Eric Lustbader - Blood Trust

O’Banion’s body lurched up with his head and the shot he squeezed off reflexively buried itself in the seat back ten inches from Gunn’s left shoulder. Gunn grabbed the suppressor despite how hot it was in an attempt to wrest it from O’Banion’s grip.

In the front seat, Vera had her feet braced against the seat back and was pulling with all her strength. O’Banion’s face was dangerously engorged as blood pooled with nowhere to go. His free hand was clawing at the lace, but it was one of those new ones that were round and waxed, so his fingers couldn’t get a decent purchase.

Gunn pried one of O’Banion’s fingers off the grip, then bent it backward until it cracked like a rifle shot. O’Banion grunted, but would not cede control of the 9mm.

“Fuck you, Gunn,” he said in a strangled voice. “Fuck you and your little bitch.”

Abandoning his futile attempt to free himself, he chopped down onto Gunn’s wrist with the edge of his free hand, and Gunn’s arm went numb. From behind him, Vera uttered a guttural noise in the back of her throat. Lunging forward, she bit off the top half of O’Banion’s right ear. He howled in shock and pain, and in that instant, Gunn was able to gain control of the 9mm. He turned it and shot without bothering to aim.

The bullet slammed into O’Banion’s left shoulder. Blood was now streaming down the side of his face and along his arm.

“That all you got, shithole?” O’Banion could scarcely speak, but his eyes seemed alight with an unearthly glow. “You and the bitch’ll have to do better than that.”

The next shot took off the side of his head. He jerked backward, and Gunn shot him again, this time through the right eye. Blood spurted in torrents, covering him from head to toe. Bits of pink tissue and brain matter littered Vera’s cheeks.

“Jesus,” she said, as what was left of O’Banion’s head arched back at her. “Jesus Christ.”

TAROQ’S HEAT threatened to scald her, or so it seemed to Caroline. He took her at the sink. As she turned her back on him, he pulled down her jeans. Bracing her elbows on the sink top, she wrapped her long fingers around the spigot. He entered her, roughly and without prelude. The first time, when he had begun to caress and fondle her, she told him to stop. Now she lifted her head to stare at the Syrian.

The rhythmic battering commenced. As usual, she felt neither pleasure nor pain. Sex was for manipulation, not ecstasy. Besides, from an early age she had been unable to lose herself in sex. She had never experienced a climax, or even anything approaching it. Sex for her was like fixing a car’s engine. Satisfaction came when the engine started up and the car began to move in the direction she desired.

Men, women, she had experimented with both—and multiple combinations—but the result was always the same. How ironic to possess a body made for sex and to feel nothing from it. That was just one of the tricks life had played on her. No remorse or guilt. For her, “cruelty” was a word without meaning. When she was a child, she had read the definitions of these words in a dictionary, but she could not get her mind around the concepts. She might as well have been reading Martian.

When she grew older, trolling through the libraries in D.C., she had read through various psychiatric texts and learned about herself, or, more accurately, learned how the world would view her if it ever got to know her. She knew then and there that job number one was to ensure that it never did. This work began with her parents. No biggie there. Her father was so preoccupied with his Machiavellian designs, not to mention his serial mistresses, he paid her scant attention. As for her mother, she was addicted to all manner of psychotropic pills, which she compounded with the precision of a bartender mixing cocktails. Each one of her powdered elixirs was dependent on the time of day and where she was in her menstrual cycle. As a result, she was uninterested in anything other than herself, though when the occasion called for it she could give a convincing performance as a good wife and mother. She had a personality as fragile as porcelain. Her father—a force of nature—had married her because of her family’s Philadelphia Main Line pedigree and connections inside the Beltway, which, in the early days, he used to brilliant advantage. That he soon crushed her with the brute force of his personality was of little matter to him. He’d gotten what he needed from her and, in all but name, had moved on.

Caroline’s teachers were more difficult to hide from. They sent her to psychologists who wanted to probe the inner workings of her mind. She spit in their faces and left school. There was no scandal, no possibility of consequence, her father saw to that. Not out of love or concern; it was a knee-jerk response.

Finally, her parents, or what passed for them, woke from their self-inflicted torpor and insisted that she “get help.” After six months of planning, while remaining unresponsive to the shrinks’ various techniques, she vanished—completely, utterly, irrevocably. It had taken her that long to ensure that when her father sent his hired minions after her, they’d never be able to find her. She used computers to help her, erasing not only her tracks, but all trace of Caroline Lynette Carson.

Taroq had the endurance of a Tantric practitioner, but she knew how to bring him to his limit. The pounding was now so intense tears rolled down her cheeks. She’d had enough of this particular scenario, so she squeezed her inner muscles with such force that Taroq emitted a deep groan, despite his innate caution. She smiled at her pale reflection in the window, superimposed over the Syrian, all unknowing, as he sat, deep in the discussion of men, to which she was excluded.

She was still a teenager when she had found the Syrian. Or perhaps he had found her, it was difficult to say. The point was that they had discovered a common ground, a place where the chaos of life made sense to both of them. On the same wavelength, they began to work together—tentatively at first, each wary of the other. But, at length, there sprang up between them a working relationship of sorts. It was, by necessity, clandestine. Each for their own reasons, neither of them wanted the relationship known, and so it became their most closely guarded secret.

Then, either by accident or by design, someone found out about it and all hell had broken loose.

Behind her, Taroq spent himself, and with a flick of her hips and shoulders she shook him off her. His legs folded up beneath him and he slid down onto his haunches, leaning against her legs. Without either thought or emotion, she ran her fingers through the moist warmth of his thick hair.

“Habibi,” he said, still panting, “one of these days you will surely be the death of me.”

CHIEF DETECTIVE Heroe sat in her office, for the fifteenth time poring over report after report on the three murders and the disappearance of Agent Naomi Wilde, which she believed to be the fourth murder. Her gut told her that all four were connected, and yet, she could find no tangible evidence to link them. She’d sent her people out to interview all of Warren’s friends and associates. She herself had run down his public history on government databases and had scrutinized every file on his hard drive at work. A more squeaky-clean individual would be hard to find.

This same crew was now in the process of running down all of Naomi Wilde’s friends and associates. Grabbing her coat and pocketbook, Heroe left the office, went down to her car, and took off. She was due to interview Wilde’s sister in less than an hour from now, but she doubted that would lead anywhere. The woman’s husband had just left her and she was a basket case.