of high school, never giving in to drugs except for one time when they were sixteen and pretty Mandy Sayers shared a joint.

“Denny, I can help you. I can get you out of this mess.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr. Flynn. I’m not in any trouble.”

Denny ran a hand through his hair and grinned while his other hand played behind his ear. He’d always been a damn awful liar.

“My father tried. Damn, he tried. I’d never seen him so frustrated. He ended up yelling at Denny. My dad never yelled. Not in anger like that. But Denny was in total denial that he was doing anything wrong. Lying to my dad. Lying to me.”

“It was like he’d betrayed you.”

John squeezed her hand. “Yeah,” he said softly.

“What happened to him?” Rowan asked after a time.

“He was executed.”

He’d spent a week trying to convince Denny to turn over his dealers and be the good guy for a change. When that failed, he just wanted him to get out before it killed him. Denny never even admitted he was dealing, never admitted he was in too deep.

“It was my fault.”

“How? Denny made all his own choices. No one forced him to start dealing.”

“Neither my dad nor I gave up. One night, the night before Denny was murdered, he told me he was a marked man. That his boss had seen the cops at his house. I knew he meant my dad, but he didn’t say it.”

“I’ll lay it straight for them. It’s not what you think, Johnny. But-but I think you’d better stop coming around, okay? Just steer clear for a while, okay?”

“He wanted me out of his life, told me as much. I left. I was hurt and angry and didn’t know what to do. I went back to my dad. That’s when he told me he’d told Narcotics about Denny. They were tailing him, hoping to catch Reginald Pomera.”

“Pomera,” Rowan muttered, familiar with the name.

“Yeah. He wasn’t top dog back then, but he was lethal. The major courier from South America into southern California. My dad didn’t tell me the details. Not then, not ever. I learned later that Pomera was in the country and they hoped to catch him. Denny was their best lead. He’d been approached with witness protection but denied he needed anything, that he was doing anything wrong.

“The next night, I couldn’t stand it. I didn’t want to betray my father, but I knew something was wrong with Denny. He had to get out, and fast. I didn’t have much money, but enough to take us to some hole-in-the-wall city where I could talk or beat sense into the jerk.” His voice cracked again, the hot sting of unshed tears caking his throat.

A memory of him and Denny. They were twelve. Riding bikes in the flood control channel. Laughing, taking jumps they had no business taking. They were lucky they hadn’t broken an arm or leg or worse. Denny always kept his hair too long, and it would hang over his eyes like a sheepdog’s.

“I went back, one last time, and that’s when I found him.”

The house blazed with light, as if on fire. But it wasn’t fire. It was cold death.

The smell of death wasn’t foreign to him. He’d lost a friend or two in the line of duty. The coppery scent of blood, mixed with the foul stench of bodily fluids at the moment of death when the body relaxed… death surrounded Denny’s house.

Denny’s death.

“He’d been shot execution style. I touched him, flipped over the body, to see if I could save him.”

The glassy eyes stared at him, dark and empty. He stared back, as if seeing his best friend for the first time.

“He was already gone. But his body was still warm. I’d missed his killer by minutes.”

“You would have been killed, too,” Rowan said, her voice tinged with emotion.

“I know.” He took a deep breath, finished up. “Against my father’s wishes, I did my own undercover work. Found out Pomera was in town. Learned from Denny’s lowlife friends that Pomera had ordered the hit because Denny was stealing from the deals.

“But,” he continued, his voice laced with intense hatred, “I think Pomera pulled the trigger himself. From everything I’ve learned about the bastard, he’d have gotten a sick thrill out of killing a pathetic, doped-up, mid-level drug dealer like Denny.”

“And that’s why you joined Drug Enforcement.”

“Yeah.”

“And why did you leave?”

Shit, she asked the hard questions. He hadn’t thought about this in so long, but he owed it to her, especially after dragging out her past. After what they’d shared.

And didn’t they say confession was good for the soul?

“It’s sort of complicated.”

“You don’t have to tell me.”

“I want to.”

The doorbell chimed, breaking the moment. Rowan stiffened next to him, then extracted her limbs from his and jumped up. She hurried to the walk-in closet and closed the door firmly behind her.

