by L. T. Ryan
He couldn’t believe what he saw.
Who he saw.
The tanned skin.
Dark hair that hung in curls.
Eight or nine years older than the last time he’d seen her.
Beautiful as she had been a decade ago.
She paused and gasped. It hit her the same way it had him. Only she knew what she was about to run into.
“Bear,” Mandy said. “What is it?”
Bear struggled to speak. He didn’t have to take his eyes off the woman to know they were done. He heard the shuffling of feet coming from behind the station entrance and from the other end of the train. In his peripheral, he saw two armed men exit the train just feet away.
They were done.
“Bear?” Mandy pleaded now. “What’s wrong? Why aren’t we going?”
“We’re not going, sweetie.”
“Why?”
The woman tried to smile, but it came across as a grimace rather than whatever she might have meant. Mandy finally saw her.
“Who is that? Is she a friend?”
“She was.”
“Was?”
“Yeah.”
“Who is she?”
“Sadie.”
Part 2
Chapter 17
The old woman handed Clarissa a folded note. Thick, heavy stock paper that felt more like a paperweight. An amazing thing, she thought, how a single piece of paper was so flimsy and easy to damage. But if folded over a dozen times, the sharpest blade could do minimal damage.
Mrs. Calabase failed to greet Clarissa with her trademarked smile connecting her mouth and eyes. She didn’t offer the familiar Italian proverb as she had every other day when Clarissa stopped by her stand. Fear basked in her watery eyes when she grabbed Clarissa’s wrist in a death lock, turned her hand over, and dropped the paperweight-note into her palm.
Clarissa had attempted to open it there, not understanding that the contents would be life-altering. Her first thought was the old woman had finally decided to give up her lasagna recipe. Mrs. Calabase shook her head and mouthed, “Get out,” before turning away and leaving her shop unattended.
So, she left with her nightly vegetables and chicken and took a roundabout way to her nondescript apartment in the nondescript little village perched atop the northern Italian mountains. The sun dipped behind the highest parts of town. Shadows stretched until they encompassed the alley. Many stands along the narrow roads had already been converted into outdoor dining for the dozens of small restaurants. How they managed to stay open in a place that had long ago seen its best days kept Clarissa guessing. There were no jobs. No youth remaining behind. No money. Yet everyone seemed happy.
Except for Mrs. Calabase on this day.
Clarissa wound her way to her apartment. The smell of pasta and fish saturated the air. She almost stopped at her favorite place where a plate of food cost five euros, and a full carafe of wine even less. Many nights had been spent there. Most of them alone. Some of the best had been when Jack Noble had found her months ago while he was on the run. They lived the way she had always dreamt they would if they could have ever survived as a couple. It never lasted. Not in New York. Not in Italy. It was always the same. One day, she’d wake up and he was gone. Her logical mind understood it was for the better. But you know what? To hell with logic. She would’ve gone with him.
She had been awake when he left. She heard him say to her, “If you’re hearing this, I’ll be in one town over for the next ten hours.”
She never went.
Why should she? He assumed she was asleep, and that’s the only reason he said it. Besides, he’d become toxic. Hurt and pain followed him everywhere. Bear knew it. Clarissa knew it. Hell, even Jack knew it.
The earlier interaction with the old woman left Clarissa apprehensive, so she hung back for a bit and monitored her front door. The old building had tiny windows, making it impossible to see inside.
She looked down at the note. Curiosity was getting the better of her. But knowing it could contain anything, she decided it would be better to open it in the relative safety of her apartment.
Crossing the street, Clarissa was on high alert. Every noise coming from every open window sent her spiraling. Was that a gunshot? Or someone slamming a door shut? She hurried the final twenty feet, unlocked her door, and went inside.
The still air lingered, still fragrant with the candle she had burned earlier that day. A quick glance indicated nothing had been disturbed. She dropped to a knee and lowered her head until her cheek was an inch off the floor. There she confirmed the tripwire was in place. The only way in and out was through the front door. No one would miss disturbing the thread. There were still times Clarissa missed it and tore it free from the wall on her way out.
Rising to her feet, she dusted her elbows and knees off. “Now get it together, girl. Maybe a glass of wine would help?” she muttered, and added, “Can’t hurt.”
She poured a glass of a local red table wine. The anticipation of that first sip made her face flush, her mouth water. She pulled it in, held it in her mouth for a moment, then tipped her head back. The wine warmed her throat, chest, stomach.
“Now, time to see what you are all about, my folded friend.”
She set the note on the table and went to work dismantling the intricate locking system the writer had used. For as heavy as the paper was, the contents were quite minimal. Clarissa’s throat caught as she tried to read it aloud. She took another sip of wine.
“You have approximately forty-eight hours from the time Mrs. Calabase hands this to you. Get out and get far away much sooner than two days from now. They almost have you now. Their movements thus far indicate they will know your general location very soon. Once they reach the town, you will never escape. You should leave tonight. Pick a direction and go. The further you can be from here, the better. They will track you down. They will find you. They will take you. They will kill you.”
She held the unsigned note for five minutes, repeating the words until they had turned into a mantra of sorts. Her glass had spilled over during the second reading. Wine dripped off the edge of the table onto her lap.
