15. Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Fifteen
Kathleen exhaled an unsteady breath, listening intently. The faint echo of Finn’s footsteps faded rapidly.
Wilson had tried to have her killed—that meant he thought she was a threat. Which meant there must have been some way she could harm him. She had a job to do, and that meant she had to escape.
In her overtures toward Finn—she refused to think of him as the Hound—she was acting. It was all part of the plan. Play nice. And yet, the longer they’d sat there, Finn’s too-warm hand pressed between hers, the more Kathleen had realized she didn’t want to disturb the moment.
It had felt good. It had felt right.
She had been with many men over the years, but she had never let herself trust any of them. Everyone had their masks. And yet, when Finn uttered his name like it was the greatest secret in the world—along with the total vulnerability and trust beneath it—it had seized her heart and squeezed.
Well, shit. She was falling a little too hard into the role she was trying to play—and it had everything to do with the blue-eyed man who gazed at her like he was looking into the depths of her soul.
Keep it together, Harper, she warned herself. Still, his whole manner had transformed when she smiled at him; it was like he took a breath and relaxed for the first time since she had seen him.
When he finally withdrew his hand from hers, a genuine wave of disappointment engulfed her. Kathleen had spoken his name twice, but it wasn’t until he stared at her that she understood.
His expression had closed off, distant and cold, like the assassin Kathleen had met that first night had come back over him. She hadn’t been scared the first time she saw him. Now, her heart beat so fast she could feel it like a physical thing.
Finn’s abrupt exit had stunned her. It was almost like he was an entirely different person.
Her body felt stiff after too long on the hard floor, muscles slow to respond as she got up and moved to the toilet, the clink of the chain dragging behind her.
The porcelain was thick—but Finn had left her with one advantage. Kathleen was wearing her boots, the ones with the steel caps. Bracing herself against the wall, she began kicking at the bowl of the toilet, trying to hit the same spot over and over again. Her foot was going numb by the time the first crack appeared, so she switched to her left foot and kept hammering at it.
The crack came suddenly, water spilling everywhere. It still wasn’t enough to release the chain, and she switched feet again until the base itself cracked. Bracing against the wall, she pushed with her feet, and the whole thing shuddered. A second crack severed the bowl from the base. The edges were sharp, and she carefully freed the chain.
Step one. Done.
Kathleen was still behind a locked door, but she had more movement now.
Early in her career in the police force, she had tried shouldering a door open once, part of an effort to prove herself. She had dislocated her shoulder, much to the humiliating amusement of her fellow officers. There was a right way and a wrong way to do it—and being young and desperate to prove her worth, she hadn’t bothered to learn.
She was older and wiser now, and this time, when she slammed into the door, the pain that went up her shoulder was impact damage. It would bruise extensively, but she’d still have the use of her arm. On the second slam, the door shuddered and wood splintered. Inner doors weren’t as strong as the external ones, and after two more hits, it fell crookedly off its hinges.
The basement apartment was clean, with a sofa bed on a colorful rug from the seventies, which was almost as old as the television on a wooden stand. Late afternoon sunlight spilled through a tiny window at roof height, but it was far too small for her to get through.
Kathleen searched the room for any tools that could help her escape the flex cuffs, but there was nothing of use. She gathered up the chain so it wouldn’t rattle, climbing the stairs. She took care to place her feet on the edges where she hoped it wouldn’t creak.
At the top of the stairs was a cozy kitchen full of laminate bench tops and yellow cabinets. She reached for the cutlery draw, finding a knife to saw through the flex cuffs. It took a few precious minutes, but she needed her hands free.
Kathleen exhaled a sigh of relief when the cuffs broke, lowering it and the chain to the ground. She took the knife with her as she poked her head into the next room. The furniture in the living room appeared about as old as that in the basement. The walls were decorated with pictures of a smiling family—mom, dad, and two young boys. There was no resemblance to Finn—this wasn’t his house.
She looked through the front window, but her beloved Mustang wasn’t parked outside. Her gut twisted, hoping it was still beneath her building.
The discarded cuffs and chain would baffle the owners of this house when they found them on the kitchen floor. That wasn’t her problem, though. Kathleen exited through the kitchen door, which led to a small backyard that was more concrete than grass.
