Games Girls Play Page 4

  She’d met Rose in a nightclub in Marrakesh, her little Irish bloom dressed like a trashy belly dancer, her job to distract the boys in the VIP lounge while Jane, Marty and Ben worked the rest of the scene. It had been the last time Jane had agreed to a team assignment. She was a solo. Always had been, ever since she’d left the service.

  Even as much as they played, she and Rose had never really stepped on each other’s toes.

  There wasn’t a reason to. Rose was way more up close and personal.

  God damn it! She glared at the phone, willing it to ring. She knew she couldn’t call. Rose was using a series of burn phones, carefully procured from ten different retail locations in different states.

  Her phone rang and she looked at it, groaning when she saw Aaron’s name show up. No. Not now. She was busy.

  She answered, though, knowing she had to play the game. “This is Jennifer Clay,” she said, telling Aaron she was only available for emergencies today.

  “Shelly Green was found shot and killed in the French Quarter an hour ago.”

  “What?” If Aaron wasn’t bothering to code in, the shit had really hit the proverbial fan.

  “You heard me. We know you’ve been in contact with her, where is Irish?”

  “I don’t know.” No. Rose and her, their professional lives only crossed as part of the games. They never mentioned one another to their handlers. Never.

  “When you hear from her, you call me. We have questions for her.” When, not if.

  Questions. Great.

  If they called her, they’d contact Marty, Ben and Wednesday. Geoff, if he was reachable.

  Damn it.

  She hung up without another word. What the hell had Rosie gotten into?

  “Come on, baby girl. Call me.”

  She logged onto her laptop, sliding into a secure server and poking at an email account not even Rosie knew about, from back when Marty and Ben and she were still in uniform. Sure enough, there was an email there from Martin, just saying, “Clock, love. Friday. Midnight.”

  The Tick-Tock Coffee Shop was in Baltimore and she could be there at noon, but three days? Three days was too long to wait.

  She didn’t want to push it with Marty, though. He was… He was the best of them and the most broken. If he said Friday, there was a reason for it.

  Jane sent an affirmative and logged off, not wanting to ring any federal bells. She would do her own snooping between now and then, and keep Aaron on a short leash.

  She paced, then went to disassemble her weapons, starting with her Glock. Clean and ready, that was the way to go. The motion of her hands became automatic, allowing her mind to race, allowing the plan to come together.

  Jesus, Rose, what the fuck is going on? Why can’t you call me?

  She oiled and wiped, deliberately unclenching her jaw. Grinding her teeth would just give her cracked molars.

  This whole thing was going to make her lose her fucking mind. She didn’t have a lot of it left, really. Hell, she knew better than to get emotionally involved with anyone.

  Especially someone else in the business.

  Somehow, though, Rose had become as important as the job. Maybe more so because she could imagine retiring, but she couldn’t imagine doing it without her Rose.

  Stupid, but true.

  She stared at the phone again.

  Come on. Ring.

  Chapter Six

  Wake up.

  Wake up.

  Come on, girl. Wake up.

  Part of Rose’s brain knew she didn’t want to find anything remotely resembling consciousness. Part of Rose’s mind was actually reduced to gibbering hysterical monkey noises, to be honest.

  The rest of her, though, the important part, was pissed off and looking for a place to escape.

  And to escape she had to wake the fuck up, damn it.

  Her hands were cuffed behind her, ankles bound too, and there was something thick and foul spreading her lips. Fuck. That whole gibbering monkey noise got a little louder, and she kicked that little mental bastard to death.

  She’d trained for this. She just needed to think. She was naked and on…metal. Her cheek and side were resting on something not ground. Something solid, cold, metal. Rough. It was dark where she was, only the barest slivers of light coming in way above her and down low, by her face. Okay. Okay. First, are you alone?

  She closed her eyes and listened. There was a constant creaking, an unfamiliar motion under her, all around her.

  A boat.

  New Orleans.

