Beauty & the Beast: Vendetta E-Book

Nancy Holder

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2014

Beschreibung

During a mysterious blackout, Angelo Demarco, the son of New York City's most powerful family, is kidnapped. NYPD detectives Catherine Chandler and Tess Vargas are on the case when they learn of a second missing person: Cat's father has disappeared from his prison cell. Vincent is desperate to help Cat, but as tensions rise, the couple becomes caught in a trap where the only way out is to confront their pasts and prove their epic love.

Leseprobe

Contents

Cover

Also by Nancy Holder

Title Page

Copyright

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

About the Author

Coming Soon from Titan Books

COMING SOON FROM TITAN BOOKS

Beauty & the Beast: Some Gave All by Nancy Holder

BEAUTY & THE BEAST: VENDETTA Print edition ISBN: 9781783292196 E-book edition ISBN: 9781783292240

Published by Titan Books A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd 144 Southwark St, London SE1 0UP

First edition: November 2014 2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1

Copyright © & TM 2014 CBS Studios Inc.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

TITANBOOKS.COM

From the moment we met, we knew our lives would never be the same. He saved my life, and she saved mine. We are destined, but we know it won’t be easy. Even though we have every reason to stay apart, we’ll risk it all to be together.

CHAPTER ONE

“Tess, I remembered the name of the ‘intimate lingerie’ shop,” Cat said into her cell as she walked down the hall of her building. Her keys were in her hand and triumph wafted around her like sweet perfume. “Easy Pickin’s.”

“Bleah. More like sleazy pickin’s,” Tess said on the other end of the phone. Her voice was barely audible through the background din. Tess was still celebrating at Rosie’s with the rest of the 125th precinct, where she and Cat were detectives, first grade, Special Crimes. Nobody could celebrate like the 125th, especially when a case they had cleared came back from the jury with an ironclad conviction for murder one, just as it had late that afternoon. The notorious Justus Zilpho had received a sentence of life in prison with no possibility of parole. A brutal murderer was off the streets of New York forever.

And we did it, Cat thought happily. Tess and I. They had been the lead detectives on the case.

“We can check it out first thing tomorrow,” Cat said. “I’ll stop by Il Cantuccio for the coffees and you—”

“Down, girl. Pretty sure intimate lingerie shops aren’t open for business by the dawn’s early light. Tonight let’s enjoy the afterglow from putting away Zilpho. It’s like the old days, Cat. Vargas and Chandler are back.”

“We really are.” Cat smiled. “You made this conviction happen by developing that CI.”

“No, you made it happen when you traced Zilpho’s getaway car to the wrecking yard. Best partner ever.” Tess sighed happily.

“We are both awesome.” Cat did a quick visual scan of the hallway. No lurkers, no strangers. Good. “Captain Ward wants us to be careful,” she reminded Tess. “Zilpho swore revenge.”

Tess grunted. “Yeah, right. Guys like him talk big until they put on the orange jumpsuit. Then it’s tears and prayers. Best thing Zilpho can do is become a model prisoner. Lay low and rack up privileges. Double servings of Jell-O become a very big deal when you’re rotting your life away in jail. Oh, hey, Captain Ward is buying another round!”

“Go. Enjoy,” Cat urged her.

“On it.” Tess disconnected.

Cat smiled wistfully. It was only seven-thirty at night. For a minute she wondered why she’d left the celebration at Rosie’s Bar so soon, why it had seemed important to rush home. Captain Ward had been so proud of his “girl team” that he might as well have bought them roses and tiaras. It seemed like just yesterday he’d been threatening to fire them both if they didn’t clear more cases.

Oh, wait, it had been yesterday.

Well, hopefully, those dicey days were over. She was sure she and Tess would regain their bragging rights for highest clearance rate in the city.

She put her key in the lock of her front door, emotionally preparing herself for the emptiness that awaited her on the other side. Thanks to the scheming of Gabe Lowan, the assistant district attorney and former beast who had briefly been Cat’s boyfriend, her real boyfriend, Vincent Keller, was now a fugitive again, hunted by every law enforcement agency there ever was. If she could put away Zilpho, she could figure out a way to clear Vincent’s name and bring him back into the daylight once and for all. They would have a normal life together, a future, with all the wonderful things most dating couples took for granted. Such as, well, actual dates. And he would be able to accompany her to Rosie’s with the precinct to savor the next sweet taste of victory.

