Hell's Fury Read online

  Praise for Dee Davis:

  "An Indiana Jones style escapade that will delight those who enjoy the combination of steamy romance and high octane action."

  —CK’s Kwips and Kritiques

  "Ms Davis is at the top of her game…and that, dear readers, is as good as it gets!"

  — Rendezvous

  "Dee Davis is a phenomenal writer. She crafts these intricate, multi-layered stories, and then drags the reader along for the ride to the conclusion."

  — Scribesworld

  "High-stakes action and high-impact romance…Dee Davis leaves me breathless."

  —Roxanne St. Claire, NYT bestselling author

  Hell's Fury

  Dee Davis

  Hell’s Fury is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental

  Published by Pocito Press.

  Copyright 2007 by Dee Davis Oberwetter

  All rights reserved.

  Originally published as part of the Anthology, Hell on Heels, a mass market paperback in the United States by The Berkeley Publishing Group

  Cover design: Kim Killion

  Excerpt from Raising Hell by Julie Kenner, Copyright ©2006 by Julie Kenner. All rights reserved.

  http://www.deedavis.com

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please delete it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a republication in ebook format of an earlier work. Every effort has been made to reproduce the original as accurately as possible. If you find an error, please let us know [email protected]

  Table of Contents

  Also by Dee Davis

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Sneak Peek at Raising Hell

  Check out these books by Dee Davis

  About Dee Davis

  Also by Dee Davis:

  Romantic Suspense

  Dark Of The Night

  Dancing In The Dark

  Midnight Rain

  Just Breathe

  After Twilight

  Eye Of The Storm

  Chain Reaction

  Still of the Night (Novella)

  Last Chance Series:

  Endgame

  Enigma

  Exposure

  Escape

  A-Tac Series:

  Dark Deceptions

  Dangerous Desires

  Desperate Deeds

  Daring (novella)

  Deep Disclosure

  Deadly Dance

  Double Danger

  Dire Distraction

  Women’s Fiction

  A Match Made on Madison

  Set Up In SoHo

  Time Travels

  Everything in its Time

  The Promise

  Wild Highland Rose

  Devil May Care Series

  Hell Fire

  Hell's Fury

  Dear Reader,

  We began critiquing together in early 1999, back when we were young (sort of), naive (not really), and unpublished (that part's true). Since we were both determined to do something about the unpublished part of the equation, we committed to brutally and honestly reviewing and commenting on each other's work (the brutality and honesty softened by the presence of coffee, tea, chocolate … and often wine).

  Our standard ritual was to share a chapter of an ongoing work each week by email, then take turns critiquing the pages at the weekly in-person meeting. And it wasn't long after this process began that we realized how successful the collaboration was, both on a professional and a personal level. Not only did we soon see our books bought by publishers (and then on the shelves!), but our friendship grew as well, eventually matching and overshadowing the ritual of critiquing (cue heartwarming music).

  For years, we thought it would be fun to work on a book together, but we never had the opportunity or the idea. And then, one day ...

  We were sitting at a table during a conference talking about bad boy heroes. And who better to be the ultimate bad boy than a son of Satan? And if there were brothers … then maybe there were sisters, too, because writing wild child women is just as fun.

  Needless to say we were excited about the idea. And, so Nick, Marcus, Lucia and Jezebel were born and, as such, gave us the chance to work together on a project, just like we'd been wanting to do for years!

  We hope you enjoy reading the stories as much as we enjoyed writing them.

  XXOO

  Julie & Dee

  Chapter One

  BERLIN

  Jezebel Wyatt stood at the corner watching the Strassenbahn go by. It rumbled against the pitted pavement, the reverberation loud enough to interrupt the cell phone conversation of the man she was watching.

  She pulled tighter into the shadows of the tobacco shop’s awning. It was tempting to move closer, to try to listen in on the conversation. But caution overrode her need to move. Better to wait, to follow at a distance. Herr Schaufberg had access to the formula. And she had a buyer who needed it.

  All she had to do now was bide her time and follow the scientist. A simple enough game. She’d certainly had more formidable quarries. Schaufberg was pushing sixty and not in the best of health. A lifetime of Weissbier and Bratwurst expanding his girth until he threatened to explode from his carefully tailored suit.

  But it wasn’t Schaufberg that kept her at a distance. It was the man standing on the corner, pretending to be engrossed in the latest issue of Der Spiegel. A bodyguard maybe. Or another player targeting Schaufberg. Hard to say for certain. Jessie had never seen him before. Despite being spread over several continents, there weren’t that many information brokers and Jessie made it a point to keep an eye on the competition. So either he was new, or he was after the old man for another reason.

  Either way his presence intrigued her. These days it was overly easy to obtain information. With only a few clicks of a computer she could gain access to almost anything a client desired. In and out in a matter of seconds. It made for a nice paycheck, but the adventure was gone.

