Angel on Fire (2 page)

Mac disengaged the alarm on the door and opened it.  He poked his head outside checking for danger.  Just as he nudged Griffin outside into the alley, Mac heard someone yell, “There he is!”  Risking a glance over his shoulder, he saw two guards running down the hallway, weapons out.  Mac yelled for Griffin to run and tore down the alley after him.   

“Keep moving,” Mac ordered as they joined the throng of pedestrians on the main street.  As they threaded their way through the crowd, the hairs on the back of Mac’s neck stood up.  He hadn’t felt this kind of adrenaline since his last mission almost twenty years ago.  He glanced over his shoulder and caught sight of a guard chasing them.  He spied at least two other men working their way toward him and Griffin from other directions and quickened his pace.  He pulled Griffin along with him down the sidewalk, looking for a place to hide.

Their window of opportunity to escape was closing fast when Mac caught sight of a large group of tourists descending the stairs to the subway.  His instincts hummed as he made his way to the center of the group with Griffin in tow.  For once in the poker game of life, Mac was dealt two aces in the hole when the tour guide herded the group onto a departing train.  Mac’s eyes narrowed and a menacing smile spread across his face.  First, he needed to hide Griffin.  Then he planned to have a very intense discussion with the men who had betrayed him:  A discussion that involved his fists and feet.

Two hours and two phone calls later, Mac exited the bus station alone.  The first step of his plan was already in motion.  He joined the line for a cab without looking back, confident that Griffin would follow his instructions.  Mac’s lips curved into a small smile. 
Tick, tock.
  Let the shit hit the fan. 

Thunder boomed and lightning flashed, echoing Angela McKenzie’s dark mood.  She fought the urge to cry as she stared at the mahogany coffin protecting her father’s body from the raging storm.  The wind sliced through the treeless cemetery, bringing the salty tang of the ocean with it.  Rain pelted Angela, drenching her clothes and chilling her. 

“Angela?”  A large hand intended to comfort settled on her shoulder.  Raising her head, she met the warm, brown eyes of her father’s close friend and partner, Derrick Blakely. 

“I’m alright, Derrick,” she lied but her trembling voice betrayed her. 

“No, you’re not, but you will be.  You’ve always been strong.  That strength will help you make it through this.”  He paused as his wife, Jenny, joined them.

“If you need anything, Angela,” Jenny offered with an affectionate smile, “just call us.”

Angela nodded, her eyes returning to the hole in front of her.  “Angela?”  Derrick’s voice cut through the haze that surrounded her.  “Can I give you a ride back to the house?”

She swallowed the sob that threatened to escape.  “No.  Go ahead.”  She gnawed on her lower lip before promising, “I’ll stop by later.  I just need….”  Her voice trailed off. 
My dad.
 
  

As Derrick and Jenny stepped away, old Mrs. Richards, Angela’s fourth grade teacher, smiled and patted Angela’s arm as she passed, encouraging the others to hurry along as well.  Alone for the first time in hours, Angela stared at her father’s grave at length before allowing the tears fall. 

Daddy!  Daddy, what am I going to do without you?  How could you leave me? 
Angela collapsed on her knees in the mud, her cries muted by the storm.  

An hour later, Angela stepped into her childhood home in Manchester-by-the-Sea, Massachusetts.  The modest, two-bedroom home had always been her sanctuary.  Now, as she crossed the threshold, she felt grief, sadness and loss.  An unfamiliar fragrance tickled her nose and she paused, looking around the kitchen.  She shrugged the smell off as she dripped on the hardwood floor.

She flipped on the lights, kicked off her heels and started stripping.  Her arm was tangled in her blouse when she heard a floorboard creak overhead.  She ripped the material from her body and reached for her gun but came up empty-handed.  Of course, she hadn’t worn a weapon to her father’s funeral.    

Thunder cracked and the kitchen lights flickered.  She pushed the swinging kitchen door open a bit.  Her eyes widened when she noticed a small trail of water from the front door to the bottom of the staircase.  She carefully released the door, letting it fall into place before she crept to the phone in her stocking feet.  As she dialed 911, she scanned the kitchen for a weapon.  She snatched a meat cleaver from the block on the counter before lifting the phone from the cradle.  She raised the cordless phone to her ear and pressed talk but nothing happened.  She hit the talk button again but heard silence instead of the dial tone she expected. 

The lights flickered off and Angela heard a crash, followed by footsteps on the stairs.  She raised the knife.  The kitchen door swung open.  Lightning flashed, illuminating the intruder.  She caught a quick glimpse of a dark ski mask and black clothing.  The intruder stopped, appearing surprised to see her.  Then he rushed toward her.  Angela screamed and brought the knife down.  He shoved her against the counter and her head hit the edge just as she brought the cleaver down.

She woke in the dark.  Blood trickled down her neck.  She reached out, feeling around to gauge where she had landed.  She pushed herself upright just as the kitchen lights blinked back on.  She grabbed the bloody knife and glanced around the room.  The kitchen door stood wide open and water stained the hardwood floor.  Her own breathing sounded loud in the silent room. 

