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The Puritans in Salem had the right idea; witches were meant to be burned, burned to a crisp, until even the buzzards hovering overhead wouldn't peck at the charred remains. That was the right and just punishment for witchcraft. It was the only way to eradicate the evil within them.
The archer released her grip on the steel-tipped arrow and the bow sung briefly as the arrow whizzed along its course to the target. Tilting the bow back, she pondered the merits of fire versus arrows as her shaft buried itself in the target.
The problem with fire was that nowadays you had to actually get the witch into a place where she could be burned alive. While one would think that would be relatively easy, the archer knew that it would not be that simple for this particular witch. This witch would find a way out before the fire even started. She was just that annoying.
The archer reached behind her and pulled another arrow from the slender bag on her back. She notched it into the string with a practiced movement and brought the bow up to her shoulder.
No. Fire was out of the question.
There was another hiss as she released the second arrow and watched it impale itself next to the first one. She considered the target that was seventy feet away, pursed her lips, and then turned to walk back a few feet. Stopping at around seventy-five feet, she turned to face the target again.
Sadly, death by arrow was almost impossible as well. The odds of her being able to somehow maneuver the witch into an archery setting were non-existent.
The archer notched another arrow into her bow and took careful aim, her hands steady as she pulled it back.
No. It was best to stick to the original plan. As much as she would love to listen to the witch screaming as flames licked around her flesh, consuming her, it was always best to stick to the original course of action, especially when one had already embarked upon it.
The arrow soared through the air and buried itself between the other two, piercing through the picture taped to the target. The archer lowered her bow in satisfaction.
The last arrow stayed, trembling, where it had struck between two black eyes on the rearing head of a Viper.
Stephanie Walker stepped into the silent house, leaving the sliding door open behind her. The feeling of emptiness was oppressive. The electricity had been off for three months and the air was stale and hushed. No sound came from the refrigerator in the large kitchen and Stephanie found the silence disturbing. She glanced around, taking in the emptiness in the fading afternoon light. The carpeted living room was to her left and the couch and recliner were covered with furniture covers. Looking to her right, she saw that the dining room furniture was also covered. The bar separating the kitchen from the dining room had been left bare, and the once-shining black granite top was dull with a layer of dust.
Walking forward, Stephanie set her keys down on the granite, absently swiping a finger through the dust and rubbing her fingers together as her eyes traveled into the still kitchen. The kitchen island was bare and the pot rack above it hung empty. Top-of-the-line appliances stood silent, waiting for the day when they would be called into use again.
Stephanie sighed, depressed by the emptiness. She looked around again and wandered into the living room. Three months ago, her old friend, Alina, had come back to Jersey from God only knew where, doing God only knew what, and saved her life. When Stephanie came to thank her, the house was empty and locked up tight. The furniture was covered with protective covers and the entire residence had been swept clean of any trace of occupants.
A few phone calls had elicited the information that the house had been sold a few days previously to a Ms. Raven Woods. The entire sale had been completed through lawyers. A call to the lawyer representing Ms. Woods led to a dead end.
Alina had simply disappeared.
The growl of a motorcycle engine dragged Stephanie’s attention from her thoughts and she went out the sliding doors again to stand on the deck that ran the length of the house. The property was buried, out of sight from the road, in the middle of South Jersey's pine barrens on about sixteen acres of land. The late afternoon sun filtered through the trees and left speckled patches of light on the manicured lawn. The house was empty, but a local lawn service had standing orders to come once a week. They had been paid up front, in cash, for the whole summer until October.
That, too, had led to a dead end upon investigation.
Stephanie watched as the motorcycle roared around the side of the house and stopped behind her car. Her partner got off and removed his helmet, turning to come across the lawn. John Smithe was tall, with blond hair and broad shoulders. He was dressed in jeans and a green shirt, with his FBI badge clipped to his waist and his 9mm holstered next to it. He didn't look happy.
“I guessed you would be at the Bird House,” he said, joining her on the deck.
Stephanie grinned despite herself. When they found out the owner's name was Raven Woods, a snort from John was his only acknowledgement of the hawk that had terrorized him there. He looked past her now to the open sliding door.
“Breaking and entering?” he asked, stepping past her to the sliding doors.
“I didn't break anything.” Stephanie followed him and John glanced at her, his pale blue eyes glinting in amusement.