  Jessie wasn’t one to dwell on the past, but if she were honest with herself, she’d have to admit that she missed the old days. Seducing a slip of the tongue or enticing an emperor or king into trusting her beat the hell out of keystrokes and cyberspace.

  Schaufberg closed his phone and headed toward Potsdamerplatz, away from Jessie and the man on the corner. She waited until he, too, had begun to move, watching as he passed her, then pushed off the wall of the Tabak to follow them both as they made their way up the busy street.

  Potsdamerplatz sat almost at the center of Berlin, the remnant of what had once been the border between the British, American, and Soviet sectors. Checkpoint Charlie was nearby, the famous gateway now no more than a muddled museum. A reminder that life was constantly changing—evolving.

  At least for most of the world.

  But not for her. Never for her.

  Shaking off her lethargy, she rounded the corner, scanning the sidewalks for Schaufberg and his stalker. Bo
th men were still in plain sight, Schaufberg still clutching his cell phone, the stranger now carrying the rolled-up newspaper under his arm. The perfect disguise for a drawn weapon.

  Jessie patted her jacket, tracing the lines of the Beretta hidden beneath the soft leather. At least if push came to shove, she’d be ready. Whatever the man with the newspaper was after, she was fairly certain he was an operative of some kind. It was evident from the way he carried himself, a subtle confidence that couldn’t completely be disguised.

  She’d met his type before. A man’s man—and a woman’s nightmare. The kind who stormed a woman’s heart and then destroyed it without even stopping to assess the damage. She’d thought herself immune to that kind of manipulation. But she’d been wrong.

  Twice.

  Twice in a very long lifetime, she allowed emotion to challenge her better instincts. Once she’d come out of the encounter unscathed. And once she’d lost more than she cared to admit. But it wasn’t going to happen again.

  Not ever.

  Narrowing her eyes against the glare of the afternoon sun, she watched as Schaufberg disappeared into an unmarked door in the Sony Building, the monolith of glass and steel a monument to the new Berlin—the new Germany.

  Jessie wasn’t impressed.

  The second man stopped in front of the door, the crowds of tourists billowing out as they surged around him. For a moment she lost sight of him, but then the crowd thinned and she saw him check right and then left before ducking inside, following Schaufberg, the newspaper still tucked under his arm.

  She considered abandoning her quarry. If the newspaper man was an operative she might be stepping into a situation she couldn’t handle. But even as she had the thought she abandoned it. The hunt was half the fun, and her mystery man only made it that much more interesting. The unmarked door swung open silently, the corridor beyond seeming overly dark, a stark contrast to the bright street outside.

  Counting silently to ten, she waited for her eyes to adjust, her back to the wall, her hand resting on the butt of her gun. The corridor was clear, no sign of Schaufberg or the mystery man, but a stairwell to her right yawned black and inviting.

  Farther down the hall, an open doorway spilled light across the corridor, laughter punctuating the sounds of conversation. Unless she was off her game, they hadn’t gone that way. At least not Mystery Man. It was too damn public.

  And considering Schaufberg’s recent behavior, she doubted he was in a laughing mood. Secrets tended to isolate a man, and Schaufberg had more secrets than most. Centuries of experience told her that both her quarry and his hunter were downstairs in the basement.

  Which meant there was no time to waste. Mystery Man had a bit of a lead. But then, she had the advantage. Containing a smile, she started down the stairs, this time with her gun drawn. She’d always made it a point to try to attain the information she needed without violence. Not because she abhorred it, but because it lessened the victory in the end. And after all, winning was the only thing left that gave her pleasure.

  A pitiful admission, but nevertheless, the truth.

  Given enough time, even the basest of pleasures become mundane, if only from repetition. Jessie hit the bottom of the stairs, and quickly moved back into the stairwell. Mystery Man was straight ahead. Schaufberg was nowhere in sight, but based on the faint light spilling into the corridor from a room to her left, she’d take odds he’d gone inside.

  Like her, Mystery Man had his weapon drawn, but unlike her, he was not aware that he had company. Moving with seasoned silence, Jessie covered the distance between them in seconds, the butt of her gun cracking hard against the stranger’s head.

  He went out like a light, with nothing more than a muffled thud. Seconds passed; the corridor remaining silent. Satisfied that she was still alone, Jessie checked the man’s pulse, and almost laughed. Lucia would never check. But then, her sister would have shot to kill.

  To each her own.

  Reaching inside the man’s jacket, Jessie retrieved his wallet, flipping quickly through his identification. Nothing out of the ordinary. A driver’s license and a couple hundred in euros. She searched his other pockets and was finally rewarded with a small leather billfold. This one containing a different kind of ID.

  Interpol.

