Stronger Than Sin (5 page)

“I need to go for a jog,” he said and placed his hands on his hips.

Bruno glared at him over the rim of the coffee cup. Inclining his head, he said, “There’s a treadmill in the gym.”

Jesse dragged a hand through his hair, pulling long strands off his face as he released a frustrated sigh. “You don’t get
it. I’ve been cooped up for too long. I need to go out.”

Without waiting for the other man, he turned and took a step. The sound of metal rasping against nylon alerted him to danger.

“No,
you
don’t get it, Jack,” Bruno warned.

Jesse stopped dead, but the animal within him erupted at the threat.

Whirling, he surged at the man with almost inhuman speed. Before his captor could react, Jesse had grabbed his weapon and
locked his arm around the other man’s neck. His grip was tight as a vise, and one fast snap would end the man’s life.

But he wouldn’t finish the move. Too much was at stake for him to allow his personal needs to override the greater good. With
a forceful shake that lifted the man, upending the chair in which he had been sitting, Jesse explained.

“For starters, the name’s not Jack. Second, I could
squash you like a bug whenever I want, but I won’t because of my sister.”

“She’s dead meat,” Bruno hissed between gritted teeth, and Jesse tightened his hold.

The man flailed his hands futilely, struggling for breath.

Jesse continued. “If you so much as say her name, I’ll put a world of hurt on you.” Reversing his grasp, he tossed the man
to the floor.

His captor kneeled there, his face nearly blue, sucking in air with long rough breaths. When the man had finally regained
some semblance of control, Jesse said, “
We’re
going for a jog. You’ve got five minutes to change. Get it?”

Bruno nodded, rose, and hurried from the kitchen.

Jesse smiled, but he knew there would be hell to pay. Whittaker wouldn’t like him manhandling his team, but Jesse had to know
just how far he could push the bargain he had made. It was only by determining those boundaries that he could formulate a
plan, because although he wanted to help Jackie, troubled thoughts swirled in his head about his situation.

How did Whittaker know about Jackie’s disease, and what if despite his sacrifice it wouldn’t help his sister? Could he even
trust Whittaker not to kill both of them at some point?

Pushing those doubts away, he strolled to the kitchen counter and made himself a cup of coffee. Sweet and light, the rich,
nutty taste was welcome after the bitter brews they had served in captivity.

By the time he had finished the mug, Bruno had returned wearing the kind of nylon jogging suit you saw
on old ladies in Atlantic City and mobsters in Little Italy. Come to think of it, he had that kind of gangster look and sound,
unlike Whittaker’s other team member.

Bruno had tucked his gun into a holster beneath the nylon, and the weapon created a recognizable bulge in the fabric.

Tracking Jesse’s gaze, Bruno said, “No funny stuff or I’ll cap your ass.”

Definitely ex-mob, Jesse thought, grabbing the hat and sunglasses he had brought down and slipping them on to hide his face.
Very few people knew he lived there, but there was no sense taking the risk of being discovered.

He strode through his home and outside to the winding path down to the sidewalk, all the time making sure that his mobster
friend was close behind. Once on the sidewalk, he crossed the street to the boardwalk along the ocean and began jogging at
a leisurely pace, uncertain of the other man’s physical state, although he appeared to be in fairly good shape.

He plodded onward, keeping the pace slow. Recalling other times that he’d run along the boardwalk and streets as part of his
conditioning routine. Today he just did it for the sense of freedom it gave him, but as he pressed onward, nearing Lake Como
and the end of Spring Lake, something else kept him running.

Picking up his pace through Belmar, he finally crossed back and started running westward, the wind pushing at his back as
if to hurry him on. From behind him erupted the rough complaint of his companion.

“Slow down, asshole.”

Slow down, my ass,
he thought, the memory of running these streets calling to him.

How many times had he done it? he wondered. Through elementary school, high school, and breaks home from college. In those
first years before success had changed him.

How many times had he run home? he thought, ignoring the louder shouts of Whittaker’s man as the familiar
toot-toot
of the horn and clang of the signal bells drew him closer.

