Envy - By J.R. Ward Page 0,1

screaming pain faded a little, Veck took another run at remembering ... only to slam temple-first into the land of Excedrin and blackout drapes again. With the fresh round of agony blooming in his skull like a bright red bouquet, he closed his eyes, and considered throwing up - and while the to-boot or not-to-boot debate raged in his gut, he figured it was time to be honest with himself. As much as his short-term memory had a big-ass hole in it, the fact was, he had come out here to kill this perverted bastard who, as the tally stood now, had defiled at least eleven young women from Chicago to Caldwell in the last year.

Horrific, of course. But amateur night compared to Veck'sown father - who'd done that in a three-month span once: Thomas DelVecchio Sr. wrote the book for guys like Kroner.

And it was precisely that lineage that had gotten Veck on the horn to not just the ambulance, but his partner at Homicide.

As much as he hated to admit it, he was his father's son: He had come to kill. Period. And the fact that his victim had been such a violent asshole was nothing but a socially acceptable filter over the real picture.

At its core, this had not been about avenging those dead girls.

And for fuck's sake, he'd known this night was inevitable. All his life, the shadow had been behind him, guiding him, seducing him, pulling him toward this very scene of destruction. So it made sense he didn't remember anything. His other half had finally taken over, and hadn't ceded control of the wheel until the violence was done. The proof? Somewhere in the back of his head, laughter was echoing, maniacal and satisfied.

Yeah, well, get your jollies on now, he thought at the stuff. Because he wasn't going to let himself follow too far in his father's footsteps -

The sounds of sirens bubbled up from the east, and got louder, fast.

Apparently, he wasn't the only person who heard the approach. A man burst out of one of the motel rooms, and raced around the hood of a ten-year-old beater that had open latticework for quarter panels. Kind of tough for him to get his keys out, considering he was yanking his pants on at the same time.

Next up on the flee-parade was a rough-looking woman who scrambled into an old Honda Civic while pulling down her miniskirt.

Their screeching departures meant the parking lot was good and empty when the ambulance bumped in off the road and halted in front of the office.

As the passenger-side medic got out, and what had to be a manager opened the glass door, Veck whistled loud and clear. "Over here!"

The manager apparently had no intentions of getting involved and ducked back inside. But the medic jogged over and the ambulance trundled across the parking lot. And as they zeroed in on him, Veck became utterly calm - dead calm. As untouchable as the cold, distant moon that watched over the inky black night.

Fuck his dark side. He had done this. And he was going to make himself pay.

Internal Affairs officer Sophia Reilly was going like a bat out of hell in her unmarked, shooting through the backwoods of Caldwell's scruffy edges. As she rode the twists and turns of Route 149 at a dead run, the fact that she was on her way to a crime scene didn't account for the high speed: She drove fast. Ate quick. Hated to wait in lines, wait for people, wait for information.

If she could just avoid hitting a deer before she got to the Monroe Motel & Suites -

When her cell phone went off, she had it to her ear before the second ring. "Reilly."

"Detective de la Cruz."

"Hey. Guess where I'm going right now?"

"Who called you?"

"Dispatch. Your partner's on my list of things to do - so when he dials in for an ambulance and backup in the middle of the night, and says he doesn't know what happened to the victim, I get a ring-a-ding-ding."

Unfortunately, itwas something she was getting familiar with. Thomas DelVecchio Jr. had been working Homicide for only two weeks, and he'd already brushed up against a possible suspension for coldcocking a paparazzo who'd tried to sneak a pic of a victim.

That was child's play to this mess, though.

"How'd you find out?" she asked.

"He woke me up."

"How'd he sound?"

"I'm going to be honest."

"You always are, Detective."

"He sounded just fine. Complained of a headache and loss of memory.