Cause For Alarm (7 page)

Houston, Texas, January 1999

L
uke Dallas waited in a secluded booth of a dark, smoky bar. Over the drunken posturings of would-be cowboys, Tammy Wynette whined about true love with a untrue man. From the bar's far corner came the distinctive crack of pool balls connecting and the occasional throaty laughter of the big-haired women who circled the table, watching their men play.

Luke's lips lifted. The bar had been his contact's choice, but he rather liked it. It had a certain kind of style. An undeniable “Texas, Every Man,” atmosphere. He could imagine his Alex Lawson at the pool table, pissing the local boys off by taking not only their money but their women as well. And not giving a shit that all hell was about to break loose.

That's what he loved about Alex, the character he had created in
Running Dead,
his first published novel. He had balls. He was arrogant, too smart for his own good and deeply scarred from a nightmare childhood. He was a man's man, but one women could love.

His editor had been so taken with Alex Lawson and his nemesis Trevor Mann, that she'd had him change the ending of
Running Dead
and reprise both men for his next novel. That had been three books, three consecutive runs on the
New York Times
bestseller list and a major motion picture deal ago.

Luke Dallas was publishing's new golden boy. His backlist was being repackaged and rereleased; his agent had scored him a fat new multibook contract and subrights agents were in bidding wars for both his new and old work.

Not bad for a guy who'd been tending bar to keep food in his belly and power flowing to his computer. Not bad at all.

Luke took a swallow of his tepid beer, turning his thoughts to his new novel, its new protagonist—and the reason he was waiting in this out-of-the-way, redneck bar for a man who might or might not show.

His new novel's main character was a former CIA assassin turned vigilante, antihero. Luke had turned to Tom Morris, a contact he'd made at the Agency for some no-bullshit information. Tom Morris was a director of the Operations branch of the CIA, a man impressed by Luke's bestseller status and his Hollywood connections.

At first Tom had denied the existence of government assassins—laughable in the wake of documented accounts of the Agency's attempts to end the lives of political adversaries, including the many, infamous plots against Castro.

The documented cases weren't what interested Luke. No, what interested him was speculation. The things people talked and wrote about that were unacknowledged, undocumented and unadmitted by the Agency. Things even the president had no knowledge of—for his own good, of course. Mentions of The Farm. Of elite killing machines who served a specific, deadly purpose, who kept their country safe and on top through the process of eliminating ones enemies.

Luke was enough of a cynic to believe the speculation.

Finally, Morris had admitted the past existence of government assassins and the now defunct Farm. He'd insisted both had been the product of a now dead political climate—of the cold war and conservative, defense-minded administrations.

Luke thought that was bullshit, but he didn't argue. That was the great thing about fiction, he didn't have to prove something was true, only have the ability to make people believe it was.

Morris had agreed to set Luke up with a former Agency mechanic, code name Condor, though he had made no promises that the man would show. These guys were a special breed—loners, secretive—men who lived by their own code and on the fringes.

Condor.
Luke brought his beer to his mouth once more. A bird of prey. Fearsome, majestic. A hunter.

A creature on the verge of extinction.

This man could provide Luke with a wealth of information—into the psyche of a paid assassin, a man who not only killed for a living, but for his country. A man who was a refugee of the CIA Farm, the elite training ground for government assassins.

In real life this man had been in the same spiritual place as Luke's fictional character. He had committed the same acts, had perhaps thought and felt the same things.

Perhaps. That's what Luke hoped to learn.

Luke checked his watch. Condor was late. Luke acknowledged a moment of anxiety. This meeting was a lucky break. Guys like Condor were near-impossible to find—there were damn few roaming the streets and even fewer willing to talk to a writer. He wanted this meeting to happen in a big way.

“Kate! Over here!”

In an instinctive reaction, Luke swung in the direction of the voice, his thoughts filled with her. His Kate. The woman he had once loved, the woman he had convinced himself loved him. Loved him enough to take a chance on a guy with nothing but his dreams and his belief in himself and his future.

Thoughts of Kate brought ones of Richard as well. Of the friendship which had degenerated into an ugly rivalry for Kate's affections. Of their last encounters, ones that had had nothing of the easiness and laughter they'd once shared, but were heavy with secrets, suspicion and resentments over things like social class and affluence. Things that shouldn't have mattered, that hadn't mattered to them once upon a time.

The better man had won, apparently. The one who could give Kate all her heart desired. The one who could make all her dreams come true. Or so Richard had said to him, that last morning, as Luke had stood in the cold sunshine in front of the student center, waiting to meet Kate. He had planned to tell her once and for all what she meant to him and to ask her to take a chance on him. To believe in him.

Richard had laughed at that.

The better man.
Luke turned back to his beer, rolling the glass between his palms. The one with the money, the family connections and pedigree. The one with all the things Kate had never had. Not the would-be novelist intent on chasing an impossible and childish dream.

