The Avenger Read online

  He looked around the room, at the desk, the bookshelves, the order surrounding Olivia. If he had any decency left, he'd march out the door and leave her to her neat, organized life. But Invictus training was too deep. He told himself he could use their former friendship, use her for the mission. After all, that was probably what Warren intended all along.

  Yeah, the Judge knew exactly what he was doing when he sent Jack to California.

  Olivia seemed to recover, stood, and braced her knuckles on the desk top. "Answer me. Say something." Her voice was ice even as it rose several decibels. "Why are you here?"

  She stumbled over the last question, but he suspected the urge to shred him to pieces lay just beneath the cold, composed surface of her perfect face. He tried to look unaffected, despised himself for thinking that if she'd forgiven him, his task would be easier.

  "I came to see you," he said simply after staring at her another long moment. He sat down and laid his Invictus badge on the desk.

  Her brilliant eyes widened, and for a moment she looked confused. "Invictus? You're with the government?" Her eyes cooled even further.

  "I've risen in the world," he joked with a wry twist of his mouth. "I have friends in high places."

  "Oh, those friends." She drew the words out, giving them a lethal edge as understanding dawned on her.

  Jack shrugged. "See, you already know why I've come."

  She'd refused the Invictus offer twice, he remembered. He should move on to a backup name on the Judge's list and leave her the hell alone. But now that he'd seen her, he couldn't and realized he didn't want to.

  "Knowing you, I'm surprised you rejected Myron Higgins' offer," he said.

  "You don't know me at all," she snapped, her eyes level and unreadable as she sat down heavily.

  He shrugged again, conceding. "Maybe not."

  "And really, Jack," she continued sarcastically. "You don't see why I'd like to avoid living other people's nightmares?"

  "Livvie…" he murmured, and Olivia heard the chagrin his voice.

  Collapsed in her chair, she felt light-headed and disoriented, but deliberately forced out the helpless feeling and sat up straighter. She searched the face she barely recognized. Took in the height he'd grown into, the weight he'd gained, most of all the darkness that surrounded him.

  She'd thought he was dead, had mourned for him.

  His rugged face had lost the gentleness of boyhood, the soft mouth and kind face that he'd once had. Now the harsh facial lines spoke of experience and pain, and the faint lift of his lips failed to soften the calculated look in his eyes. Maybe he was dead, after all.

  She cleared her throat, afraid to trust her voice as suspicion wormed its way into her mind. Avoiding his dark, penetrating eyes, she stood and stepped to the window overlooking the grassy campus quad. "Jackson Holt, a government agent." She hated that his name on her tongue was still a warm satisfaction. "You bastard."

  When she turned from the window to face him, the prickle of unease at the back of her neck increased and a warning chill slipped down her spine to meet the squiggle of distrust.

  "How did you find me?" She infused her words with sarcasm. "I take it you didn't stumble on me in the yellow pages."

  "Were you hiding?" His large body shifted in the plastic molded chair as he flashed that slow smile she remembered.

  She crossed her arms and leaned against the window sill, dug her fingers into her palms because she wanted to rake them across his face. He acted as if she were a casual acquaintance he'd run across by accident. As if they hadn't once meant everything to each other.

  She reminded herself they'd been little more than children. What had they known of love and loyalty? By sheer will she forced a casual tone into her voice. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of knowing how much his unexpected visit upset her.

  "There's no way I can help you or your organization." She stared into those hard obsidian eyes as she returned to her seat and folded her hands on top of the desk.

  "Even if I fill in the last seventeen years?" he bargained.

  She wanted to snort, but since she'd never snorted in her life, she remarked, "What would be the point?"

  "Right." He contemplated the tip of a polished shoe crossed over one long leg. "Well, I'll have at it then."

  She lifted her brows and remained silent, an action she'd found very effective in quelling students.

  "I've just come from Maryland," Jack recited. "Sent by the Invictus Director. It's critical that you lend your expertise in a government matter." He spoke the words with such little emotion that they acted like a wet slap in the face.

