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Fallen Angel: Diamond Dogs Book 1

By Ann Malley

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Angel le Blanc flinched at a sharp pop.

Bubbles gushed out of a pricey bottle and laughter erupted. Someone whooped. Lord, help her. She had to get out of here. Get to the police and back home to Brian. Their predawn goodbye—a necessary ritual since he was barely three weeks old—seemed like forever ago.

“It’s only champagne, Angel, not the second coming.”

Ken Fischer, the self-made CEO of FE—Fischer Enterprise, scooted his cushioned seat in beside hers. His bloodshot inspection fired the gooseflesh she’d worn since learning the contract they were celebrating could shut down FE. And see everyone locked down in federal prison.

“Funny, Ken. I’m just . . .” What could she say?

“…over excited?” He hitched up a bushy brow.

“Yeah.” A palette of undocumented cargo couldn’t feel any worse. Split, stamped by untold port authorities, and ripe for the black market. The man penning her in was likely the one setting her up. But even if he wasn’t, his closeness—the way he insinuated himself into a person’s private space—always set her off.
Angel rolled her shoulders, peering back as if ESPN’s Fernando Viña’s deadpan announcing caught her attention.

Sports fans packed the bar beneath the big screen. Bases Loaded never wanted for customers thanks to the frequent pop-ins of D.C.’s Washington Nationals. The relic table with Nat’s initials dug into it sufficed in their absence. Signed memorabilia did, too. Chad “The Chief” Cordero, Alfonso Soriano, and Ryan Zimmerman pressed back the dark green walls.

Glasses clinked. She turned back, her coworkers exchanging war stories of the contract from hell. The bar’s cigar-friendly policy made her feel like she’d been there to pick it up. But FE’s Principal Trade Compliance SME didn’t run errands. She’d been promoted to dupe, but that happened long ago.

“It’s late, Ken. I’ve got to go.” Her insides coiled. “Really.”

“It’s a party. Sure I can’t get you something stronger than water?”

She sighed, emotion she couldn’t put to words eking out.

“It doesn’t have to be champagne.” He lifted his single malt scotch. The same he kept stocked at the office or Angel wouldn’t know. “You look like you could use something.”

A fake smile twitched her lips. The corresponding plump of cheeks was harder to manage, but she did it.

“That’s better.” Ash broke off the end of his Padrón Presidente.

Angel fought the urge to jerk back, stray flakes peppering her lap.
She smiled harder.

“Great. Silence implies consent.” He signaled a waitress. “But that’s not what got us in thick with Crescent Circuit. Your work with the Nassiri family was invaluable. A bona fide miracle.”

Wriggling sideways, she slipped her hand beneath the table, avoiding his ringed fingers to clean her skirt. “I’m only doing my job.”

And yet the privately owned Crescent Circuit, her pet project, had been compromised.

Endgame specifics escaped her. Smuggling wasn’t her thing. Compliance was. She was good at her job. At least she’d thought so until today. But then she’d once believed she was a good judge of character.

She glanced back at the faces. Smiling. Silly. Open-mouthed.

Someone at this table had forged her signature and seal. Cold smoked over her skin despite the steeping of sweat brought on by summer and confined spaces. If not for Ken calling this stupid shindig, she’d have a thumb-drive packed with evidence instead of a sketchy download that may have only enough information to incriminate her.

“Whatever you did,” Fischer said, swirling his scotch before downing it, “keep it up.”

He ordered two scotches, but Angel muttered, “Ice water,” to the jersey-clad waitress.

She’d never drink again. She needed a clear head, now more than ever. Fischer knew something. He must. His emphasis on silence seeped into places even her therapist left alone.

She would have quit FE months ago if Brian’s father, the man who raped her, hadn’t demanded she maintain her normal routine. If she continued her schedule, behaving as if nothing had happened, nothing would. The animated investor who’d tagged himself as Lucky at the Nassiri’s fundraiser assured of that after he’d drugged her drink, did as he pleased, then followed up with the promise of far worse.

And not only for her.

Lucky insisted she stop seeing Roham Arshad. No explanations, no hesitation. As if the attentive financier she’d been dating would lend her anything other than the support she needed to get through her sick ordeal.

She died inside, then and now, but she complied, despite Roham’s understandable shift from concerned to cold. Angel would do whatever it took to keep those she cared for safe. Some may fault her for her decision. And silence may imply consent, but that was all. She owned her choices, existing in a backwash of guilt with Brian featuring as the only positive. Keeping him had been the best decision she’d ever made.

