No Good Deed Page 4

  The woman was one hell of an artist. The two unknown men, who, for some reason, Doucet and his super-secret joint RCMP-SQ taskforce still hadn’t identified, were puzzling to say the least, but her sketch of Denny Avgerinou, Zabat’s personal assistant and bodyguard, had been right on. Zabat never went anywhere without him. Her drawing of the devil himself clinched it. She’d captured every aspect of Zabat from his cold, dark brown eyes to his jet-black hair, and of course his signature ducktail beard and mustache. The telltale mole above his left eyebrow was visible as was the diamond stud he wore in his left earlobe.

  Zabat might be a lot of things, but he was no fool. Why would he play a starring role in an execution and then leave behind a witness who could place him at the scene and tons of evidence including some of that vanishing C-4? The fact he had an ironclad alibi for the time in question made no sense either.

  The only thing harder to swallow than that was the idea Zabat would share, let alone cede, any of his power. If this secret taskforce had been on this so long, they should know more about this charismatic guy, supposedly aligned with the Philadelphia mob, who could get Zabat and any of the other mob leaders in the area to dance to his tune. Doucet had nicknamed him the magician because he apparently made people appear and disappear—like the informant and his killer who’d been murdered in the holding cell, the most secure place in the whole goddamn precinct.

  Magician, my ass. A goddamn Pied Piper if he can get Zabat to do his bidding.

  There was a mole. It wouldn’t be the first time, nor would it be the last. Dirty cops were an unfortunate part of life, but one who could move around at will, alter orders, make things vanish from secure locations . . . well, someone like that was a hell of a problem.

  Parking the vehicle in the far corner of the lot, Mike made sure it contained nothing that could identify him. He wouldn’t be using it again. No doubt it would be impounded, but Henri would arrange to get it returned to Montreal and its owner.

  The woman’s location, a set of GPS coordinates the techs had homed in on during the call the chief inspector had made to her after her handler, Callaghan, an RCMP officer, had failed to check in and couldn’t be found, wasn’t much to go on. The man’s tortured body turned up late last night, and now Doucet insisted she had to be moved. Given Mike’s personal vendetta against Zabat and his organization, whoever was running this dog and pony show decided he was the one to do it.

  Mike knew the Laurentian region like the back of his hand, but something still didn’t sit right. Why not contact another member of her security detail and have them move her? The man in charge might think he was the best choice, but Mike knew better. Injured, questioning himself and his abilities, he was more of a liability than an asset.

  Putting on his ski jacket over the bibbed snow pants he wore, he yanked on his tuque, his long hair preventing the knitted cap from fitting as snugly over his ears as it should, grabbed his fur-lined mittens and the large duffel bag Doucet had given him, and locked the SUV.

  Moving through the four inches of snow that had fallen since the lot had been plowed, he unlocked the trailer’s tailgate. How he’d managed to tow the damn thing up here was a miracle. After loading the duffel bag into the small sled, he grabbed his helmet and put it on. The snowmobile started easily, and hopefully, the engine’s whine wouldn’t distract the penitents.

  According to the last weather report he’d heard before losing the signal, the storm was expected to last another forty-eight hours. He sincerely doubted any of Zabat’s flunkies would be out in this, but you never knew. Desperate men didn’t always behave logically.

  The snow continued to fall, whipped to a frenzy by the merciless wind. Mike made several circuits of the lot before turning in the opposite direction to the one he wanted. No sense in making his trail easy to follow—if there was any trace of his route at all. If anything, it was snowing harder than it had been. Skirting the edge of town, he headed along the side of the road the GPS indicated, careful not to ride on the road itself, praying the damn coordinates actually led to a house and not the nearest tower.

  Half an hour later, after narrowly avoiding a small pack of wolves tearing bits of flesh off the steaming body of a fresh kill, Mike arrived at the coordinates. He’d passed another carcass, a doe, her throat ripped out, her guts half buried in the falling snow. Death could come quickly when you least expected it.