Just in case the front was being watched, she hopped the fence, accidentally trampling the neighbor's vegetables, and exited down the street. It wasn’t familiar, but she settled into a jog, heading for the busier crossroad in the distance. As she did, she patted down her pockets. To her surprise, she found her purse. To her disappointment, her phone, car keys, and badge were missing.
Finn must have them.
By sheer dumb luck, Kathleen immediately flagged down a passing cab. The driver was visibly bemused when she asked him where she was. Turned out she was less than twenty minutes from her condo.
Kathleen gave him her address and asked to borrow his phone for double the fare. She was dialing Gibson’s number before the driver pulled away from the curb.
“Gibson.”
“It’s Harper.”
“Harper? You know we don’t work Saturdays, right? You are allowed a day off.”
“Shut up, Gibson,” Kathleen said, and he must have heard the tension in her voice.
“What is it?”
“You ever heard of a group called Command? Might be a private mercenary outfit or closely tied with the government.”
A long pause of silence followed.
“Gibson?” Kathleen prodded.
“I don’t know. A spook story. I had to think about it. Something from years back. Some bloke I worked with back in Narcotics mentioned a black ops group. I figured he was a little off his rocker.”
“Can you find out more?”
Gibson exhaled. “It’s been ten years. I’d have to buy him a few beers, but he’d probably be willing to share.”
“Thanks. I owe you on this one.”
“You always do. Hey—I meant to mention last night that Liang’s brother and some of his cronies apparently flew into town from Los Angeles.”
“Ah, shit.” Kathleen sighed. “Liang Zhi, right? Goes by Richard?”
“That’s the one. They could be looking to fill the power vacuum, but it’s a sure bet there’s a side of revenge at play.”
“Right. Thanks for the heads-up. That tiny apartment down on Fifth still tied up in paperwork?”
“Far as I know. You thinking of lying low?”
“Seems safest.” And the triad wasn’t her sole worry. “Any chance I can get a ride into work on Monday?”
“What happened to the Mustang? Did you blow the engine again?”
“I did not!” Kathleen took a deep breath. “Later, Gibson.”
He was laughing as she hung up.
Finn was thirty miles from where he left Kathleen when he turned on his phone and texted the photos to the Handler. He was tempted to switch off the phone again immediately, but the lack of follow-up would receive attention far sooner.
He just had to hope he wouldn’t be recalled to the House.
Good work, as always, Hound, the response read.
Relief washed over him, too short to savor. His phone dinged with another message. His heart rate elevated—only a little—but at a statistically significant amount. He almost didn’t look at it, but he felt that compulsion.
You have earned yourself a break, Hound, the Handler’s message said.
Tension eased away from his muscles as he typed a response. Roger that.
Finn waited ten more minutes, but no further instructions came. He pulled the battery and SIM from the phone, storing it all in his pocket. He had already deposited the tracking chip in the pocket of a homeless man puttering near the underpass, along with several crisp new bills.
For the first time in a long time, Finn found himself torn with indecision. He knew he needed to go back to her—he couldn’t leave her tied up—but he also didn’t know what to do with her.
Perhaps it would come to him. His thoughts stilled, feeling calmer when he was near her. He pulled out his burner phone and checked her location. While she was out, inserting a small tracker into her purse was a simple matter.
She wasn’t where he left her.
Had the Handler found her? Command?
No. Finn would have been recalled to the House were that the case. She must have escaped on her own. He should have guessed; luckily, he could tell she was heading for her condo.
Finn climbed into her Mustang and revved the engine. It made him uncomfortable. It was too visible and too different from the vehicles he usually drove. His training told him to immediately swap it for a less noticeable car, but he enjoyed how it handled and how powerful it felt.
As the vehicle motored past the alley beside the building, he noted some figures loitering. Dangerous to some, but not to him, and he dismissed them from his immediate concern.
A transmitter in the Mustang triggered the gate to her parking garage as he pulled in a short time later. He looped the camera footage with his burner phone and climbed the stairs to her third-floor condo.