  She frowned, concentrating to remember the letters she'd gotten and dismissed so easily. "That Higgins fellow," she said flatly, "sent you all the way across the country to recruit me. To use me." She laughed without humor. "What a waste of your valuable time, Jack."

  "Livvie – "

  Olivia held up her hand like a traffic cop, barely controlling her fury. "Don't call me that name. Don't." She swallowed hard, feeling the sick rush of warm water fill her mouth and hoped she wouldn't throw up. She took several deep, cleansing breaths. "You're the one person who knows I have enough fodder for bad dreams."

  "Roger," he said quietly.

  She nodded imperceptibly. She'd concede that much, but she wasn't going to let him use that careless charm to worm his way back into her life. She felt her cheeks color. She wasn't going to let him love her and abandon her again.

  Jack leaned across the desk. "Roger was a monster and he deserved the worst kind of punishment." He paused, looked down at his hands. "And I'm sorry for… what happened."

  But it was Jack's betrayal that hung between them, not Roger's fumbled attempts to molest her. She let him see the accusation in her eyes. The distrust, the rancor, the long-simmering desire to retaliate.

  He shoved out of the chair and examined her massive rows of books lining the right wall, his back angled toward her. "But that doesn't mean that the man we're chasing should get off. He's a monster too, and we need the kind of help only you can give us."

  "You think I owe you?" Her voice sharpened with disbelief.

  He erupted in a quick shot of anger. "Hell, no, Olivia. You don't owe me a thing. I'm the one that left."

  She smiled grimly. "That's right. You did." She walked to the door and held it open in dismissal. "But that's ancient history that I have no intention of revisiting."

  Olivia stood by the door long minutes after Jack had left, feeling as if she'd fallen down a rabbit hole and everything that appeared one way, wasn't what it looked like. She felt relieved, she told herself, as if she'd escaped a seismic tidal wave.

  Gathering materials for her next class, she couldn't stop thinking of that long-ago summer she'd turned fourteen.

  Her mother never kept track of her so Olivia escaped the house as often as possible, particularly when Roger began drinking. Jack and she and Ben were always together. Like three peas in a pod, her mother had claimed derisively. The guys had taught her how to pitch quarters against the school's brick wall, shoot marbles with a steelie, and hit cans at fifty paces with a.22 rifle. Self-defense, too, because Jack knew how much she needed protection from the monster.

  She smiled sadly at the distant memory and glanced at her watch. Scooping up her lecture notes, she stuffed them into her briefcase and hurried out the door. She almost bumped into Ted Burrows, reminding her uneasily of his unsolicited call this morning.

  Not yet used to the settling noises of the old house and the outside whispers of street sounds that permeated the thick old walls, she'd slept badly and awakened as the first rays of weak fall light sifted through the long, narrow windows of the second story bedroom. She'd just programmed the coffee maker when the kitchen land line rang. She couldn't think of anyone she'd given her new number to and stared stupidly at the phone for several moments before picking up the receiver. "Hello?"

  "This is Ted, Ted Burrows, in your post-grad seminar for teaching
assistants."

  How had Ted gotten her private number?

  "Yes, Mr. Burrows. I know who you are. How did you get this number?" Charmed some university secretary, no doubt.

  "Oh, yeah, sorry." He'd flung out the words sheepishly.

  Her bull-shit detector had been honed with years of teaching and the meter jumped into the red zone, but she'd sighed into the receiver. "What do you want, Ted?"

  She remembered how he'd stumbled over the words. "Well, uh, I talked to Dr. Randolph last night and he was pretty hot about being my doctoral advisor and me teaching one or two of his courses."

  "Good," she'd said. "I'll talk to you later." She'd hung up before he could respond, thinking that was one more thing on her to-do list – get an unlisted phone number. Ted was a little twerp, going around her like that, but what did it matter? She'd already decided to assign him to Randolph.

  Little harm done, she thought now, eyeing his classic good looks.

  Ted grabbed her arm to keep her from falling. "Sorry, Oliv – uh, Dr. Gant."