Angel pushed back her water and said her goodbyes.
“Don’t go yet. This is a celebration.” Fischer appeared completely lucid. “You used to enjoy having fun before this whole mom thing. Am I right?”
She tried to laugh.


The pitiful noise died in her throat.

Angel’s blonde secretary, more of an assistant despite Fischer’s insistence on older titles, leaned over the spread of ravaged plates. “You okay?” Wide-set eyes, dark brown and blinking, sought her out. “Want me to take you back to your car?”

The two women had stayed late as it was to conduct the biannual audit, driving one vehicle as they often did to out-of-office affairs.

“No, Tina, but thanks. It’s a short walk,” Angel said.

She’d put in the required appearance. Her going along with a party then leaving early was normal. Brian’s father couldn’t fault her. Not even for going to the police. This mess had nothing to do with him.

Angel scooted her chair back with effort.

Fischer pinned her arm with a heavy hand, his thick lips pulled back to reveal smoke-stained veneers. “You should be giving thanks, praising the Almighty, not rushing home.” Her religious beliefs were no secret, but the way he spoke made a mockery of them. Motherhood, too. “You’ll profit the most off Global’s new contract. Don’t tell me you haven’t thought of that.”

“No,” she said, her attempt at casual falling flat. “But you’re right, I suppose.”

“You know I am.” Her boss took two drags off his cigar. “I’ll bet none of you suspected our Angel got in on Crescent Circuit months ago.”

The Nassiris gifted her with stock when they’d learned of her pregnancy. “It’s not that big a deal, Ken.” But somehow he found out about it. Maybe he arranged it.

“And if you heard Crescent is going public, you’d be right.” Fischer downed his freshly delivered scotch, then spoke to her in an unnerving hush. “Special connections have their way of paying off long-term.”

“It’s a work ethic, Ken.” She paused to stem the rattle in her voice. “It’s nothing out of the ordinary.” Her swift prayer begging for relief resulted in a squeeze from her boss. His fat fingers pressed into her flesh, thoughts of Brian the only thing putting a lid on her scream.

“Whatever you say, Angel."

“I have to go.” Dread sluiced her skin, but she tossed back her loose hair as if his words held no meaning. That Ken Fischer might know what she prayed daily would remain buried about her child was unbearable. “I may be rich someday, but overtime for my sitter is a budget crusher now.”

She slipped her arm free.

Fischer chuckled along with the group. He’d let her go. “Be sure to give that baby of yours a kiss from Uncle Ken.”

Angel nodded instead of crumbling. She grabbed her bag off the floor. Kenneth Fischer was not that drunk. He wasn’t fond of Brian either. Fischer’s words were a threat. A reminder of what she risked. But if she wanted to make it through whatever he had in mind, she had to act now. Be strong. Second-guessing had to stop.

She would return to the office to complete the download while everyone was here . . . celebrating.

“See you all tomorrow.” She shifted away from danger, a burning exhale rattling her lungs, but only managed a couple of paces.

“Skipping out early?” a familiar voice asked.

Angel jerked her eyes up.

Roham Arshad blocked her way, his black hair gelled back. Spiced aftershave cut through the smoke, reminding Angel of better times so distant they seemed impossible. Regret and guilt tasted bitter. There was no help for it, so she swallowed hard, meeting his sour expression with resolve.

“I'm in no mood, Roham.”

“. . . never for some, I know.”

“Let it go. I’m in a hurry.” She reined back her tone. Causing talk at the table wasn’t part of the plan. But there was no sidestepping Roham. A throng rushed toward the front of the bar. Another suspected celebrity sighting.

“Can I congratulate you at least?” The dutiful son of Arshad and Sons’ held her gaze but only because she allowed it. She had to feign normalcy otherwise she’d look anywhere else. “The DoD? Our whole building is alive with talk of the conquest you’ve made.”

She steeled herself against flashing anger. “I’ve made nothing of the kind.” Her ire was misdirected but couldn’t be helped.

“Why the celebration?”

“Why the interrogation?” She glowered up at him.

Roham's brows shifted above dense black lashes. His olive eyes exuded that protective something she’d once found appealing. His penetrating look was an appeal—something beyond his usual coldness.

The truth lit her tongue, the urge to speak seizing her.

She was in enough trouble, though, and angering Brian’s father by picking things back up with Roham would be stupid. Lucky still controlled her from a distance despite his frivolous nickname. There would be no explaining anyhow. Roham would likely judge her even if he never said a word. Who kept a madman’s baby?

