The present
“I don’t know. I don’t know.” Jake Stone jerked awake Friday morning as soon as the words burst from his lips. His heart thumped and his breath came in jagged gasps. “Shit. A fucking nightmare.”
The black silk sheet beneath his naked body was damp with sweat. Still swearing, he sat up and swung his legs off the side of the bed. He propped his elbows on his knees, burrowed his fingers into his unruly hair, and massaged his throbbing temples. God, what a night.
After several minutes, he flexed his shoulders and neck twice before standing. He exhaled heavily and lumbered into the bathroom. While washing his hands, he stared at the strained face in the mirror. A violent urge to slam a fist into his reflection roiled up inside him. He redirected the blow, leaving a noticeable dent in the bathroom wall. The pain throbbing in his knuckles was a welcome, if minor, distraction.
The alarm clock on the nightstand read 8:00 A.M. He had arrived home only three hours earlier, and the nightmare had ruined his few hours of fitful slumber. But Jake knew he’d never get back to sleep.
So time for work. Reclining on a black suede chaise, he pushed aside all the nightmarish events of the night and focused on his next move. He could make the first phone call now, the call to notify his CIA handler.
Ten rings and silence answered.
“Contract completed,” Jake stated flatly, careful not to reveal any simmering emotions in his tone.
“Problems?” the mechanically altered voice asked.
“No.”
“Good. We’ll need independent confirmation.”
“I know. Get it today,” he snapped.
“I will. Should I wire the balance to the same Cayman Islands bank account as the advance?”
“Yes. No later than tomorrow. The account will be closed after that.”
“Consider it done. No reason for further communication. Been nice working with you again,” the Contractor said.
Jake heard the taunt in the words. “Fuck you. I’m retiring permanently this time. Don’t call me again, asshole.” A harsh bark of a laugh reached his ears before he ended the call and launched the phone across the room.
Then he returned to bed, but not to sleep.
While he waited for the right time to place his next call, the nightmare crept back into his mind. After an unsuccessful attempt to fight it off, he succumbed to a morbid need to analyze it.
In the dream, he had been alone in a carnival’s House of Mirrors. Encircled by floor-to-ceiling mirrors, he had turned around and around, but the shimmering surfaces were blank, not showing a single reflection of him. Not too surprising, since many times in his life he’d felt invisible.
Suddenly, a multitude of figures had filled the mirrors. But all of them were Angela Reardon, not him. Hundreds of accusing eyes had gazed intently at him.
Then, everywhere, her perfect lips had parted and whispered, “Why?” The images chorused the single word over and over, softly at first, then louder and louder, until the words cracked like thunder.
Finally, Jake had collapsed to his knees, yelling his response. “I don’t know. I don’t know.” Awakening had saved him.
Now, as daylight leaked through the blinds, he stared at the ceiling, the memory of the nightmare crushing his chest like a boulder. This is crazy. I don’t have feelings like this.
He had trained himself for years to feel nothing so he could successfully practice his repulsive profession. In fact, his feelings were the emotional equivalent of granite.
Angela Reardon had chipped away at that granite. At the appearance of the first fracture, he should have terminated the situation. But that was the past, and now it was too late. Angela had chiseled deep to touch something inside him that hadn’t been touched in a long time.
And last night, he had paid the price.
Jake peered at the clock: 9:00 A.M. Time for the second phone call, but he needed caffeine first. With a mug of strong black coffee in one hand, he paced beside the swimming pool as he placed the call.
The phone rang several times before a man answered. “Hello.”
“Sorry, wrong number,” Jake said and hung up. He grinned. Good, they’re already there. He waited a few moments before redialing.
“Hello,” the same male voice answered.
“Uh, hello. I’m calling for Angela Reardon. Who’s this?” Jake asked, trying to sound suspicious.
“Who’s calling?”
“A friend. Who the hell are you?”
“Detective Kent Smithson, Coronado Police Department.” The detective hesitated. “Stone, is that you?”
“Yeah, Smithson. What the hell are you doing there?”
He heard the man gulp.
“We got a call about seven this morning.”
“Angela called the police?”
“No. Her neighbor did.”
“God, I can’t imagine any trouble in that sleepy little neighborhood.”
“Yeah, hard to believe.”
Other voices filtered in from the background.
“All right, Smithson, if you’re not going to tell me shit, put Angela on.”
The cop exhaled loudly.
Jake smiled with relief; he had hoped Kent Smithson would be the detective on the scene. While building his legitimate security and investigation business, he’d put a lot of effort into forging personal and professional relationships with many members of the local law enforcement agencies. Once again, his efforts were going to pay off.
