Рейчел Кейн – Devil's Bargain (страница 1)
He came out of the dark, a dull shadow, grey, colourless. Too small a man to be making so much of a difference in the world.
He raised the gun, sighted it on her.
She remembered Simms saying,
She couldn’t breathe. Her whole body felt numbed, destroyed by the impact in her chest…
Something was very wrong. Everything was going dark.
Her heart beat, a hard jerk in her chest. She raised her gun. She couldn’t feel her arm, couldn’t feel anything but disorientation and pain and fear, but then her gun was up and she was looking into his face as his eyes widened.
And she fired.
About the Author
RACHEL CAINE was born at the ultra-secure White Sands Missile Range—site of the first atomic bomb tests—and has kept that non-traditional attitude ever since. She’s been a professional musician, accountant, accident investigator, web designer and graphic artist…all at the same time. She currently works in corporate public relations and maintains a full schedule of writing, with her successful Weather Warden series from Roc entering its fourth book and nine other novels already in print. Visit her website at www.rachelcaine.com.
Devil’s
Bargain
Rachel Caine
For all my kick-ass girls.
You know who you are.
Everything you do matters.
Chapter 1
Sol’s Tavern was a place for serious drinkers.
It had no elegant decor, no pretty people sipping layered liqueurs. Sol’s had a bar, some battered stools, a couple of slovenly waitresses, and a surly guy to pour drinks. There was a dartboard with Osama bin Laden’s face pasted on it behind the bar, and for a dollar a throw, you could try your luck; the proceeds went into a faded red-white-and-blue jar that promised—however doubtfully—to go to charity.
But the best thing about Sol’s, to Jazz Callender, was that it wasn’t a cop bar, and she wasn’t likely to run into anyone she’d ever known.
Jazz pulled up a bar stool and set about her business, which was to get so drunk she couldn’t remember where she’d been. She caught the bartender’s eye and nodded at the empty spot in front of her. Their conversation consisted of a one-word order from her, a grunt from him, and the exchange of cash. Sol’s wasn’t the kind of place where you ran a tab, either. Cash on the barrelhead, one drink at a time.
As she leaned her elbows on the bar and picked up her Irish whiskey, Jazz scanned the bar’s patrons in the mirror. She didn’t actually care who was there, but old habits were hard to break, this one harder than most. The faces clicked into her memory, filed for later. A couple of unpleasant-looking truckers with bodybuilding hobbies; a fat guy with a mean face who looked as if he might be trouble after a few dozen drinks. He was drinking alone. There were two faded night-blooming women in low-cut blouses and dyed hair, years etched as if by acid at the corners of their eyes and mouths.
Jazz was still young—thirty-four was young, wasn’t it?—but she still felt infinitely older than the rest of them. Seen too much, done too much…she wasn’t going to attract a lot of attention, even from the bottom-feeders in here. Especially not dressed in blue jeans, a shapeless gray sweatshirt with an NYU logo, and clunky cop shoes left over from better days. Her hair needed cutting, and it kept falling in her eyes. When she looked across at herself in the mirror she saw a wreck: pale, raccoon-eyed, wheat-blond hair straggling like a mop.
Her eyes still looked green and sharp and haunted.
Sharp…that needed to change. Quickly.
She tossed back her first whiskey, clutched the edge of the bar tight against the burn, and made a silent
The door opened.
It was gray outside, turning into night, but even the glimmer of streetlights was blocked by the man coming in. Tall, not broad. Her first thought was,
His badass-biker leathers were so new they creaked.
Jazz resisted the urge to snort a laugh and repeated her pantomime with the bartender. Behind her, she heard the
“Love that new-car smell,” she told the bartender as he poured her a third shot. He gave her a cynical half smile and took her five bucks. The fool did smell like a new car—also some kind of expensive aftershave that reminded her of cinnamon and butter—
Her comment hadn’t been any kind of invitation to talk, but the guy swiveled on his bar stool, held out a big, long-fingered hand, and said, “Hi.”
She looked at the hand, which was well manicured, then glanced up into his face. His soulful brown eyes widened just a little at the direct contact. Now that he was closer, she could see that he looked tired, and older than she’d thought, probably close to her own age, with fine lived-in lines at the corners of his eyelids. He had a nice, mobile mouth that looked as if it wanted to smile and didn’t actually dare to try under the force of her stare.
Normally, she might have thrown him a break. Not today. And not in that getup.
She turned back to her drink. The whiskey was setting up a nice nuclear fire in her guts; pretty soon, she’d start to feel relaxed, and after throwing a few more peat logs on, she’d start feeling positively good. That was why she was here, after all. It was a private kind of ritual. One that didn’t involve making new friends.
“I’m James Borden,” he said. “You’re Jasmine Callender, right?”
The hand was still out, holding steady. It occurred to her a half second later that he shouldn’t know her name. Especially not
“Says who?” she asked the mirror. No eye contact. He was staring at the side of her face, willing her to turn around.
For a second, she thought he was going to answer the question, and then he reverted to a lame-ass pickup line. “Can I buy you a drink?”
He leaned closer, into her personal space, and she smelled that aftershave again. The urge to move into that warm, inviting scent was almost irresistible.
Almost.
“Jasmine—” he began.
She turned, stared him in the eyes, and said, “If you don’t want to get blood all over that nice new outfit, you’d better back your biker-boy wannabe ass off, and
He leaned back, fast. His expression was one of shock for a second, then it shut down completely. His eyelids dropped to half-staff, giving him a belligerent look. Good. He matched the leathers better that way.
She held his gaze and said, “If you have to call me anything, call me Jazz.”
“Jazz.” He nodded. “Got it. Right. Like the—okay. I was sent to deliver something to you.”
And the cable along her spine ratcheted tighter, tight enough to crack bone.
He must have read it in her face, because he smiled.
“Don’t worry, it’s nothing bad,” he assured her. “In fact, I think you’ll find it pretty good. Not a subpoena or anything.”
He started to unzip a pocket on his leather jacket. The zipper was stiff. As he tugged at it, she asked, “How’d you find me?”
He didn’t look up. His head stayed down, but she saw tension accumulating in
“How’d…you…find…me.” She kept her voice cold and flat. “You follow me from home? You watching my house?”
“Nothing like that,” Borden said. “I was told where to find you.”
She rejected that one out of hand. “I’ve never been here before, asshole. How could anybody tell you to come here to find me?”