Demons are Forever Read online

  Moments later, EOO Chief Administrator Montgomery Pierce entered with two cups of coffee and wordlessly offered her one.

  “I want my cigarettes,” she said as she accepted the steaming cup.

  “You don’t need them.”

  “Not in the mood to discuss my needs. Now, can I have my damn smokes?”

  Pierce glanced up at the cam and nodded.

  Director of Training David Arthur, another member of the EOO’s governing trio, came in and tossed the pack to Jack. “Those’ll kill you.”

  Jack snapped her fingers. “Damn, I knew I was forgetting something,” she said with mock surprise. “In case you hadn’t noticed, I was doing a stellar job at exactly that before you interfered. Now, toss me the lighter, genius.” Arthur threw her the Bic and Jack immediately lit a cigarette. She sat on the bed and sipped her coffee. Both men remained silent while they observed her. “So, what’s with the silent movie?” She flicked her ashes onto the floor. “You didn’t have to bring me all the way here to off me. Even Arthur isn’t that dense.”

  Arthur took a step toward Jack and was about to say something when Pierce lifted his hand. “Don’t let her push your buttons, David,” he said without looking at his colleague.

  Arthur’s face and neck went beet red, clashing with his copper-colored crew cut. “Ungrateful…” He clenched his fists. “If it wasn’t for us—”

  “If it wasn’t for you, I’d be better off and Cass would be alive,” Jack replied.

  “Wait outside, David,” Pierce ordered him. “I’ll call you if necessary.”

  Arthur mumbled something and left the room.

  “Why am I here?” Jack stared down at her burning cigarette.

  “Do you remember anything?”

  “Be more specific. I generally remember more than I’d like.”

  “We came to your house…or the remains of it,” Pierce said, disgust evident in his voice.

  “Yeah, I remember,” Jack replied. “The three of you decided on an impromptu visit. Forgive me for not being the perfect hostess and neglecting my domestic chores. Had I known you were coming…” She shrugged. “I’d at least have burned the place down.”

  Pierce dismissed her remark with a wave of his hand. “Do you remember why we were there?”

  “Get to the point, Pierce.” Jack stood to face him. “I clearly have gaps or I’d know why I’m here and how the fuck I got back to this hell. Oh, and by the way, thank you very fucking much for shooting me up.” She rubbed the sore spot on her neck where the tranquilizer dart had hit her. “Slept like a baby.”

  “I’m sorry about that, but you didn’t give us a choice. You were about to—”

  “I know damn well what I was about to do.” Despite her drunken condition, she did remember going for her gun, determined to end her misery. “What I don’t know is, why the fuck you care.” Jack smiled and took a step closer to Pierce. “You’d think I’d be doing you a favor.” She sucked on her cigarette.

  Pierce never moved. “That’s not the case.” He looked directly in her eyes.

  “What is?” Jack inched nearer until they were a foot apart. She took another deep drag on her cigarette and exhaled the smoke in his face.

  He never flinched. “I…we don’t want you dead, Jaclyn.”

  “What do you want?”

  “We want your help.”

  “With?”

  “Finding Lynx…Cassady.”

  Jack’s vision swam and for a moment she was dizzy on her feet as she replayed his words in her mind. She must have looked shocked because Pierce reached for her shoulder, but withdrew his hand when she flinched. “What the hell are you talking about? Cass is dead.”

  “She’s alive. That’s why we came to see you, but you didn’t give me a chance to—”

  “Cass is what?”

  “Alive.”

  “Alive?” Jack hugged herself to steady her hands.

  “Yes.”

  It couldn’t be true. Either they had staged her death and lied to everyone at Cassady’s memorial service, or they were lying now about her being alive. Irrational thoughts swamped her mind. None made sense. Furious, she lunged at Pierce, shoving him hard in the chest. He rocked on his heels but remained upright and didn’t strike back.

  “You planned this all along. Let me believe she was dead. What kind of a sick fuck are you?” she shouted.