  She’d been in New Orleans watching the Cafe du Monde from the Rivery, pretending to eat while she watched for Shelly, earpiece in her ear as she listened to police radio, listened for phone calls. She’d implemented her safety plan with Jane, she was dressed in a simple sundress, her weapon taped under her heavy breasts. Red hair temporarily dyed black, self tanner, sunglasses. Just another tourist.

  She found a table in the back, eyes peeled behind her glasses, looking for someone looking for her. Shelly came in, and then headed directly for her, not even trying to deflect attention.

  That was either fabulous or utterly shitty.

  Shelly sat, gray eyes staring through her, like she wasn’t even there. “You’ve been burned. The Columbian slave trader, Marquez? His family called in favors. You’re dead in the water. I tried to warn you.”

  “How? How did anything you did try to warn me?”

  “Don’t be stupid, child. Get off the continent, go to ground. His father is fully intending to make an example of you for the rest of the cartels. It won’t be good.”

  She hadn’t even done that job. Jane had picked up the paycheck.

  “I’ll head out now.” This would have been way easier on the phone, via email.

  “They’re watching everything I do. Everything, because I refused to deliver you.”

  Oh. Oh damn.

  She reached under the table, took Shelly’s wrinkled hand and squeezed it. “Thank you.”

  “Don’t. Just go. Be safe. I can’t stay. Don’t contact me, hmm?”

  Rose stood, leaving a twenty on the table, and walked away without a single goodbye. She crossed over toward the Rivery, moving up toward the cathedral when the screaming started.

  She spun, the sight of Shelly’s silver coiffure half-disappeared, the red-and-cream mass that was exposed brains like an odd hallucination.

  Well, fuck.

  She headed away from the chaos, through the park with its crowds and buskers and psychics, making it almost to the church before the buzz of a taser sounded, the crackle sharp under her ear. The look of a cassock was the last thing she’d seen.

  At least until now.

  Damn it.

  She timed her breathing with the creak of the boat, which would let her hear any other noises that stood out.

  If they were going to let her starve, why not untie her? Fuckers. She shifted, trying to figure out where she was hurt. Whatever they’d done to her, once she left the square and into the darkness of the alleyway, her memory was blank, just a big lovely black spot.

  When her ears started to ring she realized she was holding her breath, and she went back to in and out, inhale and exhale through her nose.

  There was a sore spot on the back of her head and it hurt to swallow, but her arms worked, her legs moved, and she started working on arching, on getting her cuffed arms to her ankles. Jane called her a contortionist sometimes, but this was why she did yoga. Her instructors would never believe it had such a practical application.

  It took forever to untie her feet, then another forever to finagle her cuffed hands under her butt and around her legs to they were in front.

  Perfect. Now all she had to do was find a light source. If she had company, they would have stopped her by now.

  She got to her feet, the motion of the boat stronger now, and mixed with her aching head and the darkness, it made her dizzy. She fought nausea, her head going bang bang bang.

  No. No, that wasn’t
her head. That wasn’t coming from inside her skull. It was coming from the outside of her box.

  Fuck, what was that? Was it industrial, or was someone trying to get in? She had to find a weapon.

  She stumbled forward until her cuffed hands hit a metal wall. Cargo.

  She was in a cargo container.

  Fuck.

  So, was she out in open water or still on a river barge? She pressed her ear to the wall and listened, but she couldn’t tell. Was she moving? Was the water just rough?

  Rose let her forehead rest against the metal, and she gave herself fifteen seconds to panic. That was it. Fifteen seconds of pure, unadulterated terror and no more.

  They wanted her scared, they wanted her alive, because someone wanted to make sure she hurt, to make sure she paid. So, she had to make sure she got away before they got to her, right? She drew in a deep breath, then another.

  All she needed to do was figure out where her limitations where, what she had to work with, and survive so she could call Jane, check in.

  If she got to murder a few motherfuckers on the way, all the better.

  The banging stopped, but the motion of the container didn’t. She thought maybe they were stationary, moored and floating, but not traveling. She moved faster, feeling for something she could work with—a screw, a crowbar, cargo. Anything.