Vincent was the one person she really wanted to celebrate with, but all she had with him were stolen moments that were few and far between.

Better one moment in a thousand with Vincent than a lifetime of moments without him, she reminded herself.

She opened the door and caught her breath in surprise at the beauty and splendor before her. This, clearly, was one of those magical times. In her living room, a dozen ivory candles gleamed from cut-crystal holders, their warm yellow light catching on a silver ice bucket containing a bottle of her favorite champagne. Beside the bucket sat two crystal champagne flutes and a small box of chocolates wrapped in gold foil and gold ribbon and topped with a gold mesh bow. Crossing to her coffee table, she examined the card slipped beneath the ribbon.

Congratulations. It was Vincent’s handwriting. He knew how important this conviction was to her and must have found out about the verdict.

And he is here.

Her delighted smile widened when she saw him leaning against the doorjamb to her bedroom. He was wearing a white terrycloth bathrobe, revealing his muscular legs, forearms, and bare feet. The candlelight cast angles and hollows in his chiseled, lean face, his features honed by his life as a soldier and a passionate fighter for justice.

Now, though, his face was softened by his sexy, happy smile in answer to hers. Steamy water droplets clung to his short, dark hair and his eyes blazed, not with the feral aggression of his beast side, but the passionate, human love he bore for Cat. His pleasure at seeing her thrilled her heart. It was the perfect ending to a wonderful day.

“Catherine,” he said in his deep, gravelly voice, and she unslung her purse, dropped it on the sofa, and went to him. Their arms came around each other and she felt the reflexive restraint in his muscles, always careful of her. Even though she could take down gangbangers and FBI assassins, she was still fully human, and far more fragile than a beast. Vincent’s beast side was stronger than the most powerful human on the face of the planet, and yet Cat never felt safer than in his embrace.

Their lips met. Rosy joy transported her to their secret place, where it was just Catherine and Vincent, and nothing could come between them. It was a world of stars and rooftops, gently falling snow, and dreams of a future where they were free to be together without fear of capture, or worse. In that world, all that mattered to her was Vincent Keller, and she knew that all that mattered to him was her, Catherine Chandler, whose life he had saved on that icy, nightmarish night a decade before.

His strong, rapid heartbeat pulsed beneath the flat of her hand as he drew her close. He could crush her.

He never would.

She shut her eyes and inhaled the clean scent of him, heard his low moan as their kiss deepened. She wondered what their lovemaking was like for Vincent, with his heightened beast senses. She was never more alive than when they were as one. Tastes were more intense. Colors were brighter. All she heard was the whisper of her name on his lips, the pull of the moon in an ocean of love, and her body singing his name in response, rushing toward him, toward their ecstasy.

Anticipating it all, her body yearned for his. She let him know how very much she wanted him. He did the same.

“You’re home earlier than I expected,” he said, when they finally managed to pull far enough apart to speak, and to gaze into each other’s eyes. “I wasn’t quite ready.”

“I’m glad you didn’t have time to dress,” she replied, with a teasing tug on the belt of his robe. “And as for being ready…”

“Oh, I am. I had no intention of putting on clothes. I just wanted to add this to the table.”

He slipped into the bedroom, then from behind his back he held out a deep, velvety-red rose. When she took the stem his thumb brushed the back of her hand as if he couldn’t stop touching her. She ran her forefinger over his warm skin. Then she kissed him again in thanks and they walked hand-in-hand to her couch.

She inhaled the heavenly fragrance. “This is so thoughtful,” she said. “Thank you.”

“I wanted tonight to be perfect. I know how much this conviction means to you,” he said. “You and Tess worked so hard to put this guy away.”

“Vincent, any time we’re together, it’s perfect.”

His eyes flared with happiness and desire. “I’m glad you think so.”

“I know so.”

He eased her down and her weary muscles melted as she curled up, head in hand, watching as he grabbed the champagne bottle and popped the cork. He was completely unaware of his masculine beauty and the grace with which he moved. But there was much more to Vincent than physicality. He was smart, and funny, and brave. Best of all, he was a good man. His beast side had nearly dragged him down to the depths of hopelessness and brutality, but Vincent had prevailed in the battle to reclaim his humanity. His soul.

Their love.

Smiling, she opened the candy box, lifted the layer of paper, and admired the delectable possibilities. Tonight, there were many delectable possibilities.

His eyes sparkled like champagne bubbles as he poured the first flute. His robe hung open, revealing his broad chest. She ached to plant soft kisses there.

