Prescription: Makeover

All three were white guys in their late fifties, maybe early sixties, well-groomed and wearing expensive suits in shades of blue or gray. They exuded a homogeneity, a sameness she would have found vaguely creepy under other circumstances. As it was, all Ike felt was a burn of hatred. An ache for revenge. For justice.

The bastards had killed Zed with a bullet meant for her, and she planned to make them pay.

WILLIAM REACHED THE Coach House a few minutes late for the meeting, thanks to Max and his “favor,” along with the Friday night traffic between NYC and western Connecticut.

He parked his ride—an ice-blue BMW convertible he’d borrowed from a friend of a friend and disguised with fake tags that matched equally fake DMV records in the name of Emmett Grant. The cover was solid. It’d better be, William thought with a grimace. I paid enough for it.

The free cover stories were one of the few things he missed about working for the feds, but the money had been well spent. All but the most in depth background check would show that Emmett Grant was a slightly shady entrepreneur who’d cashed out just before the Internet bubble burst and was now looking to reinvest in the pharmaceutical market. William had the car and ID to match the image and he was dressed for the part in a custom suit—also borrowed—and the good watch his father had given him when he’d left for the Marines. High-quality fake facial hair and a touch of silver at his temples completed the disguise.

He figured he looked like new money and he’d done plenty of research to back up the cover story. He didn’t need to have any medical or scientific expertise, he just had to know the money talk, and that was second nature after his years undercover inside the Trehern organization.

When memories of that other assignment threatened to surface, he shoved them down deep and climbed out of the sports car, slamming the door harder than necessary. Then he took a breath and looked up at the Coach House, which was carved stone across the front, ivy-draped brick on the sides.

Unlike his cover story, the building reeked of old money.

William straightened his tie, a splash of lemon yellow against the suit. Then he said, “I am Emmett Grant.”

The identity settled over him like a cloak, an invisible weight that would remain until he consciously dropped the persona. He became Emmett Grant, a sharp-minded hustler who’d come from humble roots and didn’t mind sidestepping a few laws to get himself the best of everything.

As he walked across the parking area, past four other high-dollar rides, he mentally reviewed his e-mail exchange with his contact, Dr. Paul Berryville.

After Frederick Forsythe’s arrest, William had put out feelers through a carefully cloaked e-mail address, pretending to be a businessman who’d heard rumors that The Nine were for real. Over time, he’d filtered out the respondents until he was left with Berryville, who’d led him in a careful dance of innuendo and double meaning that had finally culminated in an invitation. Meet me at the Coach House at 8:00 p.m. sharp Friday. Some people want to meet you.

Berryville was waiting for him at the door. The silver-haired scientist’s career had been on the brink of complete collapse a few years earlier, when new evidence had conveniently surfaced clearing him of major ethics charges. Now he was the head of a major R & D group, thanks to the power of The Nine.

Berryville frowned, the expression stretching his face-lift-tight skin. “You’re late.”

“Sorry,” William said. “Traffic was a bitch.”

“They’re waiting for us.” Berryville hurried ahead, nerves evident in his quick strides and his silence as he led William through the front rooms of the wood-paneled Coach House, where tables and cocktail rounds sat empty.

“Did you guys buy out the whole restaurant just for this meeting?” William asked, pausing at the base of a flight of carpeted stairs and peering up at the equally deserted-feeling second floor.

“We value our privacy,” Berryville replied. Then he stopped and turned to look down at William from six steps up. “When we get in there, don’t say anything. Speak when spoken to and think before you answer a question. You’ll only get one chance to make a good impression.”

William’s scalp tingled with sudden foreboding as he realized he’d miscalculated. Berryville had hinted that he carried weight within the group, and William had taken that information at face value. But a powerful man wouldn’t have a faint sheen of sweat on his brow or a nervous tremor in his hands right now, would he?

Berryville was terrified, which could only mean that he was one of the smaller cogs in the organization, bringing the big boys a present and hoping they’d like it.

Hell, William thought as he followed Berryville up the stairs to the second floor, wishing he’d let Max in on the meeting. He could be in some serious trouble here, without a stitch of backup.

