“Sit down, Erickson,” one of the men ordered, and before he could tell the man to go to hell, he was shoved into a chair by one of the guards.
The federal agent who had ordered him to sit down leaned over the table, facing him. “You’re getting on our last nerve, Erickson.”
Erickson chuckled. “All of you can go fuck yourselves and your damn nerves.”
“Call off your assassin.”
“Not until I’m free. Like I said, everyone in that courtroom that day will die unless I walk out of here. And please don’t ask me to give a damn about the families of the victims because I don’t give a fuck about anyone but myself. Remember that. And, by the way, since it seems you guys are taking your time about giving me my freedom, the every-seventy-two-hours rule is no longer in effect. He can kill whenever he feels like it.”
“You’re a low-down, dirty bastard,” one of the agents said, losing his cool.
“Your mama,” Erickson tossed back and then added, “How is the lovely lady, Agent Flynn? I understand she likes living in Florida.”
At the surprised look on the agent’s face, Erickson laughed. “That’s right. I know about all of you and your families. Don’t tempt me to add their names to my hit list. I suggest you work out a deal. I won’t go along with anything where I don’t walk out of here a free man. Until then, the killings will continue.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
“I THOUGHT YOU weren’t hungry,” Striker said, watching Margo dig into the breakfast that had been delivered. It was a good thing he’d ordered as much as he had.
“I wasn’t at the time, but I have a tendency to overeat whenever I’m nervous.”
In that case, considering her size and curvaceous figure, she must not get nervous too often, he thought. “You have no reason to be nervous, Margo. I won’t let anything happen to you.”
That call from Stonewall only verified what he’d assumed. The assassin wasn’t an amateur. They were definitely dealing with someone who knew how to stay one step ahead of the law. So far none of the security cameras mounted around the crime scenes had picked up images of the killer. It made one wonder how the assassin knew when and where to make his hit. The feds weren’t happy they hadn’t captured the man, and the local authorities were dealing with a city on the edge of chaos.
“He asked me out.”
Striker raised a brow. “Excuse me?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “I said he asked me out. Carl Palmer.”
Carl Palmer had been the assassin’s latest victim. Another juror. Striker frowned. “The news reports said he was married.”
She released a deep breath. “He was...which is why I wouldn’t go out with him, although he claimed he was getting a divorce. Men lie a lot.”
Had she caught her Scotty lying? “Some do and some don’t.”
She pushed the empty plate aside. “And some like to be evasive.”
Did she think that was what he was doing because he refused to tell her everything she wanted to know? She had the right to think whatever she liked because it wouldn’t change a thing with him. He looked at his watch. “You sure you’re still up for Claudine’s visit this morning?”
“Yes, now more than ever. I need to stay busy and keep my mind occupied.”
He understood. An idle mind was not good. Five people were dead and two of them had been jurors. How many others would lose their lives before the assassin was apprehended? “You want some more?” he asked, indicating her clean plate and the food he still had on his.
She gave him a wry smile. “I thought you were the one who liked eating a big breakfast. I feel bad that I ate most of it.”
“Don’t. As you can see, it wouldn’t hurt me to miss a meal or two.”
Margo thought he had to be kidding. Striker Jennings was in great shape. Too great. The man had a body that would make any woman drool. He even had beautiful hands. She couldn’t help noticing them when he was spooning food off his plate onto hers. At one point her gaze had been practically fixed on them. When had calloused fingers become sexy?
She then thought of something she hadn’t asked him but wanted to know. “Are you married?”
He looked at her over the rim of his coffee cup. “Where did that question come from?”
“Just answer, Striker.”
He didn’t say anything for a minute. “No. I’m not married and never have been.”
She nodded. “Do you have a steady girlfriend?”
“Why? Are you interested in applying for the position if there’s an opening?”
She rolled her eyes. “No.”
“Then why is it any concern of yours?”
Margo wondered what type of woman could handle all that alpha-ness. All that testosterone. “I just want to know.”
He put his cup down and stared at her for a minute. Then, as if he’d made his mind up about something, he said, “No, I don’t have a steady girlfriend. Just unsteady ones. And that’s the way I like it. No promises and no entanglements.”
“So you’re one of those men who specialize in bed partners only.” It wasn’t a question and she made sure he knew that.
“You shouldn’t be so nosy, Margo.”
She shrugged. “I can’t help it. You’re such an interesting character.”
Striker’s cell phone rang and he quickly pulled it out of his pocket. He recognized that ringtone. “Why are you calling? Shouldn’t you be resting?” From Striker’s earlier conversation with Stonewall, he knew Roland had been released from the hospital with instructions from his doctor to get some rest.
“How is she, Striker?” Roland asked.
Striker knew Margo was listening to every word he said. “Okay. And I told you I would handle things.”
“And I know that you can, but I heard about the recent hit. Do you think we need to move her to another location that might be safer?”
“Not yet. Stonewall is my backup and, thanks to those security measures Bruce put in place, Stonewall is keeping an eye on things from where he is.”
“It’s a good thing I called Bruce in,” Roland said. “According to him, the security system she was using was a joke. Anyone could have disarmed it with no problem.”
“So I heard.” Striker had been told the same thing from Bruce. “I’m ending this call now, Roland. Get some rest, will you?”
“I will. Carson wouldn’t let me go to my place to recuperate. I’m at Sutton Hills.”
Sutton Hills was the Grangers’ estate that encompassed over two hundred acres near the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains. “Talk to you later, Roland. And do like I said and get some rest.” He clicked off the phone and waited for the questions he knew were coming.
“Who’s Roland?”
If only you knew. “Roland Summers is my boss.”
“Sounds like he’s more than that. I can tell that he’s someone you care about.”
Striker lifted a brow. She’d deciphered that after eavesdropping on his conversation? “Yes, he’s more than my boss. He’s a friend. A good friend.”
“What’s wrong with him? Is he ill or something?”
Taking a sip of his coffee, Striker felt his neck get warm. She was asking too many damn questions. “What makes you think that?”
“You told him to get some rest. What’s wrong with him?”
There was no way he would tell her that Roland was recuperating from a gunshot wound. Instead he said, “He’s a little under the weather.”
“In that case, why would he take the time to call? He doesn’t think you can handle this assignment?”
Striker frowned. “Roland knows I can handle things. Once in a while he likes to be kept in the loop. My goal is to keep you alive.”
She leaned over the table. Something flashed in her eyes he hadn’t seen before. Fear. “That’s it, isn’t it?” she asked him quietly. Almost too quietly, to the point he had to strain to hear her. “You know for certain I’m on the assassin’s list.”
He sighed. “You were in the courtroom that day, so you’ve always been on his list, Margo.”