Bad timing. Bad planning, too, he thought as he picked up his dirty sweatpants, still damp from their run. He quickly slid into them, pulled on his T-shirt, grabbed his gun, and jogged downstairs. Sex, then purging demons-he pulled himself together and hoped Michael couldn’t read every minute of the last twelve hours on his face.

He peered through the peephole and frowned. Quinn Peterson, the Fed. His disheveled appearance and day’s growth of beard suggested he hadn’t slept much the night before.

Not another murder. That meant Rowan was next. He stiffened at the thought. No, not Rowan. He wouldn’t let the killer even get close.

He braced himself for the bad news and opened the door. “Peterson.”

“Flynn.” Peterson stepped in and John closed and bolted the door behind him, reset the alarm. “Where’s Rowan?”

“Shower,” he said.

“I’m here,” Rowan called as she came down the stairs.

John sneaked a look at her. She was composed, dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt, her hair brushed and pulled into a wet ponytail. A flush that hadn’t been there yesterday coated her skin. He couldn’t help but be pleased he was the cause of her improved mood.

But her glow disappeared when she looked at Peterson’s face. John glanced back at the Fed. “What’s wrong?”

“Let’s sit down.” He crossed the foyer and walked over to the windows facing the ocean. He didn’t look at them.

“Quinn, what happened? Did he kill someone else?” Rowan’s voice cracked.

Peterson turned to face them, eyes red. “It’s Michael. The bastard shot him.”

John barely heard Rowan’s shocked gasp. His heart pounded; his ears rang. His brother. No.

“What hospital? Where-”

“He’s dead.”

“No.” John shook his head. “Goddammit, No!” He kicked the glass coffee table with his bare foot, and it toppled over and shattered against the end table.

Michael. Not Michael. John stared at Peterson and knew there was no mistake.

Michael was dead.

An intense, physical hollowness spread through his chest, ten times worse than anything he’d ever felt before. His father’s death had been a shock that jolted the family. His army buddies who’d died had hurt his soul. Denny’s senseless murder had rocked everything John believed in, had finished forming his path.

But Michael. His best friend. His brother.

All the death, all the pointless drug murders. He’d seen more blood and guts than most people see in their lifetime. Nothing had prepared him for this.

He pictured Michael, blood seeping from his lifeless body. His eyes open, glassy… He shook away the vision, his eyes blurry with unshed tears.

“What. Happened.” His breath came in ragged gasps as he tried to control his rage.

“He went to a bar last night, a few blocks from his apartment. The Pistol; apparently it’s a dive bar that doubles as a cop hangout.”

John knew the place. Michael went there when he was troubled. And he’d been plenty pissed last night.

“He was there for an hour or so, drank on the heavy side of moderate. The bartender didn’t think he was drunk, just tipsy. He went to a fast-food restaurant, ate there, walked home. He was talking to someone at the bar for a short time, and the police are working with the bartender on a description. The guy-dark blond hair, forties-left before Michael, but…”

Quinn paused, cleared his throat, then continued. “Michael entered his apartment and the police believe an intruder was waiting for him. He was shot three times in the chest. Died at the scene.”

John’s fists clenched at his side. He wanted to punch someone. He wanted to kill someone. “No. I don’t believe it.” But his tone said the opposite.

“He didn’t bother hiding it. Three neighbors called in gunfire to 911. I would have been here sooner, but it took time for the local police to realize there was a connection. It was the chief who ultimately called me less than an hour ago. I came straight here.”

Quinn stared at him, his own face twisted with hurt and regret. “It’s the same bastard. He-left a note. I’m sorry, John. I’m really sorry.”

John’s mind was a jumble of memories and plans and vengeance. The killer went after Michael. Why? It wasn’t in the books. He did it because he could. To show Rowan he could get to her.

He whirled around and stared at Rowan. Complex and conflicting emotions assaulted him. Anger. Grief. Pain. Guilt. It was his fault. He’d sent Michael away to get Rowan to talk.

To get her into bed.

He’d wanted her from the beginning, knew there was an invisible bond joining them from the moment they met. Michael had cared for her, but John didn’t give him any credit for knowing his feelings. He threw Jessica back at him. He pushed Michael aside, manipulated him out of the picture. They fought and John pulled his ace, got the FBI to insist Michael take time off.

