Hawk

by Tiya Rayne

  He slings open the fridge and starts pulling out boxes, he gives each a little shake before tossing it to the floor. When he pulls out the fish stick box, he doesn’t shake it. He instead walks over and hands it to me.

  I take the box from him and it’s open. Like I knew it would be. I pull out the bag of the disgusting breaded fish and drop it to the floor. At the bottom of the box, wrapped in a Ziploc bag is a small black notepad, a silver key, and a black flash drive.

  “I guess you were right, she did leave me clues.”

  Walker takes the bag from me. He squeezes and feels the bag as if he’s looking for something else. Something I can’t see.

  “Is this all?” he asks.

  “Yup, nothing but the notebook, flash drive, and key.”

  He wraps the bag up and sticks it behind him, in the waistband of his pants.

  “Let’s go.” He grabs my arm and starts to drag me to the door.

  “Look, you got to stop manhandling me like this. A simple ‘follow me’ works just fine.” He draws up short before we reach the door. I continue to make my point. “I don’t know what you and my sister had going on, but I ain’t for that shit.”

  “Sssh.” He turns around and puts his finger to his lips.

  “Don’t sssh me.”

  He places his hand over my mouth to shut me up and turns toward the door. When his eyes turn back to me, they’re wide.

  “Did you lick my palm?”

  Damn right, I did. Don’t fucking put your hands on me. However, I don’t say that because Walker spins around on his silent feet to face the door before the sound of the doorknob turning alerts me that someone is trying to come in.

  For the second time since meeting this guy, I actually shut up and follow directions. At this point, I don’t even think I’m breathing. You’ve seen those action movies when the biggest tallest Russian you’ve ever seen walks in to fight the little guy?

  Well, we’re in that script. I would never consider Walker a little guy. He’s tall as shit and athletically built. I mean, I’m not checking him out, but it’s obvious he isn’t some lean, wimpy guy. However, fucking Hercules just walked through the door and his ass had to duck down to enter.

  His face looks like someone has smacked him with a brick made of ugly. He looks like he’s mixed with a Pitbull and a mean ass one too. I forget about all of that when he turns and locks the door behind him.

  Oh shit.

  “Take the package out of the back of my pants,” Walker says without turning to me. “Do not let it out of your sight.”

  I take the package we pulled out of the fish sticks box from his back and clutch it to my chest. I don’t know why the hell he wants me to hold onto it. Look, I’m not going down without a fight.

  I’m not the type of girl to hold things while my man fights. Not that Walker is my man, but you get the point. I glance to the counter, scanning for a weapon I can use to assist him. I find a butcher block of steak knives and run to pull one out.

  I’ve fought my fair share of bullies and some of them were bigger and male. I was always ready to defend me and my sister, but this isn’t exactly a regular man. And if he walked in this apartment and locked the door, I’m pretty sure he isn’t only here to fight. Though the saying goes, don’t bring a knife to a gunfight, at the moment all I have is a knife and a Ziploc bag with miscellaneous stuff inside. That’s better than nothing.

  “I don’t know who you are,” Walker says to the big man. “But if you allow us to leave here without any trouble, I will spare your life.”

  Spare his life? Does he not see how big this guy is? Now is not the time to make idle threats.

  I have no problem cutting this guy up like a Christmas ham, but I’m not going to boast about it. This guy looks like he shits out turds my size on a regular basis. Obviously, the big man thinks it’s funny too because he starts to laugh his ass off.

  “I will crush you,” big guy says in very broken English.

  Walker sighs. “Suit yourself.”

  The next thing happens so fast, I think I might have even missed something. Pitbull charges at Walker and swings at his head. Walker leans slightly to the side, drives a powerhouse punch to Pitbull’s ribs followed by the unmistakable sound of ribs cracking.

