by Shandi Boyes
He’s suspected of killing my brother, so I should let him rot in hell, but I can’t. Rimi Castro may be the only person capable of identifying the bodies found at the Shrouds’ family ranch. Without him, the victims’ families may never get the closure I’m hoping to give my family. That alone has me removing a switchblade knife out of my pocket to cut through the rope tying him to the boiler before lowering him to the ground.
After yanking off my bulletproof vest, I tug my shirt off, bundle it together, press it to the wound in Castro’s stomach, then call in assistance. “We need a medic in the basement. Man with a stab wound to the stomach. No other survivors.”
The crackle of a radio sounds through my ear before Grayson’s deep voice gobbles it up. “Copy. Medic is coming down. His presence won’t help anyone up here.” He doesn’t directly say he’s facing the same body count I am, but his tone sure does.
When my eyes return to Castro, I notice his face is whiter than it was moments ago. The paleness of his cheeks has nothing to do with the amount of blood he has lost. It’s because he’s seeing a ghost, a man he was confident he ordered to be killed.
“What’s the matter, Castro? You look like the Grim Reaper came to visit you.” He chokes on the blood gurgling in his throat when I push down on his wound with more force than needed. “Or are you seeing a ghost?”
Before he can answer me, I discover the frantic thump of footsteps bellowing down the stairwell don’t belong to the medically trained agents in our team. They’re compliments of the CIA officers storming the basement, demanding for my men to place their weapons down.
“Lower your weapon,” an agent requests of me for the second time, her voice oddly familiar even with it being tainted with remorse.
“If I do, he’ll bleed out.” I raise my eyes, drinking in black polished shoes, fitted trousers, a CIA emblazoned vest, and a pair of dark, stormy eyes. “Is that what you want, Agent Russell?” As my eyes narrow into tiny slits, I correct, “Or should I call you Officer Russell since CIA personnel aren’t referred to as agents?”
18
Brandon
“Is he going to survive?”
Phillipa’s teeth crunch at the curtness of my tone, but she dips her chin, nonetheless.
“When can I see him?” When her eyes lift to the right, I snarl, “It’s the least you can do. I brought you here. Me. I did all the leg work, so you can sure as fuck be guaranteed I won’t sit back and watch you take credit for all the work I did.” I bang my chest during my last ‘I.’
Phillipa waits for the two dozen women and children found in the attic of the farmhouse to be guided past us before replying, “I have no intention of taking credit for your work, BJ.” Her hair ruffles from my furious growl. She has no right to call me a nickname after she played me. “I wanted to tell you who I was. I sought permission. My supervisors wouldn’t allow it.”
“So you lied by making out you’re one of the good ones.” I freeze as well as Phillipa does, shocked by something I hadn’t considered before. “How long have you been with the CIA?” When she pulls an I’m-not-going-to-break-cover face, I ask again, louder this time, “How long?”
After floating her eyes across the group of men and women watching us, the same men and women she deceived as well as me, she returns them to my face and whispers, “Thirteen years.”
I take a step back, shocked. She did just say thirteen years, didn’t she?
“How old are you?” That shouldn’t be the focal point of my interrogation, but I’m too stunned to use the logical side of my brain.
“I’m thirty-five. I was recruited in my final year of college.” Her voice softens when she adds, “Just like Liam.”
“Did he recruit you?”
As regret fills her eyes, she shakes her head. “But he’s the reason I went undercover in the Bureau. Conspiracy theorists for years have alleged CIA involvement with cartels. Liam’s placement made them worse.” An admired sparkle brightens her eyes. “But that doesn’t mean he shied away from proving them wrong.”
It’s the fight of my life not to smile at her comment. The less likely someone was to believe him, the harder Liam worked to convert them to his way of thinking. The only person he couldn’t persuade was my father.
“What Liam didn’t know was that in the process of his investigation, he’d stumble onto some half-truths.” She laughs when she spots the shocked expression on my face. “It’s not exactly how you’re picturing it, but there’s always a handful of rotten apples in every barrel.”