“I’m sorry.” Still watching her, Roham pushed back against the crowd, flourishing an arm back to forge a way for her. “Truly.”

“Me, too.” Her throat closed over a sob. But everything, at day’s end, was going to be fine. It had to be, if not for her sake then for Brian.

#

Three blocks later, outside the Stanhope's below-building garage, she'd almost convinced herself. But Fischer still knew. He may not know everything about Brian’s paternity, but he’d found out about the stocks and possibly what files she’d been viewing. His words were a threat. The tension causing her to stumble over the grated sidewalk was, too.

…a kiss from Uncle Ken.

Sick. Stooping to free her heel in the sketchy light, she caught sight of a cyclist. The guy kept pace with her since she’d left the club. Stopped outside the corner theater across the intersection, he was likely nobody. Nobody concerned with her anyway. Marquee played endless foreign films. The cracker-box cinema was a major draw for urban dwellers, but the hooded biker lingered outside.

Her skin prickled. Had Fischer sent someone to tail her?
Could he work that fast? Maybe it was her. Maybe she’d been followed for weeks and not known it. Either was possible, although she couldn’t reconcile why Fischer would do such a thing. His attitude at the party seemed confident. Fischer thought he had her where he wanted her, where he’d planned her to be. Ready to take a fall.

Shivers ran from her nape to the back of her knees.

She stuffed her toes back into her shoe, fitting the heel into place. Still mounted, the cyclist studied theatrical posters, nothing out of the ordinary. She was reading too much into everything. Sweat coated the underside of her neck, humidity turning her white camisole into a second skin and yet the man with the bike was wearing a hoodie.

Plunge ahead or backtrack and lose the guy?

The debate pulsed through her brain. If she waited any longer, her sitter may check in with Tina to find out what was keeping her. The two had hit it off recently. Angel hated doubting, but even that innocent association didn’t seem innocent anymore.

She glanced back, making sure she wasn’t being watched, then slipped inside the treed courtyard separating the Stanhope from the adjacent building. The day had faded hours ago, but her cell phone had light. She checked over her shoulder one more time. The biker was gone. She exhaled in a ragged gasp as she swiped the speed dial on her phone.

"Le Blanc residence." The normalcy of the sitter’s greeting calmed her.

“Hey Jenny. No, nothing’s wrong. I just wanted you to know I’ll be home later than I said. Late.” Angel picked back strands of hair from her forehead, craning her neck to relieve the knots at its base. “And don’t worry. There’ll be extra in it for you.”

“You don’t have to. Mom and Dad took off for the beach house.” Jenny liked to stay the night when her folks were gone.

“I want to.”

“Okay, boss. I won’t say no.”

“Just take good care of Brian like always. And don’t answer the phone. Or the door”—Angel choked down anxiety— “unless it’s me.”

“Sure, but what about Tina?”

“Nobody.” Fierceness ripped through her, shocking but welcome. “I’ll see you when I get home.”

“Are you sure everything’s okay?” Jenny asked.

“Don’t worry. I know you’d never answer the door to anyone but me and”—Angel pinched the bridge of her nose— “I skipped out on a company party. . . ” That was true.

“I get it. You don’t want anyone to know you didn’t go straight home.”
“They can’t know.” There was no need to upset Jenny. “I'll see you later tonight.”

“Have fun. You deserve it.”

Jenny’s smile came through in a cheery jingle, reminding Angel of the stakes. She needed evidence. No half measures. With the stock and her signature hanging out there, getting a solid nail on the files was a must. Brian’s future depended on it. FE staff was all at Bases Loaded so getting the remaining files onto her thumb drive was a must.

Angel tucked the phone back into her purse beside the thumb drive. The cyclist had returned, coming around the side of the courtyard to the south. He didn’t see her. At least he gave no sign, stopped at the end of the gallery. He was looking for something, though, or someone.

She pressed back against the cement as his head swung her way. Gears tripped with a tiny echo as he ventured down the courtyard. The delicate fabric of her skirt and blouse snagged against the hard surface at her back. Some of the cement, broken and pitted, dug into her backside, scraping her hands. Her heels caught again.

The grated rectangle surrounding a willow held her captive.

An unseen something brushed her cheek. A leggy spider flashed through imagination, forcing an intake of breath. She wriggled off both shoes and pushed them toward the storm drain. They fell silently. Jerking the strap of her purse, she lengthened it then slung it over her head and spun around.