John had sent his own brother to his death.

He could never tell Michael he was sorry.

A deep, low, guttural moan escaped John’s throat and he couldn’t look at Rowan or the tears that streamed down her face. He needed air. He had to get out of here.

“Tess,” he said, his voice hoarse with barely constrained grief.

“She doesn’t know. She’s meeting me at the headquarters at nine, but-”

“I’ll tell her.” He passed Rowan without looking at her. He left the house without another word.

Rowan watched John leave, agonizing for him. For herself.

It was all her fault.

The bastard wanted to hurt her, but he was hurting innocent people in the process.

Who was it? Who knew about her past? She had to call Roger. She had to find out what he knew, what he’d found out. He was the damn FBI! They couldn’t be in the dark for this long. They had to suspect someone.

And if the killer knew about her family, he might know about Peter. If anything happened to him-

But she couldn’t stop thinking about Michael.

John. Tess.

Dear God, why? Why did he go after Michael?

Because he could.

“Rowan.” Quinn walked to her side, crunching glass into the carpet. He frowned at the mess, but said nothing. “We need to put you into a safe house.”

“No.” She closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead. Her headache that had disappeared sometime last night was now back with a vengeance.

“Be reasonable! Roger would not allow you to-”

“Just, no. The killer will come for me. I’ll kill him.”

“He’s elusive. Smart. I can’t let you put yourself in danger.” He put a hand on her shoulder; she shrugged it off.

“It’s not your choice. I’m not going to run so he can kill more people. If he can kill Michael”-her voice hitched and she swallowed back a sob-“he can get to anyone. You. Tess. Roger. But it’s me he wants. He’s deviating to show me he’s smarter. Stronger.”

She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. “He doesn’t know who the hell he’s up against.”

Rowan sat on hold for a good five minutes. Finally, Roger came on the line.

Without preamble, she asked, “What have you found out?”

“Rowan, I spent all night going over your files. I have a team tracking down every cop who was assigned to the investigation. And-well, the thought came to me last night. What about the families of the two guards Bobby killed? I can’t see how or why they would go after you, but it was the only thing that came to mind.”

Her heart beat faster. Revenge. They were tormenting her because her brother had brutally killed their father, their brother, their son. It was plausible, especially since Bobby was dead and in hell and they couldn’t go after him. But why now? Why like this?

There had been many, many nights over the years when Rowan had woken in the dead of night, wishing Bobby were alive so she could kill him herself. He’d stolen everything from her, everything but her life, and her very existence felt hollow since Bobby had killed her sisters.

If it connected to Bobby somehow-that would make more sense to her.

“You’re checking?” She was desperate. Desperate and grasping at straws. “But why wait twenty-some-odd years? Why wait at all?”

“I have Vigo working on a profile, but he hasn’t come up with anything useful yet.” Hans Vigo was the top profiler in the agency. But Rowan knew a profile was only as good as the information given to the profiler.

They were missing a lot of information. More than they should. For the first time in four years, she regretted quitting the Bureau.

“What about the Franklin murders? You said you were going to talk to Karl Franklin’s brother. Did-?”

Roger interrupted. “Nothing. I visited him, talked to him. The man is in a wheelchair. I went to his doctor and it’s legitimate. He can’t walk. He couldn’t be involved, even if he had the motive. Everything else in Nashville-a dead end.”

Dead end. And she’d been so sure this had something to do with the Franklin case. The pigtails.

Dani.

It was about Dani; it was about her family.

“It’s about the past. Roger, you have to find out what’s going on. And tell me right away. I’m serious, Roger, don’t try to protect me. I have to know the truth.”

Next she tried Peter at the rectory in Boston, but he was in church. She left a brief message, their personal code, then sank into the oversized chair in the den. Burying her face in her hands, she allowed herself a moment of self-pity, to mourn her life. Her dead family. And now, Michael.

And the loss of something she had almost had with John, a connection she felt with him that she’d felt with no other man. Something that for a short time she thought might become bigger, better than she deserved.

