THE WRATH OF DONOVAN
Robert "Bobby" Weizmulder stood in the middle of his own luxury suite. He was at the window and watched the sun rise slowly. He and Pax were to have been out of the city by this time, but they were not. She was to have come to him to report that the cleaning had been completed. As of now, she had yet to show her face. He had called down to her room more than a dozen times, but she had yet to return his messages. Weizmulder had been an AOP for quite a few years, and he knew the score. He wasn't a stupid man. If a subordinate AOP didn't appear after a cleaning, it normally meant that there had been no cleaning at all. Of course, he was aware that Pax had completely and thoroughly fucked up the hit. Right before an AOP was to be cleaned, Weiz was called in to 'monitor' them. His superiors had directed him to keep close watch over Pax. They were afraid she would run. Pax had been whining for months that she wanted to leave. AOP's were rarely allowed to retire. Most of them were cleaned before they had the chance. The Angels were a twisted bunch and wanted more power than the CIA was willing to give them. So, sometimes, they started trouble. When that happened, they were cleaned. However, he had no fears that Pax would turn rogue, but he had plenty of fears that she would run straight to Donovan, especially now that she knew his ex-wife was her hit. Pax had done exactly what he thought she would. Actually, this job was more of a setup than a test. Despite what she said, Pax respected Donovan, and wouldn't purposely set out to destroy his psyche. Killing his ex-wife, the mother of his child, would definitely fuck him up more than anything ever could. Yet, there was something else Pax didn't know. Something she would never hear from him. Weiz had been the 'gruff voice' responsible for the series of phone calls Remy Ellis-Donovan had begun receiving right before she divorced her husband. It was the only thing he could think of to remove her from Donovan. If Ellis had remained with her husband, there would have been no way that the cleaning could be completed. His little phone communications had opened the door for Pax, but she had slammed it shut. He would find Pax, clean her, finish her hit, and then ship out. Time to go. Time to move on.
* * *
Pax hadn't returned to the hotel after the botched hit. It would be the first place Weiz would come looking for her. Not only that, but the arrogant lead op also chose the same hotel. She wasn't afraid to die, but she didn't want to die for not completing a total, unnecessary murder. You're a fucking hypocrite. How many people had she taken out? Did she not consider those murders? Of course not. She considered them 'hits.' However, the job of taking out Frankie's ex-wife seemed more like a senseless killing. She didn't see how the FBI and the CIA thought of what had happened to her as something that would necessitate a cleaning. If she had been the rogue agent, if she had done something wrong, it would be different. Apparently, she hadn't done a thing, not a damn thing. She had simply fallen in love with the wrong man at the wrong time. Oh my shit. Would Weiz want to continue with the hit? Would he send someone else? She sighed when she realized she had two choices. She could either take a chance to contact Frankie and let him know what was going on, or she could run. If she ran, the Ellis woman was sure to die. If she stayed and told Frankie, it would be her head on a stick. She was caught and didn't exactly know what to do. Pax wrapped her arms around her quaking body. She had hidden out beneath an overpass. The noise from the early morning traffic thundered above her head, rattling the girders. Half a dozen homeless people who considered this area their place of rest surrounded her. She ignored them, even though a couple of them were staring at her curiously. She supposed she looked horrible in her stealth uniform and tight cap. Fuck them. If any of them tried to approach her, she'd kick their asses. She had to have a place to hide, a place to stay until she made up her mind.
Pax was mad at the world and especially mad at herself. She had never had to run to anyone for help. She didn't like relying on others. At an early age, she had learned that if she counted on another human being, she'd end up hurt. Years ago, she could have gone to Frankie and asked for his help, and he would have agreed without the slightest hesitation. She hadn't wanted help, hadn't wanted anyone to 'save' her at all. She was afraid that if she had gone to Frankie, he would let her down in the end. She had come to expect it, even from a fellow who claimed to be the only person willing to listen to her. What he had said to her earlier was true. She had never allowed Frankie to be her friend, never allowed him to care. When he tried to move in and help her, she had pushed him away, was even tempted to shoot the fuck [but he had beaten her to the punch]. Of course, Frankie was wiser than her, smarter than her, and she should have fucking listened to him. Hadn't he told her that she would be used and dropped by the Angels? She didn't listen, didn't feel as if she needed to. Another part of her was terrified at the prospect of going to Frankie now. She had tried to hit his ex-wife in the presence of their daughter. Would he help her now? Would he even try? Goddamn, goddamn, goddamn. What was she to do? What the fuck was she to do? Daylight would save her for now. She would have to have her mind made up by dusk. This particular Angel squad didn't hit in the daytime. She would return to the hotel, sit, think, and brood.