He was almost at the tracks when a large black Suburban came barreling out of one of the side streets, nearly knocking into
him as it blocked his path.

The driver’s-side door flew open and Whittaker jumped out, his face an emotionless mask.

“We had a deal, Bradford.”

Jesse stopped and bent, dragged in a few long slow breaths before he finally said, “Just going for a run.”

Whittaker glanced over his shoulder at the tracks and the homes beyond. Slowly he faced Jesse once again.

“You make contact, your sister is dead. You breathe a word about our deal, she’s dead. Piss me off again—”

“And she’s dead. I get it,” he said just as his running companion finally caught up and stood panting beside Jesse.

“I’m sorry, boss,” Bruno said, but Whittaker only jerked his head in the direction of the Suburban.

“Get in the car.”

Jesse waited for what else Whittaker would say, but suddenly Whittaker yanked something from behind his back.

A Taser.

A millisecond later, the Taser’s barbs bit sharply into his side a moment before the electricity knocked him to his knees.

His body jerked as Whittaker continued administering the shocks, but Jesse was aware enough to see the other man remove something
else from his jacket pocket—a syringe.

“No,” Jesse said and shook his head, trying to fight off the effects of the Taser in an effort to avoid the injection.

It was a hopeless battle.

Whittaker was on him in a heartbeat, jabbing the hypodermic into Jesse’s arm and slamming home the plunger.

The drugs seared fire through his nervous system, short-circuiting the few nerve endings that had somehow managed to evade
the Taser’s bite.

“No… stop,” Jesse mumbled as dark circles swirled around in his vision and his body jerked to the tune Whittaker played with
the stun gun.

Weakened, he fell to the ground, the early winter sky a crisp blue beyond his fading vision. Hard hands grabbed him and tossed
him into the back of the car like last night’s garbage.

So close,
he thought as he finally released himself to the oblivion of the injection.

L
iliana had spent the better part of the morning at the hospital, trying to fill in the hours until her team had more information
about Bradford’s blood samples and the latest version of the inhibitor complex they were using to stop the gene replication
in Caterina. Afterward, she headed to the laboratory Whittaker had secured for them, which was only a few miles from Bradford’s
Spring Lake home and near the hospital.

As she sat at her desk, she sipped the
café con leche
she had picked up at her parents’ restaurant after a short lunch break and reviewed the reports that Carmen had put together.
Frustration settled in.

Unlike the wild glow in Caterina’s blood caused by the implanted genes, Bradford’s blood was not shining as brightly, and
his genes were not multiplying as quickly. In addition, while the inhibitor complex they were using to control the replication
of Caterina’s genes produced lots of ruptured cells and other by-products, Bradford’s blood did not contain such poisons.

Discouraged, Liliana leaned back in her chair, placed her elbows on the arms, and steepled her hands in front of her as she
mentally reviewed all the data her team had
gathered. So little, but then again, it had been only a day since she had met Bradford up close and personal.

Up close being something her friend Carmen would surely have liked, she thought. Then her friend could have confirmed for
herself whether or not Bradford was as handsome in real life as he had been on the covers of the assorted tabloids that had
tracked his off-field exploits.

As for Liliana, Bradford just wasn’t her type. She didn’t go for those shaggy-haired, stubble-faced surfer dudes, preferring
her men a little more manscaped. But despite those thoughts, the recollection of the intensity in that ocean-blue gaze sped
up her heartbeat.

Okay, so maybe Bradford was attractive, but so was her ex-fiancé, and look where that had gotten her. He had been the epitome
of a
GQ
cover model, but hidden beneath that smooth, elegant exterior was ugliness and brutality.

Violence being a recurring theme in her life, apparently, Liliana thought.

A knock at the door pulled her attention away from her musings.

“Come in,” she called out.

Whittaker walked in and paused in front of her desk. She motioned for him to take a seat, but he remained standing.

“I’d like to know why you have someone following me, Special Agent,” she said.

No surprise registered on Whittaker’s face. With a shrug, he said, “I needed to make sure you weren’t being tracked by anyone
else—like Edwards or Morales.”