IKE PRESSED HER CHEEK against mist-slicked bricks and lifted the mirror higher, trying to figure out who was speaking as words carried to her.

“What do you know about this guy?”

“Not much,” a second voice answered, deeper than the first. “Berryville’s bringing him in. Says he’s a perfect fit.”

It took a moment for the words to connect. Then excitement zinged through her when she realized they must be interviewing Forsythe’s replacement. More importantly, there were nine chairs, which meant the whole group was going to be there, including their leader, who was called Odin after the ruler of the nine worlds in Norse mythology.

Fingers shaking slightly, she fumbled in the fanny pack for her camera.

If she could get some faces, her computers should be able to match names. Maybe that’d be enough to pull the data threads together, enough to convince the feds that Zed’s death hadn’t been random, that The Nine were more than just an urban legend in the scientific community.

She eased the digital camera up and over the edge, zoomed in on the men and clicked off half a dozen shots. Then she lowered the camera and used the miniscule toggle buttons to flip through the images on-screen, cursing inwardly when she saw that the tiny, blurred photos weren’t going to do her any good. Not even her sophisticated cleanup programs could help these shots, and too much digital enhancement would skew the results so they’d never stand up to FBI-level scrutiny.

She needed to get closer.

Bad idea, her inner voice hissed, but she silenced it with three whispered words. “I owe Zed.”

He’d still be alive if she’d been more careful. Instead he’d been buried while his parents and sisters had wept. She couldn’t bring him back. But moments before they’d closed his casket for the last time, as she’d pulled the black diamond stud from her ear and placed it in his cool palm, she’d vowed to make sure his killers didn’t get away with their crime.

Now, thinking fast, she withdrew a small hand-held computer from her pack and pulled up the Coach House blueprints on the tiny screen. She could swear she’d seen—ah, there it was, a small alcove near the meeting room. If she could get into the sheltered nook safely, she should have a better angle for photos. If being the operative word.

Breathing lightly through her mouth, she looked down to make sure the coast was clear. Nerves hummed beneath her skin, reminding her that although some of her freelancing had skirted over the edge of legal, most of her work was done via the keyboards and high-speed connections of her three trusty computers, Tom, Dick and Harry.

Until now, that is. But there was a first time for everything, and Ike was all about trying new things.

Seeing nothing below but Dumpster shadows and wet pavement, she worked her way over to where a ladder of sorts was formed by the regularly spaced braces that attached a wide gutter pipe to the building.

She was halfway down the pipe when something metal snagged her fanny pack, then pulled free, snapping back against the pipe with a loud clang.

Damn! If anyone were keeping an eye on things from the outside, they were guaranteed to have heard the noise. Heart drumming in her ears, she scrambled down the makeshift ladder and dropped to the cracked tarmac. Then she froze and listened for the sounds of an alarm.

Nothing.

Relaxing slightly, she shifted her fanny pack, more for reassurance than anything, and headed toward the nearer corner of the building, hoping there was a ground-level door she could slip through. She was halfway there when a heavy blow hit her from behind, driving her forward.

Ike bit off a scream as her attacker slammed her face-first into the building.

“What have we got here?” His voice was rough and a little mocking. “Looks like a spy. Kind of cute, too.”

She fought the instinctive fear, telling herself she could handle this, she could. But panic spiked when he pressed closer, his body crowding her, trapping her so she couldn’t move, couldn’t escape. Fear exploded, making her whimper a protest.

Her captor chuckled and swiped his tongue along her ear, getting off on her terror. He shifted again, pressing into her.

“Knock it off,” a second man’s voice ordered, sounding older, more cultured, and annoyed. Ike turned her head and saw a trim gray-haired man wearing a dark charcoal suit. He gestured to the building and said, “Bring her along. She may prove useful.”

Chapter Three

From the hallway William heard a man’s voice say, “Odin is planning to take care of Lukas Kupfer personally before the press conference.” Then he and Berryville entered the room and all conversation ceased.

Feigning nonchalance, William glanced around, seeing a wood-paneled room decorated with leather-upholstered furniture and heavy rugs, with an ornate dining table at one end. Dark wooden book shelves lined the walls, giving the place an oppressive air. Or maybe that came from the three similar-looking men seated at the table, which was set for nine.