“Can you come down here, Stone? I’d rather talk in person.”
“Huh? What’s going on? Let me talk to Angela a minute.”
“I…can’t.”
“What do you mean, you can’t?” Jake’s volume rose a notch.
Smithson cursed under his breath. “Angela’s gone.”
“Gone?”
“Shit, man, I hate to break this to you over the phone. It looks like suicide.”
Jake choked. “Suicide? Impossible.”
“Just get your butt over here quick. Maybe you can help me sort this shit out. I’m not notifying next of kin until I’m sure.”
“On my way.”
* * *
Jake barreled down the sidewalk, identifying himself to the Coronado cop standing in the doorway before rushing inside.
Detective Kent Smithson sat on the living room couch with a cell phone to his ear. He motioned for Jake to take a seat. Jake heard voices upstairs, shook his head, and started for the stairs.
“Stone, no. We need to talk first.”
He stopped abruptly at Smithson’s commanding tone. He turned and shot the detective a don’t-fuck-with-me glare but dropped into the nearest chair.
Unfazed, the man continued his phone call. “You said there’s also a purse, but no wallet, no ID. Yeah, that is strange. Stolen, maybe, during the night.” He listened. “Which side of the bridge? Eastbound, away from Coronado, toward I-5?” His gaze darted to Jake. “Right, bring everything here. I have someone who might be able to help with identification.” He ended the call, shoved the phone into his pants pocket, and pulled a small notebook and pencil from his shirt pocket. “Thanks for coming, Stone.”
“What the hell’s going on?”
“I’ll ask the questions first. Then I’ll tell you what I can. Okay?”
Jake fastened his steely stare on the detective. “Shoot.”
“When did you last see Ms. Reardon?” Smithson scribbled in the notebook.
“Last night.”
The detective’s eyes came up quickly. “Where and what time?”
“I’ll make this easy on you. We had dinner at the Hotel del Coronado about seven. Came back here around nine. I left about midnight.”
“Anybody see you leave?”
“Hell if I know. I pulled out of the garage and drove off. Didn’t notice anyone.”
“Your car was in her garage?”
“Yeah, it’s a double. Angela doesn’t like me to leave the Corvette parked in the driveway.”
Smithson made a note. “How long have you two been dating?”
Jake could have recited the exact number of days, but instead he said, “About three months. The party at Jim Kern’s place was one of our first dates.”
“I remember that. I couldn’t figure out how you got such a classy lady to come to a cop’s kegger. But I didn’t actually meet Angela until last month at your barbeque. You guys seemed pretty…serious.” His eyes held the next question.
“Yeah, we were getting real tight by then. As tight as I ever get. Neither of us has been dating anyone else for a while now.”
Smithson lowered his eyes to the notebook. “What was her emotional state last night?”
“She was fine. We had a great time. Are you going to tell me what happened and let me go upstairs now?”
“Just a couple more questions. Had she ever had any psychological problems?”
Jake shuttered his gaze. “How would I know?”
“She ever mention anything—shrink sessions or counseling?”
“Not that I remember.”
“Had she suffered any kind of traumatic experience lately? Financial problems? Death of a relative or friend? That sort of thing.”
“No, no, and no.” Jake’s patience ran out. “Can I see her now?” He stood up and took several steps toward the stairs.
Smithson casually stuffed the notebook and pencil into his shirt pocket, stood, and pushed ahead of Jake. “Thanks for answering my questions so cooperatively,” he said with a hint of sarcasm.
Neither man spoke again until they entered the bedroom.
“Where is she?” Jake asked, staring at the empty, rumpled bed.
“We don’t know.”
“Quit screwing with me. What’s going on?” He clenched his fists at his sides.
Smithson leaned against the doorjamb and scratched his head. “Okay, Stone, I’m only telling you this because I know you personally. This is how it went down. Mrs. Leona Browning called CPD about seven. She’s Angela’s neighbor, widow lady—”
“Yeah, I’ve met Leona. Major busybody, but dotes on Angela like a mother hen.”
“That’s the one. She called in all upset. Said Angela’s dog had been barking since about one this morning. Chelsea was outside in the fenced patio area, which was highly unusual, especially at that hour. By five, Mrs. Browning was phoning Angela and getting no response. She rang the doorbell and knocked. Nothing. Then she peeked into the garage. Angela’s car was there.” He paused while he ran a hand over his eyes.
“So Leona started freaking out.”