She peered at him, trying to determine if he was lying, but could not. Forcing away her continuing doubts, she
asked, “We’ve been hard at work, but I have nothing to report to you, yet.”

“I’m not here for a report. I need your assistance with Bradford. We’ve had an incident.”

She crossed her arms and stared at Whittaker. Since he continued to stand, she was forced to raise her head to meet his much
greater height. She suspected his actions were intended to remind her of who was in charge in this relationship. Not that
she intended to be cowed by him.

“What kind of incident?”

“Bradford attacked one of my men. We had to medicate him to regain control.”

“Medicate? Did you use a sedative?” she asked, carefully watching him for any hint of lying, but there was no telltale sign
that she could see as he responded.

“Traditional means don’t work with Bradford. We used a formula we discovered from an earlier investigation of the Wardwell
labs.”

“A formula? Are you referring to Wardwell’s mind-control serum? The one packed with an assortment of illegal alkaloids—”

“We used what we had to in order to protect our man,” he shot back, and this time she could see a revealing tic along his
jaw. He shoved his hands in his pockets and jiggled some change there, another sure gesture that he was holding back.

“That’s a dangerous formula, Special Agent. And I suppose that Bradford—”

“Is barely under control. We’ve had to restrain him to avoid any further problems, but I’m concerned about his current physical
state. I’d like for you to evaluate him. Do
whatever is necessary to restore his cooperative frame of mind.”

Cooperative being relative, Liliana thought, recalling her earlier encounter with Bradford.

“I’ll come by the house shortly. I just need to finish up some things,” she said and gestured to the papers on her desk.

“I’d prefer if you went now, Dr. Carrera,” he said, not that he was truly asking for her cooperation. The command in his tone
made it clear that she was to do as he asked when he asked.

She arched a brow and raised her head to a defiant degree. “Do you believe Bradford poses a danger in his current condition,
either to himself or others?”

The tic came again, more pronounced than before and twice as fast, to match the increased rhythm of the rattling change. The
answer, when it came, was as quick.

“Yes.”

With a nod, Liliana replied, “Just let me prepare my bag.”

Even though she had been to Bradford’s house already, seeing it still challenged her perception of him. This was a home for
a family, not for a man with Bradford’s party-boy persona.

Pulling into the driveway, she parked her serviceable midsized sedan before the garage doors. Whittaker stopped his large
black SUV beside it a moment later.

Liliana grabbed her medical bag and slipped from her car, joining Whittaker as he waited by the bumper of his vehicle. His
hands were jammed into the pockets of his
black suit, and the sharp ocean breeze flapped the edges of his jacket back and forth.

The wind whipped her hair around and sneaked in beneath the collar of the lightweight parka she wore, chilling her skin.

She walked past Whittaker to the side door and yanked it open. Beyond was a large mudroom, and she hurried into the kitchen
with Whittaker falling into step behind her.

The man from the porch the day before sat at the kitchen table, reading a newspaper. He jumped up as soon as they entered,
a nervous look on his face. He was in shirtsleeves, providing a view of his holster and the very large gun tucked beneath
his arm.

“How come you’re not watching Bradford?” Whittaker asked.

“He’s been quiet for about an hour. I think he fell asleep,” the man answered.

Liliana hoped Bradford was asleep and not unconscious, considering that they had pumped him full of a dangerous mix of sedatives
and hallucinogens.

“Where is he?” she asked.

The man jerked his head in the direction of the door leading toward the back of the home. “In the gym.”

Liliana rushed through the door and down the hall, past an entrance for an oversized trophy room, and to the end of the hall,
where it opened into a state-of-the-art gym. One side of the gym featured an area of free space where the floor was covered
with thick mats. Bradford was lying in the middle of the mats, his legs shackled together. Another series of shackles wrapped
around his hips, securing his arms to his sides.

“Is this your idea of taking care of a witness?” she asked, anger making each word escalate in volume. She was about to dash
to Bradford’s side when Whittaker grabbed her arm.