He bent forward to hand her the glass, poured a second, and they clinked the rims together. He gazed into her eyes and she saw his fierce pride in her. Vincent admired her for being good at her job, and that made her want to do even better at it.

We are better together than we are apart, she thought. How many times had they said that to each other?

“To you,” he toasted.

“To justice,” she rejoined, and they sipped. This evening she and Tess had thrown back whiskey and beer, cop booze, and the sublime champagne reminded her that her life with Vincent was so different, and that so much of it was unbelievably wonderful.

He sat beside her and pulled her feet onto his lap as she popped a chocolate into his mouth. She bit into a cordial with a hazelnut center. Her shoes thunked to the floor as he began to massage her feet and she wrinkled her nose, a tad embarrassed. She had walked the mean streets of New York City today, and she felt grimy beside this immaculate man and all the luxuries he had arranged for her.

“I should take a shower,” she protested gently, even as an appreciative groan escaped her. “You are so good at that.”

“That’s not all I’m good at,” he said huskily.

Then he stood, scooped her in his arms, and she laughed, holding their champagne glasses in the air and balancing her rose and her box of chocolates in her lap as he carried her down the hall into the bathroom. She peeled off her clothes and he made short work of the bathrobe. Fragrant soap and steam washed away the day and by the time Vincent lay her on the bed, she felt like an entirely new person, still glowing from the thrill of victory. Today a jury of his peers had put away a very bad man. An evil man. The system had worked.

She had become a cop for days like this.

But for moments like these, she was simply a woman deeply in love. She reached for Vincent and he gently lowered himself down, gathering her up and giving himself to her. They moved together and she saw the bronze glow in his eyes, like embers, and then he willed the beast away.

When they were both sated, they ate chocolates and finished the champagne. She stroked his cheek and trailed her fingers down his arm. As tiredness caught up to the two, he clasped her fingers in his and snuggled her against his chest. His heartbeat was powerful, comforting.

There is a miracle in my bed tonight, she thought.

Somewhere in the distance a siren blared. A dog barked as if in answer.

Half asleep, Vincent mumbled, “Intimate lingerie shop?”

She laughed. “You heard that, did you? An informant implicated Easy Pickin’s in a money-laundering ring—don’t make jokes about it, Tess and I have run through them all.”

“Well, I know you’ll collar them.”

“Except that one.” She batted him playfully.

She told him a little bit about the case, and he listened intently even though she could tell he was weary. Then she dozed contentedly in his arms, drifting in dreams to the words of a song they had danced to together:

“You’re my guiding light.”

Vincent was so much more than that.

She felt the welcome weight of his muscular arm over her, the dip in the mattress from his body. He was there. It was so special when they could sleep side-by-side.

If only you could be here when I wake up, she thought. Every morning that I wake up.

But she would not ruin this night by wishing for things she couldn’t have. She would be grateful for what she did have. And she was unbelievably grateful.

Smiling, she surrendered to sleep.

* * *

Hours later, she rolled onto her side to admire him in the city’s light. To her surprise, the room was pitch black. She looked at the thin strip of night sky between the curtains at the window.

She frowned. She lived in Greenwich Village, a neighborhood in the city that never slept, but tonight its familiar ambient glow was replaced by an inky darkness. Something was wrong.

She eased Vincent’s arm away, pulled back the covers, and sat up.

“What is it?” Vincent asked, awake in a flash. “Your heart’s beating so fast.” He quirked a grin. “Again?”

“Something’s happened,” she said slowly.

She got up, padded to the window, and eased the drapes aside. Her city block was invisible in the dark. There were no lights on the buildings, and the streetlamps and neon signs were out.

Trap. Ambush, she thought and, by then, Vincent was on his feet, too. From the glow of his cell phone, which he lifted above his head like a flashlight, she spotted a pile of clothes on the floor—his—and started to gather them up. They reeked of smoke.

“Vincent? What happened to your clothes?” she asked, trying to figure out if their condition was connected to the darkness outside her building.

The curtains fluttered and she realized that he had opened the window and was already on the fire escape to the roof. Vincent’s best friend, J.T. Forbes, called Vincent’s ability to move faster than the human eye could see “blurring.” Vincent had definitely blurred. She dropped Vincent’s clothes, dressed as fast as she could and went up to the roof, too, half-expecting him to be gone. But there he was, in his bathrobe, peering from a safe distance out at the nothingness. Not a single light shone anywhere in their field of vision.