* * *
The rays of the rising sun began to peek through the closed blinds of Remy's bedroom window. Soon, very soon, the alarm clock would begin its annoying series of beeps to signify the beginning of the day. She felt rotten, absolutely rotten. She turned to her side and shut off the alarm before it went off. In her current mood, the sound would only split open her head. She decided to bypass work today. She couldn't get out of bed no matter how hard she tried. Holding out on Donovan had begun to wear on her. She wanted so badly to tell him the truth. However, she couldn't, not now. The marks on his neck made it clear that he had another woman in his life, and there would be little room for her. She had made some really stupid mistakes, and this was the worst. But what could she do? You could have talked to your damn husband, you dolt. Yes. She should have gone to Donovan immediately. He was a goddamn federal agent for Pete's sake. Had she thought he couldn't protect himself? She was a damn idiot, a stupid, silent damn idiot. She wondered if it was too late to talk to him. She didn't expect reconciliation. All she had to do was think about those scratches to know that. However, she wanted him to understand her motivation. It wasn't that she couldn't fathom the idea of remaining married to him. Her selfishness had drifted. The weeks apart from him had shown her that she didn't want to live without him, even if she couldn't tolerate his job. She knew she could live with it now. She had begun to live with it again that weekend they'd spent making love. At that point in time, nothing else mattered but having her husband back in her arms. She hadn't given a second thought about the phone calls, until she received another after Donovan left. It was getting harder and harder to face him and continue the façade of the pissed off ex-wife. Eventually, he would push her enough and she would blurt it out. She needed to see him, needed to speak to him. Even if he denied her [and she was certain he would], at least her conscience would be clear. She reached for the phone at her bedside and dialed the number. The phone rang and rang. She would have to go to him.
* * *
Donovan had gone to the nest a bit on the early side. He needed time to think. It was difficult at home. There were too many damn distractions. He had paced the expanse of his floor crazily. He had called Pax's hotel room nine dozen times, but she hadn't answered or returned his messages. He was certain she had split. As he knew, she had been playing the team as if they were violins. He didn't quite understand why she had decided to flee. Had there been another hit? Was there another target neither he nor the team knew about? Pax had fucked him over [literally and figuratively]. He was shaking with anger. Fucking Jonella Paxton, you will rue the day you laid your eyes on me. I will make the remainder of your life hell. He scribbled an impatient note, darted downstairs, and left the piece of paper stuck to a computer monitor. Someone [probably Cody] would surely find the note. He ran out the door on a completely private mission.
* * *
Pax dragged her aching body into the suite. She wanted to take just enough time to shower, change, and pack. Taking the coward's way, she decided to run. She was certain Weiz would eventually track her down, but she didn't give a ripe fuck. She couldn't kill Ellis. Frankie fucking loved her. It was so very obvious in the way he spoke so hurtfully about her. She didn't want to ruin that for him, didn't want to ruin it for their kid. She couldn't imagine taking the woman's life and leaving her kid as a witness to that horrid act. She was cold, but not that cold. Just before she entered the bathroom, she paused. She had had second thoughts of running away. She wanted to talk to Frankie, to prepare him, but goddamn, she was viciously afraid. Frankie had been fucking her, true, but he didn't love her. He didn't want her, not like he wanted his ex. If she were to go to him with this, he would kill her. She had no doubt about that. Fuck it. It didn't matter any longer. She didn't think she'd live past tonight anyway. Someone, be it Frankie or Weiz, would kill her. She was honestly ready now. If she weren't such a coward, she'd take her own life and save them the trouble.
