Flock of Wolves Read online

  "Thank you," she said, acknowledging my compliment but keeping her attention on her husband. "Mustafa is so good to me," her lips parted in a small, private smile just for him. "He let me design it myself."

  "That's wonderful," I said, my voice almost drowned out by a sudden rumble of thunder. "It must be wonderful to have a husband you love so much."

  Mustafa's dark eyes turned to me. They were questioning and sharp. Did I know something he didn't? No way, buddy. In fact, there's a storm cloud dancing over your head in my vision.

  The maid returned with another platter, this one with asparagus and wild rice.

  "Magda makes the most delicious salmon," Angie said.

  "Has she been your cook long?" Robert asked.

  Angie began to serve the asparagus. "Just this season. I found her in Paris. You won't believe what we have to pay her to keep her here." She laughed, the sound like crystal glasses clinking.

  "Anything for my love," Mustafa said, his voice a deep rumble as his eyes latched onto his wife.

  He loved her. But he didn't trust her. It must be almost impossible to trust a woman as beautiful as Angie if you were a man as rich as Mustafa.

  None of us had touched our food but as Angie piled the last spoonful of wild rice onto her own plate she gestured to Robert. "Please, eat."

  Robert smiled. "Ladies first, of course."

  Angie shook her head, smiling, and began to eat her salmon. Mustafa followed suit and my mouth watered at the delectable meal in front of me but I wasn't about to feed it to myself or Blue without making sure those two didn't drop dead first.

  Robert went to put down his glass of wine and spilled it over his plate. Jumping up with a cry, he knocked my plate off the table. "Shit, sorry," Robert said.

  Blue sniffed the salmon that landed by my boot, but didn't eat it.

  Was it poisonous? Or was he just anti-lemon?

  "We'll get Magda to get you another plate," Angie said, reaching for a bell next to her glass.

  "Thank you," Robert said. "Oh, but look, Sydney, I've spilled all over your pants."

  I looked down at the black canvas pants and saw a few spots of wine.

  "Oh, I can give you something to wear," Angie said immediately, her eyes widening. She wanted to dress me up like a doll.

  Or get me alone to try and kill me?

  "I think it's probably—"

  Robert cut me off. "That's so kind of you, Angie, thank you. Sydney..." He raised his eyebrows, turning to me.

  Perhaps he wanted alone time with Mustafa. I was still hungry, though. Dammit.

  Maybe I could bribe Magda into giving me some food that wasn't poisoned before we got out of here.

  I'd had a bowl of lentil soup at the hospital, but it was fully digested by now, and I was starving—having food placed in front of me and then rudely taken away by an on-purpose-accidental wine spill and the possibility of death sucked.

  Angie was already up from the table and headed toward the hall. She beckoned to me. Blue came out from under the table as I stood. When I reached her, Angie linked her arm through mine, and her elbow brushed the gun under my jacket. Her eyes flickered for a moment, but she didn't say anything.

  She must have known I was armed. Dressed the way I was, traveling with Robert Maxim, here for a helicopter pick-up. She wasn't stupid.

  She might be armed, too. I wouldn't be surprised if there was a knife in her garter, even a small pistol. I kind of wanted to see it.

  However, I didn't want to borrow her clothing. My canvas pants, T-shirt and jacket were the perfect thing to be wearing right now. But if she was going to dress me up, Robert must have his reasons for it.

  As she escorted me through the house, a storm cloud followed us, and I felt that lure, the magnetism of Her pulling at me. Hopefully we'd get to the prophet before she got back into me.

  Robert

  Angie and Sydney left, their arms linked. An odd pair—one all dark sexuality, the other fair and pure grit.

  "You have strange taste in women," Mustafa said before shoveling a bite of salmon into his mouth.

  "Eclectic," I corrected him, filling my wine glass with water. He snorted. "I appreciate you allowing me use of your lawn." I gestured to the windows behind him.

  Mustafa sat back, keeping his fork in his fist. "You know the only reason I do so is for Angie. She is my life."

  I nodded and sipped the water.

