Phantom in the Night
Phantom in the Night
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Overview
After losing her mother to a vigilante killer, Terri Mitchell has dedicated her life to justice. Working covertly as a new agent for the Bureau of American Defense agency, she's consulting with the New Orleans Police Department to bust an organized crime ring suspected of funding terrorism. But when rumors surface of a phantom ghost terrorizing and killing the very people she's investigating, she's suspicious.
Nathan Drake has spent his life protecting his family, the only thing that matters to him...until the most feared drug lord in the southeast takes everything Nathan holds dear. Now he's a man on a mission with nothing to lose. He figures he only needs to stay alive long enough to protect the innocent lives the killers are out to destroy.
As the two of them seek a similar goal by different means, Terri and Nathan are drawn deep into an evil underbelly that cuts through all levels of society. Now two people who have no reason to trust must trust in each other or die. And if they die, a deadly attack will be unleashed on thousands of innocent people.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781538526361 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Blackstone Audio, Inc. |
| Publication date: | 04/24/2018 |
| Series: | The BAD Agency Series , #2 |
| Edition description: | Unabridged |
| Product dimensions: | 5.20(w) x 5.70(h) x (d) |
About the Author
Sherrilyn Kenyon is a #1 New York Times bestselling author with more than twenty-five million copies of her books in print in over one hundred countries. Her fiction series include the Dark-Hunters, The League, Deadman's Cross, Chronicles of Nick, Hellchasers, Mikrochasers, and the Lords of Avalon.
Dianna Love is the New York Times bestselling author of Blood Trinity, Alterant, and The Curse in the Belador series. She is a national speaker and artist who started writing while painting, suspended over a hundred feet in the air, creating marketing projects for Fortune 500 companies. When not plotting out her latest action-adventure, she travels the country on a motorcycle to meet fans and research new locations.
Buck 50 Productions is a music/film development company distinguished in the production and marketing of commercially viable cinematic and audio products. The company is comprised of entertainment professionals whose combined career backgrounds incorporate twenty years of experience.
iiKane is a top-rated host and producer best known for her engaging interviews and entertainment reports that have been heard in multiple markets and topped subscriptions for Radio-One and iHeartMedia. She has honed her skills in Los Angeles, DC, New York, Philly, Las Vegas, and Baltimore.
Read an Excerpt
Terri Mitchell studied the naked male lying before her once more. Straight black hair fell loosely around his baby- smooth face. He'd shaved recently. Those chiseled lips were too enticing and perfect, as if shaped by a master sculptor.
How many women had enjoyed this body and those lips? Been pleasured by that captivating mouth?
And why should she care? Terri tamped down on her female interest. She was a professional and shouldn't consider things like this guy's social life or his lean, muscular body, but men didn't come much better packaged than this one. All she'd seen so far was his upper body since the cotton sheet covered his lower half.
Using her pen, she lifted the white cloth to see if there was anything else she could glean from this inspection beyond the bullet hole in his forehead.
Not really, unless she wanted to add "well endowed" to her notes. Such a waste of one fine- looking male.
Probably not the Fat Tuesday this guy had expected when he got up this morning.
"I like the highlights, the more blonde look. That new?" The radio- announcer- smooth baritone asking that question from behind her belonged to a man she hadn't planned to see again. At least not yet.
Terri yanked her pen away. The sheet fell back into place over the corpse's toned midsection. She swung around to face DEA Special Agent Robert Brady and cursed silently for almost getting caught ogling a body.
"Hello, Brady."
"Nice to see you, Terri. Look good. I like the extra meat on your bones."
"Is that a polite way of saying I'm overweight?" She used to worryabout trying to reach a dress size in the single digits. Not anymore. Surviving a nearly fatal attack had put her priorities in order. Stressing over the scale was in her past. If she could just put other things behind her as easily.
Like Brady's smug face.
"I said you looked good. Can't you take a compliment?"
Maybe, if it had come from someone else, but Brady liked his women thin, long- legged, and busty. At five- six she'd never met the long- legged qualification and nothing in her wardrobe had been designed for a slim body. She'd assumed Brady made an allowance when they'd dated because of her chest. Most of the men in her life jumped to the ridiculous assumption large breasts equaled an easy lay. Men had such simple guidelines, she envied them at times...almost.
They'd had a few dates, but she'd had enough sense not to sleep with Brady. Terri fixed a smile in place. "Thanks for the compliment."
"What were you doing?" He nodded toward the cold body.
"I'd think it would be obvious -- even to you." She winked to soften the dig. "I'm examining a male corpse." Maybe they could keep things pleasant if he didn't bring up the past.
"The hole is in his head, not his dick."
She shoved a droll stare his way. "If I didn't inspect the entire body, I might miss something significant." Especially since she hadn't seen a naked male in so long.
Who knows? Something might have changed.
"You need to get laid." Brady's wrinkled navy suit had lost its polish hours ago. The scruffy, plain-brown hair hadn't changed, still looking both sexy and as if he'd just gotten out of bed and finger brushed the thick locks. How unfair. Men not only got away with bed head but turned it into a vogue style.
At a loss for a stinging comeback, she just arched an eyebrow.