She braced bare toes inside broken cement, dismissing the sting of pain, and gripped the top of the low wall. She curled her fingers to secure herself, then pulled up. Her arms burned. Her nails scraped cement. She slipped—blessedly silent despite the fire in her foot—but tried again. She hefted herself upward, wedging both feet inside what pits she could find.

Light swelled from the recessed bulbs overhead. The space was mostly vacant. Oil and rust residue from dripping pipes stained the garage floor. Angel could see her own car from here. The tan hatchback sat parked this side of a cement buttress with the letter “F” stenciled on it. She couldn’t seek that refuge until she had everything. Not that her car posed any safety.

Fischer knew it was hers.

If her boss had sent somebody after her, he could have jimmied her car. He could have erased the files, too. Why didn’t he? Confusion cracked like a hammer. Maybe home with Brian was the safest bet. But how long would that last? Coming up over the wall, she jumped down, falling from a dead hang. Her legs stung. Wheels spun past the upper ledge leading toward the courtyard.

The whirring sound drilled through her bones.

Digging inside her purse, she grabbed her keys, threading fingers through the metal bits. It wasn’t the best weapon, but she knew how to use it. Thank God her mother’s fear that Angel would be hardened didn’t stop her security-pro dad from teaching his daughter. Angel knew more than most.

She’d tasted evil, and wasn’t about to let it happen again.

Angel ran toward the elevator and stabbed the center of an illuminated ‘o’. Nothing. She punched the button again. The doors glided open. She glanced over her shoulder then jumped inside turning around to face front. Heaving gasps racked her lungs. She made it.

She took a moment, craning her head back and shutting her eyes when a soft thud sounded. Glass shattered. She opened her eyes to stinging bits and shadows.
“You were warned,” a strange voice growled.

Angel brought her head forward, leading with a fist full of keys. A hand clamped around her neck. She thrust up her right knee but found only air. Pressure built in her throat, her eyes. All sound muffled. Her eyes watered, glassy grit stinging each bulging orb, but she kept on kicking, clawing. She reached for her attacker’s face but met a mask of knit fabric.

The elevator doors came back hard against her shoulders.

Cold metal grazed her neck. A gun. Getting close, so close he couldn't aim, was her only option.

Her lungs burned, but she kept his hands busy, fighting for control as he wrenched her back out into the garage. Hard metal again, grazing her cheek. He shifted position, his forearm pressing against her mouth. Angel filled her nostrils then clamped teeth around the man’s wrist. She bit without hesitation, whipping her head back and forth until she tasted copper.

A yowl split her ear.

The gun dropped in a clack of metal. Fingers dug through her hair, fisting up a hank to light her scalp in a stinging strip. Suddenly, she was off the ground. Angel slammed an open hand against the man’s masked head then clutched at the knit to hold on.

Tires squealed. She dropped to the ground in a painful heap. Her nails snagged knit cloth, but there was no more resistance, no one there. She dabbed her eyes, using the mask to brush remnant shards off her sweaty face. Tears flowed leaving a blistering sting of blurred vision.

“Angel!” The shout followed on the tail of a slammed door.

She squinted up. A figure in a brown suit approached. Hawkish brows and a curled lip drew her from a teary fog. The man moved in and then back out. She scooped back her hair, blinking when warm hands gripped her upper arms and something spicy filled her nostrils. Roham? He collected her up off the filthy cement. Her mind spun to comprehend what had happened, her system flooded when fear stiffened her spine.

“It’s over,” he said.

“What’s over? How do you know what’s going on?” She wrenched away and scrabbled toward a pillar.

“I’m here.”

“Yeah, I got that, but why?” She smeared the damp off her cheeks.
Fischer wasn’t who he seemed. Lucky hadn’t been looking to add to his investment portfolio. And she couldn’t trust anyone at work. Roham had no business here much as she may want to believe it. She couldn’t afford to be foolish. Not today. Her attacker's gun gleamed in the recessed lights beside the back tire of the idling Hummer.

“Answer me.” Her words were a whisper.

“I followed you.”

“Why?” His being here made no sense. “Were you worried?” That’s what he used to say.

Roham’s shoulders slackened. “Angel, it’s me. You’re all right. I’m not going to hurt you.”

She let herself smile, her lips trembling like the rest of her. Then she dropped to the ground, rolling sideways to grab the gun. “Prove it.” Her hands shook. Adrenaline radiated through her in a sickening pulse. “Tell me why I should believe anything you say.”

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