  Mustafa wanted me dead. I'd guessed it before we arrived, but when Angie greeted me with a kiss, I saw the intent on his face.

  One of us would die today.

  It wouldn't be me.

  "You're the one who stole my wife so…" I shrugged.

  Mustafa frowned deeply. "She's my wife."

  "Yes, I know that, Mustafa. But she was mine when you met her."

  I'd brought Angie with me on a business trip—Mustafa sold weapons, and we'd worked together for over a decade when I introduced the two. I'd guessed that he'd fall for her, most men did. And I needed to get rid of her. She was on the verge of leaving me; just needed a soft landing.

  I'd hoped it would give Mustafa a sense of guilt, that he'd feel indebted to me. When you steal a man's wife you do owe him something…Mustafa didn't agree.

  Angie suffered terrible guilt about leaving me. Or so she claimed. But she left me because I was a cold, hard, and unforgiving husband who wanted to control everything about her. Angie ran to Mustafa because he gave her everything she wanted. Of course, he still controlled her. Men like us always held the power…but I'd never let Angie stick me in a chateau. All the curlicues and flourishes, all the rounded edges. I preferred cold, hard glass and polished metal.

  An image of Angie strapped to a table, at my mercy, rose into my mind. What a wonderful honeymoon…

  "I don't expect you'll be showing up at my doorstep again," Mustafa said raising his brows, the hint of a threat in his dark eyes.

  "Trust me; I'm not here for Angie."

  Mustafa smirked. "I suppose that thing you're with, she's your new woman?"

  "She's not my woman. She's my business partner." I twirled the goblet on the tablecloth—Egyptian silk and handwoven lace—Angie always had expensive taste.

  "She's pretty, in a dangerous kind of way. You always did like a little danger with your women, didn't you?"

  My eyes returned to Mustafa. He sat back, his arms crossed over his belly, smiling at me. As if Angie had told him secrets. As if he knew more about me than I thought he did.

  He was wrong.

  Nobody knew me. Nobody had secrets on me. I was in debt to nobody.

  "Well, she's made you a beautiful home, anyway." I checked my watch.

  Deacon should be here in the next twenty minutes. I'd texted him from the road. Mustafa would make his move soon. The sooner the better.

  I scanned the room—there was a closet. He'd probably fit in it.

  "You'll give me a tour, won't you?" I pushed back my chair. "I'd love to see the kitchen. You know how I enjoy cooking," I said, standing.

  Mustafa stayed seated, his eyes narrowed.

  "You think I'd poison your food?" His voice came out gruff, angry, his cheeks flushed.

  "Don't sound so insulted, Mustafa."

  "You think I'd have Angie watch you die right at her table?" He gestured toward the plate that Angie had abandoned. "You show up here, unannounced, and refuse to eat my food because you think it's poisoned?" His voice rose. I kept my knees bent and fingers loose—ready for whatever happened. "You expect me to accept this?" Sweat beaded on his forehead, and his nostrils flared like a bull about to charge.

  A small smile pulled at my lips, but I held them in line. His jealousy offered me an advantage. "What are you going to do about it?"

  He stood, a pistol appearing in his hand. Too loud. He couldn't use it. Not if he didn't want Angie seeing my body, as he claimed. I believed that. He did love her.

  I pulled my knife, and he grinned. "Bringing a knife to gun fight—isn't that some kind of A
merican saying?" I let a smile slip across my lips but didn't answer. I couldn't use the knife, as much as he couldn't use his gun. The only way to kill Mustafa was to strangle him. If I spilled blood all over the dining room, Angie, or another member of his household, would notice immediately and Sydney and I needed time to get away.

  Mustafa gestured with his weapon—a matte black piece with a snub nose. It looked like something of his own design. "Walk," he said, indicating I should move toward the kitchen, in the opposite direction that Angie and Sydney had taken.

  I slowly moved around the table, his pistol following me. At the end, closest to the kitchen doors, I paused. Waiting for him to come closer. "Keep walking," he said, gesturing with his chin.

  The table was still between us. I needed to make him come at me. Give me an opening.