She had made an effort to protect herself. In addition to the deadbolt, there was a second lock and a chain. The latter wasn’t in place, telling him he had beat her home. The door opened easily to his lock picks and fifteen seconds of focused attention.
Finn stood in her private space, taking it in. It was exceptionally neat, something the training in him approved of. She had a significant collection of records, none of which he recognized. He did a quick toss of the condo, locating a pistol in one of the cupboards in the kitchen, a knife between the arm and cushion of the leather couch, and a second pistol under her pillow.
It was there, in her bedroom, he indulged. He lifted the soft pale blue pillow to his nose and breathed deeply, only to smell that same trace of coconut he had detected from her lock of hair. He touched his pocket to make sure the lock of hair was still there.
Retreating to the living room, he set all the weapons on the antique coffee table along with her phone and badge. Movement at the window caught his gaze, and he spun, reflexively drawing his pistol. A white-furred face looked at him inquisitively. He holstered the pistol and eased closer, cracking the window.
The thin cat meowed, leaping onto the sill and strolling across the floor of the condo as if it belonged there. Finn sat on the black leather couch, where he could see the door. The couch, contrary to appearance, was comfortable, a thing he noted without specific appreciation.
As he waited, the cat leaped onto the arm of the couch and meowed at him. He wasn’t sure what it wanted, and he tensed when it stepped onto his lap.
The cat settled down, its front paws kneading his legs. Finn was wearing thick leather pants, sufficient protection from bullets. Even so, he could almost feel the occasional pull of its claws.
Tentatively, he touched its fur and ran his hand along the cat’s back when it didn’t protest. The cat’s fur was exceptionally soft, though he could feel its bones under his touch.
Fragile. He could break it with the merest amount of pressure.
The cat chose that moment to turn in place, and he froze, fearing he might scare it away. It meowed again and rubbed its cheek against his fingers, held in mid-air.
Finn exhaled. Following the cat’s lead, he scratched at its cheek, then its chin. It flopped onto its side, sprawled across his lap, and pressed its head into his hands.
Finn relaxed. Marginally.
Kathleen handed the phone back to the cab driver. Ten minutes later, he pulled outside her building. She paid, got out, and headed for the front entrance. Twilight was creeping in, but the street lights had not yet switched on, throwing everything into a dingy shadow.
She stopped dead three steps before the alley next to her building.
Kathleen didn’t know precisely what it was. A scrape against the pavement. A movement out of the corner of her eye. A feeling in her gut. She still had the kitchen knife she had used to saw through the cuffs, and she drew it out of her jacket. Maybe it was paranoia.
Had Finn followed her here? Kathleen didn’t think so—he would have stopped her well before now—and there was no way he could have gotten ahead of her.
She eased to the corner, stilling as she saw the muzzle of a pistol. Two long seconds ticked by, and the figure edged out. She got the sense of dark hair, a narrow face, and dark clothes. That, and the sense of a killer. After several years in homicide, that particular skill was an instinct that had saved lives, mostly hers.
Kathleen grabbed at the gun with her left hand. Her right—holding the knife—slashed across the man’s wrist. His fingers instinctively jerked and loosened, and she snatched the pistol from him a second later.
He looked surprised at the outcome. Especially when she leveled the weapon at him.
Kathleen wasn’t sure she could shoot that well with her left hand, but the point was to scare him. “Mugger, or something else?”
She got the distinct feeling it was the latter.
Now that she had a better look at him, she could see his Asian features. What were the chances that he wasn’t part of the triad group her partner had just warned her about?
“Huh?” He grimaced, pressing a hand over his wrist. “You fuckin’ cut me!”
“I’ll cut something else off if you don’t get out of here. You don’t fuck with a cop in DC, idiot.”
He grinned. “Oh yeah?” He yelled in Mandarin. Kathleen understood just enough to get the gist. The cow we seek is here.
It might have been a mistranslation. Then again, it probably wasn’t. Kathleen wasn’t going to take a chance: she swapped the weapon to her right hand and shot him in the knee.
He cried out, collapsing onto the pavement.