  “We hadn’t planned any of this. Turns out Andor Rózsa kidnapped Cassady. He wants the money we took from his accounts in exchange for her. The moment we found out, we came to you.”

  Jack didn’t know if she should cry from happiness or scream in frustration. It took all of her energy not to collapse. Even the cigarette couldn’t stop her from shaking, so she dropped it in Pierce’s coffee. “Where is she?”

  “We don’t know.”

  Jack started for the door. “I have to find her.”

  He blocked her way. “I know, but—”

  “Out of my way, Pierce.”

  He didn’t move. “You’re going to need our help, Jaclyn.”

  “Thanks but no the fuck way.”

  “Work with us.”

  “I don’t need you to find her.”

  “Yes, you do.” He replied with the same calm, placid demeanor that always infuriated her. “We have the means.”

  “I’ll find the means.”

  “You can’t. He could be anywhere, and finding him will mean using all of our resources. Even then…”

  Jack willed herself not to push the old man aside. “I told you I—”

  “Jaclyn, we’re going after her with or without you. But I don’t know anyone better suited for this mission.”

  “Don’t talk to me about missions,” she spat. “That’s none of my business and I’m sure as hell not going to work for you. My priority is Cass. I don’t give a shit about you or your organization. It’s your fault she’s in this mess to begin with.”

  “I’m not asking you to work for us. I want you to work with us. Help us. We already have enough intel to get us started.”

  “Let me guess. Unless I agree to join your puppet show you won’t share the goods.”

  “Correct.”

  Jack stepped closer until their noses almost touched. “That’s blackmail, you bastard.”

  His face remained expressionless, his tone professional. “You’re emotionally involved in this one, Jaclyn. You know what that means.”

  “It means it’s none of your business.”

  “It means you’ll be irrational. You’ll jeopardize yourself.”

  “You send men and women out there daily to do exactly that,” she said. “You’ve trained them to believe that dying for this organization is honorable. How is my dying for the woman I love less worthy?”

  “It’s not. But I’m saying you won’t be able to think clearly. If you get yourself killed, you won’t be any good to Cassady.”

  “And how will working for you lessen my odds of getting killed?”

  “Special op Chase,” he replied.

  “Landis…Coolidge?” Jack mumbled. She was surprised to hear that name after so many years.

  “Just you and her, with all the resources we can offer and money can buy.”

  “You want to assign me a babysitter?”

  “A partner and friend. You’ve worked with her before. You used to be close and you know she’s one of our best.”

  Jack took a step back and ran her hands through her hair. “I don’t think I can accept these terms. I…”

  Pierce started to reach for her again but stopped. “Jaclyn, listen to me. I know how you feel about us…about me. You feel betrayed and you have every right to. What we did to you was wrong, and I’ve never regretted anything more. If I could take it all back I would, but—”

  “Don’t push it, Pierce. I’m not buying a word of your heartfelt remorse. Nothing you say about what happened then will make a difference.”

  Pierce looked away. “I know,” he said with an uncharac
teristic tone, his voice breaking. “I know. But…” He looked at her. “This isn’t about me or the organization. This is about Cassady, and I know how much you love her. I’m not asking you to do this for me. I’m asking you to do it for her. Do it because you want her back alive.” Jack flinched when Pierce suddenly put his hand on her shoulder. “Do it because you know what it’ll do to her if you get yourself killed,” he said.

  Jack pulled away and walked to the opposite side of the room. With her back to him, she stared down at the familiar campus where she’d spent the first half of her life. The last time she’d been here was for Cassady’s memorial service.

  Damn. Pierce was right. She would need his help to find Cass sooner rather than later. Her own resources would take time and an exchange of favors with people she’d vowed never to contact again. She’d left that life behind and doubted her less-than-honorable “friends” would help her, anyway. Unless she owed them, which she didn’t, they conveniently forgot any previous favors or contracts she might have done for them. “Get Coolidge.”