Not so impossible, after all. His lips lifted into a grim smile. Not so childish. He wondered what she thought of his success. And of her choice. Did she ever wonder if she had made a mistake?

Obviously not. Four weeks ago he had received an invitation to Kate and Richard's annual New Year's Eve party, along with a chatty, happy-sounding letter from Kate.

Both had affected him like salt ground into an open wound. Even though he could now probably buy and sell Richard Ryan several times over. Even though he had proved to Kate and the rest of the world that his faith in himself and his talent hadn't been self-indulgent foolishness.

He supposed that was what really grated. That they were happy. That maybe she had done the right thing for her. That he had been a lovestruck, naive fool.

As he did every year, he responded to their invitation by making sure his publicist sent the couple his most recent promotional materials, news of his successes, updates on signings, personal appearances and so forth.

It was the only contact he'd had with them in years, and only because he took such perverse pleasure in rubbing their noses in his success. He understood Richard well enough to know that his onetime buddy's phenomenal success drove him crazy. As far as Richard was concerned, there could only ever be one king of the hill—and it had to be Richard Patrick Ryan.

Luke gave himself a shake. Kate and Richard were a part of his past. He was over his anger, his disillusionment. He was. The Ryans and their happiness had lost their power to hurt him.

“Luke Dallas?”

Luke swung back around. A man stood just behind him, hands stuffed into the pockets of his corduroy jacket, gaze intently on Luke's. “That's me.”

“Tom Morris sent me.”

Condor.
Luke motioned to the seat across from him. “I'm glad you could make it.”

The man sat, his gaze still assessing Luke. Luke allowed him his scrutiny, using the time to do his own study. Condor looked nothing like Luke's fictional assassin. He possessed a kind of everyman face, with no visually outstanding features. He resembled a dozen other guys out there, medium brown hair and brown eyes, medium height, square jaw.

A nice face. Pleasant. Innocuous. He could be anybody's neighbor. Brother. Son.

Luke cocked his head. He found something almost disarming about the man. He had a lazy way about him, an easiness that suggested inattention.

That impression ended the moment you looked Condor directly in the eyes. The man was keen. Intelligent. He missed nothing, no detail, no matter how small or seemingly inconsequential. Of that Luke was certain.

“I like your books,” the man said finally. “
Last Dance
kept me on the edge of my seat.”

“Thank you.”

“Let's take a walk.”

Luke paid for his beer and the two men exited the bar. The night was cold; the neighborhood dicey. Luke figured he didn't have to be too concerned about thugs, considering the company he was keeping.

Luke hunched deeper into his bomber jacket. “Are you armed?”

His lips lifted. “Would your character be?”

“Yes.”

“With what?”

“A .22 caliber semiautomatic. Secondhand.”

“There are many ways for a man to be armed.” He looked at Luke, then away. “A gun's not always the best way. Depends on the situation.”

“Or the job.”

“I'm not on the job tonight.”

Luke inclined his head. “Morris told you I wanted to talk? That I wanted to interview you?”

“Your new character's a guy like me.”

“Yes.” They turned onto the block behind the bar.

“Hero or villain?”

“Both. An antihero. This book is the first of a series like the Alex Lawson books.”

“So, I'm not going to get whacked at the end?”

Luke laughed. “Nope. And you might even get the girl.”

Condor smiled. “I like that. What exactly are you hoping to get from our interview?”

“I want to get into your head. Learn what makes you, guys in your profession, tick. I want to understand the way you think, how you view your profession. I want a look, a real look, into something most people know zero about. How you plan a job, what your day-to-day life is like, how you feel when you complete a mission.”

“You want a lot,” Condor murmured, glancing up at the black sky.

“Yeah, I do.” Luke looked at him. “But I'll take whatever you're willing to give. As far as anyone will ever know, everything in my book is a product of my imagination.”

Condor stopped. They'd circled the block and stood just feet from the bar's entrance. “I'll think about it,” he said. “I'll contact you.”

“When?”

“You'll know when I know.”

And then he was gone.

Yosemite National Park, California,
January 1999

J
ohn sat on an outcropping of rock, one hundred feet above the Merced River in Yosemite National Park. He breathed in the cold, crisp mountain air, letting it fill his lungs and rejuvenate his soul.

The beauty of this place called to him. The raw, undeniable power of it, of the river and the sequoias, the towering pines and flat blue sky. They hummed with life. They had been created by a force so much more powerful than anything man could hope to imitate.

John bent and scooped up a handful of rocks. They warmed in his hand, their smooth, hard surfaces a subtle symphony of color. Mankind preferred to destroy. Oh, the human animal made great noises about the things he created, but the fact was, human history had been built on war, on destruction and killing. Those were the things man had perfected over the course of civilization.