"What?" he snapped.
She let out a tired breath and raked him with a peeved glare. "Why is getting laid a man's answer to everything?"
Brady shrugged. "Maybe because once we get laid, most of our problems are solved." He broke out a megawatt smile intended to wear down her resistance.
Which should have been easy since she'd never been on the first page of anyone's little black book.
Terri wasn't in the market for marriage, but neither was she willing to climb into bed with a man she had no real feelings for, which meant his original primitive assessment of her mood was probably correct.
Change the subject now, before...
"Why didn't you return my calls?" His face lost all joking appeal, ruining any chance of avoiding this conversation.
Might as well get this over with. "I did return your first call and left a voicemail I'd be out of pocket for a while."
"A while?" He stood away from the doorjamb, rising to his imposing stature. "Most people would take 'a while' to mean a few weeks, not three months." A six-foot male leaning toward her in an intimidating posture would have rattled her right after the attack, but not now.
After leaving the hospital -- and the DEA -- she'd spent endless hours with a personal trainer to even the field with dangerous men. She didn't want to ever feel weak or helpless again.
"I had to do a major rehab -- " Terri started.
"I know that, but why did you hide from me?"
"Hide?" Was he insane, insensitive, or just plain unobservant? She growled under her breath and slapped her clipboard down on the body, then winced over her lack of respect for the dead.
What was it about sexy men that undermined her confidence?
"There are very few rehab facilities in New Orleans since Katrina. Or haven't you noticed?"
"That's not the real reason you cut out. The agency would have -- "
"What?" She strangled the pen in her fist, then crossedher arms to hide her hands. "The DEA turned its back onme and left me out to hang."
"Not exactly. You made the final decision." "Oh, sure. I resigned. You're right." She clicked the pen head up and down, then stopped. The last thing she wanted to do was televise a slim hold on her control. "They suspended me and started an investigation while I was hooked up to tubes in a hospital. Excuse me if I'm just a little...irritable."
Brady paced two steps away, hands in his pockets, then paused and met her gaze with a shielded one. "What did you expect them to do?"
"I expected them to -- " Her throat clogged. Pain and humiliation wrapped around the memory that shadowed her thoughts daily. "I expected them to believe me and to back me up. Not to blame me for Conroy's death or suspect me of working with Marseaux." Damn them all. Who could possibly think she'd kill her partner and join ranks with that vermin Marseaux?
"The DEA has not taken any action against you."
"Yet."
"True, but in two weeks they'll make a final determination and close the case."
"Or charge me with a crime." She raced the clock to prove her innocence and find Conroy's killer. DEA Internal Affairs was racing just as hard to charge and convict her.
"Stay clear of any trouble and you should be fine."
Terri let a humorless chuckle escape. Brady should just say it straight: Don't get caught associating with any felons.
Easy for him to say. She needed contacts, to groom new informants, and that meant consorting with felons. No easy task with word out that her last snitch had died after she and her partner, Conroy, had been ambushed. Her best contact on the Marseaux case had been found murdered the next day.
The minute she'd awakened after surgery, Terri had quickly realized the questions being put to her were DEA interrogation level, not just for information. She'd put her faith in them and they'd screwed her.
Never again. While going through rehab she'd been recruited by BAD -- the Bureau of American Defense -- and now worked for the multijurisdictional covert agency that protected American citizens wherever they might be found. The DEA didn't even know BAD existed. Another reason she'd signed on.
Two weeks. Terri swatted an errant curl off her forehead. She'd be lucky to find a felon willing to talk to her again.
"Save your advice. I didn't get into trouble before." Terri cringed at her shrewish voice. She owed the DEA nothing, ut she did owe Brady for making a clean shot at the man who had tried to carve her a new body with a twelve-inch butcher knife. Reaching inside herself for the calm she'd been taught in self-defense training, she took a deep breath. "The agency didn't want me back, and even if they had I'd have been stuck at a desk job. Might as well post a bulletin stating I'm not trustworthy in the field."
More importantly, she couldn't clear her name or find out who had set her and Conroy up while sitting at a desk, answering phones. Signing on with BAD gave her a fighting chance.
Brady had the decency to look uncomfortable. His gaze wandered around the room before he muttered, "Neither here nor there at this point." Then he focused on her again. "So you got plans for Fat Tuesday? Want to hook up for a drink later?"
She hadn't been asked out in a while, so on one level that was flattering, but not a path she wanted to travel again. Especially not with him. "Not right now. I'm pretty busy." Proving my innocence and convicting a vicious killer -- you know, the usual stuff that might preoccupy a woman facing prison time.
His eyebrows tilted together at the lie, seeing the truth behind her words, but he didn't press the issue. "Still haven't figured out what you want, huh?"
She tensed at his dig. Three glasses of wine after a long day four months ago and she'd blabbed to him some of her most personal thoughts. But that wasn't enough humiliation for her. Oh no, she had to finish with telling him she didn't know what she wanted out of life.
He'd used that as an invitation to help her figure it out.
Talk about having a blonde moment. She shook it off. "Well, sugar, half of figuring out what you want in life is by figuring out what you don't. Let's just stick to business, okay? What are you doing down here? This isn't your usual area." Terri picked up her clipboard.