“Of course not,” he murmured. They stepped into the living room and John looked around. He was silent for a moment, his eyes taking in the furniture covers and bare walls. He walked into the dining room, glancing into the kitchen. “What are you looking for?”
“Oh, I don't know.” Stephanie sighed and looked around. “Maybe just closure.”
John leaned on the bar and looked across the room at her. His pale blue eyes considered her thoughtfully.
“You don't think she's coming back?” he asked softly. Stephanie shrugged.
“I don't know,” she answered truthfully. “She bought the house, which would indicate that she will eventually.”
“Well, according to the deed, her damn bird bought the house,” John said disgustedly.
Stephanie chuckled. She had been amused by the name on the deed of sale, but John had not. In fact, John had been pretty UN-John since Alina had disappeared again. Normally very talkative and light-hearted, John had been quiet and morose for the past three months.
“That really bothers you, doesn't it?” Stephanie asked, crossing her arms and leaning against the back of the couch. John shrugged.
“You're supposed to be starting your well-deserved vacation,” he said, changing the subject. “Why are you here, poking around in a house that can't tell you anything?”
“I don't know.” Stephanie shrugged.
“We went over this place twice and didn't find anything. Not even DNA,” John pointed out. “The place is clean.”
Stephanie nodded, her dark hair falling into her eyes. She reached up to brush it out of the way.
“I know,” she agreed with a sigh. “I just keep hoping that maybe we missed something.”
“Honey, they're long gone,” John said, straightening up and walking over to her. “The latest report this morning had her sighted in Peru.”
Stephanie lifted her eyes to his and laughed shortly.
“Yesterday she was in Hong Kong,” she exclaimed. John grinned.
“I thought yesterday was Moscow,” he murmured. Stephanie shook her head and John put his arm around her shoulders, turning her toward the sliding doors. “Come on. You need to relax and forget about it. Enjoy your vacation and clear your mind. She'll turn up eventually. Even Alina can't hide from the US government indefinitely.”
“I wouldn't be too sure of that,” Stephanie retorted as she allowed herself to be led out of the empty house.
The heavy, solid wood door to the bar swung wide, allowing a gust of humid August heat to sweep in from the street. Late afternoon sun sliced through the gloom inside, glinting off the dust particles floating in the air, and caused a patron sitting at the bar to turn his head and blink owlishly at the bright light. There were only a handful of customers, but they all fell silent and turned to look at the open door.
The newcomer glanced around the bar, highlighted for a brief moment in silhouette by the ray of hot sunshine. Broad shoulders and a solid frame blocked the light before the door swung closed behind him and the sunlight was swallowed up. The gust of hot air dissipated and the patrons went back to their drinks and low-voiced conversations, their momentary interest exhausted. Setting down the pint glass he was drying, the bartender leaned on the bar and waited for the newcomer to approach.
“Hey, Danny.” The newcomer nodded, stopping at the bar. “How’s it going?”
“Just living the dream,” the bartender replied. “The usual?”
“You got it.” The newcomer looked around. Even though the summer heat outside was oppressive, few people had taken refuge in the cool, dark bar. “Slow day?”
“It’s early yet,” Danny replied, pouring a draft of craft brew into a pint glass. “It’ll pick up later.”
“I hope so, for your sake.” The newcomer pulled out his wallet as the beer was placed in front of him. “Who’s that at the end there?” he asked, lowering his voice as he handed Danny a bill.
Danny leaned forward and turned his head slightly to look where the newcomer had motioned. At the far end of the bar, hunched over a double scotch, was a woman. Her mousy brown hair was streaked with threads of silver and pulled back into a twist at the back of her head. She was dressed neatly, but drably, in a beige, summer-weight suit. Glasses perched on her nose and she peered owlishly into her scotch, ignoring everything around her.
“She’s one of the new regulars,” Danny answered readily. “She’s alright. She comes in every day after work and nurses a double scotch. She works over at J.A. Associates as some sort of administrative assistant.”
The newcomer grunted.
“I would need a double scotch every day too if I worked there,” he muttered. “Does she always sit there?”
“Yeah, but don’t worry.” Danny turned away with the money to ring up the drink. A minute later, he returned with the change. “She has a hearing aid. You have to practically shout before she hears you. She got some kind of an infection in her ear a few months back and it never healed. She's learning to sign.”
