Page 64 of Devil's Due

“Hydrochloric acid and sodium cyanide?” Lucia asked, and raised her eyebrows. “What if they release it on a bus, Ben? In a shopping mall? You remember the Tokyo subway attack, right?”

He said nothing, just shook his head.

“I’m going,” she stated. “We’re just going to check it out. If it’s a legitimate operation, then no harm done. If not, the FBI will have a leg up. It’s the best way to handle it. If it does turn out to be hinky, Susannah, you’ll be in witness protection so fast the carpet will smoke on your way out the door.”

She didn’t look happy. “I don’t like it here. Wouldn’t it be better if I was someplace safer now? Someplace more—I don’t know—fortified?”

“You’ve been fine here for days. You’ll be fine another few hours.”

Lucia got up and washed her hands in the kitchen sink, wincing at the state of the hygiene. McCarthy was going for drug-dealer authenticity. She hoped he’d changed the sheets, at least.

“Hey.” He was behind her, close and warm, his voice low in her ear. She turned to face him. Behind him, the TV flipped on. Susannah was surfing listlessly through the channels, her face lit by the flickering glow.

“I know I don’t have to say it, but for God’s sake, would you be careful?” he asked. “You and Jazz, you’re killing me. I-was better off in prison. At least I didn’t have friends to worry about.”

She met his eyes. “Friends,” she repeated softly. The sound from the TV was covering their conversation. “Is that what you want?”

“Of course not. Fresh out of prison, remember? But wanting more isn’t all that smart between us right now. You’re not—” He sucked in a breath and inclined his head, hiding his expression. His voice went very low in his throat. “You’re not some cheap lay, okay? And I’m not going to use you that way. Or let you use me.”

Oh, God. That was—powerful. She pressed back against the counter to keep from wrapping herself around him.

He raised his head and met her eyes.

“Do we understand each other?” he asked. “No matter what, I’m not going to use you.”

She nodded. She wasn’t sure she could actually speak at the moment.

“Okay. Then don’t get yourself killed, or I’ll be very disappointed,” he said, and moved out of the way. She didn’t go. She reached out, took hold of the scooped neck of his wifebeater, and pulled him toward her.

It was a long, slow kiss this time. He moaned, low in his throat, and put his hands on her, sliding them warmly up her shoulders, her neck, burying his fingers in her hair. She was glad she’d let it out of the ponytail.

Two honks sounded in the parking lot. His lips looked damp and hungry, and she brushed hers against them one more time. “I have to go,” she whispered. He nodded. “I’ll be back soon.”

He stepped away and let her leave the kitchen, then stopped her with an outstretched hand at the apartment door and checked through the peephole before flipping the locks and swinging it open. When she looked back, the door was closed and locked, the peephole dark.

He was watching her go.

She followed Jazz’s excellent example, taking the steps fast, and saw the electrician’s van idling in the parking lot twenty feet from the sidewalk. She crossed to it without incident, she checked for Cole’s familiar face before opening the passenger door.

Cole was a medium guy—medium height, medium weight, medium complexion. He’d disappear into a crowd of two. He’d chosen the vehicle well; the paint on the exterior was sun-faded and the contractor’s logo and information were chipped. Cole himself was wearing a denim shirt, blue jeans and a tool belt that had just the right wear on the leather.

She wouldn’t have given him a second glance, and Lucia knew herself to be more paranoid than most.

He put the van in gear without any words being spoken, and pulled out of the parking lot and onto the road.

“Sorry,” she said, and indicated what she was wearing, which wasn’t exactly appropriate to the occasion. “I haven’t been home.”

“Yeah, I heard you were in the hospital.” He gave her a long look. “How are you?”

“I’m fine. Any word on the origin of the anthrax strain?”

“Came out of a lab in California, and believe me, somebody’s ass is cooking on a grill right now. Rawlins is pissed. He really doesn’t like terrorists.”

She grinned. “And you do?”

“I spend a lot more time rubbing shoulders with them. Hard to get a real hate going when you’ve met their wives and kids. You know you have to do it, but sometimes it gets hard.”

“Probably the same for them.”

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