"I'm on a case." He glanced to the decedent. "What's your interest in this body?"
She relaxed. Brady had come in because of the male victim and not just to see her. Maybe they could keep this professional after all. "John Doe was found at noon today in the area I've been investigating."
Brady's eyes widened a bit. "What are you working on?"
"I can't discuss that with you any more than you can discuss your case with me."
Curiosity burned deep in his eyes. "So where you been? Who you working for?"
She considered her answer and decided best to stick with the cover she'd been given by BAD. "I'm consulting with the New Orleans Police Department."
"Ah...I heard about that."
Terri didn't take the bait to explain. She stonewalled, forcing him to carry the conversation if he wanted to continue.
He cleared his throat. "Got a buddy in the NOPD who says there's a rumor you're with some private agency. Who?"
She rolled her eyes at him. "And I slice open chickens at midnight to sacrifice to the great gods of Santería. I'm just a consultant, Brady. No real news there." Confidence returned, she served that up in a bored tone. "Anything you can tell me about this body?"
Brady's gaze danced from her to the body and back. He was clearly buying time to decide what -- if anything -- he should share. She doubted he'd give up anything of use.
"Guy's name is Nathan Drake. He was running drugs and tried to double-cross the wrong family."
Every alarm in her body rang out. Why would he share that when the concept alone went against his very nature? "How do you know this?"
"He was our snitch inside an organized crime family. Drake got greedy and tried to work one angle too many. Got what he deserved." Brady pinned a gimlet stare on Terri. "That's why you can't trust these guys."
Her face heated at his unexpected censure. She'd paid the price for trusting a snitch -- a felon -- who'd double-crossed her. She didn't need Brady to remind her, but criticizing him would stymie this unexpected flow of information.
Terri suffered in silence and hedged for more. "Thanks for the name. I'll pull this guy's rap sheet when I get back to headquarters."
"Save you some time. He doesn't have a rap sheet."
Now that surprised her. "You sure?"
"Yeah. His brother, Jamie, is doing hard time for running drugs, supposed to get out in a month. We foundNathan when he buried his mother a few weeks back and someone in our unit mistook him for Jamie."
"They look that much alike?"
Brady licked his lips, then said, "Pretty close. We dug around, found out Jamie was still in prison and that Nathan was listed as MIA from the army two years ago...the same time his brother got put away. Didn't take much to figure out he'd gone AWOL to come home and take care of his sick mother."
That made sense. It also made her ache for the poor man on the gurney. Shame to do something so noble and then end up like this. "So what did Nathan do for you?"
Brady shrugged, his gaze moving around the room as if he was contemplating how much more he'd share.
Or was he shading the truth?
He paced two steps again as he spoke. "Nathan had special training in the military. We approached him and said we wouldn't tell the army about finding him if he'd go undercover and help us nail the head of the family. He agreed, got a job in a shipping company, a front for moving contraband."
In other words, Brady caught the poor sucker at a real low moment and coerced him into working for the DEA.
Terri tried to think professionally and keep her emotions locked away, but this guy had basically died because he got blackmailed into helping the Feds. "You screwed him."
"Not really." Brady broke eye contact as he spoke, a sign he was hiding something. "We had good intel. Nathan was dealing drugs, just not at the level his brother Jamie had. We didn't ask him to do anything he wasn't already into."
Terri accepted the information, with a healthy dose of suspicion. She'd worked with Brady long enough to know he was either holding back or tweaking the truth.
He crossed his arms. "We gave Nathan a file on the major players in the family we were after and asked if he thought he could get inside."
"Like he had a choice?"
"Everyone has a choice, Terri." His tone carried more weight than the topic they discussed. He wasn't over her subtle rejection, nor had he found it subtle.
She broke eye contact this time. "Whatever."
Surprisingly, Brady kept talking. "Nathan said he knew the family from what his brother had told him. Said he'd go in if we would get his brother out of prison early and clear his military record. I agreed. If he'd gotten us what we needed by this Friday, I'd have had his brother out by this weekend, barring any discipline issues. So he screwed himself."
She frowned. "How long has his brother been in the pen?"
" 'Bout two years."
"Then why the rush to get him out a couple weeks early?"
Brady's gaze flattened, uncaring. "Maybe because their mother was so close to dying. Or maybe he just wanted something in his wasted life to look noble. Who knows?"
Terri considered that. She also considered another possibility. Like maybe this body had nothing to do with her investigation at the docks. Just a coincidental matter of the body being in the same proximity at the wrong time.
She ran Brady's words through her mind again. "Could you really get his brother out or were you just bluffing?" Just how straight had Brady played this game with Drake?
"Jamie is due out in a month. Warden claims he's a model prisoner. Wouldn't have been hard to cut a deal to spring him early so long as the warden didn't buck us. But this guy Drake turned out to be a dead end -- no pun intended -- in our investigation." Brady grinned. For once, he didn't look attractive or sexy, just annoying and arrogant.