  Pitbull howls in pain. Walker unleashes a one, two, combination that has Pitbull stumbling back and crashing into the wall. If that isn’t enough to keep him off his feet, Walker takes the gun out of the back of his waistband and fires two rounds into Pitbull’s head, dead center of his skull.

  I’ve never seen anything like it in my life. The fight lasted all of five seconds. Walker replaces the gun back into the back of his pants and turns to wave me to him. He grabs my hand when I approach, bumping the knife that is still clenched uselessly in my fist. He turns around and looks down at the knife.

  “What’s that for?”

  “What the hell do you think? I was going to help.”

  He laughs, takes the knife out of my hand and tosses it to the floor. He rejoins our hands before heading out of the apartment, still laughing at my attempt.

  Chapter 5

  The Loft

  Brooklyn

  My mind tries to register what just happened. I saw a man killed. You see it on TV and in movies, but it’s nothing like seeing it in real life. Watching the life leave someone’s eyes, the smell that gun smoke leaves in the air, and even the mess it makes when a bullet goes through someone’s head. You may think you have the stomach for that shit, but trust me, you don’t.

  The second we get half a block away from that apartment, the reality of it all crashes down on me. I tug my hand from Walker’s, rush down a narrow alley and vomit on the side of a brick wall. His footsteps alert me to his presence behind me.

  I have a feeling that he’s purposefully loud so as not to startle me. Since I’ve met this man, he hasn’t made a sound. I rub the back of my hand over my mouth, cleaning the remnants of my sick away.

  “Take slow breaths,” he coaches. I take a step back from him when he reaches for me. He frowns but doesn’t reach for me again. “It was hard the first time I witnessed someone die as well.”

  “Really? Were you the one that killed them?” Yes, I mean it to sound as pissy and accusatory as it comes out.

  And of course, he isn’t fazed. It’s like he’s immune to my bitchiness. A skill that usually takes years for people to acquire.

  “No, not the first time,” he answers without remorse.

  I shake my head. This is too much, I’ve never backed away from a fight, but I may be in over my head here. “What the hell is going on? What was my sister involved in?” I feel like I’ve asked that question a thousand times tonight and have yet to get an answer.

  “I’ll tell you as soon as we—”

  “No.” I’m done with all the passive bullshit. I have no intentions of waiting any longer for answers. All answers, not the little bits and pieces of bullshit he’s been doing. “You start talking, or I go to the police and tell them what I know.”

  He flinches at my response. Good, now he understands I’m not playing any more games.

  “If you go to the cops, you will be dead before the ink dries on the report,” he says it so fucking calmly you would think he was telling me the time and not speaking of my death.

  And you know what, I believe him. I absolutely believe that if I try to go to the cops, whoever was after my sister will kill me. Or, maybe, it’s the Church I have to fear.

  “I’m trying to help you,” Walker says pleadingly.

  “No, you’re helping yourself.” I haven’t forgotten that it’s his ass up for the death of my sister. “You killed that man, Walker.” I remind him.

  “What do you think his intentions were for us?” This is the first time I’ve heard him raise his voice, but even then, it’s laid back. “You’re in a game of kill or be killed.”

  “I’m. Not. In. Anything.” I punctuate my words by clapping my hands.

  “You are.
And sitting out in the open like a duck is stupid. You want answers, let’s find shelter so we can look at what your sister left behind.”

  I don’t move. It isn’t that I don’t see logic in what he says. Despite my earlier outburst, I have no intentions of going to the cops. If my sister’s killer doesn’t get me first, I’m sure the Church will.

  I’m not dumb. I know that the people he works for aren’t exactly the good guys in this scenario. I saw him kill a giant without breaking a sweat and yet when he found out that the Church was after him, he seemed nervous.

  If something can make this man nervous it’s worth fearing. However, I’m not sure if I should trust him. I want to get off this ride and get my money back.

  “Brooklyn, there has to be a reason your sister mentioned me to you. Think about it. Has she ever mentioned anyone besides me to you?”

  I don’t even have to think about this answer. I shake my head.