William nodded. “Gentlemen.” Then he turned to Berryville and raised an eyebrow. “Are you going to introduce us or should I do it myself?”

Berryville shot him a dark look before turning to the others and saying, “This is the one I told you about. Emmett Grant.” He didn’t introduce the seated men.

“Has Paul described the proceedings to you?” the guy in the middle asked.

“Not in any great detail,” William said, careful to tread the middle ground between knowing too little and too much. “Only that you need a unanimous vote to induct a new member into your organization.”

The guy on the left shot Berryville a look. “Then he didn’t bother to tell you what would happen if you don’t get a consensus?”

The threat was clear—William had seen their faces and he knew Berryville by name. Either they voted him in or he’d quietly “disappear.”

Even as nerves flared to life beneath his skin and his hand itched for the feel of the weapon he’d left behind on Berryville’s orders, he grinned. “Guess I’d better make sure you like me, which means I should skip sports and politics. Any interest in a blonde joke?”

There was a moment of absolute silence. Then the guy in the middle said, “My wife’s a blonde.” He cracked a smile. “Lay it on me.”

And just like that, the tension disappeared from the room. Berryville let out a relieved sigh and motioned William forward. “Have a seat. Get you a drink?” He made a beeline for the bar.

“Sure,” William said, glancing at the empty seats. “I’ll have a—”

There was a sudden scuffle out in the hallway, and the door opened, slamming against the wall with a bang. A big guy in his midtwenties wearing a black-on-black driver’s uniform shoved a struggling, swearing woman into the room.

An older man, neat in a silver-gray suit, followed behind, tugging at his cuffs. He looked up and smiled faintly. “Look what we found snooping around outside.”

William was so deep in character that his first reaction was anger at the interruption. Then he got a good look at the woman—who was wearing all black, with pixie-short hair and two earrings in one ear—and his blood ran cold.

Oh, Christ. It was Ike.

She stopped struggling and glared around the room. Her eyes passed over him without a flicker of recognition, and damned if that didn’t tick him off almost as much as her pigheaded stupidity at being there in the first place.

William was careful to keep the emotions out of his eyes even as adrenaline flared in his bloodstream. You just couldn’t leave it alone, could you? he thought with a mental snarl. You couldn’t trust this to Max and me.

“What are you going to do with her?” asked one of the seated men.

The guy who’d come in with Ike looked pointedly at William before he said, “We can’t afford witnesses. I’m thinking we should kill two birds with one stone, so to speak.” He held out a hand to his driver, who passed over a mean-looking Glock. The older man racked the weapon, popped the clip out and tucked it in his pocket, then checked the chamber and offered the gun to William butt first.

The challenge was clear. One bullet. Enough to kill the spy, not enough to fight his way out of the room.

When William didn’t move, the man said, “Make your choice. Are you with us or against us?”

IKE’S BLOOD FROZE when William looked at her, expression cold and calculating. She recognized Max’s irascible partner from the multiple times they’d butted heads at Boston General and from a quick sighting at Zed’s funeral that she’d later tried to tell herself was her imagination. But now that she saw him again, she knew her mind hadn’t been playing tricks on her. She’d recognized him then and now by the contrast of cool blue eyes and brush-cut brown hair, by the aggressive jut of his jaw beneath sharp cheekbones and by the leashed power in his every movement, which supported the whispered rumors that he knew ancient fighting arts that didn’t even have names anymore and that he could kill a man with a touch.

Oh, yes. She recognized William Caine.

Apparently she hadn’t made nearly the same impression, though, because he took the Glock without hesitation.

Don’t do it! she wanted to scream. Rememberme? I’m Ike. I’m Max’s friend!

Instead she remained mute, paralyzed with fear as he raised the weapon and pointed it at her. He tightened his finger on the trigger—

“Run!” he shouted and fired.

Ike jerked, and for a split second she thought he’d shot her. Then she realized the movement had come from the big guy behind her. His grip slackened and he pitched to the floor.

