Dark Hunger Page 7

  His phone jangled, and he cursed, quickly cleaned up then grabbed the handset and checked the number. His handler, Keller.

  He connected the call, automatically assuming his professional persona. No emotions. Killer mode. “Yeah, Valtrez.”

  “We had a meeting.”

  A film of cold sweat broke out on his brow.

  “It’s time to get rid of the Armstrong woman. We can’t allow her to expose the team. If she does, it will have to be disbanded.”

  Quinton ran a hand over the back of his neck.

  “You’ll take care of her?” Keller asked.

  A bead of sweat trickled down Quinton’s back. He was an eraser, a sniper. This was no different. Another assignment.

  The darkness in him rose, hungry for blood, protective of his tribe of killers.

  He’d sworn to take care of the team, the mission. He had no regret over the other hits. No remorse. And he’d never disobeyed a direct order.

  But he glanced at the camera and saw Annabelle climbing from the shower, water droplets clinging to her skin, her face flushed from arousal, and he hesitated.

  She wasn’t a terrorist or a soldier. She was a civilian.

  He closed his eyes, banishing the image. He never hesitated. Hesitating would get him killed.

  If he didn’t do this job, Keller would consider him disposable, would send someone after him. And after Annabelle.

  Either way, her days were numbered.

  He hissed in a sharp breath. “No problem. I’ll call you when it’s done.”

  He retrieved his weapon system from the closet, then unlocked the case and pulled out the M24.

  CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA

  Reverend Narius spread his hands, waving them in a wide arc as he addressed the crowd in Charleston, his diamond-and-onyx ring glittering beneath the lights. “Turn your life over to my command, and you will be reborn. Follow me now, and redemption is yours.”

  Women, men, and children alike bowed their heads and listened to his prayer, then stood and began filtering out of the Charleston chapel.

  “Thank you for coming, Reverend.” The white-haired woman wiped at the tears in her eyes. “We heard you were in Savannah. God bless those people. Those bombings were just awful.”

  He clasped her hand between his, pasting on the appropriate compassionate smile. “Yes, a tragedy. Another reason for each of us to ask to be saved. One never knows when our earthly time is up and the Lord will call us home.”

  She shivered and he patted her gently. “You have been saved haven’t you, Miss Erma?”

  “Oh, yes, years ago.”

  Another elderly man approached, and he released Erma’s hand, then extended it to the old man. “You’re a godsend, Reverend,” the old man said. “I once was tempted by evil, but I’ve resisted.”

  “In Matthew, even Satan tempted Jesus, but he overcame temptation through the word of God,” Reverend Narius said smoothly. “So many are lost and need salvation. In fact, I’m on my way now to visit the homeless shelter nearby.”

  “You’re a good man,” a young woman with twin toddlers tugging at her legs said. “So kind of you to stop and see them.”

  He shrugged. “It’s my mission to serve.”

  Gratitude and admiration flickered in her eyes, and his chest puffed up. He was the first to admit that he enjoyed the accolades. “I work for the Master,” he said softly. “And I will be an obedient servant to the end.”

  But salvation came at a cost. And the ones who followed him had to earn their way. He smiled.

  So easy to twist their minds and persuade them to follow.

  Chapter Nine

  Annabelle had to talk to Quinton. If he had any idea who was behind the bombing or threats and where they might attack next, something had to be done.

  Of course, working with him would be akin to making a deal with the devil, but lives depended on their stopping another attack.

  She flipped on the news while she pulled on a robe, wondering if another station had accessed information she didn’t yet have.

  “Reports that vultures attacked the bombing scene in Savannah are disturbing. Witnesses said they preyed on the humans as if they were animals.

  “Folklore says the vultures are an omen of impending death. Oddly, reports are now flooding the lines from Charleston, South Carolina, saying there have been at least a hundred sightings of the predatory birds hovering above the town. Residents are wary, and veterinarians and environmentalists have been called in to address the problem. Some are worried that the vultures may be a mutant strain that preys on humans, or that they may carry diseases that could be passed to humans.”