“It’s a blackout,” she said. “Power outage.”

For a moment she allowed herself to feel a wash of intense relief. It was doubtful that a manhunt for Vincent was the cause, and Justus Zilpho did not have access to the resources necessary to blot out the entire city. But then her cop senses took over: blackouts could lead to looting, and a lack of power meant that the average citizen was defenseless against street crime, which always increased when crooks could move about more freely.

“I have to call in,” she said, and hurried back down to her apartment. As she climbed through the window, she heard the trilling of her cell phone. She checked caller ID: sure enough, it was Captain Ward. A quick glance at the time said it was 1.15 in the morning.

“Chandler,” he said, “get down here. The entire borough of Manhattan has gone dark. Hold on.” Listening, she moved to her nightstand to grab her badge and her gun with her free hand. “Brooklyn, too.”

“On my way, sir.” She ended the call and moved carefully through the darkened apartment, feeling for her purse. She drew out her police-issue flashlight and dropped in her cell phone. She had a burner phone in there, too. For Vincent. They switched them every three days, which was the protocol J.T. and Vincent had established years before Cat had arrived on the scene. For a while, they had been able to stop using them and rely on normal cell phones. But now that Vincent was on the run again, such precautions were a regular fixture in their lives.

“I heard,” Vincent said. He moved to the pile of smoky clothes and began to put them on. She flicked on the flashlight and shone it at him. His jeans were scorched and there were ragged burn holes in his white T-shirt.

“What did happen to you today?” she asked worriedly. “Were you caught in a fire? Is J.T. all right?” J.T. Forbes had protected Vincent for the ten years that he had remained in hiding from Muirfield, the secret government organization that had turned him into a beast. Now that Vincent was a fugitive again, J.T. was also at risk.

“J.T. is fine,” he assured her. “And I wasn’t caught in a fire. I ran into one. A little girl was trapped in a tenement and it would have taken the firefighters too long to get to her.” He shrugged. “So I went in.”

Although he was standing directly in front of her, a frisson of anxiety skittered up Cat’s backbone. Fire could claim Vincent’s life. When her father had turned Vincent into an apex predator, Vincent had lost his ability to heal himself. To stave off her growing panic, she reminded herself that she had seen no burn marks on his naked body, and he seemed fine. Still, she couldn’t shake her instinctive reaction. If anything happened to Vincent, it would be worse than if it had happened to her.

“Was she all right?” she asked as she threw on fresh work clothes. “The little girl?”

“She was a little shaken up. Smart kid, lay on the floor below the smoke. I heard her telling the fire captain that an angel saved her.” His grin was lopsided. “Good thing he didn’t look up. He would have seen that angel dangling from the side of the building after the floor gave way. Without any wings.”

“That was risky,” she said, and he shrugged. They locked gazes and laced their hands together. She knew they were both thinking the same thing: there were things in this world worth risking everything for—their relationship, his freedom, even their own safety—and a human life was one of them. For all the suspicion and fear cast Vincent’s way, and all his protests that he wasn’t Batman, he was definitely a hero.

“You should leave a change of clothes here. ” She cupped his cheek, taking time to appreciate just how wonderful he was. “For all the other daring rescues you’re sure to undertake.”

He laid his hand over hers. “So far we’ve been able to convince everyone that you had nothing to do with my escape from custody. If you suddenly stockpiled men’s clothes in your apartment, that’d look pretty suspicious.”

“I could say I’m collecting things for a charity drive,” she argued. “With a few on hand that aren’t your size, my excuse would be more plausible.”

She could tell he was thinking it over, and allowed herself a moment of satisfaction. Even though she’d become a cop instead of a lawyer, which had been her original career goal, she could still argue the finer points of any position she took. She loved that Vincent could hold his own against her, and did when it mattered to him. They were two opinionated, driven people, taking life head on, ready to fight for what was important, but learning to back off when harmony between them was more important.

A siren blared down Bleecker, which was on the south side of her building. She shifted back into work mode, zipping up her jeans, putting on her coat, and slipping on her black gloves and a charcoal-gray knitted cap. It was bitterly cold out tonight. Hopefully that would keep less-motivated would-be looters from venturing onto the streets.

“Anyway, think it over,” she asked him. She rose on tiptoe to kiss him goodbye, wondering how long it would be before she saw him again. This part was always so difficult. Too difficult, and tonight it was veering on painful when she considered that he would have sacrificed his life willingly today to save that little girl.