  “We have a general meeting in an hour, and Coolidge will be there.” Pierce frowned. She was in the same clothes they’d found her in after a three-day drinking binge. “Get yourself cleaned up. I’ll have someone bring you something to wear. You’ll want to be there for this one.”

  “You mean sit with your puppets?”

  “My ops.”

  “As what? Phantom’s ghost? They all think I’m dead. Cass told me you never informed them about my resurrection.”

  “That’s correct. You’re about to do that yourself.”

  Jack wasn’t sure she was up to this revelation. She knew how most ops regarded treason or running away. Although many had considered it, none ever actually did. Call it misplaced loyalty or plain cowardice. No one ever left.

  “Fine. Now get the hell out of here.”

  Chapter Two

  New York City

  Heather Snyder leafed through the sketches for the upcoming juniors’ line and sighed. After three years at Cesare Chelline Fashions, a small design house in the Garment District, she was still just a patternmaker, consigned to one of five large workspaces in a factory-like room without a window. The new line played it safe: trendy colors, conservative lines, everyday fabrics. She longed for the day when someone important in the firm seriously considered some of the dozens of more innovative designs she’d come up with in her spare time. Her inspiration was Coco Chanel, the legend behind the timeless little black dress. Heather, too, favored simple but sophisticated outfits geared toward comfortable elegance.

  Like most in her industry, Heather dressed to impress, regardless of her current low-level status at Chelline. Her work wardrobe was classic, refined, and professional, consisting mostly of well-tailored suits with feminine blouses, understated jewelry, and matching pumps. Today’s dark-olive suit and crème silk blouse—good colors for her gold-brown hair and hazel eyes—were guaranteed to turn heads and elicit compliments.

  She had an hour left in her shift when her cell phone chimed, alerting her to a text message that read Dario at 7.

  The text reminded her she hadn’t heard from Gigi since her friend’s bizarre and disturbing phone call three weeks earlier.

  Normally they met for coffee or breakfast at least once a week to catch up, and she often got three or four texts as well, chronicling Gigi’s latest escapades. As her worry grew, Heather left several messages, all unreturned.

  When the clock hit five, she hurried home to change for her appointment. Her one-bedroom apartment on the fourth floor of a Greenwich Village walk-up was clean and comfortable, if cramped, and the view unspectacular. But the rent was reasonable for Manhattan, and she loved the eclectic mix of artists, writers, musicians, actors, and other creative types who comprised a good portion of her neighbors.

  After a quick shower, she perused her closet for a sexy but stylish dress for the evening, settling on a clingy, ink-blue number that showed off her legs and dipped low in front to expose a tasteful amount of cleavage. High heels, musky perfume, and a bit more makeup than she wore to her day job, and she was ready.

  She hailed a taxi and told the driver to take her to Bemelmans. Ensconced within the prestigious Carlyle hotel, the art-deco bar was her favorite of the half-dozen upscale watering holes she frequented and never failed to provide a good selection of possibilities for an evening’s entertainment.

  Selecting a seat near one end of the impressive black-granite bar, she ordered a Diet Coke and sipped it slowly. Within the first half hour, three men approached and tried to chat her up or buy her a drink, but none were suitable, so she deflected their come-ons with polite but firm excuses. The fourth, a handsome thirty-something businessman in a crisp blue suit, was more promising and, in light of the advancing hour, worth her attention.

  “Good evening. Are you waiting for someone or can I buy you a drink?” the dark-haired stranger asked.

  She smiled at him and removed her purse and coat from the adjacent bar stool, inviting him to sit. “I was rather hoping you’d notice me,” she replied, eyeing him appreciatively. “I’m Amber.”

  “Mike.” With a pleased grin, he took the stool and hailed the bartender. “Chivas 25, neat,” he told the man, “and whatever my stunning friend would like.”

  “I’m good for now.”

  “Are you a native?” Mike asked as the bartender poured his drink.

  Heather nodded. “I live in the Village. You?”