Banging on the door ripped her from the meditative state. Clarissa shifted into the person she had struggled to abandon. She inventoried the kitchen, the one she had spent months in and could barely remember which drawer had the knives. But in that instant, she knew the weight and size and location of each one. She grabbed two, one for attack and the other to defend, and headed to the door.
The banging persisted. What was the point? They’d get the attention of everyone around. The guys here might be old, but they loved Clarissa and would band together to protect her.
“Who is it?”
No answer, just more banging.
“I can kill you.”
No answer, just more banging.
“For Christ’s sake.” She unlocked the door, pulled it open, jumped back three feet, landing at the ready.
The old woman retreated a step before emboldening herself and entering the apartment.
Clarissa let the knives drop to the floor as she reached for the woman. “Mrs. Calabase, what are you doing here?”
“My dear, I had to bring you this.” Her accent was thick, but her English perfect. She pulled her shawl off her arm. Resting on her forearm was a weathered wooden box. She shoved it toward Clarissa. “These were my husband’s. The last ones he purchased before he passed on. I have no idea if either works.”
Clarissa didn’t immediately reach for the box. “Either of what? Mrs. Calabase, what is going on? Who gave you that note?”
She waved the younger woman off. “This is of no concern. It does not matter who gave me the note. What matters is I saw the souls of a thousand dead killers in that man’s eyes. They were black, the color of his soul.”
Clarissa wanted to reason with the woman, but she wouldn’t stop.
“He won’t take you or kill you. He will devour your soul, and you will
be lost forever. Your energy will never move on as he will feast on it for the remainder of his eternal life.”
The old woman had lost it, Clarissa was convinced. Maybe she had even penned the note herself.
“Take this.” Mrs. Calabase jammed the box into Clarissa’s stomach hard enough Clarissa coughed. “I must go now. I have to leave this place.”
“Leave? Where will you go?” Clarissa reached into her pocket for loose bills. It was the only thing she could think to do.
“My daughter... No, this is none of your concern. I shouldn’t tell you, and you must not tell me where you are going. Do you understand?”
“No.” The whole situation was getting weirder by the moment.
The old woman let go of the box and retreated backward to the door. She reached behind and grabbed the latch. Before disappearing into the darkening night, she said, “Please, dear, leave tonight.”
Clarissa rushed to the door, but Mrs. Calabase was already out of sight. The town felt as though it had thousands of eyes, all focused on Clarissa. She closed the door and locked it, went back to the kitchen, placed the box on the table. A worn string wrapped in figure eights served as a latch. She unwound it, being careful not to pull too hard, then opened the lid.
The pistol caught her attention first. Mr. Calabase had upgraded recently, and the 9mm Beretta was a perfect fit for Clarissa. She removed the magazine, broke it down, inspected it, and put it back together. It was a well-maintained pistol with only a hint of ever having been shot. She fitted the inside-the-waistband holster and laid the additional magazines out on the table.
Next to the pistol was a key to a Vespa she’d never seen Mrs. Calabase riding. She hoped it was as recent a purchase as the Beretta. Clarissa ran to the door with the pistol in hand and stepped out into the night. Silvery wisps of clouds raced overhead, blocking out the moon for seconds at a time. She stepped around the corner of the building and saw the scooter waiting there. The gas fumes lingered in the air. Not wanting to wait until the final minute to find out her mode of transportation was a lemon, Clarissa hopped on and started it on the first key turn.
“Perfect,” she whispered.
On her way inside, she debated that word. How could this situation be perfect? The past several months had seen her friendship, which was more of an on-again-off-again relationship with Beck crumble to the point he told her to get away and stay out of his life or he’d have her arrested for what went down.
She locked herself inside the apartment again and returned to the kitchen.
“One more glass, kiddo.”
Her thoughts turned to what had happened. She still couldn’t figure out why Beck turned on her. Why he believed she was at fault. That she could even do something like take the money. She cursed him for putting her through this and realized maybe it was better that she run now. At first, she had hoped it was Beck who had delivered the letter. But the way Mrs. Calabase spoke of the man who had, Clarissa knew it wasn’t him. The man had his flaws and could be more intense than anyone she knew, even Jack. But his eyes were kind. Even in their darkest moments, his eyes were a beacon of light.
She glanced around the kitchen and decided there was nothing worth bringing, so she headed upstairs to her bedroom. A small backpack was already packed. Her bug out bag should something bad happen. That’s what this was, right? Something bad about to happen.
Before leaving her room for the last time, she grabbed one last memento. The jacket Jack had left behind. She pulled it on and felt swamped in it. And she loved how that felt.
Chapter 18
As far as prison cells went, this one ranked top two. The comfortable cot could have been mistaken for a Tempur-Pedic. A bookshelf hung overhead, filled with a few bestsellers from various genres. The toilet had a lid and a rolling writing desk sat next to it.