But it was gone. Like a life ended before its time, whatever fleeting connection that existed between her and John had been abruptly severed.

What did she expect? She didn’t deserve John. She’d often thought of herself as half a person, incomplete. Less than whole. What she missed she couldn’t lay a finger on, but she knew she lacked something. Why else could she not bond with others like a normal person? Why did she find it so hard to stay in contact with her few friends, like Olivia and Miranda? Why couldn’t she form relationships with men?

Already she had developed a stronger bond with John than any of her previous lovers, but look where they were now.

John wouldn’t forgive her. She couldn’t forgive herself.

The ringing phone startled her, but she grabbed the receiver on the second ring.

“Rowan, it’s Peter. What’s wrong?”

He knew she’d never leave a message unless it was an emergency.

“The bastard killed Michael. My bodyguard.”

“Dear Lord.” She could picture Peter making the sign of the cross. “Were you-hurt?”

“No. He was killed during his night off.” While I was making love to his brother. Her entire body shook with restrained guilt.

“I can be out there in a matter of hours-”

“No! Stay there. You’re safe.” She hadn’t meant to shout, but if anything happened to Peter-she couldn’t think about that. “Isn’t there some nice, safe monastery you can hang out in for a week or two?” She tried to make her voice light, but failed miserably.

“If he hasn’t come for me, he doesn’t know about me.”

“If anything happened to you, I don’t know what I would do.”

“I’ll be on alert. And there’s a couple of your FBI friends parked in a very obvious unmarked sedan across from the rectory. I’m sure I’m perfectly safe here.”

That’s what Michael had thought. She shuddered. “Peter-”

“I’m staying. Unless you need me there.”

“Stay far away from me.”

“I’m worried about you.”

“I can take care of myself.” She sounded like a petulant child. “I think this guy knows everything about what happened to Mama and the girls. Everything. For some reason, he’s after me. Can you think of anyone-no matter how far-fetched-who could be doing this? Do you remember anything from that night, that time, anything at all, to give to Roger for follow-up?”

“Roger already called me the other day.”

“The other day?” She frowned.

“Yeah, Wednesday I think.”

Wednesday? But that was before Rowan had talked to him about her new suspicions. Maybe he came up with them himself and hadn’t wanted to worry her. But he didn’t mention that when she’d talked to him earlier.

“What did he want?”

“Exactly what you asked. Memories. And I told him I didn’t have anything. Bobby’s dead, and he’s the only one who I can think of who could kill so mercilessly.”

Heart pounding, John paced Tess’s small apartment like an irate tiger trapped in a cage. His skin burned. Every breath shot hot, piercing pains into his gut.

Michael was dead.

When he told Tess, she became hysterical. Gut-wrenching sobs, agonizing cries. For an hour, she clung to John. She blamed Rowan.

“It’s my fault,” John told her. “I insisted he take time off.” So I could screw Rowan. Black guilt squeezed his heart.

“No, no, it’s her! Y-y-you s-said she was k-keeping secrets! She killed him. She killed my brother!”

It took John a long time to calm Tess enough to convince her to lie down. She quietly sobbed, and when she stopped John checked on her. Asleep, her splotchy face bore her grief.

His rage, his anger, and his guilt ate at his gut until all he saw was red, his fury consuming every pore. He paced. Back and forth.

I will kill the bastard.

It’s my fault.

Michael would have been at Rowan’s if John hadn’t interfered. If he hadn’t been so damned confident he could get Rowan to talk and that Michael would only have been a hindrance, his brother would be alive today. If they hadn’t fought, Michael wouldn’t have been drinking. He could have fought back if he wasn’t impaired. In the back of his mind he remembered Peterson saying he was shot instantly, by an intruder in his apartment.

No time to react. But Michael was trained. If he hadn’t been mildly intoxicated, he might have had a chance.

Maybe.

An agonized groan escaped John’s throat and he swallowed back stinging tears. There’d be time to grieve later. He had a killer to find.

Calling in a favor, he obtained Roger Collins’s cell phone number and dialed.

“Collins,” the assistant director answered after three rings.

“Mr. Collins, this is John Flynn.”

Long pause. “I heard about your brother. I’m sorry.”