She didn’t stick around to watch him hit. Instead she bolted through the door as all hell broke loose behind her.

William yelled something. Flesh smacked against flesh, and a door slammed. Heavy footfalls chased her. Caught up to her. A strong hand gripped her upper arm, and William’s deep voice shouted, “Hurry!”

She would’ve snapped that she was hurrying, but just then they rounded the corner leading to the main stairs and came face-to-face with two old dudes in suits, along with a pair of the black-clad bodyguards.

Instead of slowing, Ike put her head down and barreled between the two old guys. Amidst a storm of shouts and curses, one of them stumbled and went down, deflecting a bodyguard as he lunged for William.

Breath whistling between her teeth, Ike slid down the last few steps to the landing, where the stairs faced the front door. She skidded, hooked a left and bolted for the back of the building. She’d stuck her Jeep beside the golf course’s pro shop. If they made it that far, they’d—

“Ike, no! This way!” William shouted.

She faltered and turned back, only to see another uniformed bodyguard burst through the front door and launch himself at William. The men went down in a tangle, while two more thugs charged down the stairs.

Knowing she couldn’t leave William behind, she grabbed for her weapon and came up empty. Her captor had disarmed her. Unable to think of a better way to give William a chance, she reversed direction, charged back up the hallway and yelled as she caromed off the two guys coming down the stairs.

Somehow she stayed on her feet and kept going, straight down an unfamiliar hallway, with heavy footsteps thudding in her wake. Then gunfire barked and a bullet smashed into the wall beside her.

Ike ducked through the next door she came to, praying it had a lock on the inside.

It did, but not much of one. Chest heaving with exertion, pulse drumming in her head, she shot the flimsy bolt before she turned and surveyed her options. Her stomach sank when she saw where she’d ended up. The tiny room was little more than a closet with a bucket and mop in one corner, a drawerlike door set in the wall and a small, night-darkened window.

She muttered a curse as she opened the drop down door to reveal a dark, narrow laundry chute that presumably led to the basement. But what if it doesn’t? a little voice asked. Or what if there’s no way out from there?

Logically, there was a way out, but logic didn’t get her very far when it came to small, dark spaces. Her throat closed in on itself, and she swallowed hard as the dark square seemed to expand, reaching for her.

Gunshots sounded in the hallway, along with male shouts and curses. Then footsteps thudded to a halt outside her hiding spot, and before she could brace herself, a shot plowed through the door below the knob and punched through the window. A second shot ripped the lock half off.

She was out of time and options.

Praying the door would hold for a few more seconds, she flipped the rinse bucket over beneath the window, grabbed the mop and slammed the handle against the broken window. The impact sang up her arms and vibrated in her hands, but she drew back and let fly again. The glass gave just as the guys in the hall rammed the door and she heard the sound of splintering wood.

“Come on, come on!” she chanted under her breath as she used the mop handle to punch out the pointy shards of glass. Then there was no time left. The door shuddered, sagged and fell inward, revealing three black-clad men on the other side.

Ike jumped up onto the bucket, grabbed the window sash and heaved herself through. She felt sharp points dig into her gloved hands, felt a pull in her ribs and a slice in her knee—

And was free.

She fell headfirst into a shrub, and the damp branches scratched at her skin, cushioning her and trapping her at the same time. She thrashed as male voices shouted curses through the broken window. Any moment now they’d lean through and start shooting.

Moving too fast for caution, she rolled free of the shrubbery, hit pavement and accidentally cracked her head against the edge of the curb. Stunned, she lay gasping with sudden pain.

Tires squealed in the near distance. An engine revved and a silver-blue car careened around the corner of the building, then flew at her, bearing down too fast. She struggled to rise as desperation flared. She was done. She was dead. She had failed Zed, just as she’d failed her brother Donny, the only person who’d ever truly loved her for herself rather than for who she ought to be.

Then the car squealed to a halt beside her and the door flew open, skimming just above her head. William’s voice shouted, “Get in!” Bullets pinged off the tarmac. One hit the hood of the car, wringing a curse out of him. “Hurry, it’s a loaner!”

