Kitabı oku: «Warrior Without A Cause», sayfa 4

And now here was a man she wouldn’t have thought had any soft edges, soothing her hair and quieting her hitching sobs.

Her hands opened, spreading wide and not coming close to encompassing the breadth of his shoulders. Soft edges? Hardly. He might well have been hewn of warm granite under the snug pull of cotton. Her thumbs shifted, tracing the swell of muscle and in one breath, her sob dissolved into something suspiciously like a sigh.

Fearing he’d heard it, Tessa started looking for a graceful way to escape his arms. How could she let him see her so achingly vulnerable and still demand his respect? She rubbed her face against his chest to erase the tears before struggling to lean away. His arms gave gradually, almost with reluctance. She couldn’t quite meet his gaze, afraid of what she’d see there.

“I’m sorry. Just a nightmare.”

“I heard you cry out. I came down when you didn’t show up for your lesson.” His words petered out until an awkward silence pushed between them more forcefully than physical distance. She snagged a quick breath as he rubbed away the last damp trail of evidence from her cheek with the slow drag of his thumb. Calloused yet unbearably tender. She sat back so fast the top of her head came up under his jaw, snapping his teeth together like a trap. She did glance up then, fatalistically drawn to see the quizzical knitting of his dark brows. He seemed bemused. Somehow, that was all too intimate.

“You shouldn’t be here. What if your wife—”

She hauled in the blurted statement when his expression froze over.

“I don’t have a wife,” he said at last, enunciating with surgical precision. “I don’t belong to any woman or any career. I am my own man, Ms. D’Angelo, and I like it that way.”

The strange choking sensation building up from her chest to wad in her throat made her next words rumble.

“That’s the way I like it, too, Mr. Chaney. You’ve made it perfectly clear that the only thing on your agenda is not to get involved, with my mission or my motives. And I will not allow any intrusions into my search for justice, especially from a man who knows nothing about honor.”

For a moment he said nothing, then, oddly, he smiled. “Well, since it seems you’re so eager to get started with full contact, let’s get to it.”

Chapter 4

For a moment she saw stars.

“Don’t drop your hand.”

Tessa sent out a punch and within a heartbeat her jaw numbed from the shock of another impact.

“What did I just tell you?”

“Don’t drop your hand,” she muttered through her mouth guard.

“Relax.”

She stepped back and rolled her shoulders to ease the tension in them.

“Make a fist. Thumbs to your temples. Move them out about six inches from your body and at nose level. Elbows and fists at a forty-five degree. Good. Now keep that guard up. Your opponent is not going to stand there and let you hit them. They will hit you back. Concentrate. What are you thinking?”

She was thinking that he wasn’t married.

She probably deserved every jab he shot through her weak defense because of the odd elation that scrambled her timing and most likely her brain.

Why should she care if Jack Chaney was single?

Maybe she’d taken one too many punches.

Looking at him in the fading daylight, dark, tough, aggressive in his baggy gray sweatsuit, all she could think of was the tenderness in his touch. I won’t let anyone hurt you. She believed him and for the first time in over a month, the crushing panic was gone from inside her chest. I won’t let anyone hurt you. Funny how such a simple claim from a near stranger could release her fears.

But Jack wasn’t going to be there to protect her once she left his forest retreat, so she’d better listen and learn how to do it for herself.

“Never assume every opponent is going to respond the same way to a kick or a punch. Some you can drop, some will just shake it off and keep coming. Winning involves timing, speed, coordination and technique but none of those mean anything if you don’t keep fighting. When it’s time to fight, go at it one hundred and ten percent. You do whatever is necessary until your opponent is neutralized. Once you commit to fighting back, use surprise. React quickly when your opponent doesn’t expect it and do it with force. No hesitation. Be prepared to hit and keep on hitting until your opponent is no longer a threat. Then break off. That’s the difference between reasonable and excessive force. Be alert, decisive and aggressive. SEALs call that the warrior mind-set. Be aware of your surroundings. Be ready to act when you need to and be ready to commit that hundred and ten percent.”

She’d started to nod when she saw the blur of his right hook coming. And surprisingly, instinctively, her hand was there to deflect it. In the same motion, her right jabbed out to connect solidly with his chin. It wasn’t a hard pop or a damaging one. It didn’t stagger him or even cause him to flinch. But she’d made contact. Quickly, decisively and with aggression.

Jack grinned. “That’s what I’m talking about. Ready to mix it up some more?”

“Bring it on, Chaney.”

