Perfect Assassin (14 page)

“You know why.”

She turned and looked at him. “I wish I could remember, but I—”

“The game’s over.”

She shook her head.

“I’m afraid so, honey. The truth is, I don’t want you to be the person you are, but I can’t change that, any more than you can.”

Her towel had slipped open, and she saw him glance down at her bare breasts. Then suddenly he leaned forward, as if he was going to kiss her. He didn’t. Instead, he whispered, “He taught you well. You fooled me…almost.”

“He?”

“Holic must be very proud of you. His daughter has turned out just like him.” The minute the words were out, he climbed off her.

She started to sit up, to rescue the towel, but he reached out and grabbed her arm and propelled her off the bed.

“Get dressed.”

She was a good little actress, Jacy thought. A good little liar, too. But not good enough.

He rejected the innocent look she gave him, and concentrated on all the lies as he watched her grab the towel off the bed and wrap it around herself.

“I have a question for you.”

“Don’t bother asking. You’ll get nothing from me.”

“Tell me, what makes a young woman hate so much that she can pull the trigger on a man she doesn’t know? Why would she want to? A better question is, what would make her do it? What did daddy say to you to make you want to do his dirty work?”

“I guess I’m just a heartless bitch.”

No, as much as Jacy wanted to believe that, he didn’t. He’d seen another side to her, and as many lies as she’d told, he still couldn’t convict her. Not yet. There was something else going on, something he was missing.

And why did she have his shirt in her bag?

“I said, get dressed.”

She picked up her pants and a sweater and started toward the bathroom.

“Right here.”

“Check the bathroom. There’s nothing in there.”

“Right here.”

She swore at him, then dropped the towel and pulled on her pants without underwear. Then the sweater.

He watched every move she made, remembering everything from two nights ago. How she’d reacted to him touching her. How she’d fallen asleep in his arms, her fingers splayed across his chest.

She turned around and looked at him. Glared.

She was wearing soft brown corduroy pants and a brown sweater. The style wasn’t from around here, and he realized that was another mistake he’d made—her clothes were European in style.

He decided that in the beginning he was simply looking at the entire package and feeling what any man would feel when faced with a sexy young woman in need of help. A woman who had settled into his home as if she belonged there.

But she didn’t belong there, he reminded himself. She’d come to kill him, it was the only explanation for why Prisca Reznik had traveled to Montana.

She’d played the amnesia card to get close to him and he’d bought it. But then, why hadn’t she finished what she’d come to do?

He reached for his coat and pulled out a pair of handcuffs from the pocket. Looking at her, he said, “Come here.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to keep you from getting into any more trouble.”

He cuffed her hands in front of her after he made her put on her coat. He packed her bag, slung it over his shoulder, then opened the door.

Prisca walked out into the crisp morning air, having no other choice. She glanced around, looking for a way to escape, but even if she could outrun him, the handcuffs were a problem.

Somehow he’d learned who she was, and that had to have happened yesterday when he’d gone to see Billy Mason Crow Feather. What had Billy told him? What had they found at the crash site?

There was only one incriminating piece of evidence that she’d been carrying with her. That had been her father’s gun. Had the gun been tossed from the plane with her other bag?

If it had, it would have been buried under the snow—it had been snowing for weeks in the mountains. No, the gun was lost. Gone.

But then what had flagged his suspicions? Certainly not her leaving. Maybe the multiple identifications and the money, but she felt almost certain that he knew who she was before he’d entered the motel room. She had never seen any guns in his house. Never seen him carry one.

He helped her into his pickup and then climbed in and started the engine. He glanced her way and said, “So, Prisca, why don’t you start at the beginning and tell me how you got into the business. Did you always want to follow in daddy’s footsteps?”

“Go to hell.”

“Where’s the kill-file?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’ve got your calling card. Billy recovered your camera bag.”

He didn’t need to say more. He had her gun. Somehow it had been recovered on the mountain.

She stared out the window. “Where are we going?”

“Home.”

She turned and looked at him. “Home? And then what?”

“That depends on you.”