  A shudder coursed through her as she remembered the vultures greedily eating human flesh and cleaning the bones.

  A tapping sounded at the French door, and she glanced up, expecting the wind to have rattled it, but a black vulture hovered on her patio, pounding the glass with its sharp, pointed beak.

  Then a shrill screeching sound erupted from the bird, and she jumped backward, terrified it was going to break the glass and attack her.

  Traffic crawled by as Quinton drove across the bridge and into Savannah toward the B and B and his target. The tourist crowd that had been bustling on Halloween now seemed minimal, although some curious souls had ventured out to see the ruins of the ship left after the bombing, and the homemade memorials people had made. Flowers, trinkets, teddy bears, toys, and other memorabilia decorated the area, reminders of the individuals who’d died such violent and needless deaths.

  He turned on the radio news.

  “People in Charleston, South Carolina, are reporting a disturbing number of vultures within the city limits as well as on the outskirts of town.

  “Oddly, the vultures are described as having the bodies and heavy, sturdy feet of old-world vultures, not the more common turkey vultures prevalent in the U.S., which have chickenlike feet for running on the ground. Old-world vultures are normally found in Europe, Asia, and Africa.

  “Also, in South Africa, hundreds of headless vultures have been found. Poachers have been killing the vultures, then removing their heads and putting them through a drying process to sell, because of beliefs that the vulture’s keen eyesight enables it to see into the future. Unscrupulous dealers are selling the heads for up to $1,000. Due to the fact that vultures are an endangered species, bans have been placed on killing the animals.”

  Quinton’s shoulders stiffened, and he flipped off the radio as he parked down the street from the B and B in an alley where he wouldn’t be noticed. He had to focus. Couldn’t make any mistakes today. Couldn’t get caught. Had to be invisible.

  Dry leaves crunched beneath his boots as he walked to the inn. A damn vulture circled above, as if watching, waiting for someone to die.

  He moved stealthily into the gardens, through the rows of topiaries and giant azaleas, scoped out an empty room across from Annabelle’s, then climbed the rail, jimmied the door, and slipped inside.

  He set up his M24 with its attachable telescopic sight and aimed it at Annabelle’s window. Through the lens, he watched her. She was sitting at the desk in her robe, sipping coffee and tapping on her computer. He forced himself to tear his gaze from her body and zeroed in on the screen.

  She was researching vultures.

  Determined to finish the job as quickly and painlessly as possible, he aimed the weapon. He had a clear shot. Could take her out quickly. She would never know what hit her.

  Then she clicked to a file of the bombing and more photos appeared. Pictures of the explosion, of people maimed and dying. Women and children crying. The blazing fire and smoke pouring from the ship.

  Then another of him on the ship, reaching down to help an injured woman off the burning deck. Dammit, he shouldn’t have been photographed. Shouldn’t have put himself in that position. But his humanity had surfaced, and he’d wanted to help that night.

  He swallowed, slid his finger over the trigger. Felt the cool metal against
the pad of his thumb. Could already smell the scent of death. Could hear the glass crashing and see Annabelle’s body jerk with the impact. Blood spewing from her pale forehead.

  His throat convulsed. The darkness ate at him, urging him to do it. He had to in order to protect the team. She was simply a casualty of the cause.

  But he thought of her as Annabelle, not the target, and his hands began to shake. His palms grew sweaty. His vision blurred.

  His breath came in pants, erratic. Lifting one hand, he wiped the sweat on his jeans and swallowed hard.

  Shit. His control was slipping.

  Anger churned through his blood. He never lost control. And certainly not over a woman.

  He hated her for it.

  He closed his eyes, mentally willing himself back in the game. She could destroy him and his team, endanger their lives and the lives of hundreds of others.

