by Huss, JA
Our conversation all those months ago at Coors Field floods back. When I told Ford that I got off the bus because of the film department at CU Boulder. ‘Fate,’ he’d said. ‘Weird,’ I’d replied.
But maybe he was right.
These guys have always been my future.
“That’s just the US people. We have several dozen international men as well. Including one particularly nasty cartel head from Columbia. We have signatures, wire-taps, which are probably not admissible in court, video, which probably is admissible, phone records, bank account numbers and transaction records, passwords, and a complete list of girls—both the ones who were traded by mutual agreement and those who were kidnapped and sold. Jon kept very, very thorough records.”
“Great, so we’re good, right? We can use that to bargain for Ronin, can’t we?”
“Well, Blackbird,” Spencer says from the couch. “Yeah, it’s damn good stuff. Almost airtight, in fact. But the problem is, we might be killed for exposing it. This is high-level shit. People will not take kindly to us barging in on their well-planned crime ring, guns a-blazing, making demands.”
“So what do we do?”
Spencer blows out a long breath of air and pinches the bridge of his nose with his fingers, staving off a headache or trying to beat one back down into submission. “Take them all down at once, knock them out before they see it coming. But we’re down a team member. We need a front man, and it’s gotta be you. Because Ford and I do not, let me make this clear, we do not get involved in the public side of things. We’ve got too much history, Rook. We can’t do it. Ronin is like a brother, but we can’t risk being the face of these crimes. And just so you know, you’re a nobody now. Next year, if we never get involved in this, you’ll be a minor curiosity with the show and the modeling.
“But if you do this you’ll be famous whether you want to or not. People will dig up your past, smear your name, probably send you hate mail and stand outside wherever you live with giant signs telling you you’re going to hell.
“They’ll call you a whore, find every last foster home and get them to talk shit about you, and you’ll never be invisible again. Say goodbye to grocery shopping and say hello to your own Wikipedia page complete with editors fighting over how to portray you publicly for years to come. Your children will grow up knowing you were a sex slave for a sadistic man and watched human beings being auctioned off in your barn. And that’s just for starters, God only knows what could happen. So, Blackbird…” He sighs deeply. “It’s your call. You lead, we follow.”
I chew on my nail a little, thinking it over. I’m so ashamed that I was part of what happened back in Illinois. And if I’m honest with myself, that’s why I always want to run from things. I have no guts. I’m so weak. Ford was right. And I have done so many stupid, stupid things that I’m not sure I can even make up for it.
But I can try.
Even though it will be difficult and I’ll have to admit all these things to the cops and reporters, and God only knows who else—shit, maybe they’ll even put me on trial for not turning them in sooner—I still have to try.
I look over at Spencer and swallow down the fear. “Can you come up with a plan that will make sure the cops believe me? Might they just blow me off? Maybe the person we tell is involved? I mean, I know how far-fetched that is, but there are a lot of names on that list, Spencer. What if that’s not all of them?”
“That’s your risk, Blackbird. This is most definitely not all of them. You can bet that Jon’s whole part in this scheme was small, it’s international. Even if we get all the names on this list, this is probably a small fraction of the people involved.”
“Will they come after me?”
He shrugs. “Maybe. Look, we’re not gonna just leave you to deal with it alone, OK? We’ll be here behind the scenes, but we won’t be fielding questions in front of cameras. You’re the one connected to these people through Jon. Ford and I will just make it more complicated. They’ll start looking into our pasts, they might even try to pin it on us.”
“I might throw up.”
“I already have a plan buzzing around in my head and we’ll just kick back here for a few days and figure it all out. I’m certain I can set it up so at the very least Ronin will get out of jail for the comments about getting him arrested. And we can probably get some of the people on this list arrested, but beyond that, Rook…” He throws out his hands. “I have no idea. They could all walk in the end. That’s just how the system works.”