“I have to go,” she said unnecessarily. What she meant was, I never want to let you go. The soft expression on his face assured her that his heart heard her unspoken words, and that he felt the same way.

“I’ll patrol, see if I can keep NYPDs crime stats down,” he said. “Help out a few folks.”

“Thanks. But please be careful. It’s dark, but people aren’t blind. If someone spots you…”

“I’ll lay low. I was Special Forces, remember? Covert ops?”

“And a fireman, and a doctor,” she said. A protector. A healer. And the man I love.

“And a candlestick maker.” He kissed her once more. Despite her captain’s urgent summons, she savored that kiss. They never knew when it would be their last.

“Will you be here when I get back?” she asked, but that was a question he couldn’t answer, and they both knew it. In fact, since she was a cop, there’d be no guarantee that she would come back, either.

“I want to be.”

“That’s the best answer I can hope for.”

He had dimples when he smiled. Beautiful dimples. She lost herself for a couple more seconds.

Then she was out the door.

CHAPTER TWO

It was 2 a.m. and the 125th precinct was buzzing like a beehive: phones ringing off the hook, overtaxed emergency generators causing the overhead fluorescent lights to flicker. As she entered the bullpen, Cat’s body responded to the call to arms, blood pumping, the last vestiges of sleepiness evaporating.

Tess was leaning over her desk on the landline with a steaming travel mug glued to her hand. She took a swig and grimaced, then hailed Cat over with the mug. Her brown eyes flashed with the thrill of the chase and Cat knew she was taking down the details of a crime report.

Tess, said, “We’ll get right on it.”

She hung up just as Cat reached her desk, then took another gulp from her mug and shuddered from head to toe, a total body roll of disgust. She shook her head like a wet poodle drying off and smiled her best, most mischievous smile.

“Whoa. You are not going to believe this,” she said in a hushed, excited voice. She looked furtively around. “This is our case. Ours, okay? We deserve it.”

Cat raised her brows. “It’s clearly juicy. Let me guess. We’re going undercover in Florida? At a spa resort?” She took off her gloves and hat and gave her hair a shakeout. A scattering of snowflakes had kissed her loose waves and the tip of her nose. It was January, and it was cold.

Tess smirked. “Almost as good. Angelo DeMarco has been kidnapped.”

Cat blinked. “DeMarco? As in those DeMarcos? Tony DeMarco, mob boss?”

“The DeMarco DeMarcos, yes,” Tess said. “Angelo is Tony’s son.” She got as close to squealing as a badass like Tess could get. “Captain Ward’s got to agree that we get to keep this one. We just put Justus Zilpho away.”

“Kidnapping cases are FBI jurisdiction,” Cat pointed out.

Tess’s eyes sparkled. “And that was the FBI. They’re asking for an assist.”

That made sense. The DeMarcos were one of New York City’s most prominent families. The FBI was a federal agency, but the DeMarco Building was in 125th’s jurisdiction, and the DeMarcos prided themselves on having been in New York for seven generations. Originally from Sicily, they were incredibly wealthy and powerful, and although occasionally a DeMarco would be brought in on racketeering charges, no one had ever made a case against them stick. For cops—good, honest cops—the thought of taking the DeMarcos down was the equivalent of winning the lottery.

Get to know them, help them with a legitimate issue, and you’re closer to that goal, Cat thought with relish.

A family kidnapping would be a high-profile case, and even though Zilpho had paved the way back into Captain Ward’s good graces, Tess and Cat still had a lot of unproductive months to make up for—the partners had spent most of their time solving beast-related crises that they couldn’t tell NYPD about. Rescuing Angelo DeMarco would raise the 125th’s street cred even higher.

“Beats Florida, eh?” Tess said.

“Well, we are never happy when one of the citizens we are sworn to protect goes missing,” Cat said somberly. “We’re both highly motivated to find this… boy?”

“Only son and heir. He’s twenty,” Tess said. “They’ve already received a ransom note.”

“Oooh,” Cat said appreciatively.

“See? It’s gonna be a good one. Zilpho plus DeMarco equals job security. Heck, maybe even promotions. Let’s go tell Ward we want this.”

“In a nice, polite way,” Cat added.

“Of course.” Tess took another swig from her travel mug and made a face as if she had just swallowed battery acid. “I’m telling you, J.T. makes the worst coffee I have tasted in my life. I’m getting him one of those fancy machines with the little pre-measured cups. You can’t screw that up.”