She had no idea what he meant by that. No doubt he would turn her over to his agency. Or maybe they would just lock her up and throw away the key as they had done to her father.

There was still a chance that she could escape. A slim chance, but if she saw an opportunity she would take it. All she needed was for Jacy Madox to make a mistake. Just one.

She glanced down at his handcuffs locked around her wrists. “How long am I going to wear these?”

“Like I said. That depends on you. Feel like talking yet?”

She hadn’t felt like talking, and the rest of the trip
home
was filled with silent tension. When they reached the cabin, he got out and came around to open her door. A blast of cold air entered the cab, reminding Pris that her own means of escape—the Bronco—was still parked at the motel.

He half lifted her out and propelled her toward the steps, never letting go of her. When he opened the door to the cabin, Matwau greeted them. He wagged his tail and nuzzled her leg, and that only made things more difficult. She had spent weeks getting to know the half-breed wolf, and now she bent down and spoke to him softly, stroked his head with both of her hands, still cuffed together. She heard the door slam shut behind her, then Jacy walked past her. He removed his coat and hat and hooked them on the coat tree.

Pris watched out of the corner of her eye. She had seen him put his pickup keys in his coat pocket, and made a mental note of it. He walked into the kitchen. The perfect place for him, she thought. If only her hands were free she would get the keys and dart back outside.

But she wasn’t free. Not yet.

She looked toward the fire; glowing coals flickered behind the glass. An odd feeling came over her just then, as if she
had
come home. She pushed the crazy thought aside. Home was Austria. She might never see her homeland again—unless she escaped.

She thought of the small mountain cabin where she’d lived most of her life—she would always remember the happy times there. Where life was simple and she had laughed with her mother.

She stood slowly. “Can you remove the handcuffs now?”

No answer.

She stepped into the kitchen thinking he hadn’t heard her. Held out her hands. “Get them off, they’re rubbing my wrists raw.”

He turned from the stove. “Sit down.”

She thought about refusing, but she didn’t. Maybe he would retrieve the key now.

She sat, but he never reached into his pocket for the handcuff keys. Instead he began to make lunch. She waited a half hour while he heated soup out of a can and made grilled cheese sandwiches.

To eat she would need the irons removed. At some point he would remove them, she thought, unless he planned to feed her. Or maybe his plan was to starve her into a confession while he ate.

He poured coffee for himself and tea for her. Then he brought it to the table with two bowls of soup and the sandwiches. Before he sat, he dug into his front jeans pocket for the key, unlocked the cuffs and laid them on the table with the key. Then he sat and began to eat.

He was trying to intimidate her. To let her know that she was his prisoner. She understood that, but what he didn’t understand was that she had learned the art of patience. She had learned it on the rifle range in Austria as early as age ten. She knew how to sit tight and wait. Perfect timing was everything. Self-control could make a shot or steal it from you. Self-control was what she needed now. Patience.

She picked up her sandwich and took a bite. It tasted good, and she was past hungry. She sipped the tea, and used her napkin.

She caught him looking at her from time to time, his dark eyes studying her. She didn’t smile, didn’t speak, just ate what he had put in front of her.

Finally when he was finished, he shoved his chair away from the table and leaned back. He crossed his arms over his chest and directed all of his attention on her.

He said, “Your father is going to rot in prison. Holic will never be free again. He’s locked up and that’s where he’s going to die. Justice for a cold-blooded killer.”

She didn’t know what she expected him to say, but certainly not that. Rage overtook her and she picked up the cup of tea and threw it at him. He didn’t move until it was almost too late, but when he did it was quick, and, still seated, he swatted the cup away as if he had expected the reaction. The cup flew across the room and shattered on the floor.

“One thing you need to know about me, honey, is that I never give up. Not if it’s something important.”

“So important that you killed two innocent people on Glass Mountain? You stole my mother’s life, and mine went with it.”

“I didn’t kill anyone on Glass Mountain. You’ve been misinformed.”

“You were the controller. Without you, Bjorn Odell would never have been successful, and my mother wouldn’t have died.”