Nuclear power? He shook his head. What a joke. There was more power in these rocks than in the country's entire arsenal of weapons. When mankind succeeded in blowing himself into oblivion, the wilderness would still be here. In some form, it would live on.

John brought his binoculars to his eyes, training them on the lone figure fly-fishing at the river's edge. He watched as the man backhauled and fronthauled, watched as the fishing line floated and danced on the air, then spun far out into the river, the movement sheer poetry.

John smiled to himself. Clark Russell. Former comrade-in-arms. He had proved a hard man to get alone. But Russell, like all men, had a weakness. A place where he forgot safety to feed his desires. For some it was women, others drink or gambling. For Russell, it was fly-fishing.

John had never understood some men's fascination with fishing. What satisfaction was there to be had from hooking creatures by their mouths and pulling them from the water? He understood the enjoyment of quiet and solitude, of the communion with nature, even the satisfaction one might get from the repetitive motion of casting. But the other seemed unnecessarily cruel to him. Barbaric and pointless. He understand sport hunting no better.

He was a hunter, true. But of humans. This made sense. It completed the circle, kept order in the universe. Animals lived by instinct, not intent. They killed in order to survive. But humans destroyed for fun. They killed for pleasure. Or progress. Or out of arrogance.

Of all the living creatures on earth, only humans possessed an unending capacity for evil, for inflicting physical and spiritual pain. Theologians called that capacity sin; John called it a darkness of the soul.

The wind eased through the sequoias and lodgepole pines; they swayed, their trunks groaning. John closed his eyes, taking in the sounds, the music they created. He believed in the soul, though not in the afterlife. He believed in the power of creation, though not in God, in the presence of evil, though not in the devil.

He reopened his eyes. Clark had caught a fish. It struggled desperately against its captor, arcing out of the water, the sun catching on its silvery scales, creating a small but brilliant flash of light.

Perfect and brilliant light. Like his Julianna's.

John fisted his fingers. Julianna's soul had held no darkness. She had been clean and without sin, emanating a true white light. With his mind's eyes, he saw her as he had that first time. Standing beside her mother, gaze cast downward, her long curls pulled away from her face with barrettes shaped like teddy bears, the same bears embroidered on the smocking of her jumper. Then she had lifted her gaze and smiled at him, purity and innocence radiating from her like the sun.

Her purity had called to him. Her innocence had fed his soul. Both had touched a place deep inside him, one that had all but shriveled and died. One that had stopped responding to all but the majesty of nature.

She had been an angel sent to earth and to him.

He had loved her, and only her, from that first moment.

He had tried to protect her from the corrosive influence of others, from the ugliness of a world gone mad, an ugliness that would spoil her as surely as the worm spoils the fruit.

So she would know what he never had, he had cherished her, had nurtured her bright inner flame.

Once upon a time, he, too, had had the special light. But his had not been nurtured. It had been smothered, the darkness cultivated. He hadn't wanted that for his Julianna.

But her
mother
had seen fit to darken that soul. She had seen fit to frighten Julianna away, to introduce her to things she had been unaware of. Rage burgeoned inside him, icy cold and awesome.

Her mother and Clark Russell. Destroyers.

John lifted the binoculars once more. He scanned the river's edge in both directions, then the rocks and forest above, making certain he and Clark were alone.

It wasn't too late for Julianna. He knew it wasn't. He had to find her.

But first, Clark Russell would pay for his crime.

John stood and started down to the river. He picked his way effortlessly and nearly soundlessly over the rocks and through the dense underbrush. His breathing elevated, but only slightly; the oxygen fed and readied him, as did the adrenaline coursing through his bloodstream.

Killing wasn't personal. It shouldn't be. Get in, do the job as quickly, as impersonally as possible, and slip away. That was the way he had been trained; his ability to do just that had made him one of the Agency's most efficient specialists; it had earned him the code name Ice.

But this was different. John narrowed his eyes, closing the distance between himself and the other man, hatred burning in the pit of his gut. Clark had crossed the line; he had made this personal. A gunshot to the back of the head wasn't good enough; neither was the garrote or the blade.

No, John wanted him to know what was happening, who was killing him. And why. He wanted to look into Clark's eyes as the life faded from them.

The rush of the water masked the last of his approach. John disabled Clark with a sharp, edge-of-the-hand chop to the back of his neck. A bird screamed overhead. The man dropped to his knees, then onto his side. John delivered another blow, this one with his heel to the solar plexus, followed by one to his kidneys. Sprawled flat on his back, Clark looked up at him, conscious but completely immobilized.

“Hello, Clark.” John smiled at the fear that crept into the man's eyes. The fear of death, the certainty of it. “You crossed the line. You put your nose in my business. That made it personal. Now you have to pay.”

He brought his heel down again, but this time in a crushing blow to the man's larynx, finishing the job. It took little more than a nudge with the toe of his boot to tumble Clark's remains into the water.

John watched the body bobble on the water as it was swept downriver.