Everything she’s saying is true, but I’m having a hard time processing it all. If killing an ant can cause a tornado, imagine what happens when the Acting Director of the Bureau discovers his daughter conducted a covert operation under his watch. The aftershocks will be felt for years to come, if not decades.
The only good thing that has come of her disclosure is the realization her hacking skills aren’t better than mine. I couldn’t for the life of me work out how she had photos of Melody before her family’s home invasion. Excluding the pictures in the Greggs family ranch, I couldn’t find any information on the Greggs before they moved to Saugerties. Only now am I realizing I didn’t have access to the correct channels. That wasn’t the case for Phillipa. The CIA is more upfront with their own.
Although I have a thousand questions in my head, one sounds louder than the rest. “Did Castro kill my brother?”
Phillipa scoops my hand into hers before raising her eyes to mine. “I don’t know, but I promise I’ll find out for you.”
I shouldn’t believe the honesty in her eyes. I should call her a liar before demanding access to Castro so I can pry the truth from him myself, but for some reason, I believe her.
Seeing the silent thanks in my eyes, Phillipa releases my hand before heading toward the armored SUV waiting for her next to our makeshift command center.
“One last thing,” I ask before she slips into the front passenger seat of the car Harvey is commanding.
I was suspicious about how close they were for two strangers, but with my mind focused on more pressing matters, I played it off as two similar personalities having an instant kinship. It’s a mistake I won’t make again anytime soon. The CIA and the Bureau have worked together previously, but this is the first time a majority of the agents assigned to the joint operation have been left in the dark. I don’t like it, and in all honesty, it’s frustrating me more than Phillipa’s deceit.
When Phillipa drops her chin, approving my request, I ask, “Why is the CIA interested in this case? Don’t you usually handle overseas incidents?”
“Castro isn’t a US citizen.” She pauses for a second before adding, “We were also hoping he’d lead us to Kirill.” Her straight-up honesty shocks me, but not as much as what she says next, “I believe we can still nab him without Castro’s assistance. With your and Grayson’s help, of course.” When I don’t voice a protest to her suggestion that we work together to bring down Kirill, she shyly waves before sliding into her awaiting chariot. “Enjoy your party, BJ. Perhaps if you’ve forgiven me by then, you’ll save me a dance.”
Party? What party?
Like he has a direct link to my psyche, Grayson arrives out of nowhere. “The shindig we’re set to rock in around thirty or so minutes.”
When he fans open five embossed gold tickets for the fundraising gala my mother chairs, I scoff. “Why would we still attend the gala? We got our man. The threat has been neutralized.”
I choke on my spit when Grayson mutters, “For one, your girl will be there—” He doesn’t get the chance to voice more points.
“Melody’s going?” Think back to those pimple-faced boys who uncomfortably grabbed their crotches at random times of the day as they can’t control their cocks. That’s who my voice represents when I squeak out my question. “Is that why she was at her ranch this afternoon?”
While pursing his lips, Grayson waves the ticket back and forth, temptingly teasing me. “Only one person can answer
your questions, punk. You’ve just got to decide if you’re brave enough to ask them—” His words lodge into the back of his throat when I snatch one of the tickets out of his hand.
I already have a ticket with my name on it at home, but this one has VIP splashed across the front, meaning I’ll have more chance of being in the same room as Melody and her gazillionaire fiancé.
I’m not planning to cause trouble for them. I just want to know why bundles of cash with serial numbers corresponding to the massive withdrawal Julian undertook last week was found in a safe in Castro’s office.
Twenty minutes later, I peer at my reflection in the foggy mirror of the Jack and Jill bathroom attached to my childhood room. I haven’t showered in this room in almost eight years, yet everything is still in its place. My aftershave sits in the middle of the bottom shelf, my razor is just to its left, even my toothbrush and toothpaste are in the same spot. The only thing missing is my can of shaving cream, which is odd considering I barely needed it when I was a teen. My skin was as soft as a baby’s bottom, so I didn’t need to worry about unexpected nicks from the rough slide of my razor.
