Risky Redemption (Rogue Security Book 1) Read online

  Her scream shattered the silence.

  Her palm stung his cheek. He recoiled and blocked the next slap. Changing targets, she pummeled his chest with her fists.

  “What the hell, lady!”

  Stunned but not hurt, Jake straddled her, caught both her wrists, and pinned them to the bed.

  “Don’t touch me, you bastard,” she shrieked.

  “Easy, Ms. Reardon, relax.”

  Her arms went limp and she shuddered. Tears wet her cheeks. “What did you do to me?”

  “Do? I didn’t do anything. You fainted.”

  Eyes filled with distrust glared at him. Without warning, her knee came up hard between his legs. He collapsed on top of her and she went still.

  “Fuck! What’s wrong with you?”

  “Please, don’t…hurt me,” she cried against his chest.

  Straining to ignore the blinding pain in his crotch, Jake confined her beneath him. Somewhere in the depths of his mind, the name of her fear registered. Rape.

  “Easy, now. Easy. Nothing bad is going to happen,” he said gently. He raised his body slightly so he could see her face. “Look at me, Ms. Reardon. Please.” Her eyes stayed tightly shut. “I’ll move once you understand that you’re safe.” He hesitated. “I won’t hurt you.”

  Her eyes opened. Although brimming with tears, they shone with determination. “Get off me, Mr. Stone.”

  Jake pushed himself up and swung his feet onto the floor. “Can I get you anything?”

  “If you would kindly give me some privacy for a few minutes.” She turned her flushed face away. “Then I’ll be leaving.”

  “Okay. I’ll be downstairs.”

  Jake pulled the bedroom doors shut as he left. He stood for a moment with his hands on the doorknobs. What the hell had just happened?

  He slammed his fist into his other palm repeatedly as he hurried down the stairs and headed to the kitchen. His plan was at risk. How was he going to salvage this snafu?

  He directed his anger inward. Yes, Angela Reardon had betrayed her country, but Jake was furious with himself for letting the Contractor convince him to make the deal to kill her. Earlier, sex had helped relieve what several days of self-loathing had done to his body. But the sources of the tension were still coiled inside him. Resentment at being coerced out of retirement. Anger at having chosen the immoral profession in the first place. And frustration at having to kill a woman.

  The last reason was definitely not the least.

  Standing in front of the security system console, Jake shook his head at the mess the morning had become. He wasn’t sure yet how to clean it up, but he knew the first step was to prevent Angela Reardon from leaving. And damn, he’d have to play nice with the traitor.

  * * *

  Ten minutes later, Angela set the weighty decorator samples on the foyer floor. Her throat tight and her face still warm, she glanced around but saw no sign of Jake Stone as she reached for the front door handle. Thank goodness. When she turned the ornate knob, a chime sounded somewhere in the house. But the door didn’t open. She twisted harder and yanked. Nothing happened except another chime. What’s going on?

  “My bad,” a voice said from across the foyer behind her. “The security system is on.”

  A lead weight fell in Angela’s stomach. She released the knob and turned warily to face Jake. “The security system locks the doors so you can’t get out?”

  “It’s specially designed.”

  “Specially designed? It’s probably a violation of several fire safety building codes.”

  “You’re right. I confess. I wired it myself.”

  “Why would anyone want to lock himself in or imprison his guests?” she asked, her voice oddly high-pitched.

  Jake chuckled. “My office is down that hall.” He pointed across the foyer. “I occasionally do interrogations here, and I must have control. You’d be surprised at the potential scenarios when I might want to prevent someone from leaving.”

  “Like now?”

  “No, Ms. Reardon. You’re not my prisoner.” He smiled and held up two glasses. “I made us something to drink. I mix a mean Bloody Mary, and I figure we could both use one right about now.”

  Angela swallowed hard. She wanted to escape and to never see this man again. No amount of decorating fees would compensate for the emotional distress she would suffer at having to face him after what had happened upstairs. The sooner she put the incident behind her and moved on, the better. Just another scar to add to the others she had suffered since the…

  “It’s really nice outside. Why don’t we take our drinks out by the pool?” he coaxed.

