Page 19 of Edge of Secrets (The Edge Trilogy #2)

Chapter Twelve

Duncan

I dropped a few meters farther behind, keeping the pale flash of her dress in my field of vision.

I’d charged out of there all fired up, ready to confront her face-to-face, right in the street, and demand to know—exactly, in every particular—what her fucking problem was.

Then I got close enough to see that she was crying.

And I lost my nerve and hung back again.

Goddamn it. I should have known I’d pay in blood for anything that good.

So I went into surveillance mode. Emotions flat-lined.

Attention locked on the target. Projecting a don’t-see-me vibe.

I was nobody, just a faceless suit in a sea of suits.

Though at this hour, there was no sea of suits on the streets.

The suits were vegging in front of their TVs or packed into bars, managing their stress with excessive amounts of alcohol.

Not a problem, though, since Nell wasn’t noticing me.

She was stumbling along the sidewalk, hand over her mouth, clutching her purse.

Attracting attention. A beautiful woman, sobbing right out on the street?

Christ. She was making herself a target.

That made my emotional flat-line twitch, with guilt and anger. What the fuck? Why? What had I done, anyhow? I hadn’t intended any of this. The last thing I wanted was to hurt her feelings. All I’d done was make her come. So fucking shoot me, already.

Of course, seducing her hadn’t helped with her current off-the-charts stress level. But I hadn’t been able to stop myself. It just ... happened.

Now I was compounding my asshole status by stalking her. That was super intelligent. Yeah, just razor sharp.

But my feet didn’t hear the sarcasm, didn’t get the message. They just kept carrying me along, keeping her a safe thirty meters ahead. Watching that mane of springy black ringlets sway and swirl with every gust of wind.

Then I felt the tickle. Like the whispery brush of a cobweb breaking across my mind. An instinct that said, ‘something’s wrong with this picture.’

I looked closer. Since snapping into surveillance mode, part of my mind had been tracking not just her, but everything around her.

That gray sweatshirt had been around for a while.

Too long. Behind her, but not far enough behind.

Gray sweatshirt, jeans. Long blond hair.

Dirty white athletic shoes. Nell paused to wait for a light.

The guy slowed and gazed into a cosmetics shop window.

Yeah, right. Like that skank was interested in aromatherapy bath salts or orange blossom body butter.

I got in line at a streetside bank machine, watching out of the corner of my eye as the guy sauntered across the street and kept going, still in the same direction as Nell, staying parallel to her.

I flash-analyzed the data, tracking everything from the moment I’d given up confronting her. That guy had been in my field of vision the entire time. Might have been there since we walked out of the building. Might have been lying in wait.

Thirty-five downtown blocks. Too far to walk voluntarily, to not take a subway or a cab, to not have some other business or detour along the way.

Nell crossed the street again. Gray Sweatshirt strolled after her.

She disappeared into a big, brightly lit bookstore.

The guy stopped, muttered into his collar, and followed her in.

A thread of ice congealed deep inside me. This guy was wired. He was reporting to someone, in real time. So this wasn’t some random sicko obsessed with Nell’s tits. This was a coordinated team of random sickos. A team meant organization, financing, an agenda. What the fuck was going on?

I eased to the back of the line for the bank machine again and waited, single-minded as a cat watching a mouse hole. Crunching data, speculating, presenting and rejecting hypotheses. It had to be the people who tried to get the sister.

Time warped. People swirled by like a sped-up film. I stood motionless in the middle of it, a laser-focused eye of contemplation. Just waiting.

Customers began trickling out. I glanced at my watch. The store was about to close. My adrenaline revved up as Nell stepped outside, swinging a plastic shopping bag in her hand. She looked around, like she was trying to get her bearings, then took off in the direction of the subway station.

Three seconds later, Gray Sweatshirt followed her out.

I forced myself into a casual stride. No sprinting.

No roar of primordial rage. My heart thudded.

Blood roared in my head. I had to clamp down hard on the urge to leap on that piece-of-shit dickhead and take him apart, just for thinking about laying his hands on her.

I turned onto Lafayette and Gray Sweatshirt muttered into his collar again. Urgency pricked at me. Something was going down, and I was the only one around to stop it. Just me. One guy. I pulled out my cell and speed-dialed Gant.

“What is it?” Gant snarled, with his usual foul humor. “You again? Got any more unreasonable demands to make, Dunc?”

“Yeah. Remember the chick I’m obsessed with?”

“Yeah, the daughter of Lucia D’Onofrio. What about her?”