After dumping my rusted, hair-clogged razor into the bin under the vanity sink, I pull my electric razor out of my travel bag before quickly running it over my face, sprucing myself up. Once all the stray hairs are taken care of, I commence brushing my teeth. I’m usually one of those annoying brushers who leave the tap on while scrubbing. I can’t do that tonight. Something is clogging the drain, slowing the water’s escape.
I won’t lie. My heart batters my ribcage when I pierce one of my mother’s knitting needles through the backlog of water. I grew up with three older brothers. I found many gross things when unblocking a clogged sink.
Today’s discovery isn’t any better.
“That’s fucking gross,” I groan in disgust while transferring a condom from my sink to the bin, heaving. I can look at a dead body and not feel sick, but a used condom has my stomach somersaulting.
After dumping the offending product and the knitting needle into the bin, I scrub my hands like they’re coated in cooties before entering my room to get dressed. I don’t have time to dwell on how disgusting some men are. The gala has already started, meaning we’re late.
Once I’m dressed in a tuxedo, brushed my wet hair, and thrown on a good dose of aftershave, I head to the room Isabelle has been getting ready in for the past several hours. Mom never had a daughter, so she used it as an excuse to keep Isabelle and Hugo occupied while I attended the raid. It’s odd when you think about it—dangerous raid during the day, ritzy gala at night. At least I can’t say my life is boring.
Would you think I am weird if I said I’m more nervous now than I was when I rolled a Ford Expedition over rose-colored deserts almost two years ago? Back then, I knew what I was heading to and knew both my target and my objective.
Here, I’m flying solo.
I once knew the girl I’m about to confront. I knew the way her eyelashes touched her cheeks when she blinked and how she signed super-fast when she was about to come. I knew her voice without her speaking a word and how she smiled any time she was nervous. I knew her better than I knew myself. But I don’t know her anymore.
I don’t want the fantasy in my head to end any more than I don’t want our meeting to steal the only good memories I have of my childhood. I don’t want to forget the person Melody once was.
I also don’t want to see her with another man.
To know she loves him as she once did me may very well kill me. Our relationship will always be different. You never forget your first true love, but you can replace it. Replicate it. Strive for better. I haven’t put the steps in place to do that, but it’s clear Melody has. Although she was occasionally caught a little sad, she appeared happy in the surveillance images I’ve seen of her. Her sadness could have more to do with being an orphan than anything else. A part of her died when her parents did.
That’s another thing that is bothering me. How do I tell Melody all the things I’ve unearthed about her father without possibly ruining her memories of him? Like every teen growing up, she thought her dad was a hard-assed tyrant who needed a personality transplant, but even when fighting him, I could see in her eyes how much she adored him.
Nothing I’ve discovered the past eight months paints Liam in a bad light, I just don’t know how Melody will respond when she finds out she shares blood with one of the country’s most notorious gangsters. She’s an assistant district attorney. That would have to be a conflict of interest. I don’t want her forced to give up a part of who she is because of the legacy she was born into. Her birthright wasn’t her choice, and neither was mine.
I breathe out my nerves when Hugo pulls my car into the front of the hotel the gala is being held at. I’m shocked when Isabelle peels out of the car before popping her head back in as she did the morning she was released on bail. “Are you coming?”
What did I miss during my reminiscing?
As I slide across the seat to exit via the open back passenger door, Hugo grumbles for me to keep myself in check. He must be mistaking the fretful look on my face as envy as I’ve barely glanced Isabelle’s way tonight. My mind is elsewhere.
Once Hugo pulls away from the curb, Isabelle curls her arm around my elbow. Her eyes are bright and filled with stars. I rarely attended these events as a kid, and they don’t interest me much now, but I can understand how opulent it seems to Isabelle. She was raised by a big balding Russian who hid her from the world. I doubt she had many events to get dressed up for.