“J.T. made you coffee?” Cat chuckled. “At your place or his?”

Tess scoffed. “Are you kidding? This coffee was destroyed on-site at nerd central.” Tess went a little pink, but just a little. “The conditions of my man-cleanse require that no one stays at my house. Staying at my house is messy. In more ways than one.”

Tess and J.T. had a complicated relationship: Tess had told J.T. to his face that he was all wrong for her. Shortly after that, she had leaped on top of him in his rolling desk chair and planted a long, passionate kiss on him. Cat hadn’t been a witness to this, but J.T. had told Vincent, and Vincent had told Cat.

As for the other definition, for a neat freak like Tess, “messy” meant that one of the many framed photographs of her and Cat was a centimeter askew. J.T. had no housekeeping skills whatsoever. Give him a place to set down a bag of gummi worms and a beer and he was happy as a clam.

“Does J.T. mind that you never have him over?” Cat asked as they trooped together toward Captain Ward’s office. The door hung wide open and plain-clothes and uniformed officers were racing in and out. Beyond, the windows were broad rectangles of ebony.

“The Bronx is down,” a uni said as he sailed past Cat and Tess.

Rikers, Cat thought. Former FBI Special Agent Robert Reynolds, her biological father, was incarcerated there. Her stomach did a flip, but she put thoughts of him on hold. As she so often did.

“What on earth is happening?” Tess said. In a lower voice meant for Cat’s ears, she added, “Are you kidding? J.T. mind that I’m staying over at his place? He’s having sex on a regular basis. He’s in heaven.”

“A regular basis?” Cat echoed.

Tess closed her eyes and grimaced—as if to admit that she’d said too much—and looked past Cat.

“Captain,” she called.

Their harried boss glanced up. When he saw them, his expression grew very somber, and Cat swallowed hard. Her cop instincts told her that he had bad news for one or both of them… and that it had nothing to do with the DeMarcos.

It can’t be Vincent. Vincent is safe. He’s fine.

“Chandler, Vargas,” he said, by way of greeting. His manner was very grave, even stern, as if they hadn’t partied together hours before, toasting Zilpho’s demise. “The entire city’s in chaos.”

“Are they suspecting terrorism?” Cat asked. The tragedy of 9-11 was never far from any New Yorker’s mind. Vincent had lost both his brothers in the Twin Towers, and their deaths had prompted him to drop out of medical school and enlist in the army. From there, his own tragedy had occurred—being experimented on by Muirfield, then hunted like an animal so that Cat’s own father could put him down.

“Unknown,” Ward replied. “But we have plenty to keep us busy while that’s under investigation.”

“Speaking of which, we have a case,” Tess said. “It’s a case we deserve. Right, Cat?”

Tess looked over at Cat for confirmation. But Cat was staring straight at Captain Ward. “What is it?” she asked slowly.

He returned her serious expression. “Chandler, let’s take a minute.” He looked expectantly at Tess.

“I’m her partner,” Tess said. “You want me to butt out, Cat?”

Cat shook her head. “If it’s all right with you, sir, I’d like my partner to stay.”

“Very well.”

Just then Pamy, one of the civilian secretaries, poked her head in, assessed the situation, and smoothly exited the room, shutting the door behind herself.

“Have a seat,” he invited the two detectives.

Cat kept a lid on her nervousness. “If it’s all the same to you, Captain, I’ll stand.”

“Me, too,” Tess said.

“Chandler, it’s your father, former Special Agent Reynolds.” Ward paused.

“My father.” That lid was threatening to blow. “Who’s at Rikers.”

Captain Ward said, “He’s missing.”

The room tilted like a ship at sea. A panic reaction, pure and simple, she told herself, but there was nothing simple about her father. Reynolds was a man she despised and mistrusted, and she had risked Vincent’s life to save his. And just when she thought she was done with him, another tornado of his making tore through her life.

“As in, out of his cell,” Tess said.

“As in, no longer at Rikers,” Captain Ward said.

“Whoa.” Tess slid a glance in Cat’s direction. “He escaped?”

And then Cat was back, swallowing a flood of stomach acid so she could ask questions. But the most important question could not be voiced: Is he coming after Vincent?

