Jo Leigh - Relentless

TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON

AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG

STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID

PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

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This one is for Barbara Joel,

with love and gratitude.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Epilogue

Coming Next Month

KATE SHOULD HAVE kept her eyes on her job, restocking the little refrigerator behind the bar, but she was so bored it was hard not to look around. All day, five days a week, pushing her cart in and out of rooms, checking how many little bottles of vodka, bourbon or gin had been used, how many candy bars and packets of peanuts had been nibbled. It was ridiculous that she had to spend so many hours doing this, while she should be putting all her energy into getting her life back.

Unfortunately, she needed to eat and she preferred a roof over her head. So she worked for room service at the Meridian Hotel in downtown Los Angeles. Laying low, staying as invisible as possible.

Kate preferred empty rooms where she was able to sail in and out quickly with her cart, ignoring the bland decor, identical in every room, down to the tan-colored, easy-to-disinfect imitation leather upholstery.

She shuddered at the memory of the couple in 1242 on Monday afternoon who’d forgotten to hang out the Do Not Disturb card or bolt the door. She’d walked in on them having wild sex on top of the bedspread. Kate had just muttered her apologies and left, conveniently forgetting to return before the end of her shift. Undoubtedly the hotel manager would have docked her wages if they’d complained, but they hadn’t.

At least this guest, a nice-looking man in his thirties who’d barely acknowledged her when she’d come in, had stayed in the suite’s living room. At first she’d thought he was talking to her, then she’d realized he was rehearsing a speech. One part of a speech. Something to do with changing neighborhoods for the better.

She tried again to concentrate on her job as the man paced across the room. She still had six more suites on this floor to do before lunch and couldn’t afford to have her pay docked. She just wished the job was more interesting. It left her with way too much time to think. To be afraid.

She looked up, not at the man, but at the mirror behind the bar, and saw him cross the room. She’d grown accustomed to being on the alert, always conscious of any and all entrances and exits. It had taken time to grasp that nowhere was safe, but she got it now. Behind every door, every smile, lay the potential for danger.

There was a knock at the door just as she crouched down to stock the fridge. The mirror gave her a clear view of the room, while the bar hid her from sight. She stilled, trying to convince herself it was probably nothing. Room service. A friend. Not about her at all. Then she smiled at her own paranoia. There were two sodas and a couple of candy bars missing, and she reached into her cart to dig out the replacements.

The guest opened the door, not cautiously as she would have, but calmly intent. Two young men, both Asian, dressed in baggy clothes with hoodies under their coats, rushed in. The guest cried out and tried to block them. Before Kate could even reach for the gun in her ankle holster, the men drew their automatic weapons. Gunfire exploded, and she watched as the guy was torn apart, his blood seeping into the pale carpet.

Terrified, she held her breath, knowing she wouldn’t stand a chance against automatic weapons, knowing this man, this nice guy practicing his speech, was dead. Was it because of her? Was she the real target?

The gunfire stopped and the killers left as swiftly as they had burst in. A shout echoed from the hallway; in the room though, there was nothing but quiet and the awful stench of death.

It took her a moment to realize she wasn’t next. That she had to leave. This second.

She eyed her cart. There was no way she’d be able to wheel it down that hallway. Too many people had heard the gunfire. There was a fire exit just down the hall, away from the elevators. She walked to the door. Once there, she snuck a glance down the hall. There were two men, guests. They were looking around frantically, clearly reacting to the sound of the gunfire. With just two of them all she had to do was wait, and the moment they were distracted she’d make her break for the exit.

The ding from the elevator gave her her chance. The two men turned, and she was out of there. No running. Just a fast, steady walk to the fire exit door. She was on the fourteenth floor, and with every step down to the parking garage, she thought about that poor man.

Death was no stranger to her. She’d seen so many horrible things in Kosovo, where her whole universe had turned upside down. She’d been a forensic accountant, a pencil pusher. Then she’d stumbled upon a horrible secret perpetrated by her own government, and from that moment on, nothing had been the same. She’d almost been killed. Not just her, but six others who had uncovered the deadly truth. Now they were all back in the States, living under the radar, trying like hell to bring about justice and truth, all the while knowing there were men trained by the CIA who wanted them dead.

This man? This poor guy gunned down in front of her? She had no idea who he was or why those two men had killed him. The way they were dressed suggested they were gang members. The way they handled the killing made her certain of it.

Her stomach rebelled and she had to pause for a moment, breathe deeply to stop from throwing up. When she could handle it, she started down again, moving faster now, afraid that the police would see her and want to question her.

Her steps slowed as the realization sunk in—they were gangbangers. Not CIA agents. Not Omicron. Oh, God. She hadn’t been their target at all. She’d just been in the wrong place at the wrong time. She would have laughed if it hadn’t been so horribly tragic.

She’d witnessed a murder.

In her old life she would have stayed. She would have done everything she could to help. That wasn’t possible now.

She was one of the hunted. The people who’d tried to kill her in Kosovo wanted her dead. Silenced. She’d seen things the government, her government, hadn’t wanted her to see. They’d meant for her to die in a lonely warehouse in a small Serbian village. Her very existence made them vulnerable. She’d seen the lengths to which these people would go to stop her.

It would have been easier if she had money. But there was none. Not for any of them. No legitimate jobs, absolutely no using their real names. Her entire family thought she was dead.

She paused in front of the garage exit. There were probably police behind the door, and she needed to make it to her car without being spotted. The best thing she could do was act as if nothing was out of the ordinary.