“And I heard about you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I know all about Lily MacIntosh and that you were her guardian.”

“Rowan told you?”

“Eventually. I had to drag it out of her, but she told me everything.” John stared out Tess’s apartment window, not focusing on anything but getting information. “You know the details of this case. The bastard knows about Rowan’s past. He knows about her family. He knows her name was Lily!” He didn’t mean to shout, but his nerves were frayed. It won’t help Michael to lose it now.

Calmer, John said, “I know Peter MacIntosh is alive and goes by the name Peter O’Brien. He’s supposed to be a priest in Boston. He would know enough about Rowan’s past.”

“Peter? You’re way off base, Flynn.”

“I don’t think so. Unless you have another idea.”

Another long pause. “I’ve had a team watching Peter since the second murder. He hasn’t left Boston.”

“I think you need to double-check.”

“Don’t tell me how to do my job, Mr. Flynn.”

John ignored the threat in the assistant director’s voice. He couldn’t care less about pissing off high-ranking officials.

“You know this guy is out for Rowan. And he’s going to get her unless you figure out who knows about her past. You appear to be the only one who’s in a position to do anything about it.” He paused. “My brother is lying in a morgue because you and Rowan hid her past. All the resources spent going through her cases wasted time. We should have been going back even further. Full disclosure. Instead, you kept your mouths shut. My brother’s death is on your conscience.”

“Don’t you dare lay this at Rowan’s feet, Flynn. She’s been through hell and back, and-”

“I don’t give a damn.” John squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose. All he saw was Rowan’s wretched face when she’d told him about her mother’s murder. Shit.

But Michael was dead.

“Why didn’t you dig deeper, Collins? Even if Rowan didn’t know or understand the full implication of what happened to her as a child, you certainly did.”

“I’ve been looking at the old files, interviewing people-”

“Obviously, that wasn’t good enough.”

“I have six agents tracking down the family of the two guards Bobby MacIntosh killed when he attempted to escape.”

“It should have been done at the beginning.” John’s jaw was so tight he could barely speak.

“Flynn, we’re doing everything we can. Can’t you see this is a complex situation?” Roger sounded frustrated, speaking too loudly and too quickly.

Complex? “What are you hiding?” John asked. Something wasn’t quite right.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Roger snapped back. “I’ve been working this 24/7 since Doreen Rodriguez was killed. Don’t think I’ve been slacking off. I care about Rowan more than you can possibly imagine. As if she were my own daughter.”

Daughter. That reminded him about the priest. “I expect that Peter O’Brien will be checked out in full, and that you’ll look into the murder of Rowan’s family a little more closely. Someone who has intimate knowledge of her family killed my brother.

“And,” John continued, his voice low, “he will kill Rowan if we don’t find him.”

“I know.” Collins’s voice shook with anger.

Good, John thought. He needs to be pissed off.

“Flynn, I know this is a difficult time right now, but are you staying on the job? Do I need to replace you?”

John closed his eyes. The revenge he sought felt thick on his tongue, clouded his judgment. Could he do it? Could he protect Rowan?

Or would he, too, end up dead, his reflexes hindered by rage instead of alcohol? But what else could he do? Without being a part of this, he’d be out of the loop. He couldn’t stay on the outside looking in, wondering if Michael’s death would be avenged, or if the bastard would get off with life in prison.

Or if Rowan would end up dead, too.

His emotions were too raw where she was concerned, so he banished her from his thoughts and said to Collins, “Tomorrow I’ll be back. Today I need to take care of my family.”

“I understand.”

“Keep me informed,” John said as he hung up.

He couldn’t think about Rowan. Not now. This was a job, and more than just a job. He’d keep her in the back of his mind, at least for today.

He went to Tess’s room. He’d thought he heard her stirring when he was on the phone and wanted to make sure she was all right. “Tess?” He knocked lightly.

No answer.

He opened the door and stared at the rumpled bed. She wasn’t there. A quick look through the apartment showed that she’d left.

He knew exactly where she’d gone.

Rowan heard the familiar buzz of a Volkswagen in the driveway and suspected Tess was here to say her piece. She closed her eyes and leaned back into her favorite chair, the overstuffed reading chair she’d loved since walking into the sterile beach house with Annette months ago.