  She found papers, some kind of plastic packing material. There. A scrap of pallet wood. She’d killed with less.

  Rose got it in her hands, testing it. Sharp, decently balanced. Okay. She felt better, just being armed. Now she had to conserve energy.

  Conserve energy and wait.

  All she needed was one opening.

  Just one.

  And then the fucking tide would turn.

  Chapter Seven

  The coffee shop seemed really fucking crowded, but that was okay with Jane. More witnesses, just in case the meeting went down wrong. She saw Ben first, the skeletal man impossible to miss. She always thought that was a shitty quality in a professional killer, but whatever. Marty was harder to spot, always had been.

  She scanned the crowd for him, knowing he had to be there. He never arrived last. Never.

  She caught Marty’s eyes from across the room, the man dressed in a hoodie and baggie jeans. Seriously? The man was aging backward.

  Getting partially out of the game was good for him. She grinned, then sauntered up to the counter to order an Americano.

  Ben was sitting with Marty, back to the corner, when she wandered by. “Hello, you hooligans.”

  “Hey, you.” Marty tilted his head, grinning.

  She sat. “So? Spill. What the fuck is going on?”

  Ben arched a snow-white eyebrow. “Classy.”

  She flipped him off. Jane wasn’t one to mince words and her girl was out there.

  Marty sighed. “Very unhappy father. The cartels are getting involved, and I think they’re tossing our thorny girl under the bus.”

  “Marquez?”

  “However did you guess?” Ben stared her down and she wanted to scream. Rosie hadn’t taken that mark. That had been her. Her.

  “That wasn’t her job. How did they finger her?”

  “That’s everywhere. She into bragging?” Marty asked.

  “My girl. Bah.” And everyone knew she didn’t talk. Aaron. It had to be Aaron. Either that or Rose’s handler, but that woman was dead. God damn it. Her lips twisted, sort of like the knife in her gut. “Where is she? Do we know?”

  “In a cargo container in Mobile. They moved her out of NOLA on a barge.”

  “In…she’s been gone for four days.” Four days. It took every ounce of Jane’s well-developed control not to shatter her coffee cup. She’d only gotten Rose back.

  Ben nodded. “They’ve gone in twice. The last time they took a man out with a strip of wood through his throat.

  “Christ. So they’re keeping her alive for him. Good. I have a shot at her.” And they wanted Rose to scream. You only kept someone like Rose alive to torture. Every cell in her body wanted to kill something. Now.

  “She was alive last night, from what I could tell from the surveillance.” Marty shrugged. “Scuttlebutt is they want you to take a shot at her. Literally. Clean up the loose end.”

  “What?” Her? No. No fucking way. She couldn’t. Rose was her girl.

  “It was either you or me, Janie.” Ben looked fucking tired. “I told them I’d tried for it, but couldn’t get a bead and had to get to Amsterdam for another job.”

  “Okay. Okay, when they contact me to do the job, I’ll agree. That will buy me some time.” Unless Aaron was in on it. If he was… Fuck. She nodded at Ben before staring at Marty. “How many of them will be on my tail reporting my movements?”

  “Me. I’ve got the job of reporting on you, in case your handler-murdering mark doesn’t die.” Marty winked, the move familiar and somehow right. “Then Ben’s supposed to take you out, so if you could wear a target, he’d appreciate it.”

  Goodie. She blew out a breath. “This could burn you, guys.”

  “Nah. I’ll be fine. I live for this shit. You, less so. You’ll have to make sure it looks good, if you don’t want to be on the run.” Ben looked so goddamn exhausted.

  “I’ll figure it. I may just have to retire after all.” She winked at him.

  “You? Right. I believe that.”

  “Hey, I could do the south of Spain.” Not that she and Rosie would ever go back to Malaga now. Maybe Seville. Or Tuscany. Her girl loved Italy. That was something she could do, for sure, look for a villa.