Chapter Forty - Ronin
On day three, rule one and I are no longer on friendly terms. Maybe because orange is not my color or maybe because this shit is like wearing burlap, or maybe because it smells like it was washed in armpits.
I’m not quite sure, all I know is that I’m done embracing the orange jumpsuit.
On day four condition number one is out in full force. Only now I’m talking to Ford in my head, practically begging him to find Rook and figure this shit out.
On day five I break down and call Antoine collect to ask about her. He denies the charges like he’s supposed to and saves my ass.
One day six I stop eating. All I do is think about her. Where is she? Did they find her? Is she safe? Hurt? Fuck, fuck, fuck!
On day seven I’m getting ready to admit to everything because I’m not very good at obeying rule three right now.
But my lawyer stood me up today, so luckily, my temporary insanity cures itself and I come back to my senses.
And this is just about the time I admit I suck at this jail shit. One week without Rook and I’m insane. I know now for sure—not that I ever doubted it, but now I have proof—I am addicted to Rook and this is my withdrawal.
It fucking hurts.
I let out a long sigh just as my door buzzes signaling someone’s on the other side and wants me to come out.
“Finally, fucking lawyer shows up.”
But when the door opens it’s not my lawyer. It’s a big black dude in a suit. “Flynn, come with me,” he says, waving me out of the cell.
Gladly, I think to myself. But now that I’m working I’m all business, so that shit stays tucked. We walk past the door to the visitors’ hallway. We walk past the door to the rec area, which I hardly ever see since I’m in solitary. Another door buzzes and then we enter a large room filled with more guards. “What’s this, beat-the-shit-out-of-Flynn night?”
“It’s ten AM, Flynn.”
“Oh, well, no windows in the cell, how am I supposed to know?”
“You’re not, now just shut up and watch the fucking TV. Hit play, Lenny.”
And just as Lenny hits play I glance up at the screen and see Rook standing at a podium with a shit-ton of microphones in front of her. “What the—”
“Just watch,” black suit guy says.
She looks a little nervous as she begins, swiping at a stray piece of hair that whips across her face in the Denver wind. The crawl at the bottom of the screen says Denver County Courthouse. I listen as she tells her story. Mostly calm, mostly strong, but a few moments of hesitation and eye-wiping to thwart off the tears. She describes what she’s been doing for the past week. The trip to Chicago, Jon, the secret stash, the fire, the rescue.
She tells of corruption in the FBI, calls that bitch Abelli out by name as being one of them, then rattles off a list of people that has the crowd gasping, time… after time… after time. She ends with a name everyone who lived on the Front Range three years ago recognizes.
Davis Cooperson Smyth. The guy we killed in that last job.
Only that’s not how Rook tells it.
Because this guy’s name is on record as being part of the major human trafficking ring Rook just blew up with her statement. And Jon, the guy who tried to “kill” us last summer, was part of this whole thing from the beginning. She uses the word assassin as she holds up thumb drives and an iPhone that contains a video of Abelli—the network shows this video in-screen as Rook talks—beating the shit out of
Jon and then ordering him shot and the house set on fire.
Rook’s house in the Chicago burbs. While she was inside. Trying to save people and put the bad guys behind bars.
She even flashes a bit of leg to show what’s left of her burns and the cameras can’t zoom in on her skin fast enough.
Yeah, she’s gorgeous, you assholes, and she’s mine, so back the fuck off.
And then Rook goes in for the kill shot.
“The FBI set up Ronin Flynn and his friends as the murderers of the wealthy Boulder businessman, Davis Cooperson Smyth, because they found out he was part of this disgusting crime ring and the other men involved wanted to neutralize the threat. Ronin Flynn, Spencer Shrike, and Ford Aston tried to stop the buying and selling of women and girls years ago, and they almost went to prison for their troubles. They’ve been badgered repeatedly by these criminals and the general public, constantly threatened and shunned in the community. And this past summer these bad men sent my abusive ex-husband to assassinate us. But he failed and I shot him in self-defense.”
