Relentless

TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON

AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG

STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID

PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

MILLS & BOON

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This one is for Barbara Joel,

with love and gratitude.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Epilogue

Coming Next Month

1

KATE SHOULD HAVE kept her eyes on her job, restocking the little refrigerator behind the bar, but she was so bored it was hard not to look around. All day, five days a week, pushing her cart in and out of rooms, checking how many little bottles of vodka, bourbon or gin had been used, how many candy bars and packets of peanuts had been nibbled. It was ridiculous that she had to spend so many hours doing this, while she should be putting all her energy into getting her life back.

Unfortunately, she needed to eat and she preferred a roof over her head. So she worked for room service at the Meridian Hotel in downtown Los Angeles. Laying low, staying as invisible as possible.

Kate preferred empty rooms where she was able to sail in and out quickly with her cart, ignoring the bland decor, identical in every room, down to the tan-colored, easy-to-disinfect imitation leather upholstery.

She shuddered at the memory of the couple in 1242 on Monday afternoon who’d forgotten to hang out the Do Not Disturb card or bolt the door. She’d walked in on them having wild sex on top of the bedspread. Kate had just muttered her apologies and left, conveniently forgetting to return before the end of her shift. Undoubtedly the hotel manager would have docked her wages if they’d complained, but they hadn’t.

At least this guest, a nice-looking man in his thirties who’d barely acknowledged her when she’d come in, had stayed in the suite’s living room. At first she’d thought he was talking to her, then she’d realized he was rehearsing a speech. One part of a speech. Something to do with changing neighborhoods for the better.

She tried again to concentrate on her job as the man paced across the room. She still had six more suites on this floor to do before lunch and couldn’t afford to have her pay docked. She just wished the job was more interesting. It left her with way too much time to think. To be afraid.

She looked up, not at the man, but at the mirror behind the bar, and saw him cross the room. She’d grown accustomed to being on the alert, always conscious of any and all entrances and exits. It had taken time to grasp that nowhere was safe, but she got it now. Behind every door, every smile, lay the potential for danger.

There was a knock at the door just as she crouched down to stock the fridge. The mirror gave her a clear view of the room, while the bar hid her from sight. She stilled, trying to convince herself it was probably nothing. Room service. A friend. Not about her at all. Then she smiled at her own paranoia. There were two sodas and a couple of candy bars missing, and she reached into her cart to dig out the replacements.

The guest opened the door, not cautiously as she would have, but calmly intent. Two young men, both Asian, dressed in baggy clothes with hoodies under their coats, rushed in. The guest cried out and tried to block them. Before Kate could even reach for the gun in her ankle holster, the men drew their automatic weapons. Gunfire exploded, and she watched as the guy was torn apart, his blood seeping into the pale carpet.

Terrified, she held her breath, knowing she wouldn’t stand a chance against automatic weapons, knowing this man, this nice guy practicing his speech, was dead. Was it because of her? Was she the real target?

The gunfire stopped and the killers left as swiftly as they had burst in. A shout echoed from the hallway; in the room though, there was nothing but quiet and the awful stench of death.

It took her a moment to realize she wasn’t next. That she had to leave. This second.

She eyed her cart. There was no way she’d be able to wheel it down that hallway. Too many people had heard the gunfire. There was a fire exit just down the hall, away from the elevators. She walked to the door. Once there, she snuck a glance down the hall. There were two men, guests. They were looking around frantically, clearly reacting to the sound of the gunfire. With just two of them all she had to do was wait, and the moment they were distracted she’d make her break for the exit.

The ding from the elevator gave her her chance. The two men turned, and she was out of there. No running. Just a fast, steady walk to the fire exit door. She was on the fourteenth floor, and with every step down to the parking garage, she thought about that poor man.

Death was no stranger to her. She’d seen so many horrible things in Kosovo, where her whole universe had turned upside down. She’d been a forensic accountant, a pencil pusher. Then she’d stumbled upon a horrible secret perpetrated by her own government, and from that moment on, nothing had been the same. She’d almost been killed. Not just her, but six others who had uncovered the deadly truth. Now they were all back in the States, living under the radar, trying like hell to bring about justice and truth, all the while knowing there were men trained by the CIA who wanted them dead.

This man? This poor guy gunned down in front of her? She had no idea who he was or why those two men had killed him. The way they were dressed suggested they were gang members. The way they handled the killing made her certain of it.

Her stomach rebelled and she had to pause for a moment, breathe deeply to stop from throwing up. When she could handle it, she started down again, moving faster now, afraid that the police would see her and want to question her.

Her steps slowed as the realization sunk in—they were gangbangers. Not CIA agents. Not Omicron. Oh, God. She hadn’t been their target at all. She’d just been in the wrong place at the wrong time. She would have laughed if it hadn’t been so horribly tragic.