  “Thank you for the offer, Mr. Stone, but I want to leave. I’ll send you some referrals for other excellent interior decorators in San Diego County. Now, if you’ll unlock the door—”

  “I don’t want anyone else.” He casually leaned against the wall and crossed his ankles. “You’re the best, or so I’ve read. I was looking forward to learning more about Angela Reardon’s design-your-own-heaven philosophy.”

  A smile came uninvited to her lips. “You did your homework.”

  “I’m a security expert and PI, Ms. Reardon. Homework is a significant part of what I do for a living. The article about you in San Diego Woman Magazine was extremely complimentary.”

  “Thank you. The editor was quite kind.”

  “Please,” he said, raising the glasses. Serious gray eyes locked onto hers. “We got off to a rocky start this morning. I take full blame for being an ass.” A sheepish grin softened his face. “I’d like to start over.”

  Angela studied the man. How odd—or cunning—for him to take responsibility. His actions had certainly been the trigger, but he’d had no reason to anticipate her violent reaction. No one would. Only a handful of people knew about her past. That was the way she wanted it, needed it.

  She averted her eyes. Tension and embarrassment still swirled inside, but no terror. The weight in her stomach lightened. I can do this. Clinging to a slender thread of composure, she met his penetrating gaze with courage.

  “Fine, Mr. Stone. The Bloody Mary…sounds delicious.” She bent to pick up the decorator samples.

  “Why don’t you leave those things there? Let’s just talk.” He paused and then added, “Mr. Stone lives in Chicago. I’m Jake.”

  Chapter 2

  The present

  “I don’t know. I don’t know.” Jake Stone jerked awake Friday morning as soon as the words burst from his lips. His heart thumped and his breath came in jagged gasps. “Shit. A fucking nightmare.”

  The black silk sheet beneath his naked body was damp with sweat. Still swearing, he sat up and swung his legs off the side of the bed. He propped his elbows on his knees, burrowed his fingers into his unruly hair, and massaged his throbbing temples. God, what a night.

  After several minutes, he flexed his shoulders and neck twice before standing. He exhaled heavily and lumbered into the bathroom. While washing his hands, he stared at the strained face in the mirror. A violent urge to slam a fist into his reflection roiled up inside him. He redirected the blow, leaving a noticeable dent in the bathroom wall. The pain throbbing in his knuckles was a welcome, if minor, distraction.

  The alarm clock on the nightstand read 8:00 A.M. He had arrived home only three hours earlier, and the nightmare had ruined his few hours of fitful slumber. But Jake knew he’d never get back to sleep.

  So time for work. Reclining on a black suede chaise, he pushed aside all the nightmarish events of the night and focused on his next move. He could make the first phone call now, the call to notify his CIA handler.

  Ten rings and silence answered.

  “Contract completed,” Jake stated flatly, careful not to reveal any simmering emotions in his tone.

  “Problems?” the mechanically altered voice asked.

  “No.”

  “Good. We’ll need independent confirmation.”

  “I know. Get it today,” he snapped.

 
“I will. Should I wire the balance to the same Cayman Islands bank account as the advance?”

  “Yes. No later than tomorrow. The account will be closed after that.”

  “Consider it done. No reason for further communication. Been nice working with you again,” the Contractor said.

  Jake heard the taunt in the words. “Fuck you. I’m retiring permanently this time. Don’t call me again, asshole.” A harsh bark of a laugh reached his ears before he ended the call and launched the phone across the room.

  Then he returned to bed, but not to sleep.

  While he waited for the right time to place his next call, the nightmare crept back into his mind. After an unsuccessful attempt to fight it off, he succumbed to a morbid need to analyze it.

  In the dream, he had been alone in a carnival’s House of Mirrors. Encircled by floor-to-ceiling mirrors, he had turned around and around, but the shimmering surfaces were blank, not showing a single reflection of him. Not too surprising, since many times in his life he’d felt invisible.