  "Angie calls me sometimes, you know?" His color heightened at my taunting words. "And tells me about how she misses me. How she misses what we had."

  "Liar."

  "You can't satisfy her the way I did." His finger tightened on the trigger. I was balancing on a tight rope—lean too far to one side, and he'd shoot me right here, Angie's feelings be damned. But if I let him lead me deeper into the house—create more distance from Angie—then he'd shoot me there. I had to get him to physically attack me right here. I had to walk the line.

  "Do you tie her up the way I did?" I licked my lips, adrenaline seeping into my system. His muscles twitched just before he charged. Mustafa came at me fast for a man of his build. Glasses fell, clinking against silverware as he brushed the table. His shoulder rammed into my chest, driving me across the room. We fell against the wall with a thud that shook the chandelier, making it jangle.

  He stepped back and threw a hook, his fist powering into my side. The breath whooshed out of me, and I dropped my knife, twisting my body and bringing my hand down in a chopping motion onto his wrist. The gun clattered to the floor.

  Then it was just two bodies—two men—fighting for their lives. We grappled, entwined in each other, almost like lovers.

  His jealousy fueled him, and he kept me against the wall. I blocked him, keeping my arms close to my side, fists up by my face as he pummeled me, landing punishing blows against my forearms and biceps. The great Muhammad Ali used to call this defensive style of fighting his Rope a Dope—let his opponent punch himself out, then move in for the kill.

  Mustafa’s breath grew ragged, and his meaty fists slowed, their power waning. I bent my knees and came up with a powerful uppercut that sent him spiraling backward, his chin up, neck exposed.

  I kicked him in the stomach, and he fell back onto the table, sending glasses and cutlery spilling onto the floor. Too loud. As he brought his arms up to defend himself, I sprang forward, my hands latching onto his throat as tight and deadly as a lion's jaws. My body weight heavy on him, I pressed him into the table.

  Mustafa flailed, grabbing at my hands, his eyes wide. My height gave me the advantage—he couldn't reach past my shoulders. I stared into his gaze, the panic there fortifying my strength. I had him.

  Desperately he grabbed at the table, found a fork and brought it up, driving it into my shoulder. Adrenaline hid the pain from me. His face went purple as his lips turned blue.

  His hands searched the table again, desperate now as his eyes lost focus. They found nothing and returned to my fingers, weakly pulling at them.

  His eyes fluttered closed as his hands went limp. He was out, but I could still feel his pulse beneath my hands—fluttering and vulnerable. If I held his throat a little longer, I'd kill him. A thrill of pure power radiated through me, flushing my skin and shortening my breaths.

  Should I spare him for Angie? Let her keep this man she appeared to adore, who loved her back? Or kill him, to protect myself from future attacks? Me or her?

  Stepping back, I pulled the fork from my shoulder and rubbed at the spot. My thick canvas shirt had protected me, and the wound was minor.

  I gagged Mustafa with a napkin and bound his wrists and feet before dragging his limp body to the closet and folding him into it. Sweating and out of breath, I checked my watch. Deacon would arrive any minute.

  Footsteps in the hall: high heels, heavy boots, and the click of a dog's nails. My eyes scanned the dining room—the table askew, cutlery and broken glass on the floor.

  The door burst open and Angie fell through, fear written across her face, Sydney following close behind, her gun drawn. She aimed it at me.

  "Don't move, asshole."

  I looked into her eyes. They were hazy.

  She was no longer under her own control.

  Chapter Seven

  Walk the Road

  Mulberry

  A storm blustered and wailed through the dark of night into the early morning, leaving the grass soaked and silvery wet. The sun shone now though, catching each droplet and making it shine.

  The sea of uniforms at my father's funeral undulated with movement. A sea of brothers. I ranked among them, my graduation from the academy only two weeks behind me.

  I'd lost him so quickly.

  But at least he was there to see me take my oath and join the New York City Police Department.

  My mother's thin arm through mine felt fragile. She'd aged rapidly in the last year, as a bout of pneumonia had turned into a lung infection and all the years of smoking left her wheezing and weak.

  She was going to die, too.