As they sat at the war room table eating a delicious meal laid out by the silent and nearly invisible Constanza, Jack continued to instruct and Tessa listened. Still flushed with the accomplishment of landing her first blow, she allowed herself the illusion of being one of his capable trainees preparing to do battle. In a way, she was. The men who’d framed and murdered her father were still out there and they’d made it clear they weren’t going to accept her interference quietly.

“There are four levels of readiness,” Jack was saying as he forked rice and beans into a warm tortilla. “Most people wander around in the white level, totally oblivious to what’s going on around them. It’s in this unaware comfort zone that people are the most vulnerable and when they’ll most likely be attacked.”

Tessa could see herself entering her apartment, as white as the rice on the table, seeing warning signs all around her yet clueless as to the danger. She’d been vulnerable, a victim.

“Every average citizen needs to increase their awareness to the yellow level. This isn’t a state of paranoia. It’s a state of preparedness. Awareness is a tremendously powerful tool that uses all your senses. You take the time to notice your surroundings so you can foresee potential problems. Watch people for verbal cues and body language. Learn the names of the security people who work in your building and make sure they know you. Know where the alarm buttons are, where the exits are, just like on an airplane. When you’re going someplace new, plan your transportation routes in advance. Walk closer to the street than to alleys and doorways. Ask yourself, if you were an attacker, where would you hide? Carry your body confidently. Walk or stand erect in a way that conveys assertiveness. When you pass someone, look them in the eye. Let them know you see them but maintain your personal space of at least two arm lengths. That’s your safety zone.”

It made sense. Tessa nodded. She’d been a victim. She’d walked right into a situation, blindly, trustingly. She understood the analogy. When you’re on an airplane that’s going down, it’s too late to look in the seat back flyer to locate exits and safety equipment. She rolled another tortilla and munched thoughtfully, passing a piece of the delicately spiced chicken down to Tinker.

“Once you’re in the yellow zone, proceeding with caution, and you know something isn’t right, that something bad might happen, you slip into the orange level of readiness. At this point, you know some action is necessary on your part. You either have to get away from the situation or be prepared to confront it. Moving quickly and decisively from yellow to orange is vital to your personal safety and self-defense. You have to be prepared to weigh your options and make your move. Be ready to jump into red if necessary. That’s where you hit first, where you do whatever you need to do, and do it immediately, for your safety or the protection of your loved ones.”

She felt a twinge of remorse. Too late. She’d been too slow to action, to even suspect. She could hear the muted voices in her father’s office, behind his closed door, but she still hadn’t reacted with more than puzzlement. Then the shot. She’d been paralyzed for how long, for how many vital seconds, while the perpetrator escaped?

Jack was studying her, his features impassive. Did he see her guilt, her grief? He could have said something to lessen her sense of blame but he didn’t. There was no way to do that now. She’d buried her father. But she wasn’t about to let her mother bury her. Instead of telling her to forgive herself, Jack explained away her culpability with a simple statement.

“We live in a passive society. We depend on other people to protect us. We see ourselves as having no control over our surroundings. We’re victims before the fact, accidents waiting to happen. But it doesn’t have to happen if you’re ready for it. Be prepared to fight. Be prepared to get in that first punch. Once you let your opponent take control, you’re in trouble. If you let them take you away from the initial point of attack, statistics show you only have a three percent chance of survival. Don’t give them that control. Be ready. Don’t hesitate. Be proud and indignant. They can’t do this to you. The strong and aggressive survive, Tessa. I didn’t make up those rules but you’d better learn to follow them.”

And she would.

Peripherally, she realized he’d called her by her first name. She wondered if he’d meant to or if he was unaware of it. Going from Ms. D’Angelo to Tessa put them on a new level of intimacy, and because of it, she found herself saying, “He hurt me, Jack. He surprised me and hurt me in my own home. I never saw it coming and I couldn’t get away. He wanted to scare me and he did. He terrorized me for I don’t know how long. I’d come around and think he was gone and then I’d hear him and see those creased trousers. And he’d hit me…”

She felt it all over again, the terror, the pain, the awful feeling of having no control. Coldness shuddered out from her belly, radiating outward to chill her heart, to freeze her blood, to immobilize her muscles.

And then Jack’s big, warm hand settled firmly over hers. His expression was intense, his features inscrutable. He didn’t try to tell her it would be all right. He didn’t try to tell her to let it go. He made her face it, head-on, right back into the hell of that night.

“What was he doing there, Tessa? What did he want?”

She blinked up at him through the glaze of her tears, trying to focus on what he was asking. “What was he doing?”