  “Exactly. Red knew hundreds of people far more interesting than me, but she only mentioned me to you. Why do you think that is?”

  That’s a good damn question. She always volunteered the information about Walker. She did it so much when she stopped those five years ago, I started to miss him.

  And even though I’d never met him before this, Albany made me feel like I knew him. I don’t admit this though. Instead, I shrug and reply, “Maybe she liked you the most.”

  He chuckles and runs a hand through his hair. “Not hardly. She wanted you to trust me.” He steps closer toward me and this time I don’t step away. “Come with me. Let me get you someplace safe and then we can talk. I’ll tell you everything.”

  I nod and take his outstretched hand. What other choice do I have? I can’t face these lunatics on my own and so far Walker has kept me from getting killed at least twice. He’s doing something right.

  He leads us out of the alley and back to the main street. We keep up a fast pace as we rush to some unknown, to me, place.

  ***

  Thirty minutes later we finally stop.

  “Here,” Walker says in front of an old storefront building that looks as if it’s been closed for a while.

  “This place is closed down.”

  Of course, he doesn’t answer. He heads toward the storefront. I go to once again mention that the place looks closed, but he pulls out a set of keys and unlocks the door all while still holding my hand.

  “This is your place?” He looks back at me and frowns.

  “What, you don’t like it?”

  He turns back and pushes the door open for us to enter. The inside looks as I thought it would. Filthy floors that look as if they haven’t been cleaned in years.

  An empty cooler on the far left as we enter. I imagine at one time it housed a large collection of cold drinks. Four empty metal shelves are all that’s left of the merchandise that was once sold here.

  And to my left is an empty clerk’s counter. However, none of this matters to him because he bypasses it all, heading to a small door at the back of the building that leads to a working industrial elevator with collapsible doors. The moment we’re behind the slotted gates, the elevator moves up noisily.

  From the outside and what I saw downstairs, I could never have imagined the upstairs to look like this. It’s a warehouse style loft. Huge open floorplan, wood floors, exposed wood beams in the ceiling, and exposed brick walls with a hundred- and eighty-degree wall of windows that are shaded, but I can only imagine they let in a ton of light. Speaking of light, this place is lit up like Christmas in Times Square.

  “Jesus, what’s with all the bright lights?” He must be using eight thousand watt bulbs and the shades come up. It’s bright enough to burn your retinas.

  “Sorry,” he mumbles before pushing buttons on a wall unit.

  Immediately the lights dim to regular wattage. With my eyesight back intact, I can say that he’s a minimalist. Unlike my apartment with all its bright colored furniture, pillows, and extra stuff, there isn’t much clutter or furniture here.

  No wall arts or unnecessary decorations. It seems he has only the things that are needed. A couch and a chair designate the sitting area.

  Behind that is an office space. Again, only an empty desk, and a chair. To the right of that is a square high bar table that sits four and in front of that is the kitchen.

  It’s like he’s allergic to clutter and design. This place is a cliché single man’s home. Only thing it’s missing is a foosball table.

  “Still don’t like my place?” he asks from right behind me.

  His warm breath tickles my ear. Either I’m getting used to him or my body is just tired, but this time I don’t react from his sudden appearance.

  “It’s big and beautiful.”

  Not to mention expensive. A flat like this in New York can run you in the millions. Hell, my little shoebox two-bedroom apartment cost me over two thousand a month to rent. Apparently, the Church pays well because Walker and Albany have been living lavishly.

  “Up the stairs is the bedroom and the only bath,” he says, pointing to the black spiral stairs behind me.

  “I’ll give you time to freshen up before we look into the stuff we found. Are you hungry?” he asks while walking away from me into the kitchen.

  “Actually, I am.” My stomach grumbles right at that moment.

  “Okay. I’ll have something for you when you come back down.”

  I make my way slowly up the stairs and into his bedroom. The same minimalist design is in there. Very little furniture and no clutter.