  It was tempting to take the bastard out. Interpol had been a constant headache since its inception in 1923. But Dieter Von Keismann had no idea she was here. Better to let him wake up with a headache long after she was gone.

  After checking the corridor again, she reached down, grasping the man under his arms. Despite the deadweight, it took only a few minutes to pull him into a nearby service closet. After securing his hands and mouth, she pulled the door closed and inched toward the open doorway.

  The outer office was empty, the only furniture a desk and some discarded boxes. It was almost as if the last tenant had left in a hurry—or maybe that was just what people were meant to think.

  There was no sign of Schaufberg, but Jessie knew he was nearby. She could smell his aftershave. Like many men of a certain age, he tended to overdo a good thing—or in his case, a bad one. Moving over to the doorway leading to an inner office, she bent to peer through a crack in the door.

  The room was empty.

  She yanked open the door, mindless of the ensuing rattle. Damn it all to hell, she’d wasted precious time on the international policeman and now Schaufberg was gone. A quick visual search of the room yielded no answers. Like its predecessor, there was a smattering of furniture. All of it clearly abandoned. And more important, there were no additional doors or windows.

  Which meant one of two things. Either she’d been mistaken about Schaufberg’s destination or there was something more to the room. Experience pointed toward the latter. That and the fact that Mystery Man had clearly had the same idea.

  Pushing her anger aside, Jessie began a methodical search of the room and its furnishings, her fingers reaching into every nook and cranny, feeling for a latch or a handle. Something that triggered another doorway—the opening to some secret room.

  Her first attempt yielded nothing except the decaying remains of a rodent of some kind, and a thick layer of dust and grime. If Schaufberg had gone this way, he’d have left evidence of the fact.

  She turned slowly, letting her eyes travel the length and breadth of the room. A decrepit old bookcase looked as though it might topple if one touched it. A desk in the corner was mockingly empty, and a stack of crates proved to be exactly what they seemed. Still, every instinct told her Schaufberg had come this way.

  She stopped in front of the bookcase. Like the rest of the room it was coated with dust, and like everything else it showed no signs of having been disturbed. Blowing out a breath, she ran a hand through her hair, frustration cresting as she stared down at the floor. And then she smiled, all of her nerve endings firing at once. There was no dust in the corner where one end of the bookcase sat, the cleared floor making a perfect triangle. Like the arc of a door.

  With new determination she studied the bookshelf. It was as old as the rest of the furniture, but that was where the similarity ended. Unlike its fellow roommates, the bookshelf was ornate. Carved indentations decorated the pediment on each side, a sculptured flower marking the center.

  Certain she’d found the answer, she reached upward, her fingers brushing against the flower. Pushing harder, she felt the wood give way, and stepped back as the bookcase slid silently open, harsh fluorescent light spilling out into the vacant room.

  Her gun at the ready, Jessie moved into the light, her gaze resting on Schaufberg. He was hunched over a microscope, his attention on the slides he was examining, totally oblivious to the fact that he was no longer alone.

  "Herr Schaufberg," she said, her voice splintering the silence.

  The old man jerked around, a slide skittering to the floor with the movement. His hand rose to his throat, almost as if he were willing himself to scream, but instead he was silent, his eyes wide with fear.<
br />
  Jessie fought against her smile. It seemed cruel to frighten the man to death. "There’s nothing to fear." She shifted her stance, the gun now pointed over the man’s left shoulder. "I’ve no interest in hurting you. I just need the formula."

  Schaufberg sputtered, his eyes if possible growing even wider. "Ich spreche Englisch nicht, " his voice was steady, but his shaking hands told another story.

  "No problem," Jessie said over the barrel of her gun. "Mein Deutsch ist gut." Truth was she was fluent in something like sixteen languages, six of them long dead. "So," she continued in German, moving the barrel of her gun so that it was again pointed at his chest, "if you’ll give me the formula, I’ll get out of your hair." Schaufberg blinked twice, clearly trying to come up with some way out of his present situation.

  "Look, I’ll make it simple. You can copy it onto a flashdrive and I’ll be on my merry way."

  "And if I don’t give it to you?" the old man asked, in perfectly accented English.

  Jessie smiled. "I’ll have to kill you"—she waved the gun for emphasis—"or better yet, I could wake up the fellow I disabled outside, and let Interpol have its way with you."

  At the latter, whatever bluster the man had managed dissipated on a sigh. "If I give you the formula they’re sure to kill me."

  They, meaning the cartel developing the weapon. Jessie preferred to keep it on a need-to-know basis, but she knew enough to know that the formula would yield a chemical that made sarin seem safe by comparison.

  "There’s no reason for them to know it was you. Hell, there’s no reason for them to know at all."

  "And if I tell them that it was you?"

  Her lips curled, welcoming her cynicism like an old friend. "Then we’ll both be dead. Doesn’t seem like a winning equation."