“The police report said it was a robbery. Was anything missing?”

“No.” Her tone steadied. “It wasn’t a robbery.”

“Then what was he doing there? Why did he stay after you walked in on him? Tessa, did he do anything else to you?” Though his tone didn’t actually change, it was suddenly infused with a harsh grittiness. The voice of a truly dangerous man.

“He was in my room.” She could hear the sounds from the bedroom, the sounds of drawers being opened and shut. The shuffle of papers, the sounds of her belongings being tossed carelessly to the floor. “He was looking for something.”

“What? What did he think you had?”

The fear fell away before a new cool logic. “Evidence. Evidence against him or his boss. Whatever my father was planning to use to indict them.”

“Did your father usually send files home with you?”

“I took things home with me all the time. My work day didn’t end at five.”

“What cases were you working on? What was big enough for them to resort to murder?”

“We were in the middle of a lot of cases but just one big, ugly confrontation. Councilman Rachel Martinez. She and my father were planning to run for the same congressional seat. Only, when we started digging into her background, unpleasant things started popping up. Things my father believed linked her to drug trafficking and an overseas pipeline.”

“The same things your father was accused of.” He said it flatly, noncommittally.

“Fancy that.”

“Mmm.”

“I think Martinez had him killed.”

“You can think what you like but proving it is another thing. What did your father have on her?”

Tessa rubbed her brow in frustration. “I don’t know. That’s the problem. Usually we worked on everything together, a team effort. But he wouldn’t confide in me on this one. He was putting together a solid case, was all he’d say.”

“Whatever he had, they didn’t find it when they killed him or maybe you chased them off before they had the chance. If they had found it, they wouldn’t have come after you. The police never found any link between drugs and Martinez.”

“They weren’t looking in that direction.” Her tone snapped like brittle ice. “They gave their report based on the testimony of some sniveling junkie looking to cut a deal. They took his word, a three-time loser, over my father’s. All the good he’d done, all the criminals he’d put away, and they took the word of a felon.”

“Our system loves to condemn its own heroes,” was Jack’s philosophical response.

“Yeah, well, it stinks. It really stinks. And now the real villain is still out there because there’s no one like my father willing to hunt him down.”

“Yes there is.”

Her. He meant her.

“Like father, like daughter,” he summed up succinctly. “Isn’t that why you’re doing this? Because just like him, you couldn’t let it go, you couldn’t let them go unpunished?”

Her reply was soft, humbled. “Something like that.”

“Then don’t let them get away with it.”

Fear unexpectedly stabbed through her insides, making her go all cold again. “I can still hear his voice, Jack.”

Walk away while you can. My next visit won’t be quite so pleasant.

“And you’re afraid of what he said.”

She didn’t have to answer.

Jack wanted to curse. He wanted to shake her. He wanted to crush her close in his arms and never let her go. Didn’t she realize the danger she was in if any of what she suspected was true? Why couldn’t she be like ninety-nine point nine percent of the populace and give up and let it go? Like father, like daughter. She’d sunk in her teeth and she wouldn’t release that bite, not ever. Not even after they struck her and threatened her. Not even when the system that was set up to protect her, failed her. Didn’t she know how easily professional men—men like him—could break her delicate bones?

He’d been crazy to bring her here, to train her, to give her the illusion that she’d actually have a chance against some thug bent on destroying that which made her so unique in his eyes. But if he sent her away as unprepared as she was now, she wouldn’t have a chance at all. And he’d be reading her obituary in the paper.

Damned if he did, damned if he didn’t. Already damned, truth be told.

“He meant to scare you with what he said to you. If you cower in fear every time you think of his words, he’s won and you might as well give up. Right here, right now. Is that what you want to do?”

He knew the effect his goading words would have. She bristled, the glistening panic in her eyes becoming a steely sheen of determination.

“No.”

“Then get mad. Play that voice in your head and get mad as hell. He was in your home. He hurt you to intimidate you, to warn you away. If he thought you were a real threat, he would have killed you. He expects you to hide. He expects you to shiver every time you think of him and what he did, what he might do. Is he right?”

“No.” A faint yet steady conclusion.

“Then turn that anger into power, into aggression, into focus. How dare he? Who does he think he is to steal control of your life? Are you going to let him?”

“No.”

“Who’s going to stop him?”

“I am.”

“Who is?”

“I am.”

“Attagirl.” He pushed back from the table. “Read lessons five through eight and get ready to rumble right after tomorrow’s run.”

“I’ll be ready.”

“Not if you let him sneak into your dreams and keep you up all night.”