"You're so hilarious." Terri refrained from shaking her head and calling Brady a jackass. The effort would be wasted on him, because he was after all a jackass. She turned to the deceased. "I need to get back to work -- "
"You're done. He's part of our investigation." Brady had put just a little too much emphasis on "our." "Nothing here for the New Orleans PD. This stiff belongs to us. If they have any questions tell them to contact me, but hands off as of now. I'll have Drake picked up tomorrow."
Terri turned to face Brady. What was so important that he'd make an issue out of one drug mule's body? She had a job to do. If she could determine this didn't fit with her investigation then she'd let Brady have his way.
How much more would he share? "What drug family was connected to the shipping company Drake worked for?"
Brady's chest moved slowly with several breaths, delaying again...and piquing her interest. "The Marseaux group."
Terri nodded. "Okay, that clears up his identity and simplifies my list of things to check. I've got plenty on my plate without getting involved with the DEA." She snapped the clipboard to her chest and smiled, offering a sign of her appreciation. Brady's "insider" buddy in the New Orleans PD had no way of knowing BAD had sent her undercover to find out if the Marseaux family was supplying weapons to a terrorist organization.
On the other hand, BAD didn't know she'd jumped at the chance to remain in the field because she had her own mission -- to ferret out who had set her and Conroy up for an ambush.
She was flying solo and planned to keep it that way.
Any connection to the Marseaux family was priority one.
Nathan Drake's cold body just became a hot topic.
Warden McLaughlin hung up his phone, not believing how bad some people's luck ran. Given what he did for a living, he was certainly no bleeding heart, but he'd wanted to do more than babysit convicts when he'd decided on a career in the penal system. The more inmates he could rehabilitate for release, the better for everyone, since a chunk of the prison population was going to be released to live among the innocent at some point. Turning these prisoners around was the only hope society had.
The inmate leaving today was a suitable candidate to integrate back into society with little problem.
Until now. Damn.
Mattered not. At this point McLaughlin couldn't change what he'd worked so hard to put into motion for the guy. Particularly since he honestly believed this con wouldn't return or be a threat to anyone else.
At least that's what he'd thought all the way up until that phone call. Now...
Yeah, Jamie Drake would probably be back, and for a much longer stay next time.
His desk intercom buzzed. He pushed the button. "Yes?"
"Drake is ready to be released, sir."
McLaughlin let out a tired sigh of resignation. "Be right there." Stealing himself for what he had to tell this unlucky bastard, he got up and left his office to set the con free.
When he reached Drake, the guards had the beefy guy in cuffs and leg chains. A final reminder of where Drake had been for two years, but one that would only add insult to the news he had to give him.
Life was bad enough for Drake and would only get worse in a few minutes. Humiliating him further right now was just plain dangerous. McLaughlin jerked his chin toward the officer beside the con. "Remove the cuff and chains."
The officer blinked in question at the unorthodox order, then did as instructed. McLaughlin studied his soon-to-be ex-con for any sign of appreciation and found none in Drake's granite expression.
Then again, any other reaction would have surprised him.
"I'll walk out to the road with you." McLaughlin turned to where another of his guards opened the door for him.
"Why?" There was no mistaking the suspicion in Drake's voice, or the menace attached that warned anyone against trying to prevent him from leaving. He'd done his time and knew they had to let him go.
McLaughlin didn't want to stop him any more than he wanted to be the bearer of such bad news, but some days it just plain sucked to be the head honcho. "Want to talk for a minute."
"Soon as my brother shows, I'm done with this place" -- he turned a cold, dead glare on McLaughlin -- "and with you."
In that moment, hearing those chilling words, McLaughlin was reminded of how it had taken five hefty guards to pull Drake off another inmate who had attacked him.
And the guards hadn't come away unscathed.
McLaughlin nodded in the direction of an armed guard, who understood the signal meant he should follow the warden to the street.
When Drake accepted his bag of meager belongings, the paper sack included some cash and a change of clothes McLaughlin had slipped into storage for the man. A rare sign of weakness and respect that no other prisoner had earned from him in all the years he'd been a warden.
Drake dipped his head down and stepped through the open doorway to the outside.
McLaughlin fell into step behind the con who had been an exemplary inmate. Drake had never raised a hand to anyone who hadn't attacked him first. Unfortunately that one time last year when he'd defended himself had cost Drake an eleven-inch ragged scar across his chest and another three months tacked on to his time.
But the inmate who had tried to kill Drake with a chair was still in the hospital.
Drake never slowed his pace as he strode between towering chain-link fences toward the barbwire-topped gate.
Two buddies of the man he'd put in the hospital called out obscenities Drake seemed to ignore until one of them yelled, "Too bad your mother died before I got out. Would have liked to have given that bitch a hard ride."
Storm clouds rumbled overhead, drowning out the rest of his taunt.
Drake never slowed his step nor turned to face the jeering pair when he sent them a middle-finger salute.
That was what worried McLaughlin. This guy hadn't said a word to a soul since hearing his mother had died. The bird he'd just shot was the most emotion McLaughlin had seen in two years.
When Drake passed through the gate, his shoulders dropped a tiny notch, just enough to make McLaughlin think this cold son of a bitch at least felt relief at being free again.
"I got some news," McLaughlin started.