“I’m tailing her right now,” I said. “Stalking her, you might say.”

Gant hissed something obscene in Pushtu. “And you’re burdening me with this embarrassing, extremely personal information about yourself exactly why?”

“Because I’m not the only one who’s doing it,” I said.

Gant was gratifyingly speechless for a moment. “Come again?”

“She’s under surveillance,” I explained. “At least a two-man team. I’m a half a block behind the guy tailing her. We’re on Lafayette. Just past the Public Theater.”

“Holy fuck,” Gant muttered. “I’ll send someone.”

“Do it fast. They’re gearing up for something. I can feel it coming together.”

“Dunc? Do not engage.” He paused. “Did you hear me? Hello?”

“I heard you,” I said, noncommittally.

Gant snarled another curse in Pushtu. “Are you armed?”

“No, but I’ll be careful.”

He hung up without a farewell, and I hurried to catch up with Gray Sweatshirt.

I didn’t like Lafayette. It was darker than Broadway, more deserted, fewer storefronts, everything closed. I wished she’d stayed on crowded Broadway, where I could afford to stay closer to her. As it was, it was a miracle Gray Sweatshirt hadn’t made me yet. The guy was stupid. Incompetent.

That, however, didn’t make him any less dangerous to Nell.

Alarm flickered in my gut. Gray Sweatshirt’s demeanor was changing. He looked more focused and was walking faster, like he’d been released from some imperative, or else given a new one.

Beyond Nell, coming toward us in the opposite direction, was another pedestrian figure. A tall, rangy Black man with a shaved head. He looked at Gray Sweatshirt, then looked away and kept coming. They had her in a pincer grip.

Then the car pulled up, driving slowly. It passed me … and its brake lights flickered—on, off—for no good reason.

Then it sped up. So did Gray Sweatshirt. So did the other guy.

I didn’t remember starting to sprint. My legs pumped, closing the gap. The car door swung open. The guys grabbed Nell, wrestling her into the car, headfirst. She struggled and screamed.

I flung myself at the closest of the two men, the tall Black guy. He hit the side of the car with a grunt of surprise. Gray Sweatshirt’s head whipped around.

“What the fuck?—”

I slammed a fist into his nose, knocking him against the car door. In that split-second opening, I grabbed Nell by the waist, yanked her out of the car, and flung her in the direction of the sidewalk. She hit the ground with a yell, rolling into the gutter.

I surged back as a boot whipped past the tip of my nose.

Blocked Gray Sweatshirt’s swing with my forearm and rammed an elbow into the Black guy’s neck.

Turned to the side to take Gray Sweatshirt’s knee-jab to my thigh instead of my groin.

An uppercut to the Black guy’s chin sent him bouncing heavily against the car.

I whirled just in time to meet Gray Sweatshirt’s renewed attack.

People had noticed now. A woman screamed nearby. Not Nell.

Block, duck, lunge, retreat. I caught Gray Sweatshirt’s fist, twisted it up, over, around, and sent the guy flying over the hood of the car.

The Black guy came at me again with a length of pipe. It whipped down and I lurched aside. It whooshed past, displacing air, and shattered the passenger-side window. Pebbles of glass flew.

I darted in, grabbed the end of the pipe before he could work up another swing, twisted it up, torquing his arm, and sent him bouncing over the hood of the car. The car surged forward, pitching him off and onto the street. He rolled, howling.

Tires shrieked. The car peeled around the corner and sped away. The Black guy dragged himself up and fled, limping, the heavy, irregular slap of his rubber-soled shoes retreating into the distance.

Gray Sweatshirt came at me with a spinning back kick. I ducked, but my balance was off. I stumbled back, dropped to my knees. Fuck.

The guy leaped at me, eyes lit up with joy at the opening?—

Crack.

Nell had swung her plastic shopping bag, and whatever was inside connected with the guy’s face. He let out a hoarse shout and stumbled back, hand over his nose, blood streaming.

I rolled to my feet, lunged to grapple?—

Gun.

I stopped cold, reeling. Fought for balance. Hands up. Open.

Gray Sweatshirt held a pistol on us, a shaking, sideways two-handed grip—straight out of a bullshit action movie, but at point-blank range, even with that dumb grip, his aim wouldn’t matter. A Glock 9mm would leave a big hole.

I scooped Nell behind me. “Easy,” I soothed. “Easy.”

“Fuck you, you fuck.” His trembling voice was thin and high, bubbling and phlegmy with blood running down his throat. “Back off, or I’ll shoot you like a fuckin’ dog. And then I’ll shoot the bitch.”