“I won’t let him.”

“Good.”

He left her sitting at the table, filled with an aggressiveness that he’d spoonfed to her. Tessa D’Angelo, his fierce, fragile avenging angel. And what did that make him? The protective guardian watching over her? He stepped out into the cool night and inhaled a deep breath. It would be emotional suicide to think he could be anything else.

Her world was black and white, right and wrong, while his had always been shifting shades of gray. He mocked the sense of fair play and justice she stood for and she scorned his lack of convictions. He tried to shrug it off. Why should her opinion matter to him?

Maybe because of the way she’d felt in his arms. A man could get used to that feeling real fast.

He snorted. What was he thinking? That Tessa was going to throw herself into his arms? Throw a right hook was more like it. He’d made it clear that his life was off-limits so why was he even entertaining the idea of finding a place to fit within hers? He liked his life the way it was—simple, direct, uncomplicated.

Lonely.

He’d cut himself off from the things that mattered to Tessa, things such as involvement and caring and honor. He’d been there, done that and still had the scars to prove it. Scars that burned every time he looked into a little girl’s eyes and saw her mother there.

He started back to the house, his Fortress of Solitude. If it was good enough for a superhero, it was good enough for him. He’d surrounded himself with things that were important to him: comfort, beauty, peace and quiet. And then he’d let Tessa elbow her way in, demanding he reprioritize. Well, he wasn’t going to. Not for a woman who was going to be here and gone. Not for a woman who asked him to take up her cause and get burned by it. Not for a maddeningly independent woman who believed he had a conscience for hire.

He climbed up onto his porch but the usual feeling of welcome was missing. He turned to look down at the barracks, with its one light burning, and a sense of belonging began to tug annoyingly at the edges of his heart and mind. Tessa D’Angelo, the woman who filled his thoughts with foolish, heroic ideas he’d long outgrown, the woman who made him ache with desires he’d long pushed from his life, called to a conscience he didn’t want to claim.

“How’s she doing?”

“Tougher than she looks,” Jack admitted reluctantly.

Stan laughed on the other end of the connection. “Warned you, didn’t I? Told you she wasn’t going to be easy to discourage.”

“Point taken.” He hesitated then figured he might as well plunge right in. “Did you find out anything on your end yet?”

Stan was silent, probably surprised into swallowing his tongue. Finally he recovered. “Are you asking out of idle curiosity or because you really want to know?”

“Don’t get cute, Kovacs. It was just a question.”

Stan’s sigh was heavy. “And that’s all I’ve found. A lot of unanswered questions. Rob always called me in to do his investigative legwork. Always. But not this time. He was playing this one close to the cuff. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it was personal.”

“Because he was planning to run against Martinez?”

“No. That would be business and to Rob, business was business. Only family was personal.”

“If he had information on Rachel Martinez that he wasn’t ready to let anyone see, where would he keep it?”

“In the office, but I’ve been over everything. I’ve gone through every piece of paper, every computer file. There’s nothing on Martinez. Just a file on his potential campaign strategy against her.”

“Would he have won?”

“Won what?”

“The election,” Jack asked out of interest. He was rabidly apolitical but this wasn’t about party lines. It was about the lines of anxiety that tightened around Tessa’s mouth and eyes.

“Polls gave him sixty-three percent to Martinez’s thirty-seven.”

“Is Martinez the kind of woman who would murder over that twenty-six-percent margin?”

“Don’t know. She grew up in the school of hard knocks. Got elected because of it. You know, wrong-side-of-the-tracks girl with motivation escapes dead end of gangs and drugs to make good. Horatio Alger stuff. The public eats it up. Maybe she didn’t disassociate herself from some of that bad company she grew up with. Maybe she was owed some favors and called them in. Politics is a dirty business.”

“But is it a killing business?” That’s what he needed to know.

Stan mused for moment then said, “You sound like you’re starting to believe her.”

“Just an overly active imagination, Stan. I like a good brain teaser. You know me.”

“Yeah, Jack. I do. And this isn’t like you. She getting to you?”

Jack didn’t like what that question implied. “Yeah, she got to me with a right jab this afternoon. Stung like a son of a gun.”

Stan laughed but he wouldn’t be dissuaded. “She’s a pistol, our little Tessa. And she grows on you, whether you like it or not.”

“She’s not putting down any roots here, Kovacs. So you’d better get out there and find out something fast. Because if you don’t, she’s going to wade right back into the middle of a whole lot of hurt.”

“I hear you,” Stan replied glumly.