  A small laneway snaked through the trees, but he saw no signs of a gate or anything else that could secure the location. As he approached, he kept his eye out for guards. Even when the weather was despicable, a good security team kept watch.

  Unchallenged, he drove the Ski-Doo beside the woodshed under the small overhang designed to keep the wood dry—there weren’t a lot of split logs left—and turned off the snowmobile.

  Where was everyone? Was he too late?

  Stepping around the small building, he saw smoke billowing from the chalet’s chimney. He grabbed his Glock out of the bag and exchanged his mitts for leather gloves. Someone was home, but would it be the woman he was supposed to protect or the man who’d already gotten to her?

  His inner sense of preservation itched, and he scanned the area once more. Howls in the distance made his flesh crawl. Wolves were surplus killers, attacking and murdering for pleasure as often as for food. Other than tearing out that doe’s throat, they’d hardly touched her and yet had killed again. Why would the Ministry of Natural Resources allow such vicious animals to roam such a popular tourist region? Unfortunately, those killers wouldn’t be the only predators in the area once the storm ended.

  From the lack of prints, the animals hadn’t been around here, but neither had anyone else since the storm had started. Glancing in the garage window, he noted the place was full of junk but no vehicle. Maybe her security detail had taken her out earlier. If he’d known bad weather might strand them here, it was what he would’ve done, but if that was the case, who was inside? He stared at the five snow-covered steps up to the veranda.

  For a safe house, it left a lot to be desired. It was isolated, that was true, but too secluded could be a serious problem. Sometimes nosy neighbors were an asset. No gated roadway, no perimeter guard—he’d actually expected to find a body half buried in the snow. It made no sense, unless these weren’t the right coordinates.

  And then what the hell do I do?

  Without any other choice, he climbed the stairs.

  • • •

  A loud thump on the veranda made Alexa jump. Twisting the wrong way in the process, she cursed under her breath as pain tore through her.

  “Probably just snow and ice falling off the roof,” she mumbled, trying to get comfortable again. She’d been jumping at noises and shadows ever since the storm had started yesterday. The last time there’d been one this bad was the night she’d been shot.

  An unexpected rap at the door startled her. She hissed out a frightened breath. “Get a grip.”

  Considering the weather, Callaghan must’ve come to see if she was okay. Dropping her pad and pencil on the table, she shifted herself from the recliner back into her wheelchair, pulled the Glock 26 out of the pocket of her robe, laid it on her lap, and propelled her chair to the door.

  “Sergeant Callaghan, is that you?” she called, acid roiling in her stomach.

  “No. Mike Delorme. I’m here to learn to do the Hokey Pokey.”

  The emergency password she’d selected. Hand trembling, Alexa unlocked the door, leaving the chain firmly in place. On the doorstep stood a man who could easily pass for a Sasquatch. Covered in snow as he was, she couldn’t make out any facial features, but, by the way he jerked back, the fact that she was so low to the ground had surprised him.

  “Have you got identification?” she asked. Big men like him, like Richard, put her on the defensive. From past experience, she knew they could use their size and strength to get their way.

  “I do.” He held out an official-looking badge.

  She reached for the leather wa
llet, pulling it and her hand back as if she’d been burned.

  “Who sent you?” she asked, examining the Sûreté du Québec identification. The man in the picture was attractive in that rugged Daniel Craig way. He didn’t look like someone she wanted to cross.

  “Chief Inspector Maurice Doucet,” he answered. “Look, Ms. O’Brien,” he began.

  The sound of her name disconcerted her more than anything had.

  “I know I’ve scared you, but believe me, this isn’t a social call. Your location’s been compromised. I’ve been sent to protect you. Can you open the door, please? I’m half-frozen, and this isn’t how or where I want to explain myself.” The man’s voice, soft and low, cajoling, with just a touch of an accent, reminded her of warm brandy on a cold night. Men with voices like that couldn’t be trusted. They made you feel safe and then turned on you in a second.