She’d witnessed a murder.

In her old life she would have stayed. She would have done everything she could to help. That wasn’t possible now.

She was one of the hunted. The people who’d tried to kill her in Kosovo wanted her dead. Silenced. She’d seen things the government, her government, hadn’t wanted her to see. They’d meant for her to die in a lonely warehouse in a small Serbian village. Her very existence made them vulnerable. She’d seen the lengths to which these people would go to stop her.

It would have been easier if she had money. But there was none. Not for any of them. No legitimate jobs, absolutely no using their real names. Her entire family thought she was dead.

She paused in front of the garage exit. There were probably police behind the door, and she needed to make it to her car without being spotted. The best thing she could do was act as if nothing was out of the ordinary.

There was, in fact, a police car. And an ambulance. But they weren’t that close to the exit, and she had, as always, parked with an eye toward a quick getaway. Walking across the parking lot ramped up her heart rate, but the rubber soles of her shoes muffled her steps, and there was so much chatter from the cop’s radio that by the time she was in her car she was pretty damn sure she was going to make it.

It occurred to her that she wasn’t coming back. And that she had a full two-weeks’ pay that she hadn’t collected. That left her with maybe a hundred, which wasn’t going to take her far.

She started her car and drove slowly to the busy downtown street. Once she reached the freeway heading toward the Valley, she started shaking.

DETECTIVE VINCE YARROW stared at the body on the floor. He tried like hell to think in terms of weapons, trajectories, points of impact, but this wasn’t just another body. It was Tim Purchase, a man Vince had grown to respect and admire. A friend.

“Christ, they didn’t leave much.”

Vince glanced at his partner, Jeff Stoller, who looked small and weary in his heavy coat. “Just a message.”

Jeff shook his head as he went over to the department photographer, there to capture the scene for the detectives and for a jury that would probably never be called.

The room was starting to get crowded, and that wouldn’t do. There wasn’t going to be much evidence, that much Vince knew; still he’d collect what he could. Then he would leave Tim to the coroner while he and Jeff went room to room looking for a witness.

He also knew that no one would talk. No one would admit that the perpetrators had been gangbangers. Everything about the murder screamed colors. The question was, which gang? Tim had worked against most of them, from the MS-13s, Crips and Bloods to the Aryan Nation. He’d dedicated his life to stealing kids from the gangs, to giving them opportunities to make something of themselves. He’d been a hero. A savior to hundreds. If it took him the rest of his life, Vince would catch the pricks who’d done this.

He got out his notebook and began the work. Most of the time, getting into the case soothed him. The familiar procedures helped distance him from the inhumanity of the crime. Not today. With every notation, every cold observance, his anger grew until he could feel the heat in his face and the grinding of his molars. God damn them. All of them. All the selfish little bastards who thought nothing more of murder than they thought of taking a piss.

“Vince.”

He looked up from his book to find Jeff scowling. The reason was Corky Baker, a reporter for the Times who was a walking pain in the ass. Whenever there was a high profile murder, Baker would attach himself, leechlike, to whomever he could. Vince was all for freedom of the press and the public’s right to know, though not at the victims’ expense. Baker had caused him problems too many times in the past with his sleazy version of crime reporting. He owed it to Tim not to let that happen this time.

“Get him out of here.” Vince looked pointedly at the bottom-feeder. “This is still an active crime scene.”

Baker didn’t move. “Yarrow, you never fail to enchant. I have a couple of questions—”

“Go jump off the roof.”

“Can I quote you on that?”

“Jeff. Ask the officers to come in and remove Mr. Baker.”

“You got it.” Jeff smiled broadly at the reporter. “Should I tell them to use all necessary force?”

“Sounds good to me.” Vince went back to his notebook, reading what he’d written before the interruption.

“All right, I’ll go. Just tell me, was it crack? I heard Purchase was taking a hefty percentage as hush money.”

Vince dropped his notebook as he crossed the room. He hit Baker so goddamned hard his head bounced off the doorframe. It wasn’t nearly enough. As he moved in for round two, the bastard slid down the wall, landing in a messy heap on the floor.

Jeff stepped in front of Vince carefully. “You might have made your point there, buddy.”

“Not even close.”

“He’s an asshole. Let it go.”

Vince took in a deep breath, his body still thrumming with the need to pummel. “Get him gone, Jeff. Now.”

“Why don’t you go get some water, huh?”

Vince sniffed as he looked at the reporter who was just coming to. A small trickle of blood had started at the corner of his mouth, which wasn’t as satisfying as one would think. The bruise would be a good one though, large and painful.

He headed for the bar, wishing he could have something a lot stronger than water. His thoughts of bourbon were interrupted by the sight of the room service cart. It was open, with all the little liquor bottles, candy bars and fruit drinks in neat order. He turned to Jeff, but cut his remark off as he saw Baker rise to his feet. The last thing Vince wanted in the paper was that there had been a witness in the room.