Then something else occurred to Jack. “Did D’Angelo have a home office?”

Stan considered this then admitted, “I don’t know. He might have. He didn’t like leaving Barbara alone for very long.”

“Barbara?”

“The missus.”

Jack recalled the elegant woman standing at D’Angelo’s side opposite Tessa. “Have you looked there?”

“I didn’t want to intrude yet. She was pretty broken up about…everything. Her two boys have been staying with her, helping her get things in order. They’re flying out on Friday. I was planning to make a call then.”

Good. Until Friday, the D’Angelo home was secure and Barbara D’Angelo safe in the company of her sons. Why wasn’t her daughter there to keep her company, as well, instead of out chasing after vague hopes and suspicions?

None of his business.

“Let me know what you find out, Stan.”

“Will do. And, Jack…keep her safe.”

“Don’t make her my problem, Stan,” Jack warned as the claustrophobic sense of commitment crowded in.

“She already is.”

Get mad and get even. Tessa liked the sound of that but thinking about it and realizing it were two different animals. Adopting a tough pose in front of Jack wasn’t the same thing as fighting off the suffocating panic that fell over her in the night.

I won’t let him, she’d told Jack so boldly. Did she have the courage to push her assailant out of her mind, out of her dreams? He’d taken control of her life for long enough. He’d stolen her sense of security, of trust, of control. He’d left her trembling and shattered on the floor of her apartment. He’d left her shivering and weak with dread beneath her covers. And now, he’d left her…stronger.

The notion surprised her. Yes, stronger. He’d shaken her from her complacency. He’d shown her a cruelty she never thought she’d have to experience. The fear, the pain, prepared her to fight back. To get mad. Damn him for taking her life away from her. Well, she was going to take it back. And she was not going to let his boss smear her father’s name and spit on everything he stood for, on everything she believed in.

The truth was out there. The hard, cold facts that would restore her father’s good name. No one else was going to do it. The police had turned away, case closed. Even his legal associates winced from the whole affair as if Robert D’Angelo had tarnished their institution. Only Stan stuck by him, remembering the man her father was, not the greedy abomination the press had created circumstantially.

If only he’d lived to prove himself innocent.

The man with the sinister voice had stolen that opportunity. Along with her chance of ever realizing a father’s love.

Too restless to endure her own company in the big, empty barracks, Tessa slipped carefully out onto the porch. The night air caressed her fevered cheeks, cooled her rage, soothed her pain. With the moon shining ripe and heavy overhead, the surroundings were illuminated by a soft, silvery glow. Mindful of Jack’s warning, she stepped off the porch and onto the path that led along the edge of the stream. It would have been easy to lose herself in thought but she’d never wander in that placid white zone again. She moved purposefully, surveying her environment and listening to the night. And amazingly, she noticed that it wasn’t quiet at all.

Frogs sounded from somewhere in the thick pads where the stream angled in its serpentine course. Crickets chirped their last songs of the season. Somewhere a distant dog howled. Or was it a coyote? She’d heard there were coyotes in the north woods. The occasional screech of night birds, of owls and hawks punctuated the subtle music of the forest. And suddenly she didn’t feel so alone.

She heard another sound, one not of nature or its creatures.

A twig snapped behind her.

Tessa immediately shifted into a level orange.

She’d gone a lot farther from the barracks than she’d planned. Through the thick stand of pines, she could faintly make out the light she’d left burning. She couldn’t even see the main house. She’d let herself get separated from her safe zone, an easy target, a victim.

Or was that what Jack was hoping?

Irritation spiked. Of course. He’d seen her leave the porch even after he’d laid down Chaney’s Law. So, to teach her another lesson in consequence, he’d come creeping after her in the dark, hoping to jump out at her, catching her unaware and thus prove his point.

Well, maybe that was what he’d planned but it wasn’t going to happen.

Sweeping the ground with a glance, she found a substantial branch about a yard in length and as big around as her wrist. She picked it up, hefting it to gage its effectiveness as a weapon. It probably wouldn’t incapacitate him but it would certainly get his attention. Smiling grimly at the thought of Jack’s unexpected welcome, she stepped off the path into the deep shadow of an oak tree. There, she waited, quieting her breathing so she could hear every scuffle of leaves, every stir of stones. Until her stalker was upon her.

“Hiyyya!”

She leaped out from behind the tree, brandishing her makeshift cudgel, ready to smack him senseless for thinking to scare her.

But instead of Jack Chaney, she confronted a much smaller form, a figure that fell back and down the slope to the stream. With a very feminine squeal.