“What the hell do people do in here?” Noble muttered. He rested against the wall; his legs stretched out on the mattress. A day had passed since he’d been detained by the one person in Europe he hadn’t suspected being out for him. Hell of a ruse that woman pulled off. Ines. Had that been the only truth to come out of her mouth? Was it even a truth? One of the passports had the name, but that meant nothing. Jack had a dozen passports stashed in various banks and deposit boxes and at his properties.
None said Jack Noble.
He felt a slight twinge in his gut at the thought. Years ago, before he sold his soul, he still had his name. And that meant something. He had the chance to leave the business. His favorite bar in the Keys could’ve been his. His retirement fund, he called it, as they hammered out the details. The place wasn’t much. But he didn’t need much. Just a little tavern, off the beaten path, enough to suit a few regulars and the couple of tourists who’d wander in. With everything that had happened the past few years, he questioned why he backed out.
He chuckled at the thought. It hadn’t been him that backed out. Frank Skinner had gotten involved. Jack had no proof. But Skinner had the means to make things happen. Things like an accidental grease fire that claimed the lives of the owner and his daughter and burned the bar to the ground.
Two more souls Noble would have to account for on his reckoning day.
The only thing Jack backed out of was the life of a beach bum. He let Skinner talk him into returning, then everything went to shit.
And once again, everything had gone to shit, but at least Frank Skinner could no longer reach him. Or so he thought. Sure seemed like the guy was doing a good job from the grave.
Jack hopped off the bed and did fifty pushups, then fifty jump squats. He worked out the crick in his neck and his tight hip.
With his mind clear, he replayed the scene in the field. He hadn’t heard them coming. Hadn’t noticed Ines creeping up. Hadn’t heard the five vans bouncing along the overgrown dirt road.
Instincts took over, as they always did. He could have taken Ines out; dealt with whoever remained. However, a small voice told him to stand down. The net surrounded him. If he got away, he’d be back to living on the run, and the first few days of that life were a bitch. All days were, if he was honest with himself. And he realized, if they wanted him dead, Ines could’ve pulled the trigger in the parking garage as they stole the BMW. Her BMW? He had plenty of questions, and so far, no one had said a word to him other than asking how he liked his steak.
Steak.
In a prison cell.
Maybe they were going to kill him?
Jack stiffened at the soft tones emanating from the keypad on the other side of the door. The electronic latch disengaged. The door crept open, swinging into the hallway. Three feet past the threshold stood an imposing man holding a nightstick. At least one more person would be outside, shielded by the door, and Jack figured someone was waiting out of view to the left.
“Steak again? Medium rare, as usual,” Jack said. “Or are you springing for lobster for dinner?”
“Get up.” The guy looked to his right, revealing a spiderweb tattoo crawling up his neck and disappearing into his hair. Was the spider up there?
“Taking me out tonight, big guy? I won’t put out. At least, not without a hefty amount of bourbon.”
“I said, get up.”
“Yeah, that can be a problem. Whisky dick is a real thing.”
The man nodded at someone Jack couldn’t see. A moment later, a shield covered most of the opening as a green gas plumed from underneath and enveloped the room. The stream stopped. The door slammed shut. Jack’s head felt light, lifted. Not the most familiar feeling, but one he’d experienced time to time.
It might’ve been a minute later, or half a day, when the door opened again. He didn’t know, he didn’t care. The soft tones of the keypad recalled a song from his youth.
The door swung open. The big man looked like an ogre, and Jack told him as much. Seemed the guy fought back a smile. Jack had enough self-awareness to know his sober humor grated on most. But when he was under the influence, he was the funniest guy he knew.
Too bad no one agreed.
The person hiding had no problem entering now. Even if Jack wanted to kill him, his motor skills were so out of tune now, he would’ve broken his own neck.
“Put these on.” She held out a pair of nylon cuffs.
“I barely know you.”
She grinned. “After what I’m gonna do to you, it’s best you don’t.”
Jack held out his hands and let her bind his wrist. “You’re gonna have to cut up my steak.”
“All right, lover boy,” the ogre said. “Let’s get you down to interrogation.”
“My favorite part of the day.”
Whatever they had gotten him high with wore off quicker than it hit. Jack went from floating on a cloud to rediscovering how to walk in about two seconds. The ogre chuckled. Presumably, he too had been under the effects of the green dream a time or two. They had to work on their delivery method, though. There was no way some didn’t seep out into the hallway.
They traveled through a labyrinth of hallways, each looking like the last. White walls, ceilings, floors. Nothing to break up the whiteness. The effect on his mind was enough that Jack began questioning the last year of his life. Had he killed Skinner? Had he been on the run? Maybe they took him down on that street in France and Skinner had him committed.
“It’s the drugs,” he muttered.
“What?” the woman asked.
Jack ignored her. He had a reality to rebuild.
“All right, princess,” the ogre said. “Here’s your next stop.”
Jack turned to the woman. “Coming in with me?”
“You wouldn’t want that.”
“I want lots of things I shouldn’t.”
“Like what?”
“World peace.”
“That’s a bad thing?”
“I’d be out of a job.”
She glanced at his bound wrists. “I mean, you suck at it anyway.”
The ogre shoved Jack into the room and the door clicked shut before he could retort. Now he faced another looming uncertainty. Who caught him and why hadn’t they killed him?