  Suddenly, a multitude of figures had filled the mirrors. But all of them were Angela Reardon, not him. Hundreds of accusing eyes had gazed intently at him.

  Then, everywhere, her perfect lips had parted and whispered, “Why?” The images chorused the single word over and over, softly at first, then louder and louder, until the words cracked like thunder.

  Finally, Jake had collapsed to his knees, yelling his response. “I don’t know. I don’t know.” Awakening had saved him.

  Now, as daylight leaked through the blinds, he stared at the ceiling, the memory of the nightmare crushing his chest like a boulder. This is crazy. I don’t have feelings like this.

  He had trained himself for years to feel nothing so he could successfully practice his repulsive profession. In fact, his feelings were the emotional equivalent of granite.

  Angela Reardon had chipped away at that granite. At the appearance of the first fracture, he should have terminated the situation. But that was the past, and now it was too late. Angela had chiseled deep to touch something inside him that hadn’t been touched in a long time.

  And last night, he had paid the price.

  Jake peered at the clock: 9:00 A.M. Time for the second phone call, but he needed caffeine first. With a mug of strong black coffee in one hand, he paced beside the swimming pool as he placed the call.

  The phone rang several times before a man answered. “Hello.”

  “Sorry, wrong number,” Jake said and hung up. He grinned. Good, they’re already there. He waited a few moments before redialing.

  “Hello,” the same male voice answered.

  “Uh, hello. I’m calling for Angela Reardon. Who’s this?” Jake asked, trying to sound suspicious.

  “Who’s calling?”

  “A friend. Who the hell are you?”

  “Detective Kent Smithson, Coronado Police Department.” The detective hesitated. “Stone, is that you?”

  “Yeah, Smithson. What the hell are you doing there?”

  He heard the man gulp.

  “We got a call about seven this morning.”

  “Angela called the police?”

  “No. Her neighbor did.”

  “God, I can’t imagine any trouble in that sleepy little neighborhood.”

  “Yeah, hard to believe.”

  Other voices filtered in from the background.

  “All right, Smithson, if you’re not going to tell me shit, put Angela on.”

  The cop exhaled loudly.

  Jake smiled with relief; he had hoped Kent Smithson would be the detective on the scene. While building his legitimate security and investigation business, he’d put a lot of effort into forging personal and professional relationships with many members of the local law enforcement agencies. Once again, his efforts were going to pay off.

  “Can you come down here, Stone? I’d rather talk in person.”

  “Huh? What’s going on? Let me talk to Angela a minute.”

  “I…can’t.”

  “What do you mean, you can’t?” Jake’s volume rose a notch.

  Smithson cursed under his breath. “Angela’s gone.”

  “Gone?”

  “Shit, man, I hate to break this to you over the phone. It looks like suicide.”

  Jake choked. “Suicide? Impossible.”

  “Just get your butt over here quick. Maybe you can help me sort this shit out. I’m not notifying next of kin until I’m sure.”

  “On my way.”

  * * *

  Jake barreled down the sidewalk, identifying himself to the Coronado cop standing in the doorway before rushing inside.

  Detective Kent Smithson sat on the living room couch with a cell phone to his ear. He motioned for Jake to take a seat. Jake heard voices upstairs, shook his head, and started for the stairs.

  “Stone, no. We need to talk first.”

  He stopped abruptly at Smithson’s commanding tone. He turned and shot the detective a don’t-fuck-with-me glare but dropped into the nearest chair.

  Unfazed, the man continued his phone call. “You said there’s also a purse, but no wallet, no ID. Yeah, that is strange. Stolen, maybe, during the night.” He listened. “Which side of the bridge? Eastbound, away from Coronado, toward I-5?” His gaze darted to Jake. “Right, bring everything here. I have someone who might be able to help with identification.” He ended the call, shoved the phone into his pants pocket, and pulled a small notebook and pencil from his shirt pocket. “Thanks for coming, Stone.”

  “What the hell’s going on?”

  “I’ll ask the questions first. Then I’ll tell you what I can. Okay?”