Baker raised his hand, swatted at the blood on his face and stared at the evidence on his fingers, then at Vince. “Thank you, you miserable prick. I’m going to sue you and your department for so much money they won’t have enough left over for toilet paper. You got that?”

“Fine. Just do it somewhere else.”

One of the uniforms put his hand on Baker’s elbow, but he shook him off. “You’ll be hearing from me.”

Vince turned back to the cart. As Baker’s voice receded, Vince crouched down in front of the small refrigerator. From there, he looked up into the mirror. Shit. Whoever had been here had likely seen everything. Tim opening the door. The rush inside. The blaze of bullets. They’d be able to ID the gunmen, if not by face, by colors, clothing, tattoos, headgear, weapons. It would all help him identify who’d done this. The question was, who had been behind this bar, and where were they now?

“Vince?”

“Come here, Jeff.”

His partner walked over to the side of the bar. “Whoa, what have we here?”

“A witness.”

“Excellent. I’ll go to the manager and ask who was working.”

“I’ll go with you.”

“I think you’d better call Emerson,” Jeff said. “The second he hears about Baker’s lawsuit, he’s gonna blow a gasket.”

Vince stood, his knee cracking with the effort. “I don’t give a shit about Baker.”

“You assaulted the man. He can have you arrested.”

“No, he won’t. He’ll get more mileage from a lawsuit.”

“Yeah, the Captain’s gonna love that.”

“I’ll tell Emerson what happened. But first I need to find this witness.”

Jeff, who’d been his partner for almost three years, shrugged. That’s what was so good about him. He wasn’t just a fine cop, he knew how to roll with the punches. And he put up with all Vince’s bullshit. “I’ll wait for the coroner. Come back up here when you’re done.”

Vince picked up his notebook on his way out, his bruised knuckles making him wince.

KATE PARKED HER beat-up Toyota in the parking lot of her apartment building. The prospect of moving again so soon after she’d found this dive made her sick. There was no choice, of course. The police could already know that she’d been in the suite during the murder. They’d be after her, and she wouldn’t let herself be found.

Truthfully, it wasn’t the moving that had her so edgy. It was the smell of death that was still on her, the coppery odor of blood in her hair, on her uniform. She wanted to shower, but there wouldn’t be time.

She’d learned how to live in the smallest possible way. A few changes of clothes, toiletries in one tote, her computer and paperwork all in one box. She had nothing extraneous, nothing that couldn’t be abandoned if she had to leave quickly. She kept the contents of her computer on a portable flash drive that was on her key ring, and she backed it up every single time she logged off. The clothes were from Goodwill, the toiletries from the dollar store. However, since last month she had one box that was more important than any of that.

A friend who’d worked with her in the forensic accounting department of the U.N. had risked his life to get photocopies of certain ledgers. Ledgers Kate had worked on in Kosovo that had given her the first inkling that all was not as it should have been.

She and Branislav had been part of the U.N.’s international war crimes tribunal, investigating ex-Yugoslav President Slobodan Milosevic and the ethnic war that had raged in the Balkans since 1986. Their specific task was to examine the hand-written ledgers from the offices of the Kosovo Liberation Army who had been accused of stealing NATO funds to pay for black market weapons.

Those ledgers had started it all. She’d found payments from the KLA to a U.S. bank. She’d assumed the KLA had found an American arms dealer, but then she’d discovered that the money had shown up in some suspicious accounts. She’d been told to leave it alone. That it wasn’t important. But she’d continued to dig. The money led her to a slush fund, which made a roundabout circuit right back to the Balkans. To a laboratory run by what she now knew was a corrupt organization somehow connected to the CIA. They called themselves Omicron, and to the outside world, they were military consultants, meeting with presidents and generals from every allied nation. In reality, they were dealers of death, willing to kill countless civilians for the right price. Justifying their actions by using the tainted money to fund missions and objectives that weren’t exactly kosher. Approved by someone high up in the government. Someone who needed to be exposed if Omicron was to be stopped.

She’d had to leave the ledgers when she’d escaped from the country. It had been Nate’s team who’d gotten them out. His Delta unit, the best of the best, had been hand-picked to go to Kosovo. They’d had one mission—to destroy a lab in Serbia where terrorists were making a chemical weapon. They would have done it, too, if she and Harper and Tam hadn’t told them the truth. God, she’d never forget Nate’s face when he realized his country had betrayed him. They’d gone to the lab on recon, and confirmed that it wasn’t terrorists making the gas, it was scientists, mostly young, bright graduate students, all working separately on their own unique task, none aware that when all the pieces were put together, they would have created the deadliest chemical agent known to man. They also didn’t know that once the project was complete, none of them would live to spend the money they’d earned, or to write up their findings in the scientific journals. They’d been duped, just like Nate’s unit had been duped. All by the men behind Omicron. Almost six months later, she’d gotten in touch with Branislav. It had taken another six months till he’d agreed to get the copies.