  Swallowing her terror, needing to know if he was telling the truth, Alexa closed the door, unlatched the dead bolt, and backed away a couple of feet. She shivered. Just because she’d never actually fired the gun at a human being didn’t mean she couldn’t. There was a first time for everything.

  Aim for the largest part of the body, and squeeze the trigger firmly.

  “You can come in now,” she answered. Thank God her voice didn’t quiver as it had before.

  The door swung open, the man entered, slammed it shut behind him, and turned the dead bolt.

  “Thanks,” he said. “The wind’s picked up and it’s a hell of a lot colder out there than it was when I left Saint Sauveur.” He turned to face her and flinched.

  “Maudit sacrament. I wasn’t expecting this.”

  Alexa held the Glock level, and thanks to the man’s size, it was pointed directly at his crotch. She licked her lips nervously and raised the weapon, aiming at his upper torso. The gun wobbled slightly in her trembling hand.

  She wasn’t what he’d expected? Well, neither was he. He filled the chalet’s foyer. Her heart raced.

  “Why are you here? Where’s Callaghan?”

  The giant dropped the duffel bag he carried. “Your handler’s dead,” he answered baldly.

  She gasped, her left hand covering her mouth, the gun in her right still firmly pointed at the intruder.

  “Sorry, Doucet told me he called. I assumed he’d told you the man was missing. Where the hell’s the rest of your security team? I didn’t see anyone outside.” He craned his neck to look past her.

  “There isn’t one,” she admitted, feeling more vulnerable than she had since leaving Toronto.

  “Saint Simonaque!”

  “I have no idea what that means,” she said, holding her chin, and her gun, higher, “but if you’re swearing at me, stop it now. I don’t like it.”

  “Well, ex-cuu-se me,” he answered, but he didn’t sound in the least bit contrite.

  Pulling off his gloves, he unbuckled and removed what had to be the biggest boots she’d ever seen to reveal feet covered by gray wool socks. He finished undressing, hanging his enormous two-piece snowsuit on one of the wall pegs and placing his tuque on the other. When he turned back to her, she sucked in a breath.

  While he hadn’t shaved recently—snow still clung to the slight beard he wore—there was no mistaking he’d been in a fight, and judging from the bruising and fresh scars on his face, he probably hadn’t won.

  His long, chestnut, silver-streaked hair was tied back in a ponytail. The man’s shoulders, encased in a plaid shirt tucked into the waistband of his pants, were broad, the underarm holster he wore evidence of how lethal he could be. There couldn’t be an ounce of fat on him. His jeans hugged muscular thighs, and her stomach fluttered at what was surely a modern-day Hercules, at least six and a half feet tall. He claimed to be the police, but despite the badge she’d seen, considering the beating he’d obviously taken, she wasn’t so sure of that.

  Stepping around a puddle of melted snow, he reached into the pocket of the snowsuit, pulled out a Glock similar to the one she held, and tucked it into his holster. If the gesture was supposed to make her feel safe, it failed. She gripped her gun more tightly and raised it once more.

  “You don’t sound like a police officer, and you look like a thug.”

  He chuckled. “And here I thought I’d cleaned up so well.”

  The grin transformed his battered face, his hypnotic, deep blue eyes begging for trust, but there was no way she’d give an inch to this man, or any other man for that matter.

  “What happened to your face?” she demanded. The peeling Steri-Strips on his forehead needed to be replaced.

  “Nothing gets by you, does it?” he asked, shaking his head and wincing. “I’m sorry. None of this is your fault, and I shouldn’t be taking my irritation out on you. I was working undercover, going after the same bastards who apparently shot you, and got made. The men didn’t take kindly to my infiltrating their outfit. But I got in my share of punches before they tossed me into a refrigerated truck and took off.” He winked and smiled. “I can usually handle myself, but six to one aren’t good odds. I got out of the hospital just a few hours ago, so you’ll have to forgive me if I’m not my usual cheery self.”

  “If you think bragging will impress me, think again. Why are you here?”

  He looked up at the ceiling, as if he were praying for patience like some long suffering saint—maybe even the one he’d mentioned.

