Master of Fire by Angela Knight Read Free Book Online Page A

reclined on a stack of thin, dingy pillows on his sagging bed at a no-tell motel off I-85. He could have afforded better, but better meant maids. Maids who might be a little too nosy for his comfort. The Stay-N-Rest was a long-term occupancy motel that only afforded maid service between customers. Which meant he could leave his suitcase of bomb-making materials under the bed without having to worry some silly bitch would get curious.
    So, pencil in one hand and a slice of pizza in the other, he felt free to sketch an idea for another bomb on the pad propped on his knees.
    The encrypted cell phone vibrated on his belt. Terrence grimaced and dropped the slice of pepperoni pizza back in the Domino’s box. He wasn’t looking forward to this conversation.
    “Status?” the client demanded. He thought she was female, but it was hard to tell, given the heavy filter that distorted her voice.
    “No luck.” He winced as he said it, feeling an unaccustomed sting of shame.
    “ No luck? They said you were the best. Did they lie?”
    “No, they didn’t lie,” Terrence snapped back. “Somehow he disabled it. I have no idea how he realized . . .”
    “Was someone with him?” the client interrupted, her distorted voice gone even sharper. “A woman?”
    “Yeah, a blonde. But . . .”
    “Did your wristband get hot?”
    “Yes.” He leaned back against the lumpy pillows. “Mind telling me what that means?”
    “As a matter of fact, I do mind. I will contact you with further instructions. Keep your cell charged.” The line went dead.
    Terrence swore viciously, flipped the phone closed, and slid it back into its clip. What the hell was he dealing with here? Should he cut his losses and walk?
    What if she’d decided to cut her losses and call the cops? Report the mad bomber holed up at the Stay-N-Rest?
    Then she was one dead bitch, because the cops would never hold him. They never had. Then he’d find her, and he’d kill her. And he’d take his time. You didn’t cross Terrence John Anderson and live.
    On the other hand, she was paying him a hell of a lot of money to off the cop and make it look like an accident. Half a million. Exactly what MacRoy had done to piss her off that bad was a question he’d never asked. Mostly because it was none of his fucking business. All he cared about was the color of her money. Judging by the half she’d paid up front, it was his favorite shade of green.
    So he’d sit tight and humor the bitch a little longer.
    Picking up his pencil, he went back to work designing the bomb that would be the death of Logan MacRoy.
     
     
    Logan sat in the black leather easy chair in the living room, absently rubbing Smoke’s head and enjoying the soothing rumble of the cat’s purr. After that god-awful nightmare, a conversation with his old friend was just what he needed to calm down.
    He’d missed Smoke over the past few years. During his childhood, the cat had been the only confidant he’d had. He’d had to lie like a sociopath to every other boyhood buddy, at least when it came to talking about the family. Not that they’d have believed him if he had told the truth. My father is King Arthur? Yeah, right. As far as his mortal friends were concerned, his mother, “Gwen MacRoy,” was a single parent with a great deal of money that allowed her to do whatever she damned well pleased.
    So Smoke had been the only one he could talk to about the pressures of being the child of a legendary hero. Which was why Logan didn’t hesitate to confide in him now. Felt like old times. “I’d wondered if she might be a Maja, but the more I thought about it, the less likely that seemed.” He ran his hand slowly down the length of the cat’s back from ears to tail tip, absently enjoying the silky texture of Smoke’s fur.
    His friend blinked one eye, cat fashion. “Oh? Why?”
    “She has a doctorate in organic chemistry, and when I got her going on the subject, she knows current theory better than I do. Had my