Chilling gray-blue eyes turned on him. A gusty wind blew strands of Drake's black hair loose from the severe ponytail he wore. "What?"
That one word carried more threat than an entire band of armed vigilantes. McLaughlin had faced a lot of seriously whacked-out criminals in his life, but Drake's unrelenting control and lifeless gray eyes raised the fine hairs along his arms when their gazes locked.
Might as well stop procrastinating.
He took a step back -- for safety's sake -- before he spoke again. "Just got a call. Your brother won't be picking you up."
Drake's eyelids lowered a fraction, enough to ratchet up his death-to-anyone-who-gives-me-bad-news look. "What'd he do now?"
McLaughlin glanced away. "My friend Percy Philips called. By the way, Percy will be your parole officer. His information is in your bag. Make sure you contact him no later than the end of the week. He's got a line on a mechanic's job for you." McLaughlin hoped the idea of having a job would soften the news he was hesitating to deliver. He'd asked Percy to keep Drake's release quiet to give the guy a break before he faced society.
"Didn't ask for your help."
"True, but you could use it, and I owe you for fixing my Roadrunner after everyone told me to get a new engine. That car is worth a hell of a lot more now that the original parts work."
"Back to my brother."
McLaughlin sighed. He couldn't delay the inevitable ny longer. "Percy talked to a buddy of his in the New rleans Police Department..."
Drake visibly relaxed and expelled a tense breath. "I'll spring Nathan from jail soon as I get home." He turned to look down the only road that led to civilization in this part of Louisiana. "How far to New Orleans?"
"About fifty miles. But your brother isn't in jail, Jamie. He's...dead."
Nathan Drake inhaled, taking that blow hard as a steel bar to his solar plexus. No. His brother couldn't be dead. Not after he'd taken Jamie's place at the trial, spent two years in this hellhole, convinced everyone from attorneys to jurors to this warden he was Jamie for one reason.
To protect his brother.
Jamie dead. Nathan couldn't fit those two words together. He swung around, hatred boiling over at everything in his path.
A rifle cocked behind the warden.
McLaughlin lifted his hand, a silent order for the guard to stand down.
"How..." Nathan cleared his throat after that first ragged word. "How did he die?"
"Not real sure -- "
That tiny sliver of emotion Nathan had shown dissolved behind a mask of fury that had backed dangerous inmates away. "Don't. Lie. To. Me."
McLaughlin sighed. "Percy says the police told him your brother had been found shot at the docks. They believe the shooting was drug related. They think..." He hesitated, shielding something. "Your brother was running drugs."
Lying bastards, all of them. Jamie never touched anything harder than aspirin. Drugs. One man controlled seventy percent of the drugs through New Orleans: Marseaux, the same prick who had forced Nathan into the only choice he could make two years ago -- to give up everything to take Jamie's place in a cell.
"Look, Drake, I know this is bad, especially since you two are...were twins. Got a pair of twin grandkids, so I understand how close you had to be, but don't blow this opportunity. You can't change the past. I know you got a raw deal with the extra months, but the attorney for the guy who jumped you was connected. I did everything I could to get you out in time to bury your mother or you wouldn't be leaving a month earlier than you should. Unfortunately, no one moves fast in the government or you'd have made her funeral. I know it doesn't feel like much right now, but you're a free man again, so don't screw up. Don't want to see you back here before the paperwork is filed."
Lightning popped and fingered across the sky. McLaughlin tilted his head back to size up the swollen rain clouds. "Looks like a wet night for Fat Tuesday."
Fuck the weather. Nathan swung away and started walking in the direction of the bus station. He paused, but didn't turn around. McLaughlin had given him a fair shake. Had tried to get him out early. Nathan hated everyone in law enforcement for not taking Marseaux down, but he owed the warden something for at least trying to spring him in time to see his mother before she died. "Thanks."
"Want the name of the guy who has the job for you?"
"No."
"Then bury your brother and stay out of trouble," McLaughlin warned.
"Might do one of those. Either way, you won't see me here again. Give you my word on that."
Someone would pay for killing Jamie.
He gave his word on that, too.
Terri wrinkled her nose at the stuffy smell of over forty people working too close for her personal taste. She slugged down another cup of coffee, or the closest equivalent they served in this satellite precinct not far from the Broad Street police headquarters. New Orleans still struggled to recover from Katrina and the criminal element had quadrupled the need for law enforcement. This precinct had been formed primarily to handle the overflow of murders and drug trafficking.
Lifting the strap of her handbag to her shoulder, she headed for her car. A shooting pain in her right thigh sucked the air from her lungs. Her leg was letting her know she'd been on her feet for too many hours in the past few days. Unfortunately, that wasn't going to change.
"Hey, Mitchell!" Sammy lifted off his seat from across the room at his desk. The rookie officer designated as her assistant on the Marseaux investigation waved a piece of paper and yelled again. Noise from overlapping conversation washed away his words.
She changed directions, careful to keep her stride smooth. Walking without a limp wouldn't be quite so difficult if she didn't have to navigate around crowded desks and people clustered in open space. And if she hadn't worn a skirt suit...but sometimes a woman in a skirt still caused men to drop their guard. She'd use any weapon to get what she wanted -- the bastard who had set up her and Conroy.