Ho. Leee. Shit.
Rook just flipped that whole case on its head.
I laugh and when I look around every one of these guys laughs with me. The suit pokes me with his elbow. “She’s good, man. We know she’s full of shit, you know she’s full of shit, but hey, she’s still damn good. And I guess no one cares that one less sadist who was buying and selling humans in the hills above Boulder is dead. Your lawyer’s here too, by the way. This presser was outside the courthouse because the charges were just dropped and you’re gonna walk out of here just as soon as we process the paperwork.”
The guards let me hang out in their break room for the duration of my stay. They even give me back my clothes and feed me donuts and coffee.
And I can’t stop fucking smiling.
My little Gidget just saved my ass.
Shit, who am I kidding. My little Gidget just saved a whole bunch of people’s asses. Women and girls who were kidnapped and those who might’ve been in the future. She blew open a crime ring that spanned more than a hundred and fifty people.
Even after Rook leaves the podium we all sit and watch as the different news personalities discuss what just happened and run down the timeline.
At seven AM Eastern this morning the State Department was tipped off that a private jet traced to a Columbian drug cartel had landed at the Fort Collins airport with a known representative on board. At the same time, bank records from an account attached to Agent Abelli were also mysteriously forwarded to the same authorities, documenting a transaction the night before out of the Cayman Islands.
A half a million dollars was transferred from the drug lord to Abelli and that little money move has Ford written all over it. He set that sale up with the cartel guy and Abelli probably had no clue it was even going down.
The screen switches to the video Rook talked about in her statement. The one where Abelli tells Jon he plans on selling Rook to a Columbian drug lord for half a million dollars.
All three of the women sitting on the news panel on screen do a collective “mmm-hmm,” complete with neck roll, because Abelli is guilty as sin in their eyes.
Enter the court of public opinion.
Abelli has been tried and sentenced. And we’re only an hour into the bust.
On top of that, the network states that sources inside the State Department confirm that Abelli’s Cayman account can also be directly tied back to the money stolen from “that dirty bastard”—the woman anchor talking actually calls him this on camera—Davis Cooperson Smyth when he was killed three years ago.
Enter nice tidy noose hanging Agent Abelli by his own FBI-issued tie.
I can barely hold down a snicker because this little move proves that Spencer really is a genius. According to Rook, Abelli killed Cooperson Smyth for reasons unknown, but presumably related to this whole crime ring, looted his bank accounts, and stuffed it into a Cayman Island bank. Then used that account to accept money from a Columbian drug cartel so he could sell Rook Corvus into a life of sexual slavery.
One by one, people are arrested on live TV. The state senator in Illinois, the two US House members right out of their DC offices, several high-ranking FBI members including Abelli here in Denver, and on and on. Even the Columbian drug rep is held.
After the specifics are dissected the news people talk book deals and then the personal stuff comes out. A Japanese erotica cover flashes on the screen and they discuss Rook’s recent stint as a body-painting model on a post-production reality TV show.
I think Spencer Shrike is negotiating a new contract with the Biker Channel right fucking now.
They leave the Japanese book cover up on screen as they talk and this makes me smile. Because it’s the sweet one in the pink dress where she looks like Gidget, not the one with my hand between her legs where I look like the devil.
The whole country goes wild over Rook.
The mayors of Denver and Fort Collins almost come to blows trying to claim her when they do an impromptu news conference.
And every major news channel has a van outside the jail waiting to get a peek at us when they set me free. The tragic girl who swoops in against all odds to save a local golden boy from being the fall guy for an international crime ring.
When they say that shit, I really do laugh.
It takes DPD almost all day to process me out and at the end of it all black suit guy, whose name is actually Detective Carl Murphy, is riding down the elevator to the garage with me. I’m so ready to see my Rook I’m actually nervous.