Disoriented, Ike struggled to her knees, got an arm up onto the car seat, grabbed onto soft leather upholstery and tried to pull herself into the vehicle.

William leaned across, snagged a fistful of her shirt and hauled her into the car in one smooth, powerful move as a bullet cracked the windshield. “Your legs in?”

She nodded, head spinning.

“Good. Hang on.” He lunged back into the driver’s seat and slammed his foot on the gas, sending the two-seater sports car leaping forward with a squeal of tires. He swerved, and the open door slammed into one of the bodyguards, who’d come through the window after her. The man went flying. The door shut. William tromped on the gas again, twisted the wheel and sent them hurtling around the next corner sideways.

Behind them, a limo pursued with lethal grace, closing the gap fast.

William swerved, and the momentum whipped Ike to the side, into his solid form. He nudged her away as he accelerated across the parking lot toward the road. “Put on your belt.”

“Right. Sorry.” Ike fumbled with the strap, fingers trembling from a mix of adrenaline and fear.

William glanced in the rearview mirror and cursed. “Hang on. This could get rough.”

Like it’d been smooth before? Ike thought, her head starting to settle even as her pulse thundered in her ears. She smothered a half-hysterical giggle and jammed the seat belt lock in place. Then, refusing to look down at the ragged tears in the knees of her tight black pants, she braced her feet and nodded. “Let’s lose these bastards.”

“Here goes nothing.”

He sent the car speeding along a deserted secondary road, easing up on the gas. The limo closed the distance and bullets pinged. Then, as they passed a cross road, William hit the gas and yanked the hand brake, all in one fluid movement. Tires screamed as the car nearly leaped off the road, then turned ninety degrees to their original path and slid sideways.

Ike gritted her teeth and hung on tight. She glanced out the window and saw the limo’s headlights aiming straight for her. Then William released the hand brake and accelerated. The BMW leaped forward, sailing down the cross street as the limo sped past.

William punched it, heading toward the highway as he weaved through the posh residential streets of Greenwich.

The speedometer edged past sixty, then seventy. Houses blurred on either side in darkness broken by streetlights at regular intervals, and Ike hung onto her seat. At eighty-five miles per hour, the vehicle vibrated and felt lighter, as though it might take flight at any moment.

She heard a low mutter of sound and for a second thought the engine was getting ready to shake apart. Then she looked across at William and saw that the noise was coming from him, a low chant. Come on, baby, come on.

He glanced across at her, eyes hard and somehow reassuring. “Almost there.”

Then they were there. The BMW flashed beneath an overpass, he downshifted and they screamed up an on-ramp onto the interstate. The limo was nowhere in sight.

They’d made it.

Ike blew out a breath. “Wow. That was…wow.” She unclamped her fingers from the edge of the leather seat, feeling joints pop. She worked her hands, staring at them. Then she looked over at William’s set profile. “Thanks for the ride.”

A muscle bunched in his jaw. “Don’t say another word until we’re back in the office. Then you’re Max’s problem.”

Annoyance flared quickly. “I beg your—”

“You want to walk?”

Ike shut up.

WILLIAM DIDN’T SAY another word to her, not even when they ditched the shot-up BMW, stripped the plates, which looked like clever fakes up close, and rented a Geo Metro under a name that definitely wasn’t William Caine.

It was past midnight, and Ike’s eyelids were drooping when he finally turned into the parking structure adjoining the New York offices of Vasek & Caine Investigations. He’d called ahead, and Max was waiting for them upstairs, along with his wife, Raine.

As always, the sight of Max’s wife sent a stab through Ike. Not because she’d wanted Max for herself. Mr. Macho Protector made a fine friend, but she wouldn’t have been caught dead dating him or anyone like him. No, her issue with Raine was even pettier than that—it was how she dressed.

Raine was ethereal. Delicate. Feminine. Her honey-colored hair fell from a careless knot atop her head, with wisps brushing against her purple shadowed eyes and full lips. Ike had always figured her look was the product of a damn good makeup routine, but given the late hour and the fact that William’s call had woken the newlyweds, she was forced to conclude that Raine had been born feminine and beautiful, the exact sort of woman that men gravitated toward every single time.