"...another missing blonde. Starting to make me wonder if they're just lost," one detective joked as she passed.
Terri slowed enough to make eye contact and narrow her eyes to send a "you're a jerk" message. The detective's gaze sobered, but he shot her a look that said he pegged her as another one from the brainless blonde gene pool. Men.
Sammy waited, reclined in his desk chair. Tawny-brown hair in the latest short style, a Colgate grin on his clean-shaven face, and a pleasant personality.
"What you got, Sammy?"
"Address on Nathan Drake and a little background."
"Cool beans." She took the paper he offered, which had a few notes neatly written in block letters, and started to walk away.
"By the way, the body's gone."
Terri swung back to face him. "What?"
"DEA staff was supposed to pick it up this afternoon for their coroner, but when they got to the morgue the drawer was empty. Everybody's freaking out. Tony runs the graveyard shift. Said he's been getting an acid enema over it from the DEA for the last hour."
She'd seen the body late yesterday at the morgue, less than twenty-four hours ago. Nathan Drake had been stone-cold dead so he sure as heck hadn't walked out, or...
No, she castigated herself at entertaining for an instant the idea that he'd gotten up on his own. This wasn't an Anne Rice novel. It might be New Orleans, but dead people didn't walk around here.
So who had wanted the body? And why was this body so important to the DEA?
"What about security cameras outside, Sammy?"
"Not a thing on any of them. There was one skip in time for about four seconds last night, but they have three cameras covering the entrance since that guy went postal on them a couple months ago. Nobody could make it past all three undetected with only four seconds to do it...unless he was a ghost." Sammy grinned again and waggled his eyebrows. "Of course, this isss Nawhlinss, home to ghouls and vampires."
"Yeah, right. Let's stick to reality. I doubt a ghost stole the corpse. Thanks for the address and the heads-up about the body." She strolled away, working hard not to grimace with each step. By the time she'd reached her Mini Cooper, Terri had changed her mind about going home for different clothes. If Brady and the rest of the DEA were tied up at the morgue searching for a body, this was her best chance to snoop through Drake's house.
She started to punch the directions into her GPS, then blinked at the address. The Drake house was close to hers in the French Quarter.
Except the Drake house was on Rampart Street -- not the safest area.
Terri rolled her windows down and pulled out of the parking lot filled with unmarked sedans and squad cars.
Cool February air infused with the rich smells from neighboring restaurants fanned her skin and hair. Cajun cooking might have become a household term in most of the country, but those native to Louisiana knew the cuisine of this state was more than gumbo and boiled crawfish. She was happy to see the businesses coming back and the city rebuilding, but the continuous rows of broken and boarded-up windows declared there was still much to do before the city returned to its former glory.
When she passed her house, the one she shared with her grandmother, Terri mentally checkmarked a note for her to spend a few hours at home during the day soon. She worked nights by choice and her grandmother was self-sufficient, but that didn't stop Terri from worrying over her only real family.
When she reached her destination, Terri continued on past the Drake house to park down the street along the curb. She cut the lights and studied the neighborhood. Just a quiet Wednesday night. Probably more than a few nursing hangovers from a rowdy Fat Tuesday. She unhooked her earrings and removed her watch, then opened the console. Dumping the jewelry inside, she withdrew her handy pack of easy-entry tools for breaking and entering, which fit in the pocket of her small shoulder bag.
The same place she kept her SIG P229 9 mm. Sure as hell didn't have a spot beneath this black suit.
She tugged on the neckline of her aqua knit top, which fell back into a low scoop. Screw it. Time was flying by. One glance at the side mirror confirmed her lipstick was gone and makeup faded. Good. Most people would dismiss her as an office worker or retail salesgirl at the end of a long day. She snagged a pair of plastic gloves from the box of them she kept on the backseat for unexpected crime scene stops.
Jeans and a pullover would have been nice for this B&E, but a risky waste of time with Brady so hot to find Drake's body. He might show up any minute just to see if he could find a lead here on what had happened to the deceased.
At least that's where she'd start if she were in his shoes.
Terri exchanged the short pumps she'd worn all day for sneakers stored on the floorboard of the backseat. The ability to run always improved one's chance of not getting caught...or cut into pieces.
She wasn't much for running and didn't want to strain her bad leg, but it never hurt to be prepared for any possibility. She flipped the strap of her purse over her head and shoulder, securing it across her body. Been a while since she'd used her B&E tools. Now that she worked for BAD, she could bend rules when necessary without any sense of guilt. Only fair.
The DEA hadn't minded twisting the rules against her. She'd been a fool to trust them just because they were law enforcement.
But she wasn't cutting BAD any slack, either. From the agents she'd met so far, none seemed to have come up through any normal government channels.
In fact, most of them set off her felon detector bigtime.
Who was she to judge? She could be facing prison soon.
Terri locked the car and kept to the shadows created by a full moon, then hiked along the sidewalk past a couple houses until she reached the one next door to the Drakes.