  But images of her on the news haunted him. The way she’d helped the needy the night of the bombing.

  Memories of her in the shower followed along with the sight of her shivering as she ran from his house to her car the night he’d met her.

  Dammit, he was thinking too much. He relied on instinct while on the job; he demanded perfection.

  But now he was rethinking his plan.

  What if she had sent files on him to another source?

  She had talked to the local police about him. If she went missing, would they come after him? Shit.

  He’d have to figure out a way around it. The unit would be his alibi.

  He curled his fingers around the handle, moving his trigger finger into position, and focused. Mentally channeling his energy into the zone, he looked through the viewfinder again and found his shot.

  He lived for the kill. He liked the sound of the bullet zooming through the air. The startled look in the victim’s eyes the moment they realized they’d been hit.

  That death had come calling.

  Good-bye, Annabelle. It’s time to die.

  Annabelle’s cell phone jangled, and she hurried to retrieve it, hoping it might be a lead on the bombings, that the man who’d sent her the text message might be trying to make contact again.

  But she checked the number and saw it was her boss. She bit her lip, debating over whether to answer, but knew he’d keep hounding her until she did.

  Resigned, she punched the connect button. “Hello, Roland.”

  “Annabelle, why haven’t you called me?”

  She sucked in a sharp breath. “I’ve been busy,” she said through gritted teeth. “In case you’ve forgotten, I’m in the middle of putting together a story about a bombing, interviewing witnesses and victims and their families.” And she hadn’t divulged the fact that the bomber had contacted her.

  “So what is the story?” he asked. “Some homeless man set off the bomb in Savannah?”

  “Apparently so,” Annabelle said. “But I think there’s more to the story, Roland. I just need more time.”

  “We have to report something, Annabelle.”

  “You have what I can verify so far. Warren Ames, a homeless man, was the suicide bomber in Savannah. He suffered from PTS. That’s all you can print for now.”

  Roland’s agitated breath reverberated over the line. “What are you holding back?”

  She sighed. “You know I’m still digging. As soon as I know, you’ll have my story. Until then, you’re going to have to trust me.”

  “Then at least send me a human-interest piece or two to work with to distract the public.”

  “Fine. You’ll have a couple of pieces tomorrow.”

  “What about Quinton Valtrez?”

  She hesitated and went to stare out the window, her nerves on edge. “I’m still working on that story. He’s not as cut-and-dried as I thought.”

  “You aren’t going soft, are you?” Roland barked. “Because I can send someone else to get the story.”

  Her stomach tightened and resolve set in. “I’m not going soft. But this story is complicated, and I can’t work with you breathing down my neck.”

  Irritated, she hung up and dropped her forehead against the cool windowpane, confused and nervous as hell.

  Was she going soft? Starting to see Quinton as some kind of hero instead of a killer?

  Quinton’s fingers tightened around the gun, but his gaze caught Annabelle’s as she angled her face and stared out the window. For a moment, he wondered if she could see him.

  Her eyes were luminous, innocent, wary, probing. Her face delicate but determined. Her hair flowing as she raked a hand through the glossy long strands.

  Then her thoughts came to him—she was thinking about the bombing, the vultures, the homeless man, wondering how the three were connected.

  And she wanted to talk to him.

  Because she thought the killer had contacted her. And she suspected there was more to this than a single suicide bomber, that another person might be behind it.

  That there would be more victims.

  Her thoughts came again, this time as if she’d spoken directly to him.

  She wasn’t going to rat him out. At least not yet. She wanted the whole picture.

  How do you fit into the puzzle, Quinton Valtrez? Just who are you—a savior or a killer?

  “Not a savior, sweetheart, that’s for damn sure,” he muttered.

  Forcing himself to focus, he inhaled deep breaths then slid his finger away from the trigger.

  Dammit, he couldn’t kill her.

  He was acting impetuously, on emotion, on fear that she’d expose him instead of thinking clearly. So had Keller.