  “Jane.” Marty put a hand on her arm. “They want it done in forty-eight hours.”

  Forty-eight hours was two more days of those assholes hurting Rose. “Then I need to get to Mobile.”

  Ben pushed over a thumb drive. “Intel.”

  “Thanks. Any other words of warning?”

  “Don’t get real dead,” Marty said.

  “Just fake dead.” Ben’s wink was trying for playful.

  Jane snorted. “Not part of the plan. Y’all lay low.”

  “Always.” Marty grinned at her, but Ben didn’t. Ben just stared.

  “Benny, you got something else to say?”

  “Nope. You watch your back.”

  “I will.” She put a hand on his arm. God, he was burning up. She wondered if he was always that hot, or if he was sick or something. “All right, boys. If this goes down bad, I’m counting on you to get the mess cleaned up. Take us both out. Got it?”

  Marty nodded once. “We won’t leave you hanging.”

  “I know I can count on you.” She grabbed her cup and stood, her mind already racing with logistics.

  Her girl needed her.

  Now.

  Chapter Eight

  Rose knew one arm was broken, and she was fairly sure her cheekbone was cracked, although that could just be sore. They’d whipped her feet and hosed her down with icy water so much her skin felt burned.

  She’d killed two of them so far.

  It seemed fair to her.

  She wasn’t sure how much time had passed since the last visit, but she thought it should be soon. She tried to watch the movement of the sun around the edges of the crate and it felt like they came every few days. She got just enough water and dry crackers to keep her alive. Like they had read the torture manual on how to feed her by weight or something. She had tried at the beginning to do calisthenics, but now moving hurt too damn much. Rose conserved her energy instead.

  It wasn’t going to be long before she lost this fight, and she knew it. One more visit, maybe two, and this would be over.

  At least she assumed so. Whatever sick fucking entertainments they were keeping her alive for… They had to show up soon or she wouldn’t be able to scream loud enough to be amusing.

  She wasn’t sure if it was a comfort or just sick as fuck that she wasn’t scared. At this point she was just tired. Ready to get it on.

  She heard voices outside. No one ever answered when
she yelled, so they had to have her container someplace private. That meant the boys were back.

  Goody.

  She tensed her right arm, made sure not to move her left and shifted as far back into the corner as she could get. She’d have one chance to draw them in and use the darkness to her advantage.

  Come on. Come on, you fucks. Let’s do this.

  The door opened, just like always, only enough to let someone in without letting her out. The crack let in enough light to hurt her eyes, but she shut them, wanting to keep her sight.

  She could do this.

  She could.

  Rose spared a thought for Jane. Be safe, lady. Always. Gathering her legs under her, she readied herself to spring.

  The door opened wider, a heavy thud sounding, along with a grunt. A man stumbled inside and went to his knees.

  What the fuck? She stumbled along the wall, trying to stay out of the shaft of light.

  The guy flopped down like a poleaxed bear, and she waited for him to move. He didn’t. The blood coming out of the hole in his head did.

  One more man was out there, shouting and cursing. Time to get him down too. She stumbled over, biting back a scream as she forced her broken arm to move, her swollen fingers to search for a weapon. Come on.

  Her fingers wrapped around the butt of a pistol and she lifted it, heading for the sun. “Bastards!”

  Eyes adjusting to the light, she watched a hawk-faced man go down, his head all but exploding. Bam. She knew that shot like she knew the back of her hand.

  She stayed near the wall, pistol wavering as she fought to focus. Jane. Jane, I know you’re here. She panted her arms shaking. God, she was going to puke.

  The sound of rubber soles pounding pavement reached her ears just as Jane rounded the corner of the container, an avenging angel in jeans and combat boots and the coldest smile known to man. “Come on, baby. We got two and a half minutes.”

  “Two and a half minutes.” She stepped forward and voided bile, entire body convulsing for a long, precious second.

  “Yeah.” Jane waited her out, then yanked her up, arm around her for support. “Jesus.”