Music floated from the neighbor's courtyard, mingling with the aroma of barbeque filling the air. Terri's mouth watered. The food in the courtyard smelled better than anything she'd ever cooked in her grandma's kitchen.
A door squeaked open across the street right before an old man with a heavy gray jacket emerged with his little fluffy mutt on a leash.
Once he reached the street and turned the opposite way from her destination, Terri hurried to the broken concrete walkway of the Drake house.
The well-maintained blue wood exterior snubbed the rougher exteriors of the houses on each side. No obvious Katrina damage to the Drake home. Black shutters were drawn tight over the windows, no slats missing. Like all the other houses on the street, this one was narrow with white gingerbreadlatticework around the eaves. The quaint dwelling strangely reminded her of something out of an old fairy tale. Everything appeared tidy, except for some dirt and debris piled across the narrow strip of overgrown lawn.
She paused at the locked wooden gate on the side of the house that prevented strangers from pulling into the drive. A simple, cheap padlock held the chain hooked through the rickety wood structure in place. She pushed the gate ever so slightly and peeked through.
No nosy dog came charging up from the small courtyard.
Nathan Drake had probably tended the house while his mother lived here, but not in the past couple weeks, according to the overgrown patches of grass. The only information Terri had found in addition to Sammy's notes was an obituary notice that Lydia Drake had succumbed to cancer. Very minimal obit details.
She indulged a pang of sympathy for the guy's loss, but nothing excused working for a drug dealer. And his brother was in prison. What a disappointment for their mother.
At least they'd had their mother longer than Terri had been with hers. She'd gone to bed one night at a girlfriend's house in north Louisiana, thinking life at fifteen sucked just because she couldn't get a driver's permit yet, and woke up to a real nightmare. Her mother had been shot during the night and died before Terri reached the hospital.
A dog howled way off in the distance, waking up her common sense. She had to be quick about this or Brady might catch her. Hell, from the look of this neighborhood, she risked being mugged if she dallied any longer. With her gloves slipped on, Terri moved to the lifeless front porch shrouded in deep shadows and tried the doorknob as a standard move.
The door opened.
Hair raised along her arms. Enter or not?
Glancing around to assure no one was near, she unlatched her purse and slipped her hand inside to touch her 9 mm. She shook off her trepidation and entered, but prepared. The house was dark and quiet. Empty feeling.
Once inside she used a tiny LED flashlight on her key ring to scan the contents. She'd entered through the small living room and headed toward the kitchen, which smelled clean. The counters were spotless, but drawers stuck out half opened. A note had been taped to the refrigerator that hummed with life.
Terri bent at the knees, gritting her teeth over the sharp twist of pain that screamed from her right thigh. She held the light up close to read the note penned in a neat script. Below yesterday's date, written in marker were the words, "If I don't make it by tomorrow A.M., Laissez les bons temps rouler."
The body had been found around noon yesterday. So what did Nathan Drake miss doing, or whom did he miss meeting?
Chill bumps rippled over her skin. Had he known he might not come home?
If so, who had he left the note for? Who else had keys to this house?
A sharp pain jabbed down the inside of her leg. She straightened up and stretched the muscle, easing the ache. Terri headed from the kitchen up the hallway to the living room, where more drawers on end tables had been left pulled out.
Didn't look as though Brady had been through the place. The DEA was usually a tad bit neater in their covert searches. Which begged the question, "Why not?"
She moved three more steps and paused when she reached a bedroom. Frilly lace drapes hung quietly above a chest with glass figurines on doilies. A bottle of White Shoulders cologne shared space with the figurines. Soft light beamed from a night-light low on the wall, an incongruous glow of life in a house with no living occupants, based on Sammy's notes. The crocheted coverlet draped over a pristine bed indicated a woman's room. Nathan's mother, Lydia Drake?
Not a drawer open. In fact, nothing seemed disturbed.
Terri moved away to the next door, wanting to search the only other bedroom in the small house. A glance in the room told her someone had been staying in there and the simple decoration indicated a man's taste.
Nathan's room?
Moonlight sliced through the slats of the shutters on the windows. She turned off her key chain flashlight and tiptoed in. When her eyes adjusted, the first thing she noticed was a drawer open on a small table where papers had been disturbed and piled on top of the desk.
Terri reached for the papers.
Out of the darkness, someone with large hands grabbed her from behind.
One thought registered. Shit.
Copyright © 2008 by Sherrilyn Kenyon and Dianna Love Snell
The intruder had underestimated the power needed to hold her, but he'd shifted her purse to her back out of easy reach.
Terri made a two-punch move. Right. Left. Arms now free, she swung around fast, guessing at the position of his head. Her whole body jarred when her elbow smacked his jaw.
His head snapped back with a nasty cracking sound. He cursed, stumbled backward, but quickly caught his balance and blocked her exit.
Crap. This one wasn't going down easy. And she couldn't reach for her weapon without lowering her defense.
She couldn't make out his face in the dark, but had no problem discerning his size. Moonlight threw shadows past his massive silhouette.
Options ran through her mind. She'd taken her instructor down and he wasn't exactly a weakling at over two hundred pounds. Not this big, though.
The man shook his head and stood very still, watching her.