“Chatty with her, are you?”
The newcomer took his change and dropped a few bills on the bar. Danny picked them up with a nod of thanks and dropped them into the tip jar behind the bar.
“I’m a bartender,” he retorted.
The newcomer grinned and picked up his beer. He moved away down the bar, toward the hearing-impaired woman. She glanced up as he drew closer and he encountered a blank look from dark, glittering eyes. As quickly as she caught his glance, she looked down again, and spun her glass around absently on the bar. He walked by, noting the flesh-colored piece of plastic stuck in her ear, and seated himself in the booth behind her. He watched her for a minute before losing interest. She had returned to staring into her scotch morosely. Danny was right.
She was no kind of threat.
Settling against the worn back of the booth, Michael sipped his beer and watched the door. Marty was late, but there was nothing strange in that. He had never known Marty to be on time. He usually rolled in when Michael was halfway through his beer. He had learned to expect it and took the opportunity now to relax a bit. His eyes wandered over the handful of bar patrons as he sipped his beer. Aside from the woman at the bar, they were the same demographic: tired, disheartened, out of work professionals. They were all over the city now. The woman drowning her sorrows at the bar may work for a notoriously horrible company, but at least she was working. A few of her fellow patrons would probably kill for her job.
Michael brought his eyes back to the woman curiously. She had shifted on her bar stool and crossed her legs. He tilted his head slightly, looking at the length of thigh that was exposed by the short skirt of the suit. The legs were a surprise to him. Given her overall mousy appearance, he wasn’t prepared for legs that were that long and perfect. He lifted his beer again, and then his eyes, meeting an amused look from Danny. He grinned sheepishly as Danny shook his head and Michael returned his attention to the front door, dismissing the mouse with the great legs from his mind.
Alina Maschik sipped her scotch and watched the man behind her in the mirror behind the bar. He was sitting with his back to the wall and staring at the door. She had had ample time to study him while he talked to Danny, the friendly neighborhood bartender. Tall, with red hair cut close to his head in a military cut, he exuded confidence. He had green-hazel eyes and was built like a tank. Broad shoulders tapered into solidly muscled arms and black suit pants did nothing to hide the thickly muscled thighs. He had loosened his tie and now, as he leaned back against the back of the booth, his suit jacket hung open and she could just glimpse the edge of the holster holding his sidearm.
Setting the glass down, she glanced at Danny under her lashes. He was shaking his head over something as he wiped down the bar with a rag, his lips curved in a grin. Alina dropped her gaze back to the glass.
She had been coming here every weekday now for two and a half weeks. She came at the same time and always ordered a double scotch. By her third visit, Danny had started talking to her. By the fifth, he had the scotch ready when she walked through the door. She sat and nursed it for an hour and then left, tipping generously. She had been patiently waiting.
Waiting for Michael O'Reilly.
He looked older than the last time she had seen him. That was almost eleven years ago now. It was a lifetime away, and enough time for them both to change. He was a young gunnery sergeant then, serving in the Marine Corps. They shared a bottle of Jameson and parted company as near strangers, but it was a day that would be forever tucked away in her heart. It was the last time she had spoken to any member of her brother’s unit.
It was also the last time she touched Jameson.
The door to the bar suddenly swung open again, pulling her attention from the man behind her. Riding the hot sunshine, and letting in another blast of humid air, was a short, stocky man dressed in khakis and brown loafers. Alina watched as the door swung closed behind him and he sauntered down the bar toward the booth in the back, nodding to Danny as he passed.
“How’s it going, Danny?”
“Just living the dream, Marty,” Danny responded.
“It’s all we can do, right?” Marty answered. He passed Alina without a glance and joined Michael in the booth behind her. “Sorry I’m late, Mikey. Business held me up.”
“Business always holds you up,” Michael retorted good-naturedly, setting his half empty beer on the table and looking at the small Italian man who slid into the booth across from him.
“Yeah, I know.” Marty grabbed a napkin from the chrome holder on the table and mopped his forehead. “Man, it's hot out there. Feels like a sauna.”
“It's August in DC.” Michael reached into his inside pocket and pulled out his notebook. “What’ve you got for me?”
“What haven’t I got, you mean?” Marty retorted. “I got nothing. I even went up to Jersey and checked with them personally.” Michael pinned him with a steady stare. “Swear to God.”