  “In town for a medical conference. I’m a pharmaceutical rep.”

  “Lucky me.” Heather raised her glass. “Here’s to whatever fates brought us together. I’m in the mood for some fun tonight, and I was beginning to think I’d have to go home without company.”

  Mike’s eyes lit up as they clinked glasses. “I can’t believe you don’t have your pick. Are you an actress? Model?”

  “That’s very sweet of you, Mike. But, no. You could say I’m in the fantasy-fulfillment industry,” she replied coyly. “Perhaps you’d care to discover more?”

  Surprise registered briefly on his face, then his eyes glinted in lustful anticipation. “Most definitely. I have a suite here. Shall we continue this party in private?”

  “I prefer my place, if you don’t mind. It’s not far, and it’s…well stocked with everything we might need. Full bar…fun accessories. One small catch, though. My boyfriend likes to watch, and he’ll orchestrate the festivities. Does that work for you?”

  Mike’s eyes narrowed as he considered her proposal. He downed the remains of his Chivas and smiled. “Lead the way.”

  They caught a cab, and as Heather gave the driver the address of the brownstone owned by the Direct Connect escort agency, she stroked Mike’s thigh provocatively. She was growing weary of her part-time work as a high-class call girl, but at least she only had to work one or two nights a week to make enough to meet her obligations. The money she got from the men she picked up was significant, but it was Dario, her regular and enigmatic client, who provided the bulk of her additional income.

  * * *

  Mouchamps, France

  Doctor Andor Rózsa closed the kitchen shutters of his two-bedroom stone cottage, which did little to keep out the chill wind seeping through the ancient windowpane. All the windows needed upgrading and the fireplace required maintenance, too; it didn’t draw right, and now and then a backdraft of smoke would waft through the room. He hadn’t been here in many years and the place suffered from lack of attention, but he didn’t dare allow a workman inside as long as his prisoner remained chained in the basement.

  Andor had nowhere else to go, and this small village in France was as good a place as any to lie low for a while. He’d bought it under another name, in cash, and nothing in his records or computer hard drives could lead anyone here. Interpol and who knows how many other entities were trying to hunt him down for unleashing the Charon virus, a lethal chimera of the H1N1 virus and bubonic plague bacteria. His plan to infect millions had go
ne exactly as anticipated, but just as he was about to cash in on his scheme with the release of the antidote, his woman prisoner and her associates had ruined everything. He’d lost his home in Budapest, his job at a prestigious pharmaceutical lab, all his virus formulas, the millions in his Grand Cayman account, and he’d even had to blow up the secret lab where he developed his lethal contagions and harvested organs for sale on the black market—the side business that had financed his scheme.

  His best option for getting out of this mess was his prisoner. Though he still knew nothing about her or who she was working for, he’d managed to obtain her cell phone when he Tasered her in his office at the lab. He called back the number she had dialed twice while searching his facility and was able to reach one of her associates with his demands. She had to be a precious commodity to her employer, given her incredible ability to find the lab and break into his office to retrieve all his records and lethal virus formulas.

  He’d scored some necessary operating cash by squeezing Dario Imperi—the man he’d been selling black-market organs to in the US. Imperi had millions, and everything to lose if Andor exposed him to authorities. He had kicked off his plan to collect on what Imperi owed him two weeks earlier, not long after the explosion in the lab, by mailing a greeting card to the man’s PO box marked Personal. Contained within was a postcard of downtown Budapest, with the words I’ll be in touch, along with a fine dust that would ensure compliance with his demands.

  He’d followed up with a call to Imperi’s private number a week later, using a cell phone outfitted with a scrambler.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s your Hungarian associate.”

  “You’re putting both of us in danger by contacting me,” Imperi replied angrily.

  “Calm down, my friend. I’ll not bother you further if you cooperate. I merely want what you still owe me.”

  “Cooperate? Are you mad? There’s far too much heat on you for us to ever do business again.”

  “You received my postcard?” Andor asked.