Twenty minutes later, Pax left the bathroom, still dripping water from her shower. She didn't bother getting dressed. She didn't have time; she had too much shit to pack. She laid her revolver out beside her suitcase. She wanted it near just in case Weiz decided to pay a most unwelcome visit. He was probably faster on the draw than her, but she wouldn't allow him to shoot her without squeezing off her own round. She had never packed so fast in her life. She had one suitcase full within five minutes. She grabbed her second and began tossing more of her shit inside. She was coherent enough to remember to leave clothing out to wear to the airport. It just wouldn't do for her to go to the fucking place wearing nothing but a smile. She stalked into the bathroom and stole one of the plushy hotel robes. She tossed it carelessly into the suitcase and then began to grab double hands full of panties and bras. She had no idea why she had brought so many pieces of fucking underwear. No one had really seen them, now had they? Well…almost no one. Frankie had torn off a couple pair, hadn't he? Goddamn. She shook her head. She couldn't let the fucker get to her, couldn't allow thoughts of him to disrupt her plan of escape. Goddamn, don't tell me I'm starting to get a conscience all of a sudden. Shit, shit, shit. Frankie's morals were penetrating her brain as much as his dick had penetrated her body. Fucker. Why did that fucker rub off on her every time she was around him? Disgusting fucking bastard, I'd like to kill him so he can never rub off on me again. She snapped the second suitcase shut and turned to retrieve her clothing. At that exact moment, she heard the unmistakable clicking sound made when a card key was slid into the slot lock. Tensing, she grabbed her gun and aimed it at the point where she assumed Weiz's head would be. He was a tall skinny fuck like Frankie. Her finger danced lightly upon the trigger. This was her gun, and it didn't take much pressure to make it go off. She wanted to see Weiz's face as she put a bullet in his brain. The door came open, but it wasn't Weizmulder.
"Motherfucker," she cried. "What the fuck are you doing here, Frankie? How the fuck did you get a goddamn key?"
He took note of the two suitcases. She was running, just as he expected. The fucking bitch had intended to do it to him again. "I told the clerk that I was your lover," he sneered. "He saw me leave your room before, so it was a believable story. Put the gun down, Pax. I'm unarmed."
She sighed deeply and lowered the gun. She shouldn't have done that, but she was tired and unfocused. The moment it was safely at her side, Donovan rushed her. She had little time to react. He grabbed her arm, spun her around, and threw her body down onto the bed. He came down, nearly on top of her, and held her hands behind her back. Her face was momentarily buried in the covers and she was more than tempted to suffocate herself. Seemingly reading her mind, Donovan shifted his weight the slightest bit and turned her to her side. He would not let her die by her hands. He intended for her to die by his. He didn't enjoy the emotional turmoil eating away at him. He seemed to feel the full spectrum of emotions and it made his head ache sickly.
"You were fucking leaving, weren't you, Pax," he asked through gritted teeth. "You were playing us just like I said, weren't you? You were lying the whole time, weren't you? Weren't you," he roared at her. "Start talking, Pax, or I'll turn you over to the FBI and let them ship you off. They will, you know. They dislike CIA rogues, especially those who fuck up on purpose. If you don't start talking, I'll break your fucking arm, do you understand?" Of course, he had no intention of breaking her arm, but he had to put the fear of God in her. For the last time, she would accept his help whether she wanted to or not. "What's it going to be, Pax?"
"Let me go, you fucking pig," she snarled. She had forgotten how strong he was. He had positioned his body in such a way as to completely disable her. She couldn't use her arms, legs, or teeth. "I can leave any fucking time I get ready. You're not my fucking lord and master. Let me go, Frankie, let me go. How the fuck can I defend myself, you prick? I'm fucking naked on the bed!"
"Yes, I realize that," he said calmly, "but I don't trust you. I'm not letting go, not until you tell me what the hell is going on. Is there a rogue hit or is it bullshit?" She refused to answer. Goddamn. He didn't want to hurt her, but by God, he would get an answer. "Tell me, Pax, or I swear to God I'll snap your fucking wrist. Is there a rogue hit?" She wouldn't answer, wouldn't utter a single syllable. "Pax, fucking talk to me. Tell me what's going on. For once in your life, trust me; tell me what's going on. If there is no rogue hit, then why are you here? I cannot help you unless you're totally straight with me. Answer me, Pax."
"Let me go," she said, "Let me go and I'll tell you," she whispered.
"No you won't, Jonella. You will tell me like this where I can control you. I'll ask again. Is there a rogue hit tonight?"
"No. It was a dummy hit, one to hide the real deal," she said. "You were right all along, Frankie. I was playing you, like I played you before, but to a much larger degree. I pushed your buttons to distract you, to throw you off my trail, but I see it didn't work. I think I was sent here as test of my loyalty to the agency. I think Weizmulder is setting me up to be cleaned."
Although she didn't see him do it, he closed his eyes momentarily and shook his head. Even though he had known she was fucking with him, it was still a shock. "Why are you really here? Who did Weizmulder want you to take out? You had to have taken out someone, because that's why you're running. Who did you hit? Who was it?"
"Frank, please let me go. I've already told you enough to get cleaned. You won't have to kill me, because Weiz will take care of that, I'm sure. I'm not going to fight you or try to run. If you don't trust me, grab the gun and hold it on me the whole time. I'm naked, Frank, I have nowhere to hide another weapon."