Within minutes, her training kicked in and she reached for the phone, which worked now that power had returned, dialed 911, and reported the break-in.  Then, with the knife in hand, she crept down the hallway and into the office to retrieve the gun she had locked in her father’s safe.  She suspected the intruder was long gone but wasn’t willing to take the chance. 

Twenty minutes later, she sat in one of the straight back kitchen chairs while a paramedic poked and prodded her head wound.  Sheriff Bates hitched his pants up and Angela almost smiled.  The potbellied man had spent the past five years trying to control his weight but it continued to fluctuate up and down like the stock market. 

“Now, Angela, tell me what happened again.” 

If she hadn’t been so fond of the sheriff, Angela would have rolled her eyes.  She knew the drill but had already related her story twice.  “I came home and heard someone in the house.  I tried to call 911, but the power went out.  I grabbed the meat cleaver out of the knife block.  The intruder came through the swinging door.  He stopped at first but then ran toward me.  He shoved me into the counter, I think.  I remember swinging the knife so I assume the blood on it is his but can’t say for sure.  I must have passed out.  When I came to, I called 911.”

The sheriff nodded.  “Okay.  I don’t see anything obvious missing from the house.  All the televisions and computer are there.  Maybe you interrupted a robbery.” 

“But nothing’s missing.  I looked.”

“Well, I’m thinking the intruder didn’t have time to take anything.  He probably saw the obituary and thought the house would be empty for hours.  You spooked him when you came home and he ran off.  I’m guessing he expected you to come to the reception, like you were supposed to.  The last thing you need, Angie, is to sit alone in this house. ”

Angela bristled.  She didn’t need to be chastised like a child for her choice to come home and grieve alone. 

“Angela!”  Derrick rushed into the kitchen.  “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.”  Despite feeling angry, hurt and tired, she cracked a small smile.  Derrick’s normally perfectly coiffed hair was standing on end.  If she hadn’t known that he was at the reception, she would have assumed he had been engaged in monkey business when he found out about the break in. 

“Can she go?” Derrick looked back and forth between the paramedic and the sheriff.

“I’m done.”  The paramedic pushed back from the table and gathered his supplies.  “If you get dizzy or nauseous, you’ll want to see a doctor.  You don’t show any signs of a concussion but better safe than sorry.”  

“
She staying
with you or me?”  Sheriff Bates turned to Derrick. 

“No,” Angela stood and faced the two men.  “I’m staying right here in my own home.”

“You can’t,” they objected in unison.

Angela’s eyes narrowed.  “Oh, yes, I can.  I’m a grown woman with a loaded gun that I know how to use.  I’m perfectly capable of protecting myself.”

“But,” Derrick started and Angela raised her hand in the universal stop gesture. 

“Go home. 
Both of you.
  As Sheriff Bates said, I interrupted a robbery because no one expected me to be home.  I’ll be fine now.” 

Both men protested but Angela refused to budge.  Once she promised to call if she needed anything, including company, they left with a final warning to lock the front door.  With a sigh, Angela curled up on the couch in the living room, her gun within easy reach, and closed her eyes.  Grief and the draining adrenaline took its toll on her and she drifted to sleep with the lights blazing. 

A ringing sound roused her and she groaned.  Her arm flailed out and knocked her cell phone on the floor.  She rolled over and grasped for the still ringing object without opening her eyes.  “Hello?” she mumbled. 

“Angela?” 

“Michael?  Is something wrong?”  She stretched and sat up.  It was much too early to match wits with her boss, FBI Assistant Special Agent-in-Charge, Michael Stevens. 

“Umm, hi.
  How are you?” he asked.

Angela wrinkled her nose.  Michael wasn’t the type of boss who would bother to check on a grieving employee.  “As well as I can be.”  She swallowed to clear the lump in her throat.  “I’ll be back in the office on Monday.  I know things are heating up on the Marvin case.”

“Umm, well, actually, that’s why I’m calling.  I’m giving you some extra time off.”

“What?”

“The Bureau has decided to give you two more weeks off. Don’t worry, you’ll be paid,” he rushed to explain. 

“Well, I appreciate the offer, but I’ll be back on Monday.”  She paused.  “There’s really nothing else I can do here, and I’d rather be busy at this point.”

“It’s not up to you, Angela,” Michael advised.  “You have been placed on a mandatory two-week leave, effective immediately.” 

A firm click sounded in her ear before she could respond, and she stared at the phone wondering why the FBI would suddenly insist she take additional leave.
 
Bits and pieces of the conversation replayed in her mind as Angela leaned back against the soft leather and closed her eyes.  Unable to make sense of Michael’s actions, she opened her phone again.

“Cassidy Santos,” a lilting voice announced once the call connected. 

“Hey, Cass.”
  Angela pictured her friend’s short black curls bouncing energetically and her brown eyes sparkling with mischief.

“Oh my God, are you okay?  Where the hell are you, and what’s going on?”  Cass’s questions tumbled out at the speed of light.

“I was kind of hoping you could tell me,” Angela interrupted before her friend could continue.  Cass had a tendency to keep rambling until someone stopped her.