'Sometimes an animal must remain true to his nature, don't you agree?'
'You will get no argument here, sir.' A lazy smile crooked his lips. 'I'm sure this goes without saying, but if you divulge our business arrangement to the authorities in any fashion, being torn apart and devoured by savage beasts will seem like the mythological Elysian fields. And as you've seen, my influence transcends many boundaries. Consider your future carefully, Mr. McBride.'
As the door slammed shut, he watched the smug expression of the man standing at the curb, waving farewell as the limo pulled away. McBride would be too impetuous to heed his warning.
'It would be quite gratifying to kill that man, in a most painful manner.'
'Yes, it would, Nicky.' With a demure smile, Mantis slid her slender arm through his. 'Would you like me to take care of that?'
'Eventually, my dear. But for now, Mr. McBride will determine his own fate. If he can postpone his revenge, then he might prove a useful ally, and live awhile longer.'
'And if he cannot?'
'Then you and I may contrive a DVD of our own, featuring the vulgar Logan McBride.'
Her soft, feminine laughter made him smile as his cell phone rang.
'Yes?' His greeting was cryptic; very few people had his personal cell phone number. The familiar voice on the other end needed no introduction.
'The package that you wanted traced? We've located it. When can I meet you to discuss the particulars?'
'Good work. Meet me in an hour at the usual location.' Without a word more, he ended the call and turned to his lovely companion.
'Mantis, my dear, I'm afraid I must indulge in another diversion before we have dinner. I hope you don't mind.'
Her only response was to softly touch his cheek with a velvet stroke of a finger. Shifting his gaze toward the window, he inhaled deeply, then slowly released it, in anticipation of his next meeting.
He'd paid a lot of money to locate Fiona Dunhill. In his heart of hearts, could he destroy her, or would he ultimately settle for something short of complete annihilation? Regardless, he steeled himself for the next step of his plan.
Only a face-to-face would determine her fate.
CHAPTER 7
The afternoon sun burned off the gray morning clouds, and glistening streams of melted snow held the promise of a break in the weather. None of it lightened Christian's mood as he drove his SUV down a deserted side street. His gut twisted over what he might find inside the old abandoned armory.
Would he be opening a Pandora's box of Fiona's creation?
After pulling a paper from his coat pocket, he confirmed the address. A gray cyclone fence, laden with rusted metal signs, declared the red brick armory to be the property of Dunhill Corporation. Set amidst other forsaken hulls of warehouses, the place looked like a disaster. In the fading gray of winter, even under the warming sun, it looked bleak and ominous.
'Why here, Mickey?' he muttered as he brought his vehicle to a stop. 'This place is not exactly your style.'
Christian parked next to the main gate, then walked toward the entrance. He reached for the padlock and metal links dangling from the fence. No need for the set of keys in his slacks pocket. The chain had been severed, leaving the gate open.
And just ahead, a discarded shell of a black Mercedes lay atop cinder blocks, stripped of anything valuable. Neon spray paint marred its once sleek finish. The local criminal element had marked their turf with cryptic taunts, thumbing their nose at law enforcement with bright paint. No attempt made to hide the metal remains. Through the vehicle identification number, the police would have identified it sooner or later. He had no need to check DMV records to know. It had once belonged to Mickey.
Hunching his shoulders against the cold, he shoved his hands deeper into his coat pockets. 'You sure loved that car, Mick.'
Shadowed by the old building, a metal door lay to the right of the elevated delivery bays. The door looked like it would've been Mickey's only option. With a tug, Christian found the entry locked. He tried his keys and gained access.
The sun poured in from the doorway, only dimly lighting the skeletal core of the old munitions factory. The gloom repelled the light as if the shapeless void were a sentient being, cowering from view and hoarding its secrets. Looking overhead, he noticed every window had been blackened, embellishing the sinister nature of the chamber. A faint smell of paint lingered in the air, making him believe the modification had been recent— and very deliberate.
He stepped farther into the darkness, but stopped short. Tiny feet skittered across the floor. With a frenzied screech, a rat darted to his right, shocked by the sudden exposure to daylight. The commotion caused a ripple effect. An army of unseen creatures slithered for more suitable places to hide, puckering the skin at the nape of his neck.
The old building gave him a bad case of the creeps.
The darkness came alive, seizing Christian with panic before he had mentally prepared for it. Despite years of therapy, he succumbed to the sensation, an unavoidable reaction. He kept the door open to reinforce his control over his phobia. If he shut it now, he'd be drawn into it, without footing. As if he were lying in a sensory deprivation tank, or had been set adrift in dead space, he sensed his equilibrium faltering. The oppressive silence weighed heavy, tightening his chest. He felt his breathing grow shallow.
An old, familiar affliction.
One thing was certain. The place could harbor his worst nightmare. No one needed to tell him Mickey had died here. Death loomed heavy in the putrid air. How he knew this, he couldn't quite grasp. Christian no longer questioned his bizarre link to the Grim Reaper. He just knew.
In an instant, he'd been transported back to his childhood terror, the wound made fresh with his early- morning nightmare.
'Deep breath.' He found his center and searched for composure. The old terror was hard to quell. 'Now let it go, slow.' He uttered his reflexive mantra.
To avoid being swallowed by his habitual fear, he shut his eyes. He listened patiently for his heart to slow, until he no longer felt every single beat thrashing in his chest. Yet an odd sensation inched its way hot from his belly to his fingertips. An inexplicable aura warmed him, giving him immeasurable comfort. At first, he couldn't place the peculiar tingle. Soon it had a name.
The delicate scent of her skin bathed in fragrant soap. The tentative touch of her fingers along his stomach.
The luster of her dark hair. Eyes that sucked you in, cradling you in safety.
Unlike his usual recovery method for anxiety, the thought of Raven spread rapidly throughout his body and mind. It filled him with serenity. Unnerving. A part of him would've preferred a merciful rap upside the head with a baseball bat. Another side of him longed for—
'Damn it!' he cursed. 'Quit thinking from below your belt.'
Finally losing the harsh rhythm to his heart, he opened his eyes again, letting Raven dissipate from his thoughts. Getting accustomed to the dark, he found the shapes making sense. Walls of wooden crates, rusted metal foundry equipment, and garbage lay piled in disarray, like his war room at the Dunhill Estate.
At least, that's what he told himself.
Venturing into the shadows to his right, he felt for the lights. His fingers found a panel pulled from the wall, wires exposed. If the damage had been done years ago, he would've expected the wires to be encrusted with dirt or cobwebs. These were free of such texture. Whoever cut the wires hadn't intended Mickey to find the light switch operable near the main entrance.
Closing his eyes again, he let his instincts take over, skills honed over the many years since the violent loss of his childhood.