Halfway into the room full of socialites, rock stars, silver-screen darlings, and a group of pompous pricks who endorse my father’s bid for Congress, the already frantic patter of my heart gains an extra beat. A long time ago, I would have immediately known the reason behind my spike in pulse. Now I have to be more cautious. I’d hate to make a fool of myself.
The mask I’m holding is crushed beyond repair when my eyes lock in on a silhouette of red across the room. The blonde beauty’s hair is pinned off her face, and the tiny freckles that adorn her nose are covered with makeup, but I’d never forget the face of a woman who stands out in a crowded room. She’s too beautiful to forget, and really, really pretty.
I’m reminded it isn’t just Melody and me in the room when Isabelle leans into my side to whisper in my ear, “Is that Melody?”
I try to force some type of confirmation out of my mouth, but with my throat bone-dry from taking in the way Melody’s ballgown hugs the curves of her body, I nod instead. I’ve never been good with words when it comes to Melody. I’m glad to see seven years didn’t cure that neurosis.
The world fades out when Melody’s head suddenly swings my way. Her eyes lock on mine in an instant, her lips curving. Her smile—fuck. Don’t ask me to explain it. I couldn’t possibly put into words how perfect it is. There’s no slight wonkiness to her grin or apprehension weakening it. It’s a blistering smile unlike any of the ones I’ve seen of her in print the past year.
“Hi,” I inconspicuously sign, doubling the wetness in her eyes.
“Hi,” Melody signs back at the same time Isabelle’s elbow lands into my ribs. “Go say hello.”
I glare at Isabelle like she’s insane before shaking my head. I’m barely holding it together as it is, and Melody is on the other side of the room. There’s no way I’m ready for a face-to-face confrontation. Furthermore, she isn’t here alone. I asked Grayson to hack into the hotel’s reservation software during the commute back to my family’s ranch. It didn’t have a Melody Gregg listed. Julian McMahon, though, was there. Regretfully.
My head shake has me stumbling onto another participant ready to board the talk-to-Melody train. Grayson is standing at the side of the ballroom, glaring at me. His designer jeans, fitted shirt, and fancy jacket should make him stick out like a sore thumb in a room full of men in tuxedos, but for some reason, he pulls it off. He fits in with the rock star family this gala was founded for.
&nb
sp; When Grayson nudges his head to Melody for the fifth time while mouthing that I’m a soft cock, I give in to his rile.
“Wish me luck,” I mumble under my breath before swooping down to place a peck on Isabelle’s cheek.
After she gives my hand an encouraging squeeze, I weave through the hundreds of gala attendees separating Melody and me. My heart beats out a funky tune with every step I take, as does a vein in Melody’s neck. She watches me cross the room, her lips parted in a smile, her eyes twinkling with moisture. She’s alone which both annoys and appeases me. The main threat to her life is holed up in a hospital room guarded by enough CIA officers he could be mistaken as a national dignitary, but we must stay cautious. Until we can prove the Castros and Bobrovs aren’t working together, alerts will remain high.
“Melody, hi.” The tears in her eyes glide down her cheeks when I stop to stand in front of her. I don’t know if it’s from seeing me in the flesh for the first time in seven years, realizing we still stand at the same height, or how my voice cracked when I said her name during my greeting. If I weren’t aware she’s deaf, I would have gone with the latter. Alas, she can’t hear me any more than I wish I could hear her say my name. “What is wrong? Why are you crying?”
I freeze like a statue when she responds, “Your voice… I can’t… Oh, God, BJ.” She didn’t sign her response. She spoke it.
“Mel…” I can’t speak. I’m too shocked and confident I am dreaming. “You can talk?” When she nods, I add, “And you can hear me?”
When she dips her chin for the second time, I cup her face, certain she’s about to vanish. She was already the girl of my dreams before she could talk, so you can imagine how confident I am that I’m dreaming. Her voice is a little husky, but I’d say that’s more to do with nerves than anything else. It matches the sweetness of her face while giving her still-girlish looks a touch of sophistication. It’s perfect, and it will have me smiling long after I wake up.