Unfortunately, they were a mess. It was going to take Kate weeks to put them in order, then to create the paper trail that could be used in court. If the papers were all there. If Omicron, the CIA covert operation that was out to kill her, kill them all, didn’t find her first.

The reminder got her moving. She stepped out of the car, then decided not to make any phone calls from the street. Even though her cell couldn’t be traced, she knew enough about microphones that she didn’t dare talk in public. Hell, after what had happened to Christie, she knew talking in private wasn’t safe, either.

She thought about Christie, and how Omicron had tormented her. One of the agents had dated her, then stalked her for months. She’d lost her job, her money, almost her sanity. All because she was Nate Pratchett’s sister. Nate, who’d been Kate’s go-to guy in Kosovo, had been in hiding. Everyone, including his sister, including Kate, had thought he was dead. But he’d been spending his time finding out who was involved in the Kosovo killings.

She wished Nate were here now. Nate, Seth, Boone and Cade, her Delta Force soldiers, all were in hiding. Nate and Seth were in Los Angeles, Boone was in Wyoming with Christie, and Cade was in Colorado, living in a safe house where they could all hide if they had to and listening in on the operations of a small Omicron office outside of Colorado Springs.

Kate headed inside to the ugly efficiency apartment she’d rented under yet another assumed name. The smell of unwashed bodies and weed filled the dim hall, and for once, she didn’t mind.

VINCE WAITED IN the manager’s office, shifting on the too-small chair, willing himself to chill. The guy, name of Tyson, was prissy and nervous and Vince needed his help. It turned out he wasn’t sure who had been assigned to stock Tim’s bar, and he had to go find the paperwork.

The office gave him no easy distractions—it was as prim as the man who occupied it. The chairs were like something out of a Victorian sitting room, too delicate for a man Vince’s size. The art was all landscapes, the lamps had little beads on the shades and the whole office smelled like his grandmother’s bedroom.

He tried to regret smashing Baker in the face but couldn’t. Then he tried to figure out which gang was most likely to have wanted Tim dead, but that just made him fidget more.

Finally, he stood. At least he wouldn’t break the chair. He walked over to the window and looked out. It was gloomy, a typical November day for Los Angeles. At least there was no snow. He’d grown up in South Dakota, and he’d seen enough snow there to last two lifetimes.

He was on the third floor, and from this corner window he could see a couple of patrol cars. More interesting was the vendor, selling fish tacos and horchata, standing by the front entrance. He’d probably witnessed the gunmen enter the hotel, although he’d probably be too scared to be of any help.

“Detective Yarrow.”

Vince turned. Tyson walked in with two manila folders.

“The woman taking care of the fourteenth floor is Kate Rydell. I’ve asked her supervisor to bring her here.”

“Great.” He nodded at the folders. “May I take a look?”

The man handed them over, and Vince turned slightly, giving the manager more of his back, hoping he’d catch the hint.

In the folder, he found Rydell’s work application along with a very blurry copy of her driver’s license. Shit, he couldn’t get anything from the picture at all. It was even hard to make out the license number or the salient facts. Squinting, he saw that she was five-eight, one hundred eighteen pounds, and had brown hair and eyes. That wouldn’t get him far. “I’ll need copies,” he said, not bothering to turn. He checked her license address against the application information. They were the same. Her work history was just about what he expected. Hotel service, waitress. High school education.

He heard the manager behind him and handed him the first folder. “Do you have surveillance cameras?”

“In the lobby and in the garage.”

“I’ll need them.”

“Why don’t you come with me. You can watch the tapes while I get the photocopies. We can wait for Ms. Rydell in the security office.”

Luckily, the woman who was in charge of security for the hotel thought on her feet. She’d already taken out the tapes from this morning and queued them for duplication. Her name was Phyllis Samms, and from what he could see she was a regular on the weight machines. He’d hate to run into her in a dark alley.

Even her handshake was muscular. “I’ve got them ready,” she said, pointing to a chair. He sat down. “I couldn’t find your shooter in the lobby. Maybe your people will have more luck. However, there are some interesting shots in the garage.”

She sat next to him and pressed the remote. The camera angle wasn’t good—it was aimed more for identifying cars than people. Someone would have to look up in order for him to get a good face shot. Phyllis was right, there were some interesting shots. Two guys in big coats with hoods ran out at eleven-seventeen. He couldn’t see who they were, not even tats, but he’d take the tape and let the lab boys go to town. They’d find something.

The bangers didn’t get in a car. Instead they ran out of camera range.