  "My fault, Ted. I'm late for class. Were you coming to see Dr. Randolph?" She glanced toward Howard's desk which occupied the prime spot by the window.

  Ted waved the paper in his hand. "I just finished my doctoral proposal for Randolph."

  "Already? Well, leave it on his desk, why don't you? He's not in today."

  A furrow creased the high forehead where a lock of chestnut hair fell artfully. "Darn, he was in a hurry to get the proposal today," he complained. "I stayed up all night working on it."

  Olivia smiled. "That's the life of a college professor," she said, tossing the words over her shoulder.

  *

  Ted watched the slender legs and firm ass of Olivia Gant as she rushed out the door and headed down the corridor. As she turned the corner, he admired the light bounce of her breasts under the sweater. Wouldn't he enjoy getting a piece of that?

  Entering Randolph's office, he jammed the paper into the professor's in box. Damn! He shouldn't have bothered working all night. Now the old fart wouldn't get his proposal until at least tomorrow. Fucking waste of time. He could've taken the brunette up on her invitation last night. The girl lived in the apartment over him and wore tight belly-baring skirts and low-necked tank tops.

  He'd just have to make up for it tonight. The pretty blonde in Randy's Monday-Wednesday Medieval History class would do nicely. She sat on the front row and crossed and uncrossed her legs, flashing quite a view. He wondered if she knew what she was doing, but quickly amended the thought. Of course the little bitch knew. She liked playing with fire, liked seeing how close she could get without burning.

  They all liked to play that game.

  Chapter Seven

  Keisha Johnson's cell number went directly to voice mail. Olivia had already left three messages, had tried all weekend to reach the girl with no response. Wherever the girl had gone, at this hour on a Sunday night she ought to be back. Olivia sat at her desk in the library, gnawing on the tip of her thumb and wondering what to do. Call the police immediately, or stop fretting about a normal college student who'd probably gone off for the weekend to Tahoe or Monterey?

  Fingering the embossed card Jack had left during his visit, she stared at it. His name was raised in bold black letters with a phone number beneath it. That was it. No organization, no title. Very covert ops and hush-hush, and very unlike the open and light hearted boy she'd known. Her hand hovered over the phone. Then quickly, before she changed her mind, she punched in the number, relieved when it went direct to voice mail.

  The message was brief to the point of rudeness. "Leave a number."

  "Uh, Jack, this is Olivia. Call me." She didn't leave a number. She was pretty sure he knew the details of her life. "Please," she added and quickly disconnected.

  For her student, she told herself, for Keisha. If not for the girl's disappearance, Olivia would never have called Jack. He'd be able to find out if the girl was okay faster than the local police and without alarming her roommates or parents.

  Otherwise, she'd never ask for his help in a million years.

  *

  Jack easily found a gym that suited his needs, one where he could pay a weekly fee with no registration. Fairly seedy and populated with a rough-looking bunch of men. No women allowed. With lots of punching bags and a satisfactory ring, the gym was modeled after the early Gleason's Boxing Gym in Brooklyn. The basement room was large, dank and concrete, and stank of sweat and blood.

  It was perfect.

  Jack's nostrils flared at the scent as he laced up his gloves and went to work, needing to pound flesh and spill blood. He put in several hours of hard work and bloodied the nose of an asshole who'd overestimated his prowess and underestimated Jack's skill. Feeling more in control – though not necessarily better – he headed for the motel.

  Twenty-five minutes later he pulled the rental car into the motel parking lot and climbed out, swinging his laptop over his shoulder. Taking the stairs two at a time, he reached the second-floor room at the end of the landing. Never the lower level. Always at the end of the hall.

  He headed straight for the bathroom for a hot shower. Draping a towel round his waist, he frowned at his reflection in the mirror above the small sink. The effect of the gym workout had abated the ragged look, but his facial hair continued to grow rapidly. His beard, heavy at normal times, was a pain in the ass during the Change.

  Slowly he applied lather to his cheeks and scraped off the scraggly growth with a straight razor. He preferred the sharp edge and accuracy of the old-fashioned implement, a throw-back to his grandfather's era. Somehow it made him feel more human. Finishing up, he rinsed his face and applied after shave.