She’d planned to be here through July, then go back to her cabin outside of Denver. She missed the only place she’d ever considered home since that fateful night twenty-three years ago.

But would Rowan be able to leave in two months? Would this killer be caught? Or would she be his next victim? Would she be the last?

It might be worth sacrificing her life if she were the last. If she could take him out at the same time.

The thought actually soothed her. Revenge, justice, peace. After Michael’s murder, nothing short of death would give her peace. Though she hadn’t pulled the trigger, how could she live knowing she was responsible for his death? Michael’s murder sat raw in her soul, a wound she doubted would ever heal. Michael had joined Dani. And Rachel and Mel and her mother.

While she’d been content in John’s arms, Michael had been gunned down.

She didn’t know if she even could face John again. The pain and agony he must be experiencing-the grief on his face. She knew exactly how he felt. Her stomach churned painfully.

The den door swung open so hard the knob hit the wall and dented the paneling. Tess stomped in, her face wet with tears but set with determination. Pain. Hatred. Her short dark hair was a mess, her clothing wrinkled.

Quinn was behind her looking concerned, but Rowan gave him minimal attention. She focused on Michael’s sister.

“It’s all your fault!” Tess screamed.

“I’m sorry,” Rowan said. “Believe me, I am sorry.” She stood, turned to face Tess, ready to take any punishment.

“You lied! You kept secrets and Michael is dead. John told me everything. I-I-I’ll never forgive you. I hope he gets you. I hope you both burn in hell!”

What could Rowan say? She hoped he came for her, too. Then she would have a chance to stop him. And if she died in the process, what loss to the world would that be?

“I know,” she said simply.

“Tess, you don’t mean that,” Quinn said, putting his hands on her shoulders. She shrugged him off and stepped forward.

“Yes. I. Do.”

Rowan hadn’t noticed before, but Tess had the same green eyes as her brothers, only lighter. They all looked alike. Tess. Michael. John. She couldn’t think about John or what they’d done last night. What a foolish, selfish mistake! A mistake that cost Michael his life. Michael should have been here, safe.

But if John had gone home, would the bastard have gone after him?

Michael wouldn’t have been preoccupied, angry at his brother for forcing him to take a break. Angry at John because of her.

The realization hit her and she stumbled backward. Michael had known, at least sensed, the tension and attraction between her and John. He was jealous. He’d fought with his brother because of her, not just because John insisted he take time off.

It was her fault.

She tilted her chin up and nodded at Tess. “I don’t blame you, Tess. Michael was a great guy, and I’m-”

“Don’t!” she screamed and approached Rowan, hands bunched at her side. “Don’t talk about him! He was my brother! You bitch!” She started pounding Rowan with her fists and Rowan let her. She was numb, dead inside. Did she have any grief left to give? The pain from the punches couldn’t compare to the agony of death, the added nightmares, the guilt seizing her soul with its piercing grip.

“Tess, please.” Quinn rushed over and tried to gently pry her off.

The front door slammed, and Quinn pulled his gun and ran from the room. A moment later, John burst in, Quinn behind him.

“Tess!” John grabbed her and spun her around. Tears streamed down her face and she pounded her brother in the chest. He took hold of her wrists and gently wrestled her under control. “Tess, honey. Stop. Please, sweetheart, stop.” His voice was calm, soothing, very much in control.

Tess’s bottom lip quivered; tears streamed down her face. She collapsed into his arms, sobbing.

John caught Rowan’s gaze before he led Tess from the room. The mixture of pain and rage she saw in his hard, chiseled expression stabbed her heart.

Quinn crossed to her, put an arm around her shoulders, and eased her into the reading chair.

“Rowan, it’s not your fault.” He rubbed her back and brushed a loose strand of hair away from her face. “Don’t blame yourself.”

She didn’t say anything. What could she say? The last two weeks were one big living, breathing nightmare. Would it ever end? Would he finally come after her so she could have peace?

Justice.

She couldn’t let him get away. When he found her, would he glowingly tell her of his crimes, seeking her praise? Her horror? Her anger? Whatever he wanted from her, she wasn’t going to give him anything but a bullet.