He had never heard her sound so vulnerable. Goddamn. Was she playing him again? He didn't want to let her go, not for a second. She had offered him her gun, but that didn't mean anything. He had shot her once, and she knew he wouldn't hesitate to shoot her again. However, she also knew he would not end her life, not really. I'm such a fucking trusting asshole, he thought as he reached over for the discarded gun. He stood up slowly and brought her body in an awkward sitting position. He backed away with the gun in plain sight. He watched as she moved toward one of her suitcases and snapped it open. She grabbed the stolen robe and shrugged into it. She could have easily hidden another gun in its deep pockets. However, he wanted to give her a chance, a final chance to redeem herself.
"Talk to me, Jonella. Who did you hit?"
She didn't look up at him, but shook her head instead. "Nobody," she said. "I couldn't go through with it. I tried last night, but ran before I finished the job. The target is still alive, but in clear danger. Someone else will finish the cleaning, I'm almost positive about that."
Sighing, he set the gun aside, just out of her reach. He grabbed a chair from the small table near the bed and dragged it over. He sat down to face her head on. This was the first time he had seen her so very serious. She hadn't uttered one single curse throughout her partial explanation. "You ran from a hit?" He had never known her to do such a thing. For a moment, he wondered if she were playing him yet again. "Why did you run? I've never known you to be less than fearless. Who is the hit and who ordered it?" She had yet to make eye contact with him. He reached over and lifted her chin. "Tell me, Jonella."
She jerked her chin away from his hand. She didn't want him touching her. "I ran from the hit because I couldn't do it. I couldn't fucking do it," she shouted. "I couldn't do it because of you."
His brow furrowed. "Because of me? What do you mean? I've never had an affect on you at all. You've never listened to me before. Why would you start now?"
She rolled her eyes and sighed impatiently. "You don't understand, you fucking egotist. It wasn't a result of any affect you had on me. Don't fucking flatter yourself. I couldn't do it because of who the hit is."
Donovan didn't understand. His confused look remained on his face. "Am I the hit?"
Pax shook her head. "No, not you. I didn't realize who the hit was until that night in your apartment. I had the documentation, but I destroyed it. However, I saw her face in your apartment."
At first, he thought he hadn't heard her correctly. Surely she wasn't talking about… No. "Remy? You…you were sent to take out my wife," he asked slowly, carefully.
She couldn't speak. She had never seen Frankie so shocked. Instead of confirming what he already knew with words, she nodded. In a flash, he was out of his chair and had grabbed the lapels of her robe. He pulled her up to her feet, and for a moment, she was certain he was going to kill her with his bare hands. He could do it. He could do it very easily.
Before he could say one word, she dove into her explanation, "I didn't know who she was until I saw that picture. They wanted her cleaned due to the Wengrod affair. We were sent to clean Edward Lomax, and she was the last piece of the puzzle. I swear to fucking God, I didn't know."
"My wife, you were trying to hit my wife," he spat as if he hadn't heard a word. His rage was so acute that he was very tempted to throw her out the window. She had been sent to harm Remy, and he thought his head might explode before he felt the last breath leaving Pax's body. "You're over, Pax," he spat furiously. "You're fucking over."
"Listen to me," she spat. "I couldn't do it, but that doesn't mean someone else can't. Weizmulder will finish the cleaning, and he'll come after me next. If you don't stop him, she's as good as dead."
He released her robe. The move was so abrupt and vicious that she stumbled over backward on the bed. She watched in a dazed sort of horror as he went for the gun. He would shoot her now. She was ready. So help her God, she was ready. Donovan turned back toward her with gun in hand, and she held her breath, anticipating the shock of the bullets. Absently, he holstered the gun instead of shooting her. He went to her and grabbed her arm, jerking her off the bed. They stood almost against each other and she could feel the heat of his rage radiating off his body. His eyes had gone from chocolate brown to black.
"Once Remy is out of danger, it would pleasure me greatly to turn you over to Weizmulder. In fact, I wouldn't mind cleaning you myself," he whispered severely, "but I don't play that game. You fucked with me, with her, and our daughter. If any harm comes to her, you will not see the light of day again. I will make sure of that. You dragged her into this and you will drag her out. If you refuse to assist, I will not hesitate to put a bullet in your brain. No bluff." He released her again and held the gun on her steadily. Suddenly, he was another person. He wasn't Frankie. He was that psycho CIA agent who could kill with his bare hands. "Get dressed. Right here, right now. Move."