  My chest constricted with grief, and I forced it out, straightening my shoulders and standing tall and strong next to her—a pillar of support on the outside and a waterfall of grief on the inside.

  The casket glistened in the morning sun. My father's second wife, Grace, sat in a folding chair across from it. His widow.

  Grace held my sister in her arms. The infant slept in a bundle of black blankets, her little hand pale against her mother's dress. Tears streaked down Grace's face, her eyes swollen with grief.

  My chest tightened, thinking of how that baby would never know her father. Would never know the brave man who fought to keep her city and fellow citizens safe.

  The officers folded the flag, backs straight, faces solemn, and placed it in his widow's lap. I couldn't keep my eyes off her. Her auburn hair fell in waves around her shoulders, the navy dress stiff and ill-fitted, loose and bunching at her hips—like she'd just bought it, or she'd changed so much since the purchase that it no longer looked like her own clothing.

  My father's widow, only ten years older than me, was beautiful, and I could see why he wanted her. Could see why he was willing to abandon my mother to have her.

  She took the flag, awkwardly, holding it against her breasts along with my sister.

  The little girl woke up and began to cry softly, scratching at Grace's dress, reaching for her breasts.

  My mother squeezed my arm, and I looked down at her. She was watching, too, her face set in bitter lines of regret and jealousy.

  That was her flag.

  She'd been married to my father for twenty years, and his widow had been married to him for four. Four.

  And yet Grace held the flag. She would get his pension. She was his widow, and my mother his ex-wife.

  The crowd began to disperse, men coming over to me and shaking my hand, patting me on the shoulder and telling me what a good man my father had been.

  My mother excused herself to head back to the car. I watched her cross the cemetery, alone, her thin shoulders stooped, her black dress hanging off her quickly deteriorating body.

  I needed to speak to Grace, despite my mother's wish that I ignore her—that I pretend like my sister wasn't my blood.

  The mourners and well-wishers parted when I approached.

  Grace's gaze found mine, emerald green eyes surrounded by thick lashes and red-rimmed with grief. Under the mourning suppressed rage simmered, and when her eyes met mine, it seemed to ignite.

  Her mouth turned into a deep frown, and her fingers tightened on the bundle in her arms, as if I would try to grab the lit
tle girl from her. Or perhaps it was the flag she feared I'd try to take.

  "I'm sorry for your loss," I said, my voice a deep baritone, the richness of it so different than when I first met her—my voice had cracked and squeaked at her wedding. I had been a boy. I stood before her now, a man. The man my father had raised.

  Perhaps we could find some sort of solace together. She'd reached out to me in my youth, and to honor my mother, I had treated her like an enemy combatant. But death changed everything.

  This was the first time I'd seen my sister, and my gaze searched the blankets for a closer look at her.

  "You've joined the police force," she said, her chin rising to indicate my uniform, crisp and clean, brand new.

  My chest swelled with pride and I nodded. "Yes."

  "Don't get shot like your father did." Her words stole my breath—the pain sharp and unexpected.

  The men standing around us turned, uncomfortable with the rawness of her emotion, the ferocity of her attack.

  "No one plans to die in the line of duty," I said slowly, searching for words, holding back my anger and hurt and trying to extend her sympathy. "But that's the risk we take when we stand up for those weaker than us."

  Her eyes brimmed with tears. "What about Charlene? What about my little girl? Doesn't she matter? Don't I matter?"

  "Of course you do." My fingers curled into my palm so that I wouldn't reach out and touch her. So that I wouldn't try and comfort her.

  She trembled in the March winds and held my gaze. "If your father had really loved me, if he'd really cared about his daughter, he wouldn't have put himself in danger. He would've made sure that he was here for us."

  I pulled in a slow breath, witnessing for the first time the chasm between our understandings of my father. She stood on one side of a canyon, and I on the other—the space between us an abyss. There was no bridge strong enough to span the distance.

  "My father was a good man. He loved you enough to leave me." The edge in my voice was unintentional. My father would not want me speaking to his widow this way. I dropped my eyes down to my shoes. I'd polished them to a bright sheen, and now dew beaded on the black leather.