She needed to go in peace. And Frank was prepared to kill to ensure this.
Markowitz cleared his throat. “You want me to take him out, sir?”
“It’s imperative.” He breathed his words out softly, like he so often did when he was about to blow. “My regret is that we did not have them put into one of our rooms wired with camera and sound. We have no idea what Duncan told the Rothchild woman while he was screwing her.”
He inhaled deeply, trying to ease the hammering in his skull, his skin heating at the thought of them fornicating in his own elevator, under sight of his cameras. And Duncan doing it with a daughter of Harold Rothchild of all women. It was the ultimate slap in his face, in the face of his wife and his entire establishment. If he wasn’t going to have the man killed, Frank would have his badge. He’d release the sexual footage to the mainstream media—a federal agent screwing the sister of a homicide victim, a case on which he was the lead investigator. Duncan had to know he was being watched. The bastard. It was like he no longer cared…which worried Frank. A little.
“So we do her, too,” said Markowitz in his scratchy voice. “Just in case.”
Frank tilted his chin slightly toward the monitor. “That’s an FBI vehicle he’s putting her into.”
“I can have someone on that SUV in seconds. Just say it, boss, and I give the order.”
“Do it.”
Markowitz reached for a special cell, one he used only for very discreet jobs. Like the contract killing of a casino heiress and her FBI bodyguard. Like the elimination of a psychic with too much knowledge.
“It’s me,” he rasped into the phone. “This one must look like an accident. Affirmative—all occupants of the vehicle. Same payment structure.”
He looked up, flipping his phone shut. “Done.”
“Good. Now come with me. We’re taking a little drive into the Mojave to remove Ciccone’s remains. This time, the ghost of Ciccone will vanish for good.”
“What about Duncan?”
“Trust me, he’ll go straight out there to look for Ciccone’s body. We’ll be there waiting for him, take care of him ourselves.”
“I can send someone—”
“No. We do it. You and me. No more loose ends.”
Roman eyed his boss. Warily. A cold fist of tension curling in his abdomen.
Lex closed the door, stood back, banged the roof of the vehicle. “Go!”
The SUV moved on. Lex exhaled, dragging his hand over his hair as he watched the vehicle disappearing into the soaking hot, airless night, sweat already forming on his skin.
Geez, was he being overly paranoid? But he couldn’t bear the idea off losing her. Not now.
Not ever.
Jenna had just given him a glimpse into a future, shown him what he really wanted, what they could have together. But that meant he now had everything to lose.
He told himself she’d be safe with Perez until he got back. Perez was a top agent, experienced. Sharp. He breathed out a hot sigh, allowing tension to ease just a little as he made for his own vehicle.
When Lex left the rambling city perimeter, taking the road that would lead to the old ghost town, the desert night grew thick and dark. Stars spattered the black dome of sky. And tension torqued inside him. He felt under the dash for his flashlight and an extra clip for his weapon.
Chapter 13
Rita Perez drew her SUV up to the security booth at the Rothchild mansion. She depressed the brakes, scrolling her window down as she reached for her badge.
But before either Jenna or Rita could even register what was happening, a man dressed completely in black with a balaclava pulled over his head stepped in front of Rita’s passenger window. He aimed a gun fitted with a suppressor into the car. Behind him, lying on the driveway, dark blood glistening in her car headlights, Jenna saw the limp body of her dad’s security guard.
She screamed.
As she did, Rita reached for her weapon, ducking and pushing Jenna below the dash in the same motion. But as Rita moved, the man fired.
The shot was quiet, like in an assassin movie.
Jenna felt Rita’s body jerk hard, and then shudder. The agent slumped limply on top of her. Hot blood came gushing from a wound on her head. Terror dumped through Jenna’s nerves. She pushed Rita’s body off her and stared in sheer horror at the ragged wound in the agent’s skull, the way her mouth hung slack and open. The man with the black balaclava was moving quickly round to Jenna’s door. He yanked it open, his gun now aimed at her. “You! Get in the back!” he hissed, grabbing her upper arm.
A small squeak came from somewhere low in Jenna’s throat as she tried to scream and jerk free of his grasp. But the man raised his pistol and struck a glancing blow off her temple.