Ward said, “As to if it was voluntary or not, we don’t know yet. They had a blackout same as us. Generators didn’t come on right away and the disappearance took place in that window of opportunity. Witnesses say the guards were overpowered by armed assailants in ski masks. But no shots were fired and there were no injuries.”

“Rikers guards? Overpowered?” Tess echoed. “That place is like the Fort Knox of prisons.”

“So it’s said,” Captain Ward replied.

“Any leads on the assailants?” Cat asked.

“We don’t know yet. FBI’s at the scene. Early reports say it looks like an inside job.” He waited a beat as he studied Cat’s face, and then the tornado landed on top of her:

“A job orchestrated by you.”

CHAPTER THREE

We carved out a little time, Vincent reminded himself as he put on his scorched ball cap and kept his head down, quietly departing Cat’s building. We got to be together.

But it was never enough time. And he hated how he put Cat at risk whenever he visited her apartment. When they had first met, Cat had come to the abandoned chemical factory he and J.T. had turned into a sanctuary. Her trespassing had sent J.T. into a spiral of dismay, and as J.T. feared, Cat’s initial investigation into Vincent’s supposed death had put Vincent back on the radar of the clandestine organization that had changed him into a beast—Muirfield. In Afghanistan, his superiors had received orders to wipe out his unit of experimental super soldiers, and he had used every bit of Special Forces training to elude the shock troops, survive, and get back to the States.

J.T. had been terrified that Cat’s repeated visits to the factory would lead Muirfield right to their door. Unfortunately, he had been right, and the chemical factory was now gone, blown up to convincingly stage the death of “the Vigilante”—Vincent’s nickname in the press. Now J.T. lived in a vacated gentlemen’s club and Vincent stayed on a houseboat in the 79th Street Boat Basin.

It would have been easy for someone as loyal as J.T. to resent Cat for all the danger and tumult she had brought into their lives. But thanks to her interference, they actually had lives. Before Cat, they had essentially existed in stasis, and she had been right when she had insisted that he and J.T. couldn’t spend another decade in lockdown.

And anyway, I was the one who exposed us in the first place, when I went out at night to help victims.

Like I’m doing tonight, actually.

It had been inevitable that he would leave trace DNA and the occasional fingerprint when administering CPR or wheeling a wounded victim into the receiving bay of the local hospital’s ER. He had always risked discovery because of his insistence on helping humanity… even though back then he had ceased thinking of himself as human. Muirfield had turned him into a monster, a beast. It had taken Catherine’s love for him to see himself not as hopelessly damaged and beyond redemption, but as someone whose life had value.

Someone who was worthy of love, worth risking everything for.

I was dying inside, and she brought me back to life. J.T., too. All those years, all he was doing was treading water. Sooner or later, he would have drowned.

He surveyed the streets and buildings of her neighborhood, as impenetrable to the naked human eye as the streets of Afghanistan on those terrible, violent nights of the war and its aftermath for him and the other beasts. Lights were coming on in Greenwich Village—candles, lanterns, flashlights. Errant, handheld light sources would be harder for him to avoid. He kept the collar of his pea coat up high and his cap down low. He did not move furtively, for that would attract attention, and the street he was walking down was empty. It was the middle of the night, when most people were indoors, and civilians were wisely barricading themselves in their homes. New Yorkers would be terrified tonight. So much misery had rained down on their heads: the destruction of the Twin Towers, Hurricane Sandy. It was not lost on him that he lived in a city every bit as resilient as he was. He would do everything he could to increase NYC’s odds of survival against anything that came at it—be it opportunistic criminals, a terrorist group, or a natural disaster.

He heard approaching footsteps and kept his head down. One block up, a pair of large men turned the corner and approached. Vincent could smell the metallic tang of concealed weapons and stayed loose. He was not afraid, just ready.

The men spotted him. He sensed their interest in a stranger, a potential target. He heard one murmur to the other, “Whatcha think?”

“Naw,” said the other. “That guy’s too strong. He works out.”

Wordlessly, they passed Vincent. He waited until there was some distance between him and the two men, and then wheeled around to follow them. They were on the prowl, and he wasn’t about to let them harm anyone.

Behind him, glass crashed and someone shouted, more out of anger than fear. He heard more shattering glass, and then a siren, and a man’s voice shouting, “Police! Freeze!”