  Jake fastened his steely stare on the detective. “Shoot.”

  “When did you last see Ms. Reardon?” Smithson scribbled in the notebook.

  “Last night.”

  The detective’s eyes came up quickly. “Where and what time?”

  “I’ll make this easy on you. We had dinner at the Hotel del Coronado about seven. Came back here around nine. I left about midnight.”

  “Anybody see you leave?”

  “Hell if I know. I pulled out of the garage and drove off. Didn’t notice anyone.”

  “Your car was in her garage?”

  “Yeah, it’s a double. Angela doesn’t like me to leave the Corvette parked in the driveway.”

  Smithson made a note. “How long have you two been dating?”

  Jake could have recited the exact number of days, but instead he said, “About three months. The party at Jim Kern’s place was one of our first dates.”

  “I remember that. I couldn’t figure out how you got such a classy lady to come to a cop’s kegger. But I didn’t actually meet Angela until last month at your barbeque. You guys seemed pretty…serious.” His eyes held the next question.

  “Yeah, we were getting real tight by then. As tight as I ever get. Neither of us has been dating anyone else for a while now.”

  Smithson lowered his eyes to the notebook. “What was her emotional state last night?”

  “She was fine. We had a great time. Are you going to tell me what happened and let me go upstairs now?”

  “Just a couple more questions. Had she ever had any psychological problems?”

  Jake shuttered his gaze. “How would I know?”

  “She ever mention anything—shrink sessions or counseling?”

  “Not that I remember.”

  “Had she suffered any kind of traumatic experience lately? Financial problems? Death of a relative or friend? That sort of thing.”

  “No, no, and no.” Jake’s patience ran out. “Can I see her now?” He stood up and took several steps toward the stairs.

  Smithson casually stuffed the notebook and pencil into his shirt pocket, stood, and pushed ahead of Jake. “Thanks for answering my questions so cooperatively,” he said with a hint of sarcasm.

  Neither man spoke again until they entered the bedroom.

  “Where is she?” Jake asked, staring at the
empty, rumpled bed.

  “We don’t know.”

  “Quit screwing with me. What’s going on?” He clenched his fists at his sides.

  Smithson leaned against the doorjamb and scratched his head. “Okay, Stone, I’m only telling you this because I know you personally. This is how it went down. Mrs. Leona Browning called CPD about seven. She’s Angela’s neighbor, widow lady—”

  “Yeah, I’ve met Leona. Major busybody, but dotes on Angela like a mother hen.”

  “That’s the one. She called in all upset. Said Angela’s dog had been barking since about one this morning. Chelsea was outside in the fenced patio area, which was highly unusual, especially at that hour. By five, Mrs. Browning was phoning Angela and getting no response. She rang the doorbell and knocked. Nothing. Then she peeked into the garage. Angela’s car was there.” He paused while he ran a hand over his eyes.

  “So Leona started freaking out.”

  “Right. She tried to pacify Chelsea by throwing treats over the adjoining fence, but the damn dog wouldn’t quit howling and scratching at the patio door. More phone calls, more howling. The poor old lady was a complete basket case by the time she called us. The dispatcher agreed to have an officer swing by. He made contact with Mrs. Browning. She had a key, but they found Angela’s front door unlocked.”

  “Detective Smithson,” called a man from downstairs, “I brought the stuff.”

  “Bring it up here.” The detective straightened away from the doorjamb. “The officer entered the residence with Mrs. Browning. No sign of forced entry. Or Angela. When they got to the bedroom, the officer called in.”

  “Maybe she had to leave suddenly for some emergency early this morning.”

  “Without her car?”

  “Taxi. Friend,” Jake suggested.

  “Left the dog outside?”

  “Maybe she’s going to call Leona later about taking care of Chelsea while she’s gone.”

  “No, Stone. I’m sorry. That tells a different story,” he said, pointing at the nightstand.

  Two envelopes, a prescription medicine bottle, and several pills cluttered the surface. Jake took a step in that direction, but Smithson grabbed his arm.