Kathleen circled past him, glancing down the alley, and saw them: four men approaching. Each was brandishing a weapon—a baseball bat, a machete, a shotgun, and a pair of knives. The one at the front, carrying the shotgun, looked familiar. He must have been Daniel Liang’s brother, Richard.
She eased left behind the dumpster. She could run into her building, but she didn’t want to pull this heat down on her doorman or any other residents who happened to be around.
“I didn’t kill your brother,” Kathleen called.
“Doesn’t matter. He’s dead, and someone has to pay,” Richard snarled back.
So much for negotiation.
Richard waved, and two of his men came forward. One wielding the baseball bat, one with the machete. It wasn’t even anything Kathleen debated. She shot Machete in the left knee, and he stumbled to the ground, howling in pain. Baseball Bat closed fast.
Kathleen ducked the first swing. She squeezed the trigger, but the shot was less aimed than she would have preferred. Baseball Bat grunted in response but didn’t drop. She couldn’t see where she had hit him—or if she had at all.
This time, Baseball Bat slammed the end into her chest, driving her into the dumpster. She dropped the pistol, but instinct made her tighten her hand on the knife.
Kathleen didn’t have much leverage in this position, but she kicked out with her steel tip boot and caught something soft and yielding. Baseball Bat groaned in a satisfying way, and the pressure of the bat against her chest was gone.
She sucked in a breath. Movement caught her gaze.
Knives stepped over Machete like he didn’t matter, advancing.
Kathleen eased away from the dumpster, not wanting to get trapped there as Knives closed. He feinted toward her. Once, twice, and on the third one, he closed, coming in with a swing of his left hand. It cut a long graze down her arm. It stung, but it wasn’t deep,
They edged around each other, testing.
A shotgun roared, startling both of them. Knives caught most of the blast from Richard’s gun, but she felt the impact as several of the pellets slammed into her shoulder. He had been standing distant enough that the spray dispersed, but clearly, Richard didn’t value his own men highly.
Knives was in pain. Kathleen could see it in his eyes. But there was an honor code that prevented him from giving up. He stepped forward again.
“Wilson,” Kathleen yelled. “Wyatt Wilson is the one you want.”
Richard’s eyes narrowed. “Why should I believe you, pig?”
Kathleen’s shoulder was stinging. She desperately wanted to see Richard’s face, see if she was getting through to him, but she didn't dare take her eyes off Knives. “I tried to protect your brother. I needed him alive. Wilson hired him to kill a politician. It’s Wilson I wanted, not your brother. But he was a loose end. Wilson tied it up.”
Several tense seconds passed. Richard called for Knives to help his fellow soldier up. Obediently—and with relief, Kathleen saw—Knives put away his weapons and went to help Machete to his feet. Baseball bat did the same for the first unfortunate soldier.
Her posture eased, but she watched them attentively. Richard most of all.
“If I find out you’re lying…” Richard stared at her. He didn’t need to voice the threat: Kathleen could see it in his dark brown eyes. Along with the grief he was working hard to conceal.
“I’m not lying,” Kathleen said as she lowered the knife to her side.
Richard grunted, glanced at his crew, and they limped away.
Kathleen sighed out a breath, then quartered the area, securing the pistol. She didn’t plan to keep it—it was likely tied to several murders—but she didn’t want to leave it here for some kid to find.
“Hey, Detective Harp—” Ben’s cheerful greeting cut short. “Are you all right?”
“Tough day at the office.” Kathleen smiled at him. “No visitors today, yeah?”
Ben chuckled a little weakly, his sharp eyes taking her in. Kathleen had never had anyone over. “Sure thing.”
Kathleen leaned against the elevator wall as it rose to the third floor. She could feel a wetness down her shoulder and arm. She could call it in, but that would prompt questions that would inevitably lead to the fact that she had confronted Wilson against her Captain’s wishes.
What a fucking mess.
She was relieved to be stepping back into the sanctuary of her condo. Then, with a shiver, the remembered it was not such a sanctuary anymore. The lure of a hot shower and the softness of her bed called her, but she intended to do nothing more than pack a bag and run.
Kathleen was not expecting to see Finn Kingsley sitting on her couch. Even more unlikely, he was casually patting the white cat she had been trying—and failing—to coax inside for months.
Well, shit.