LITMIR.BIZ

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she added silently. He seemed forbidding. And she had a feeling it wasn’t just a facade. “I could call—”

      He cut her off. The last thing he wanted was for her to find him a job. That was being taken care of even as he stood here with her.

      “I said we were even,” he insisted. “You don’t owe me anything.”

      It wasn’t tit for tat in her book. She believed in free form. “I don’t work that way,” she told him, noticing a puzzled expression on his face. “With checks and balances. You need a job, I might know of somewhere to place you, that’s all I’m saying.”

      He had to continue being blunt. She wasn’t the type to retreat if he took her feelings into account.

      “I take care of myself,” he informed her in no uncertain terms.

      Her eyes lowered to the wound she had just finished stitching and dressing. Maybe he could have done it on his own, but most people don’t like to sew their own flesh back into place.

      “I’m sure you can.”

      The tone wasn’t exactly sarcastic, but close, he thought. Turning the knob, Kane pulled the door open. Only then did he nod at her.

      “See you around, Doc.”

      He meant it as a parting, throwaway line. Which was a shame, he caught himself thinking. Because in another lifetime, she would be the kind of woman he should have pursued—if he were into the whole hearth-and-family type thing. He could tell, just by looking at her, that she was. Women like that were best left alone. Because he wasn’t into that. And nothing good ever followed in his wake.

      She was at the door, less than a hair’s breadth behind him. “You’re going to have to change that dressing tomorrow,” she called after him.

      He didn’t turn around, but he did nod. “I can do it.”

      “And don’t get it wet,” Marja added, raising her voice.

      “Dry as a bone,” he promised, raising his hand over his head to indicate that he’d heard her as he kept on walking.

      “And—” She stopped abruptly as her cell phone rang again.

      He allowed himself a dry laugh under his breath. “That’s probably your sister, checking to see if I’ve done away with you yet,” he guessed.

      The next second he’d turned a corner and was out of view.

      Turning back into the apartment, she closed the door behind her and glanced at the phone’s screen. He was right, it was Tania. Had it been a full fifteen minutes yet? She didn’t think so.

      She knew that Tania meant well, but there were times when she felt so smothered by her sisters and her parents that she could scream.

      “I’m still breathing, Tania,” she announced as she opened her cell phone.

      “Good,” she heard Tania say, “then you won’t freak Jesse out when he gets there.”

      Her back against the door, Marja slid down to the floor, closed her eyes and sighed. “You woke up Jesse.”

      “No,” Tania was quick to correct her, “he was still up. Working on some blueprints for a new building by Lincoln Center.” She didn’t bother to keep the pride out of her voice. Jesse was an up-and-coming architect and someday people were going to point out his buildings to one another.

      “Call him and tell him not to come,” she ordered her sister. “Kane’s gone.”

      “Kane?” Tania echoed. “Who’s Kane?”

      “Mr. Bullet Wound Guy.”

      Tania didn’t bother to stifle her sigh of relief. “Thank God. Now put the chain on.”

      Marja rose to her feet again. Odd, but she could still feel Kane’s presence on the apartment, still all but feel his hand on her wrist when he’d first come to. “I will, now call Jesse off. Let the poor man get some rest.”

      “Will do.”

      The line went dead.

      Marja’s insides didn’t.

      Chapter 4

      Sometimes Kane couldn’t help wondering if some master plan existed out in the universe, or if things just happened in a haphazard, random pattern.

      By all rights, someone with his background should have been dead by now, or pretty damn well close to it. Both of his parents had succumbed to addiction while still in their early teens and the uncle, his father’s brother, Gideon, he’d been sent to live with after their untimely murder-suicide demise, had been long on alcoholism, short on patience. He’d barely survived the beatings.

      Social services had stepped in after that, when one of his teachers had reported the frequent bruises he’d tried in vain to hide.

      Being passed around from foster home to foster home had been no picnic, either. He’d literally closed up inside. After that, he’d taken to periodically running away. Being on his own was preferable to being under someone else’s thumb.

      Kane had learned from a very early age how to take care of himself. It came about out of necessity because he’d known that there was no one else around to do it, or to even care if he lived or died. His parents hadn’t. His uncle certainly hadn’t and neither had any of the families he’d been shipped to like a piece of tattered, hand-me-down clothing. No one had.

      He supposed the only reason he hadn’t turned to a life of crime was that the thought of being confined in a cage made his chest tighten and the air stop dead in his lungs. Unlike so many who took to that way of life, he knew the odds against him and he was pessimistic enough to believe that no matter how clever he might be, prison would be his ultimate destination.

      Permanently tossed out of the system and on his own at eighteen, he’d done the only thing someone with no money and an ability to survive the most adverse conditions could do. He’d joined a branch of the military. Specifically, he’d taken to the air force. It was there that he’d wound up being tapped for Special Forces, which further developed his unique survival abilities.

      Somewhere along the line, bit by bit, he’d earned a degree in criminology. So by the time he’d returned to civilian life, joining an organization that could make use of his special skills—one of which was being able to terminate a man’s existence using only his thumbs—seemed like a very logical choice.

      And that was how he and the CIA came to a meeting of the minds.

      Fully grounded, Kane had no illusions about what he did. It wasn’t glamorous, but he felt it was damn necessary. And it got his adrenaline pumping, giving him a reason to get up every morning. Not having anyone to worry about or to come home to at the end of the day freed him to do other things.

      At times he had to admit, if only to himself, that he wondered what it would be like to have a wife and 2.5 kids. Especially the .5 part. But in truth, all that was utterly foreign to him. He had no reference base, no happy childhood or adolescence to draw on. His had been the kind of childhood that easily bred serial killers.

      Or loners.

      Which was what he was. A loner.

      He supposed he’d always be one, which was all right because he never made any long-term plans. The kind of life he led, working for the Company, did not inspire people to set up IRA accounts for their old age. Few ever attained that status and those who did, usually died of boredom, leaving their funds untouched for the most part.

      He liked what he did for a living as much as he could like anything. And making a difference, however minor, mattered to him, again, as much as anything in his life could matter to him.

      While he had few rules, there were two he followed. Don’t get attached and don’t screw up. Simple. And demanding.

      Kane supposed he’d been born jaded,

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