  It’s like he doesn’t live here, and this place is for show. I flop down on the large king bed in the center of the room and inhale. His scent is everywhere.

  “There has to be a reason for all this, Albany,” I say to the empty room.

  I close my eyes and exhale. My mind paints up another picture of my sister. She was lying across my bed as I folded and put away laundry.

  Her long hair was in a ponytail as she flipped through a fashion magazine. My brush strokes are slow and long as I recreate the scene on the canvas. Her laughter filled the room as I tell her about the music teacher that asked me out for the third time.

  “He isn’t right for you,” Albany teased. She prided herself on knowing who I was meant to be with. I would mention a guy, or she would meet him, and she would right away tell me, nope. “The man for you is going to come out of nowhere and knock you off your feet. Trust me, I know.”

  She laughed and winked at my shocked expression. That smug look she got when she knew she was right about something lit up her face.

  Once the picture is all done in my head, I store it away. In the same place I put all the other mental pictures.

  I open my eyes, feeling slightly calmer after the painting is done. I dig into the backpack I’ve been carrying around and retrieve the Ziploc bag with all the stuff we collected from her apartment. I pull the key out of the bag first.

  It’s not the size of an average house key. In fact, it looks like something that would fit a padlock or a lock box. I hold it between my fingers, searching for anything that will let me know what to use it for.

  In very small lettering the number 612 is etched in the back. I still have no idea what to use the key for or where. Placing the key in my lap, I take the box chain from around my neck and slide the key beside my sisters pendant. Then, I place the necklace back around my neck.

  Next, I pull the flash drive out of the bag and look at it. It looks like a lot of other flash drives. Basic black and square in shape. I place it back in the bag. Without a computer, there’s nothing I can do with it.

  The next thing I pull out is the small black notepad. I stare down at it. In my mind, I hope to find a letter from my sister. A message that explains everything.

  Something that lets me know that Albany and I weren’t as detached as all this is making me feel. There’s no way she could keep a secret this big from me. There has to be a reason in this book.

  However, behind the flimsy
black cover are no truths or hidden messages. There’s nothing but addresses. And there aren’t very many of them.

  Exactly seven addresses, most from places here in New York. Only one is listed without a zip code or city and state, none of them I know. I go through each of the other blank pages, making sure I’m not missing anything. At this point, I’d take a fucking heart or a simple hey. After finding nothing, I toss the black book to the bed in anger and stand to my feet.

  That prickling feeling at the back of my throat starts to nag me and I close my eyes, trapping the tears inside. I won’t cry for her again. I won’t shed another tear for her.

  It’s hard to cry for someone you didn’t know. I didn’t know this woman that had secret lovers that show up at my house with threats. I didn’t know the woman with red wigs and colorful furniture, the woman that hid keys and flash drives and that has people hunting her down. I can’t cry for this stranger.

  I open my eyes, steady my breathing and storm into the bathroom for a shower.

  Chapter 6

  Truths

  Brooklyn

  I head downstairs after my shower. I’m wearing a simple T-shirt I found in his drawers and a fresh pair of underwear. I didn’t exactly pack nightclothes for this trip.

  The shirt falls about mid-thigh. If I even think about bending over, my ass will show. And as far as bottoms go, I didn’t find anything but boxer briefs in his drawers and there’s something a bit too intimate about borrowing a man’s underwear. Especially, if you aren’t sleeping with him.

  I pull my unruly curls up into a puff at the top of my head as the smell of seared chicken hits my senses. Walker places something in the dishwasher. As soon as I walk to the counter in the kitchen, he slides a plate toward me.

  I sit down in the bar chair and dig my fork into my blackened chicken salad. I moan around the succulent bite. Crisp iceberg lettuce and seasoned chicken.

  I look up to find those discerning eyes watching me, he leans his head to the side. I look away from him, back down to my plate. The silence between us is broken when he says, “I was eight.”