Shadow Woman Read online

“Honest? That’s a …”

  His hand flowed up, quick and smooth. He was wearing a glove, and in that gloved hand was a weapon. Startled, Felice looked at him and tried to raise her own hand, but he was too fast. He fired, once, twice.

  She was dead before she hit the floor.

  Al kicked Felice’s weapon away from her hand, even though it was obvious she was dead. One bullet to the chest, one in the head. She’d damn well better be dead. It would be humiliating to have so completely lost his touch that he’d missed such easy shots. He looked into the camera, then walked to the table to turn off the recorder.

  He should be surprised that she’d arrived for their meeting with a weapon in her hand, but he wasn’t. The fact that he’d fired before she’d even had a chance to raise her gun would ensure that if this video were ever uncovered, he wouldn’t be able to claim self-defense. Not exactly the cold-blooded murder he’d planned, but the video would be more than incriminating enough. After all, he hadn’t drawn his weapon because she had one in her hand; he’d drawn on her and fired without provocation. The gloves indicated premeditation.

  There was no way to know if Xavier had gotten his message or not, if he was headed toward Felice’s home and her specialist tonight, or tomorrow, or six months from now. Knowing Xavier, he’d bet on sooner rather than later, but there were too many variables to make a truly educated guess. No matter, really. Felice had to be out of the picture, and cleaning up the mess they’d made was his job.

  Xavier should expect that Felice would have put someone on the house to wait for him, but when emotions were high, anything was possible. Giving him the warning was the least he could do.

  Al patted down Felice’s pockets and found nothing but her car keys. He took the keys and dropped them into his own pocket. She’d probably left her purse in the car, though what he needed might be in the glove box or sitting on the console. In any case, it wasn’t here. He collected the camera and wiped down the room for any evidence that he and Felice had been here. The team coming in would do the same, and he trusted them to do the job well. But at the same time, he couldn’t always rely on others to do what he had to do himself.

  Like Felice, he thought as he stepped over her body.

  He’d taken no pleasure in killing her; it was just a chore, like filing taxes or taking out the trash. It simply had to be done. She’d gotten them into a huge mess with her impatience, her unwillingness to listen, so he’d done what he could to mitigate the damage.

  In the vast, open parking lot—open and well lit so that there was no place for anyone to hide—he opened the trunk of his car and placed the camera to the right, next to the laptop that sat there, green light indicating that it was on, Wi-Fi keeping the connection with the camera active. Al opened the laptop, and leaning over and slightly into the trunk he transferred the video that clearly showed him shooting Felice to a thumb drive, dropped the thumb drive into his pocket, and then deleted everything from the computer.

  The laptop would be in pieces before midnight. He couldn’t take the chance that the video might be retrieved somehow, someday. There could be only the one copy, if this was going to keep him alive.

  That done, he slammed the trunk shut and walked to Felice’s car. She’d been cautious enough to lock it, even though judging by the gun she’d been carrying, in her hand and ready to fire, she hadn’t planned on being here for very long. Al unlocked the doors with her remote, opened the driver-side door, and leaned in. There was no phone on the console, but Felice’s purse was sitting on the passenger-side floorboard. With a gloved hand, he snagged it by the strap and pulled it out of the car.

  A state-of-the-art cell phone fit snugly in an inside pocket made for the device. That was her personal phone, and it wasn’t what he was looking for. Carefully, he pushed aside a wallet and a small clear bag that contained lipstick and mascara, and near the bottom of the lined bag he saw the shape he was seeking.

  Her burner cell was in a zippered inside pocket, buried deep. He removed the phone, then pressed the “contacts” button.

  There was only one contact listed.

  He thumbed the button to call the sole number programmed into the cell. When a man answered, Al said bluntly, “She’s dead. Whatever you’ve been paid is all you’re going to get, so call off your dogs.”

  “Understood.” The man’s voice revealed no emotion. This was just business, after all. He might regret losing a good customer, but other than that there was no reason for him to care that Felice was dead. “How should I proceed with the daughter?”

  That was an unexpected question. Was Ashley being held hostage? No, of course not. Felice would have pulled her daughter off the street the moment she realized Xavier was a threat. “She’s under your protection?”

  “Against her wishes, yes.”

  “Let her go,” Al instructed.

  “What should I tell the girl about her mother?” Again the voice was cool, detached. Al suspected that voice would have remained the same if he’d instructed Felice’s contact to dispose of the girl.

  “Nothing. Just release her.” Soon enough Ashley would learn—everyone would learn—that Felice had been the victim of a violent carjacking. It would be easier to make her disappear, maybe even more satisfying to just wipe her off the face of the earth, but if she just vanished, that would leave too many unanswered questions. Her death would be thoroughly investigated; the team who’d been tasked with disposing of her body would have to do a stellar job. He didn’t doubt that they would, and Ashley would have closure.

  Al returned the purse, sans burner cell, to the floorboard and tossed the keys into the driver’s seat. The cleaners would be here within half an hour to finish the job he’d started.

  He didn’t intend to be here when they arrived.

  Felice’s contact immediately called “Evan Clark,” hoping the man would answer. Not being able to reach him would be one thing; if the man did the job and there was no one to pay him, that was something else entirely, and definitely not good.

  Clark didn’t answer. Depending on the situation he might have his phone silenced, or hell, he might be out taking a piss. A message would have to suffice, and it wasn’t one he wanted to leave in a voice mail. He sent a text message from a phone that would be in someone else’s Dumpster within the hour.

  Abort, Felice’s contact typed. The client is dead.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Knowing someone was watching, and spotting that someone, were two different things. Crawling into position took over an hour, so slow and precise were his movements. Xavier knew where he would set up, if he were the one watching the house for someone like him to arrive, but there were several good options.

  Felice commanded a very good salary. Like most people with money, she wanted space around her, which meant she lived in a neighborhood where the lots were measured in acres and the houses weren’t all that close together. It wasn’t the ritziest part of town, otherwise she wouldn’t have been able to afford the acreage, but it was nice. Unfortunately, the big yard meant a lot of trees, a lot of landscaping, and a lot of places for concealment.

  Any idiot would figure Xavier wasn’t going to walk up to the front door and knock. Therefore, surveillance should be looking for a clandestine entrance.

  Even knowing that, he couldn’t spot the guy. The fucker was good. He’d chosen his spot well, and he wasn’t moving. Either that, or he’d fallen asleep.

  Xavier had taken up position well back from the house, far enough back that the hired gun was almost definitely between him and the house. There was a light on in one downstairs room. Was she watching TV? Catching up on paperwork? He wondered if she had enough confidence in her hired gun that she could sleep.

  The answer to that was, Felice had enough confidence in her own decisions that she would sleep, secure in the knowledge that she’d handled things.

  The one light in the house, though, was a big, blinding glare in his night-vision goggles. He turned his head incremental