She’s waiting where they keep the cop cars in order to foil the reporters. The elevator doors open and I hold my breath until she comes into view. She’s stopped mid-stride, like she was pacing. And then she is nothing but blurry motion as she runs toward me and flings herself at my chest. I catch her and pull her tight, cupping her ass and copping a feel at the same time.
Life beyond Rook’s face ceases to exist.
I kiss her. Not hard and desperate, no. I kiss her softly. I kiss her like the precious thing she is. I kiss her gently. And passionately. And carefully.
And when our tongues are tired of the kiss and we need to come up for air, I dip my mouth into her neck and whisper, “What did you do?”
She leans back in my arms, but her legs are still wrapped around my middle and my hands are still cupped under her ass. “Fiona, it’s me, Shrek. I rescued you from your tower to prove I’ll fight for us. I’ll fight for us every single time. You’ll never even have to wonder if I’ll be there, because I’ll show the fuck up before that thought can even cross your mind. I want you, Ronin, and I’ll risk everything for you. I will never walk out on you.”
I squeeze her. I just want to make her part of me, pull her so close that we merge together and become one soul. “I love the fuck out of you, ya know.”
She smiles and then gets a little more serious. “I hope you still have it,” she says.
“Have what, babe?”
“My heart. Because it’s the only one I got and I don’t want to lose it.”
I pat my chest. “I put it right here, Gidget, right next to mine. I’m gonna hold on to it for you. Keep it safe forever.”
Antoine throws us a huge party. Everyone shows up.
And relief washes over me for the first time in a long time. Relief that says things are gonna be OK now.
Rook didn’t drink even one beer tonight. Not even one. I noticed this early so I stopped drinking too. She’s perceptive, but so am I. It’s part of my training. Usually I watch so I can imitate later, bring those feelings and emotions out in modeling or lying to the fucking cops during an interrogation. But with Rook I watch because I want to learn more. I want to find her secrets and uncover her soul.
What she said at the press conference revealed a lot about her, but I know there’s more. And if she’s getting ready to tell me tonight, the last thing I want to be is drunk when she finally gets enough courage to say it.
I’m already in bed, waiting for her to come out of the bathroom. The water shuts off as she finishes brushing her teeth, then the door handle jiggles and she appears wearing some lacy pink boy shorts and a white tank top.
Just Rook.
But she’s got something in her hand when she gets in bed and I know this is it.
“I have something to show you, Ronin.”
I look at the paper clenched in her fist and then up at her eyes. Tears are already flowing down her face. “What is it, babe?”
She wipes them away and then thrusts the crumpled paper towards me. I take it and realize it’s a picture.
My world stops.
When she’d told me she’d lost a baby, I’d figured it was early in the pregnancy. But in this picture she is very pregnant. And she looks young in that peach dress. Her expression says she’s happy, her hair is pulled back, and her bare feet and ankles are so swollen I almost start to worry about pregnant Rook. When I look up she’s got her hands over her mouth, trying to stifle the sobs. I hug her close and we sink down into the covers a little more. “What happened?” I ask in a soft voice.
She opens her mouth to speak, then stops and shrugs her shoulders. “It was an accident.” She nods her head and says it again. “A terrible accident and I lost the baby. I do want kids, Ronin, but this”—she taps the picture with her finger—“this feels like it happened today, that’s how bad it still hurts. I almost had him, Ronin. My son was two weeks away from being born.” And then she breaks and rivers pour down her cheeks. “I’m sorry I’m so emotional and indecisive, but I’m just not over it yet.” Her eyes peer up to me, her dark lashes heavy with tears. “That baby…” She stops and chokes on a sob and my chest is suddenly filled with sadness. An aching that pours into me and makes me hold her tighter. “I was gonna name him Jake.” She looks away and takes a deep breath. “And his crib was white.”
“Rook, I’m so sorry, babe.” I feel like total shit dragging her to that baby store.