  “I told you already,” he said, his brow furrowed, his gaze raking her. “You’re in danger. Those men you identified know where you are.”

  She clenched her empty fist and huffed out a frustrated breath.

  “You don’t need to talk to me as if I’m some addled child. My question’s a reasonable one. Since you’re in worse shape than I am, why did they send you here? Why not someone better equipped to do the job? You should still be in the hospital. You could have a concussion or something.”

  “On that, we agree, and while I may not be at my best at the moment, I’m very good at my job. The man in charge believes I’m your best shot at staying alive. Doucet thinks what I know about these guys might help. Who knows? Maybe it will, or maybe it won’t.” He rubbed his forehead. “Look, I’ve had a bitch of a drive to get here. I’d really appreciate it if you don’t shoot my balls off and offer me a cup of coffee instead. I’m one of the good guys, and I have to figure out what the hell I’m going to do now.”

  Alexa’s cheeks burned, but she lowered the gun and backed her chair out of the way. “There’s hot tea in the kitchen. I don’t drink coffee.”

  “Why am I not surprised?” he mumbled. “Tea will be fine.” He approached her, walking gingerly as if his feet hurt and glanced around the main room of the chalet. “Nice place you have here, if you don’t mind living in someone’s grandmother’s house, but it’s still an effing deathtrap—no offense. At least it doesn’t smell like mothballs. Do you mind if I add some wood to the fire? I haven’t been warm since Wednesday.”

  “Be my guest. There’s some in the box. I’ll get the tea.”

  Alexa returned the gun to the pocket of her robe and propelled the chair into the kitchen. If this man wanted her dead, she would be. The lieutenant might not like the house and think that because he was here, he was now in charge, but it was her life in the balance. She’d fought long and hard for what little independence she had, and she wasn’t about to give it up now.

  Chapter Four

  Alexa poured tea into clean mugs. “Milk or sugar?”

  “Black’s fine,” Mike answered, joining her in the kitchen.

  He massaged his temples as if he were in pain, which he probably was considering his appearance. She set a mug down and indicated the chair, wheeling herself closer to the table across from it and raising her own cup to her lips. Her sanctuary had shrunk since he’d entered it.

  “How did Callaghan die?” she asked. She hadn’t known the man well, but he’d been the only human contact she’d had in months. While he’d also been a big man, he was more accustomed to t
aking orders than giving them. Callaghan’s passiveness had allowed her to drop her guard around him. Everything about this man, from his size to his tone of voice, screamed aggressor.

  “I’m not sure. The OPP found him in the Ottawa River, just south of the Cumberland/Masson ferry on the Ontario side, and contacted the SQ. Not sure why they did since the man was RCMP.”

  He glanced away. When people wouldn’t look you in the eye, they were usually lying. What proof did she have that Callaghan was even dead? This new guy could be feeding her a load of crap. He might even be the one after her, although if he’d been sent to kill her, why wasn’t she dead? He could pick her up and snap her like a twig.

  “How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

  “Believe whatever you want to,” he said, reaching for the mug. “If I didn’t have to be here, I wouldn’t be.”

  She swallowed the bile rising in her throat, leaned back in the chair, and crossed her arms, determined to get answers.

  “Let’s say I believe you—for now. You say Doucet sent you to take care of me?”

  “No, someone else is trying to do that. I’ve come to protect you and move you to a safer place, but I wasn’t expecting the surprises,” he admitted, drinking from his cup.

  “Such as?”

  He shrugged. “The wheelchair and the fact that you’re here alone. I was counting on backup, but it looks like I’m on my own.”

  She sat up, her jaw tense, her hands gripping the arms of the chair. “I’m quite capable of backing you up,” she said, her voice louder and firmer than it had been earlier.

  He cocked an eyebrow at her, his eyes open wide in disbelief. “Seriously? No offense, but I don’t see how you would be much help in a fight.”

  Alexa scowled. Why would he assume that because she was a woman in a wheelchair she was helpless? That was the kind of conclusion Richard would jump to.