But first, she had to make sure Roger had done what she’d asked.

“Rowan, Tess didn’t mean any of that. She’s distraught.”

Rowan looked up at Quinn. His handsome face was long with sadness and worry. “Protect her, Quinn. When people get upset, they do stupid things. And call the Dallas and Chicago police and Bureau field offices. Make sure they understand the seriousness of warning prostitutes. Particularly high-paid call girls.”

“We already took care of that-”

“Do it again!” Rowan yelled, then pinched the bridge of her nose. It didn’t do any good to yell at Quinn. It wasn’t his fault.

“All right,” he said quietly. “Rowan, it may surprise you, but I know what I’m doing. I’ve been an agent for fifteen years. And Roger hasn’t rested since the beginning.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” She rested her hand on Quinn’s arm. “It’s just-” She absently waved an arm toward the shelf that housed copies of her books. She walked over to them and stared.

“It felt so cathartic to write these books, to always have good triumph over evil when we both know the bad guys often win.” She stared at the shelf. Crime of Opportunity. Crime of Passion. Crime of Clarity. Crime of Corruption. And her latest book, the one they were holding until this bastard was caught, Crime of Jeopardy.

Twenty advance copies had been sent to her, but she had only brought five to Malibu, in case she wanted to send them to someone. She’d given one to Adam…

There were three on her shelf.

She stared at them, her heart beating fast. Three left. There should have been four.

“Rowan-” Quinn began.

“He’s been here.” Her voice was barely audible.

“Who?”

“The killer. He’s been here. Right here.” She pointed to the shelf of books. “He has the last book. He could kill anytime.”

Three more days.

He stood at the window and looked out into the blackness. It was three in the morning and very, very dark here on the coast. He hated it. Hated the ocean, hated the cold, foggy mornings, hated the salt air. How she ran on the wet beach every damn morning in the soggy air was beyond his understanding, but she’d always been odd. His opposite.

Except for one thing. She came up with exquisite ways to murder.

In Crime of Jeopardy, Rowan’s counterpart, Dara Young, investigates the murder of a prostitute in Dallas that is linked to an unsolved series of murders in Chicago. The victims are mutilated and vital organs removed with precision.

He’d been studying basic surgical procedures in anticipation, but he read the good parts-the details about each murder-three times to get it just right. Exactly as Rowan envisioned.

Turning from the window, he crossed the spacious, sparsely furnished living room and finally went upstairs to bed. He pulled a book off his nightstand and caressed the cover. Crime of Jeopardy. It wouldn’t be in bookstores for another three days, but he had taken this copy out from under Rowan’s cocky little nose weeks ago. Weeks. Before Doreen Rodriguez took her last breath. Before he’d finished planning each payback, before he planned what he would do to Rowan.

But he knew now, and it would be good. Very, very good.

But first, Jeopardy. Dallas or Chicago. Chicago or Dallas. Hmmm. He was a little nervous about going back to Texas, but the challenge thrilled him as well.

Chicago, Dallas. Dallas, Chicago. It made no difference to him. Some stupid whore was going to die and lose her innards, one way or the other.

He lay back on the bed dressed in nothing and pulled the warm comforter over him. He had some serious planning to do.

He was running out of money. He couldn’t very well take out the whore when he didn’t have the plane fare to get to Dallas. Robbery really wasn’t his thing, but every few months he hit a couple stores and pulled in enough money to get around. The trick was to pick businesses with women behind the counter. They’d fork over the money quick and easy and he’d be out in less than five minutes. He’d only had to kill once.

Tomorrow he’d take care of his finances, then finalize his plans for the whore.

How much did they know? Obviously enough to keep Rowan under lock and key.

There were several Feds watching Rowan. A pair outside her house in a so-called nondescript sedan, and they rotated every twelve hours. That agent she was friendly with. And the bodyguard’s brother. He was a little worrisome. Elusive, harder than the bodyguard he killed. More like a seasoned Fed, an undercover cop.

He wouldn’t underestimate the brother. No, that might be a mistake. But he had time. One whore in the Midwest, and then Rowan was his.

He smiled as he drifted off to sleep.