Blood pumped furiously through her chest. She licked her lips, hoping the adrenaline charge would give her enough of an edge to beat him.
No matter what, she would make him pay for anything he got.
"You're a surprising little thing."
The disbelief in his muttered words stroked her ego until she picked up the underlying anger.
"No, I'm a dangerous little thing." She positioned her feet and feinted to his right. Her bluff worked to draw him out of position. She gritted her teeth against the inevitable pain, took a step, and threw her weight onto her injured leg.
Then shoved her left knee up hard. Big mistake.
The bastard blocked his groin with both hands faster than she'd ever seen a man move.
Terri lost her balance, hopping to stay off her right leg, but pain knifed up her side.
She sucked in her breath. The white-hot burning in her thigh caused her to hesitate to attack again.
And cost her what little edge she'd just gained.
Quick as a whip, he caught her by one arm and spun her back against his chest. His arms wrapped her like giant manacles, immobilizing her.
Shit!
Terri struggled but knew when she'd been beat. This was the downside of refusing to work with a partner again.
"What do you want?" she demanded and damn if she didn't sound mad enough to back up the fury in her tone. Her pulse kicked into hyperspeed. She struggled. Panic would not help her, but the fear of being a victim again after the knife attack hid just beneath the surface under a thin veneer of confidence.
He said nothing. His chest expanded with each breath, but she hadn't been a real challenge for this guy. No one with his lightning reflexes would be winded. In fact, he'd contained her without roughing her up, which took effort.
Hope blossomed in her chest. He might not kill her.
Maybe he was just a thief.
"You find anything good here?" she asked, trying to prod him to confirm his presence.
Still no reply. Great impression of a statue.
She had to calm down and think. Calm equaled control. Her handbag was still intact and had moved back to her hip, but still out of reach while he held her. She glanced around for a weapon or something she could use as one.
The papers and open drawer snagged her gaze. Why go through the drawers of this house? What did people hide of value in drawers?
Jewelry, cash, checkbooks, credit cards...
The possibility of him being a thief was beginning to sound pretty plausible. Maybe he read obits, knew how to locate the houses and hit the ones that looked like easy pickings. She wanted to slap her head for not taking the unlocked door more seriously.
"Guess you've combed this place pretty good." She tried to turn her head. Not going to happen until he gave up this intimidation routine.
She knew the stay silent tactic. Let the other person babble. No problem. She'd play along and talk if that gave her any chance of weaseling her way out of this.
Terri took a breath, feeling back on her game, even if she was in a compromised position. Her best bet would be to convince him she'd also come here for a heist.
"Hey, buddy, I had no idea we were casing the same house. My bad. If you'll let me go, I'll stay off your turf." She tried to flex her arms, but she'd have an easier time flexing against a tree limb. This guy must spend his days as a gym rat.
A lock of her wavy hair tumbled into her eyes. She huffed the curl back and waited for him to make a move. Preferably, not an aggressive one.
"What are you doing here?" The softly spoken words were delivered in a voice as chilling as a block of ice.
She would not let him intimidate her. Her palms were slick, but everyone got sweaty palms, even undercover agents. She'd dealt with dangerous perps back when she was with the DEA.
"Same as you, just looking for something to pawn." Terri prayed she was right. He didn't act like someone on crack so maybe he'd just been sifting through the house for loose cash, credit cards, and jewelry. A smart thief wouldn't want to add assault to the charges if he ever got caught.
An encouraging thought... if he was sharp.
"Right." He made a sound that was a cross between a scoff and a grunt.
What? He didn't think she was capable of B&E, just got lucky with the door being open. If he only knew. She could pick a lock faster than he could sneeze. Just ask the judge who sentenced her to a year in juvie when she was sixteen.
"Hey, I can get into anything." She scoffed right back. "And had I broken in first I wouldn't have left the door unlocked. So what are you after? Jewelry?" Play along and keep him talking even if he did act as though he was being charged by the word to speak. He'd lower his guard at some point.
"Nothing here to pawn," he said.
Just as she'd thought. A thief. He hadn't tried to peel her clothes off. If she acted cool and casual about all this, she might just walk away unscathed.
Unfortunately, she'd never been cool in her life so friendly was the best to expect from her acting repertoire.
"What do you want?" His blunt question made her jump.
She clenched her fingers to keep from snapping at him. "Nothing, really. Just making a quick hit and moving on. I've already told you this place is all yours. You're right, there's not a thing I can make a dime on."
"You left a desk job in a suit and put on sneakers to hit a house you hadn't even cased properly?"
The teasing curl of his voice insulted her, but she was beginning to feel better about getting out of this little mess she didn't want Brady or anyone in the NOPD to find out about. If this guy had been a serious whacko he probably would have hurt her by now or said something creepy.
"Okay, I admit I suck at B and E." Not really, but he might take pity on a novice. "And, yes, it's obvious I haven't been cracking houses long. I may just give it up after tonight. I'm embarrassed enough. Can I go... please?" She smiled, working the whole blonde act to the hilt.
"Not yet. You owe me for stepping on my turf."
Copyright © 2008 by Sherrilyn Kenyon and Dianna Love Snell