  Taking her out here would draw too much suspicion.

  She wasn’t a terrorist. She was a public figure. People knew who she was and where she was staying.

  And what if the demon had contacted her? What if she proved to be a link to this bomber?

  The smart thing to do would be to play along. Find out just what she knew. Who she might have already passed information to. Then he’d do whatever he had to do to convince her to keep quiet.

  Hell, seducing her would be more effective than murder.

  Smiling at that thought, he reached for his cell phone with steady fingers and punched in her number. She fidgeted but answered the phone.

  “Annabelle Armstrong speaking.”

  “It’s Quinton Valtrez.”

  She drew a sharp breath and tightened the belt of her robe as if she sensed she was being watched.

  Now that he knew what lay beneath the robe, no matter what she wore he’d have a permanent picture of her naked in his mind. Lush and inviting…

  She rushed to the window and moved the sheers aside, searching the gardens. “Yes?”

  “We need to talk.”

  “I thought you didn’t want to talk to me.”

  “I don’t.” He hesitated. “But since you’re still here, I figure I have to.”

  She seemed to be searching the street for him. “How did you know where I was?”

  “I have my sources.” He grinned, enjoying the way his tone unnerved her. Damn, he was a bastard.

  But if she exposed the unit, she jeopardized dozens of lives, including innocents the team protected.

  “Come to my place,” he suggested.

  She shook her head, a frown marring her brow. “Too isolated.”

  “Then I’ll come to your room.”

  She ran a hand through her hair. “No. Someplace neutral. How about Colonial Park Cemetery?”

  An odd place to meet. “All right.” He disconnected the call, then took his weapon system and went to his car to wait. He’d parked under a row of big oaks down the street a ways, but near enough to see her exit.

  Moonlight streaked the asphalt, a vulture sweeping in front of her as Annabelle hurried outside. Was Quinton finally going to talk to her and tell her the truth?

  Did he know more about the bombing than he’d told her? Could they possibly work together to identify the person or persons behind the bombing?


  She scanned the street near her car, her nerves suddenly kicking in as she spotted a vulture perched on the roof.

  Breathing in to calm herself, she hesitated several feet away and clicked the unlock button.

  A second later, a loud roar rent the air, and her car exploded.

  Annabelle screamed, the impact throwing her to the concrete. Her head hit the ground and she collapsed, metal and glass pelting her.

  CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA

  The cold wind shifted through B. J. Rutherford’s paper-thin skin and gnawed at his bones, frail bones riddled with arthritis in a body that had seen nigh on eighty years. Hunching the weathered gray coat someone had donated to the shelter around his shoulders, he hobbled through the streets of Charleston, scrounging through garbage for a crust of bread to go with his booze. His knees ached and his back throbbed as he clutched the bottle of cheap wine and took a sip. The alcohol warmed his insides and soothed the ache in his joints.

  But he had to make the bottle last. He’d begged for money for two days just to buy a gallon jug of Gallo, and he hated begging in the streets. Hated the way people looked at him with pity as if he wasn’t worth spit. Just because he’d fallen on hard times a few years back.

  Sorrow welled in his chest as the painful memories assaulted his feeble mind. When Haddie gave in to the cancer and left him ten years ago, he’d wanted to join her in the grave.

  But God had punished him for doing bad things when he was younger by leaving him alone and making him suffer. Yes, he’d been a sinner. Had lusted for young girls. Even cheated on Haddie. But he’d tried to atone for those sins in his old age.

  Reverend Narius had helped him. Had offered him redemption and he’d taken it.

  Ominous gray clouds floated across the moon, robbing any light, and the stench of garbage and urine filled his nose as he neared the shelter. Oddly, the smells welcomed him as if he was home. He stumbled to the grassy area behind the shelter and dug a spot to bury his bottle.

  One day soon B.J. would join Haddie in death. Then he’d feel no more pain, and he’d never be cold again.