  He angled his head for another look in the mirror. Still too dark, too rough, too shaggy, he thought. He sighed and checked his watch. Time to make the call.

  That's when he saw Olivia's message on his phone. Not the Prima phone – that was reserved strictly for Invictus business – but on his normal cell phone. He knew instinctively she'd changed her mind. But why, he wondered? His chest constricted momentarily before he pressed mail and listened to her voice. He wasn't sure whether to feel relieved or apprehensive.

  Collapsing on the bed, he pulled his Prima phone from his briefcase, and punched in speed dial number one, the special line that went directly to the Judge, day or night.

  "Yeah?" The voice sounded wakeful even though at this hour on the east coast the Judge had to have been sleeping.

  "It's me."

  No need to identify himself. Even if Warren didn't recognize his voice, the special sound recognition feature would identify him. Agent Number Thirteen on the display. And if that number wasn't a hell of a curse, Jack didn't know what was.

  "Problem?"

  "No." Jack hesitated. "The Gant woman's on board."

  "Oh?"

  Did he detect curiosity in his mentor's voice? Jack considered again that contacting Olivia hinged on design rather than chance. "Are you surprised?"

  Warren chuckled. "Hell, nothing surprises me anymore."

  Jack heard the long draw of breath over the line, most likely the Judge sucking on one of his cigars. He had to ask. "Did you know?"

  "Know what?"

  "About the Gant woman." When dead air traveled the length of the line like something spiteful, he continued, "That she was the one. Back then. The one who started it all."

  "Is that going to be a problem?"

  "For me or for Invictus?"

  "Both."

  Another long pause while Jack collected his thoughts. Hating to admit a weakness, he dropped the subject. "I'm concerned about the Change. It's different this time."

  "The meds?"

  Jack thought about Olivia. That too. He sensed the sudden alertness over the line, knowing Warren weighed the potential danger of the special medications against the possibility of the aggression getting out of control. "Yeah," Jack said at last. A small lie. And not entirely false.

  "How's
that?"

  "I stopped the whites, started the red regime, but they're making me feel weird."

  "In what way?"

  "Headaches, olfactory mismatches." Jack paused and continued meaningfully. "Rough, angry, aggressive." He thought of Olivia again, all that she'd stirred up in him.

  "That's not good. The MM's will screw you royally." They both knew it wasn't the olfactory mismatches that were the real problem. "Supposedly Davis eliminated the side effects with the new batch of reds."

  Jack paused, mused again about the lusty intensity that being around Olivia brought out. "You need to send the Phens."

  When he'd first entered the Invictus program, his medications had been a serious complication. The medical team discovered Jack's body didn't work the same as the other agents, whose natural skills were enhanced with a variety of established drugs, including steroids, so Dr. Davis had concocted powerful cocktails tailored especially for Jack. The Phens were supposed to mitigate the aggression.

  And wasn't he the lucky one?

  "Are you sure?" the Judge asked.

  "Yeah." He paused again, suppressing a sigh. "The aggression's a bitch."

  Jack could almost hear the Judge calculating the odds, measuring an innocent's life against a completed mission. Collateral damage or a job well done.

  "Did you kill anyone?" the Judge asked finally.

  Jack tunneled his fingers through his damp hair. "Jesus Christ! No."

  "Hurt anyone?"

  He thought of the bruiser at the gym. "No one that matters."

  The Judge's voice over the line was calm and practical. "Then why do you need the Phens?"

  Jack's voice hardened before he clicked the disconnect button. "Just send the damn pills."

  Only afterward did he realize the Judge never answered his question about Olivia.

  *

  They met for breakfast because Olivia wouldn't agree to Jack coming to her house. He didn't blame her. She suggested a little mom and pop place near the capitol building. When he walked into the brightly lighted Country Kettle Restaurant a little after eight-thirty, Olivia was already seated at a booth by the window, gazing out at the crowded traffic on Tenth Street.