“Right. She tried to pacify Chelsea by throwing treats over the adjoining fence, but the damn dog wouldn’t quit howling and scratching at the patio door. More phone calls, more howling. The poor old lady was a complete basket case by the time she called us. The dispatcher agreed to have an officer swing by. He made contact with Mrs. Browning. She had a key, but they found Angela’s front door unlocked.”
“Detective Smithson,” called a man from downstairs, “I brought the stuff.”
“Bring it up here.” The detective straightened away from the doorjamb. “The officer entered the residence with Mrs. Browning. No sign of forced entry. Or Angela. When they got to the bedroom, the officer called in.”
“Maybe she had to leave suddenly for some emergency early this morning.”
“Without her car?”
“Taxi. Friend,” Jake suggested.
“Left the dog outside?”
“Maybe she’s going to call Leona later about taking care of Chelsea while she’s gone.”
“No, Stone. I’m sorry. That tells a different story,” he said, pointing at the nightstand.
Two envelopes, a prescription medicine bottle, and several pills cluttered the surface. Jake took a step in that direction, but Smithson grabbed his arm.
“What?” He yanked his arm free.
“Did Angela take prescription sleeping pills frequently?”
“Only occasionally. They weren’t a habit. The envelopes?”
“One for you and one for her parents.”
A solemn Coronado police officer appeared in the hallway carrying an evidence bag, which he handed to Smithson. Watching Jake’s face closely, the detective slipped on gloves before pulling a blue dress from the bag.
Jake’s eyes widened as they swept over the silky fabric. Slowly, he met Smithson’s gaze.
“Is this what Angela was wearing when you last saw her?”
“No.”
“No?” Smithson’s eyebrows arched. “What was she wearing?”
“Nothing.”
“Damn it, Stone, help me out here. Is this Angela’s dress? Did she wear it last night?”
He frowned. “Yes. Where did you get it?”
“On the San Diego-Coronado Bay Bridge.”
“Shit.”
With three long strides, Jake reached the nightstand, grabbed the envelope bearing his name, and stormed out of the bedroom.
* * *
On the small patio table beside the chaise lounge sat an empty Jack Daniel’s bottle. When Jake had opened the bottle after returning from Angela’s condo, he’d vowed to drink it all or die trying. Now, eleven hours later, he almost wished for the latter.
He cursed the moon bathing him in a soft glow. The landscaping and pool lights were turned off because he wanted to drink and grieve in complete darkness. Anyone in his right mind would guess he was grieving for Angela Reardon. He wasn’t.
Jake Stone was grieving for himself.
He raised his glass, toasted the silence, and tossed back the final swallow of whiskey. Then he hurled the empty bottle over the edge, shattering it against something far below. His harsh laugh reverberated off the boulder-strewn hillsides.
His blurred vision landed on the photograph lying on the table beside him. The identification photo had arrived immediately after he’d accepted the contract fifteen weeks ago. Her blond hair was shorter, and Jake had never seen her wear the red dress that draped the curves of her body so enticingly. But Angela’s amazing eyes and inviting lips smiled back at him. His mouth moved with the memory of those warm, soft lips against his.
Pushing his head back into the cushion, he closed his eyes and wished that the liquor could erase his memories. But there was no chance of that. He was too well-trained—and too hardened a drinker—for the alcohol to wipe clean the slate of his mind.
He grimaced. That was only one of his skills. Many others were unspeakable.
As a Navy SEAL, he had been trained to kill efficiently. In fact, he’d done it so well the CIA had recruited him. Under their tutelage, Jake honed the skill of killing stealthily. He carried out political assassinations and sanctions. He taught himself how to murder cunningly. All of his later hits had been successfully disguised as suicides. When he got tired of politics muddling up his missions, he’d resigned.
After months of pleading, the Agency had convinced him to return as a contract assassin. The independence appealed to Jake. Instead of being ordered to carry out a hit, he could decide which contracts to accept. But even with the greater control, he burned out again after a year. He feared that killing was slowly, irreparably, destroying his soul. Although he’d quit with a welcome sense of relief, he still firmly believed that all his targets had deserved their fate.
Until now.
The hours he’d spent researching and investigating Angela hadn’t uncovered a single shred of evidence supporting the Contractor’s claim that she’d stolen and sold State Department secrets, resulting in an operative’s death.
Something was wrong. Someone was lying.
Whoever wanted Angela Reardon dead was the immoral, evil asshole who deserved to die. Not Angela.
Silently, he vowed to ferret out who and why. And then he would execute the bastard.
Jake laughed mirthlessly.
He had killed for patriotism and for money.
This time, he would kill for redemption.