Vincent maintained his position, glad that there was a police presence in Catherine’s neighborhood despite the fact that he would have to be more cautious as a result. With every news outlet in the city broadcasting his image as New York’s most wanted, he had decreased his covert visits to Cat’s apartment until he went half-crazy from missing her. He wondered if Gabe Lowan had possessed the nerve to attend the precinct party at Rosie’s tonight, or if he had respectfully kept his distance. Gabe’s misguided desire to “protect” Catherine from Vincent was the reason Vincent was being hunted down… again.

And to think we trusted him after his beast side died, Vincent thought in disgust. And Cat had done more than trust him…

Adrenaline rushed through Vincent’s body and he forced his mind off the track it was taking before he beasted out. Caught in a romantic triangle, Cat had ultimately chosen him over Gabe. But for a while, she had shared her bed—if not her heart—with the ADA. There had actually been a time when Vincent himself had considered the other Muirfield refugee to be the better choice for Cat. But now Vincent finally had his beast side under control, tamed by his love for Catherine and his need to be a man whom she could love in return. To be someone whose existence and efforts made the world a better place, whether he remained a beast forever or could one day become fully human again.

A car horn blared and dubstep thumped on a tricked-out set of speakers in a passing Chevy Camaro lowrider. A head hung out the opened car window and Vincent kept his own head bowed but his shoulders straight. He had no interest in appearing as some cowering target for a gang of street toughs.

The horn honked again and he ignored it. The car slunk on.

On the sidewalk up ahead, the criminal duo Vincent had been trailing seemed to lose interest in sizing up prey and fell to arguing about football instead.

Vincent’s path took him more deeply into Greenwich Village. Windows flickered with light. Bodies moved along the sidewalk in silhouette from the car traffic. There were a lot of vehicles on the road, especially considering the time of night and that this was Greenwich Village, not busy midtown Manhattan.

He approached an alley partially blocked by an especially fragrant Dumpster. Years of training as a soldier urged him to caution; it was the perfect hiding place for a potential mugger.

Then, through the street noise, he detected a snick from across the street in the alley opposite to this one. He sent blood to his auditory system, enhancing his hearing.

Zing!

His ears picked up the sound of a bullet rocketing straight at him. His reflexes kicked in and he dove behind the Dumpster, flattening on the ground and covering his head.

The projectile slammed into the Dumpster, rolling it on its wheels toward Vincent. He rose cautiously to his feet and crabbed backwards against the shadowed brick wall. He focused quickly down his alley in both directions, ensuring that no one was headed his way. Threatened, his beast side began to emerge; he didn’t rein it in fully but he also took care to remain concealed. For all he knew, someone had taken a potshot at him just to see if they had the right man.

The right beast.

For years, he had been unable to prevent himself from beasting out whenever his safety had been jeopardized. But then Catherine had come into his life and he had learned to subdue it, if not entirely control it. If someone was trying to unmask him, this was a damned dangerous way to go about it.

There were no more shots. He eased around into the narrow space between the other side of the Dumpster and the wall, and squinted in the direction of the shooter. He spent a couple of seconds recreating the scene as only a beast could do. In his mind’s eye he saw a single shooter in a hooded sweatshirt, jeans, and boots—looking much like Vincent himself, actually—standing in the alley across the street holding a pistol. As soon as the man had loosed the shot, he had run.

Vincent took off with a burst of speed. He could run faster than any human alive. But once he crossed the street and leaped over trashcans and wooden pallets into the alley, he found nothing, and he couldn’t track his quarry any farther. Able to see in the dark, he looked up toward the fire escape, then higher up at the rooftop. He raced through the alleys of the next three streets, hearing only his own footsteps.

He blurred west, then east, doubling back, then slowed and settled into predator mode once more. Centering himself, he allowed his beast side to collect more evidence: smells and visual clues his human side would never uncover. The man had been wiry, and none too clean. He used heroin. Vincent mentally saw the man fire off a round from a .40 caliber handgun, run, then climb into a car that was rolling along. The car was old. He couldn’t tell much about the vehicle except that it had recently had an oil change.

He returned to the Dumpster and ran his fingers along the grimy exterior facing the street, seeking the bullet. It had torn through the thick metal and lodged in the other side, causing a dimple. He decided that before he went Dumpster diving to retrieve the cartridge, he’d see if he could find the shell casing. He crossed back into the shooter’s alley and searched.

There was no casing, or it could simply be that Vincent missed the tiny object. That could be a telling detail. A random shooter would have left evidence behind, being either too ignorant or uncaring to bother retrieving it. A pro would have been more diligent. So the question remained: was this someone who had intended to shoot him?