Rapture (Fallen Angels #4)(35)
Author: J.R. Ward

Jim dragged the man in with him and slammed the way shut. Propping Matthias up, he hit the steel with another blast of heat, this one longer and stronger, putting a quick solder in place to buy them some escape time.

The good news was that it worked—and his old boss was too busy checking his clip to notice the sleight of hand.

Cane in one palm, autoloader in the other, Matthias regained control of himself. “Down that way,” he barked like he was in charge. “There has to be an out.”

Rather than get into a dick-toss, Jim took off, hitching another hold under that armpit and falling back into the half drag. As they shuffled along, he kept an eye over his shoulder.

It didn’t take a genius to figure out who was the target. Matthias had been the former head of XOps, and had “died.” SOP was to visually confirm the body, and given that Isaac Rothe had gotten rid of the remains, no one had been able to do that.

Somehow, they’d figured out that Matthias was up and around in Caldwell.

Maybe Devina had an “in” in the organization?

“Did you lock the door behind us?” Matthias grunted.

“Yeah.” But chances were good that the assassin was going to have—

The explosion was the short and sweet kind, little more than a flash of light. And then that squeal came again as the operative busted into the corridor.

Up ahead, no doorways. No cover. Just a straight shot as far as he could see.

As if he and Matthias had a single brain, they swung around and both pulled their triggers, emptying everything they had. Bullets ricocheted around as the operative shot back—and it went without saying that Jim shoved Matthias behind him, and used his own body as a shield.

A couple of slugs hit home, the sting unpleasant, but nothing that would kill him or particularly get his attention. And then he and Matthias ran out of shots.

So did the operative.

There was a brief lull, which was a loud and clear “RELOADING NOW,” and Jim had no choice but to get running again. Protection spells were great against Devina’s minions; not really all that effective against Remington-onset lead poisoning: Keeping his body as a block, he chose one side of the hall and hustled like hell. And as they passed stacks of banquet chairs, Matthias helped as much as he could—but with the damage to his lower body, it would have been better for him to stay still and be muscled off the ground.

Not like they had time to debate deadweight etiquette.

They’d gone about ten feet when Jim realized they weren’t being shot at.

No professional would take that long to put another clip in. What the hell—

At that moment, he felt Devina’s presence, sure as a shadow passing over his own grave.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

19

“Come on, Monty, you gotta give me something.”

Unlike the other reporters on scene at the motel, Mels wasn’t choking against the police line in front of the open room. She was over on the far end, standing in the fog that had rolled in with her good old friend Monty the Mouth. Monty was a decent cop, but what made him really useful was his ego. He loved to share just to prove he could, and didn’t that make him handy.

The difference tonight was that this was her own story. She wasn’t background gathering for someone else.

Mels leaned in over the tape. “I know you know what’s going on.”

Monty jacked his belt up higher on his bay window, and ran a hand over his moussed-back hair. Talk about from another era. A shave job on his dome and a Tootsie Pop and you had Kojak in the twenty-first century.

“Yeah, I was one of the first here. So, you know, on the ground floor.”

The problem with Monty was that he made you work for it. “When did you get called in?”

“Two hours ago. Manager dialed nine-one-one and I was the first responder. The guy who rented the room only wanted it for an hour around five, but the front office didn’t realize no one had checked out until nine. I knocked on the door. No answer. The manager used his key, and hello.”

“What do you think happened?” It was important to use the pronoun you.

“She was a known prostitute, so there’re three likelies.”

After a pause, she filled in, as she was supposed to. “Pimp, john, jealous boyfriend.”

“Not bad. Not bad.” He rejacked that belt. “No forced entry. Clearly a struggle, as her clothes were messed up. But not everything was blue alley.”

“Blue alley” was a reference to the hallway where generations of CPDers had led perps down to intake at headquarters. Over time, the term had codified itself to mean nothing unusual or unexpected when criminals were involved.

“And the surprise was…”

Monty leaned in, all state secret. “She’d colored her hair. For some reason, that had been part of the date. Long and blond was how she went. And then he killed her.”

“How do you know it was a ‘he’?”

Monty shot her a yeah-right look. “And no, I can’t give you her name—not released yet because we’re tracking down the family. But I know who she is, and she’s lucky to have lived through the last two years. Her record’s long and there’s violence in it—with her as the aggressor.”

“Okay, well, you’ll call me if you can share something? I don’t name sources—you know this.”

“Yeah, you’re good like that, but no offense, you don’t get bylines very often. Hey, can you set me up with your boy Tony? He’s usually on these kinds of gigs.”

At that moment, she didn’t respect Monty at all, and not because he was unimpressed with her lack of credentials at the CCJ. Damn it, he was not a rock star, and this was not a gig, and for the love of God, could he please stop jacking up that gun belt of his. This was a crime scene and there was someone’s daughter or sister and maybe girlfriend or wife dead on the tile in that bathroom.

He could at least feel awkward and slightly dirty about the exchange of information. As she did.

“Dick assigned this to me,” she said.

“Really? Hey, maybe you’re moving up. And yeah, I’ll call you, as long as you keep my name out of it.”

“I promise.”

“Talk to you later.” He nodded to the side, dismissing her. “And make sure you answer your phone when I hit you—I have a feeling about this one.”

She lifted the device. “I always do.”

As Mels turned away, she reached up to the back of her neck, the hairs pricking at her nape. Looking around, she saw only people who had a purpose: Cops. Detectives. A photographer striding toward the yellow tape like she was pissed off. There were also two news crews across the parking lot, one of which was doing a broadcast, the superbright light putting a dark-haired reporter onstage as they taped.