“I don’t need you to swear to God,” Michael told him. “I need you to find out who she is.”
“But that’s just it!” Marty leaned forward and lowered his voice. “No one knows! Look, I know I told you that Frankie knew, and in a roundabout way, he does. But he don’t know her name. He only met her once.”
“When?”
“Three or four months ago. She showed up looking for information,” Marty answered, sitting back in the booth. “Frankie says she did the Family a favor.”
“If what I hear is true, she did a lot of people a favor,” Michael muttered. “But then she disappeared.”
“Why are you so interested in her, anyway?” Marty asked. “She’s not in your usual line, is she?”
“Do I have a usual line?” Michael put his notebook away and drained his glass. “Did you hear anything else up there? Anything at all?”
“Just that the last anyone heard of her, she was fishing in Anchorage with the polar bears,” Marty retorted. “But they're keeping their ears open and...”
“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Michael stood up. “When you know, I’ll know.”
“Don’t make it sound so lame.” Marty remained seated and reached for a bar menu that was tucked behind the napkins. “You know I’m your best source of information.”
Michael grinned down at the little Italian man.
“Sadly, that’s true,” he retorted. “You know how to reach me if you hear anything.”
“You got it.” Marty turned his attention to the bar menu. “You won’t join me in a bite? I never see you eat anything.”
“I eat on my own time,” Michael answered. “Enjoy your food.”
He turned and walked away, past the woman at the bar and toward the door, nodding to Danny as he went.
“Night, Danny. Hope it picks up,” he called.
“Take it easy,” Danny answered with a wave.
The front door opened and Michael disappeared into the sunlight. Alina glanced at the clock again. Her hour was up. She finished her scotch, laid a few bills on the bar and collected her bag. She smiled vaguely in the direction of Danny.
“Have a good night,” he called. She blinked at him owlishly.
“WHAT?” she yelled.
Danny grinned and signed to her. She nodded and signed “You too” back to him. A moment later, the door opened again and she, too, was swallowed by the sweltering heat outside.
Damon Miles watched the black hawk circle high above the tree tops through a pair of binoculars. To the casual observer, it was just another bird riding the wind current high above the trees. But Damon knew all too well that black hawks were rare this far north, and this particular one was even more so, having come all the way from South America.
He laid the binoculars on the passenger's seat and put the Jeep in gear, turning off the main road and onto a narrow little dirt track that was partially hidden in the trees. The wind ruffled his hair as he bounced along the rough trail through the woods. It felt good to be back in the States. Summer was in full swing and the air was warm and heavy with the scent of the forest. The hawk was lost from sight now, but Damon didn't need to see the bird to know where it had gone. It was going home and, in a way, so was he.
The dirt track narrowed until branches were screeching against both sides of the Jeep. Damon ignored the sound and continued to push through the trees. He hadn't seen Alina in over three months, not since they left New Jersey together after killing one of the world's most notorious assassins at a little, run-down farmhouse in Pennsylvania.
Damon shifted gears as the track angled down sharply and disappeared into a wide, shallow river. He coasted into the water and drove through, splashing water up the sides of the doors.
A few days after leaving New Jersey, he was called away on an assignment which landed him in Mexico. The last time he saw Alina, she was disappearing into the crowds at the airport. He had boarded his flight wondering if he would ever see her again, an all-too-familiar thought that he had every time he said goodbye to her.
Reaching the bank on the other side of the river, he pressed the gas and the Jeep lurched out of the water. He bounced back onto the barely recognizable track once more and shifted gears again. They lived far from a secure existence, he and Alina. The simple fact that he was back in the States and heading through this wilderness to join his old friend was a blessing in itself. While he was thankful for that blessing, the reasons for it were far from heavenly. The time had finally come to wrap up what they started three months before. Damon's lips thinned grimly.
The time had come to catch a traitor.
Damon punched the Jeep through some underbrush. Three months had been spent waiting patiently while Alina had lulled them into a state of confusion. Now, it was time for her to take back her life and her freedom. It was time for them to find the person responsible for bringing a terrorist onto American soil.
Despite the grimness of the situation, he was looking forward to seeing her again. The circumstances may be less than ideal, but they had faced worse together: boot camp, for one and New Jersey, for another.
Compared with those, how bad could it be?