“I don’t kill innocent people. That’s Holic’s MO, not mine. And yours if you continue to play your father’s game.”

“You’re the one who kills. You, and the agency you work for.”

“I don’t deny there are casualties in this line of work. But I don’t kill for blood money.”

“So my mother was an unfortunate casualty?”

“She wasn’t a casualty. You were told what your father wanted you to believe. Your father—”

“My father is a government assassin. He targets criminals and terrorists. He’s a specialist. The people you work for support anarchy and corruption. My mother’s blood is on your hands as well as Bjorn Odell’s.”

“Your father is lying. He’s using you. He’s twisted the truth to gain your loyalty.”

“He didn’t need to twist the truth to gain my loyalty. I love my father.”

“And I’m sure he was more than happy to use that to convince you to stand beside him. But it’s Holic who promotes anarchy, not the Onyxx Agency. Holic is nothing more than a hired assassin. A paid killer.”

Again her anger took over and Pris spat at him across the table. “No one insults my father and lives.”

“Why didn’t you kill me weeks ago if you feel so strongly? If you came here to kill me, why am I still alive? You could have used a kitchen knife on me at any time.”

“I had no reason to kill a man named Moon. You and your grandmother rescued me from an airplane crash. Until yesterday I had no idea that Moon was Jacy Madox.”

“And how did you learn that?”

“Your brother. He was good enough to help me. He came and picked me up when I called him. He insisted on stopping at the post office to pick up the mail. You received two letters. When I saw the name—”

Pris stopped herself. She wasn’t going to get emotional. She still felt sick. Seeing the name of her enemy on her lover’s mail had devastated her.

She stood, and when she did, he came to his feet as well.

“You’re wrong about everything,” he said. “Your father has tricked you into doing his dirty work. You’ve been used, Prisca, and I can prove it.”

“My father would never do something that cruel. He loves me.”

“Your father has killed hundreds of people. He’s been on the NSA’s most-wanted list for years. He’s not the man you think he is.”

“My father is a government agent. He—”

“Your father works for anyone who will pay his price.”

“You’re the one who’s lying.”

“I don’t lie. And I don’t believe you’re a killer. I don’t think Holic’s tainted blood runs through your veins as much as you think it does.”

“I am my father’s daughter. It’s true, because right now, what I want most is to kill you.”

Jacy locked Prisca in her room. She was a resourceful little thing and he wasn’t about to lose her again. He considered putting the cuffs back on her, but instead, he had left her in the room with a warning that if she tried to escape he would put them back on her and chain her to the bed.

In his office he pulled his phone from his pocket and saw that he’d missed a call, it was from Pierce. He dialed his friend, and when Pierce answered, he said, “Prisca Reznik’s mother is alive, right?”

“What?”

“Mady Reznik didn’t die after Holic shot her, right? That’s what I’ve got in the file. But I need to make sure she’s still alive.”

“She’s alive. We didn’t tell Holic, but she survived. She was wearing a safety vest on the mountain. Holic was taken from the cabin before she was. Why?”

“Because Prisca Reznik thinks her mother’s dead, and that we’re responsible.”

“You found her?”

“She’s back with me, and—”

“I’ve got Otto Breit. I’m just now en route back to D.C.”

“Has he said much?”

“No. He’s not talking yet. But when I get him back, I’ll go at him. This is starting to shape up. Merrick will be glad to hear it. How soon can you make arrangements to fly her here?”

“I’m not flying anywhere yet. She’s been used, Pierce. She thinks Holic works for a legitimate agency, and that the kill-file she’s been working from was government-sanctioned.”

“And you believe her?”

“She’s nineteen years old. She thinks her mother’s dead, and that it’s our fault. If you were in her shoes, what would you have done?”

“I sympathize, but—”

“But the agency isn’t going to care.”

“So what do you propose?”

Jacy swore into the phone. “She’s been living in my house for five weeks. I’ve seen another side of her. She’s not a killer, Pierce. I can’t hand her over to Merrick without some kind of guarantee.”