by Denise Wells
“The entire thing was a setup. How did you get on the security detail, anyway?”
“I have a friend who owed me a favor.”
“Jesus Christ, Mack. None of this is on the level, not a single fucking thing.”
I shrug.
“Unbelievable.” He turns to look at Tremblay, who is watching us intently, before continuing, “Let me hear the confession.”
I pull my phone out and cue the recording. I watch as his facial expressions go from incredulous to furious to dismay. I can only imagine which emotion goes with which part of the playback. He hands my phone back to me. “So, what else have you gotten from him since you’ve been here?”
“Not much. He claims to not know the other players or the locations. I think he’s lying.”
“Let me try talking to him.”
“Suit yourself.” I don’t really want Reed talking to Tremblay, but it’s not like I could tell him not to at this point. I need to play this carefully if I’m to protect Daria. And Quinn.
I head over to confer with the girls as Reed approaches Tremblay.
“What does he know?” Daria asks, her voice low.
“Not much. QT was a distraction, the gun had blanks—”
“I was a distraction?” Quinn sounds upset. “The gun had blanks?”
I lower my head, then look back up at her with my best “please forgive me” eyes. “Sorry, QT. I couldn’t risk you hurting anyone.”
“So, I wasn’t really an assassin tonight?” She looks to Daria for confirmation, who shakes her head in response.
Quinn’s head jerks back, her eyes widen. “Wow. Okay.” She turns away and Daria grabs her by the upper arm.
“Quinn, don’t be mad, please. There wasn’t enough time to train you in everything you would need to know to pull this off. That would have taken months, if not years. And what you did was so important. If it weren’t for you, Mack never would have been able to get David alone.”
“You lied to me, Daria.” Quinn’s voice shakes slightly. She’s dwarfed by Reed’s jacket, which hangs loosely off her shoulders reaching past her mid-thigh.
“And I’m sorry for that. Truly.”
“Why didn’t you just tell me the truth?”
“Because we needed your reactions to be genuine, especially with Reed.”
“You knew Reed would be there?”
“Of course.”
“And you didn’t tell me that either.” Quinn’s chin trembles. Daria lowers her head, as though ashamed of her actions.
“It was my plan, QT. Don’t be upset with Dar for this. I pushed it on her because I wanted Tremblay alone,” I say.
Both women look at me: Daria with gratitude and Quinn with understanding.
“I still can’t believe David is the bad guy,” Quinn says. “I mean, he really sells women into sexual slavery?” She looks to me for an answer.
I nod. “Pretty much.”
“What will happen now?” Quinn asks.
“Well, now we try to nail Tremblay to the wall.” I mention nothing that’s happened until now. Daria already knows it all, and Quinn doesn’t need to know.
“How can I help?”
“You don’t,” Daria answers Quinn before I have a chance to. “It’s not safe.” Daria and I decided not to tell Quinn that she was an original target, no good can come from having her know that. It’s over now and Daria will be vigilant about protecting Quinn from here on out.
“Were you ever going to tell me it wasn’t real?” Quinn asks Daria.
“It was real, QT.” I reach out and touch her on the shoulder to get her attention. “You set the stage that made it possible for me to get the guy. Don’t doubt that. I truly could not have done it without you.” I lay it on a little thick, but I don’t want Quinn upset with Daria, and I don’t want Daria to feel bad about how this went down.
I could have apprehended Tremblay on my own, in a way that would not have attracted attention, but this made it easier, and for that I’m grateful. Plus, no one was hurt and I’m spending more time with Daria. It’s a win-win all the way around. As I’m breathing a sigh of relief, I hear the sound of flesh and bone hitting the like.
I turn toward the other end of the room to see Reed punching the shit out of Tremblay.
Fuck.
20
Quinn
I drag Reed into the bathroom with me after Mack pulls him off David. His breath is heavy, his chest heaving, and he’s split the skin of the knuckles on both hands. I push down on his shoulders until he sits on the closed toilet seat, then get the first aid kit from under the sink.
“Let me see,” I ask of his hands. He holds both up for my review and hisses as I dab at the wounds with antiseptic wipes.
“I’m sorry if it hurts.”
“It’s fine,” he says, but still tries to pull his hands away.
“Stay still.” I reprimand. “I can’t get a good look at them otherwise.” I wipe the blood and loose skin off his hands as gently as I can. Reed closes his eyes, but I don’t think it’s because of the pain, not physical pain anyway. I can’t imagine how he must feel right now. I dress the wound on his right knuckles as best I can, then kiss the tips lightly before setting his hand in his lap.
“Are you kissing my owie?” He smiles as he asks me that.
“Don’t knock it,” I tell him. “It helps speed the healing process.”
He chuckles. “Thank you.” Then reaches his undressed hand up and touches my cheek. Our eyes meet and my breath catches as I see affection and desire in his gaze. I want to stop time in this moment right here, where we are looking at each other, and it’s just the two of us, and he’s touching me, and anything at all could happen. As though there are infinite possibilities in my immediate future where Reed and I are concerned, and maybe there are.
I try not to look disappointed as he drops his hand, instead busying myself with tending to the cuts on it. “You should be good as new in a day or two,” I tell him as I finish.
A half smile takes over his face as he stands, towering over me, even though I’m in my heels. He looks down at me, sets his hands on my shoulders, and runs them down my arms and back up again. “It looks better on you.”
I raise a brow in question.
“My jacket. Looks better on you.” His hands stop moving and he grips me lightly on each arm, halfway between my shoulders and elbows; his voice soft like a caress I want to lose myself in.
I can’t look away from him, even though the longer his gaze holds mine, the harder it is for me to breathe.
“Are . . .” I clear my throat. “Are you okay?”
Reed shakes his head in response, looking so sad I want to cry for him. He pulls me into his embrace, and I wrap my arms around his waist. We stand that way for a long moment, and I try to memorize every second. Until he sits back down on the toilet seat and pulls me toward him, to perch on his thigh. Then I want to commit every second of that to memory, how it feels to be so close to him, enveloped by his warmth. I snake my arms around his neck and hug him, sensing that’s what he needs right now.
“How can he be guilty?” Reed whispers as he buries his head in my neck.
“I’m so sorry,” I tell him. I know it must be harder for him than any of us. I may have gone out with David, but he was Reed’s best friend since they were kids. Daria and I haven’t known each other that long but I know that if I found out something like that about her, I would have a tough time accepting it.
That said, I suppose some people would have had a challenging time with Daria after finding out about her after-hours vigilante sprees. But that’s something I admire about her. Her ability to set fear aside and do what she feels needs to be done. It’s a beautiful tribute to her sister, if you ask me.
I run my hand up and down the back of Reed’s neck in what I hope is a soothing motion. He raises his head after a minute. “I keep running the gamut of emotions. One minute I’m so furious I want to kill him. The next I just feel broken and c
onfused.”
“That’s normal,” I tell him.
“You think so?”
I nod in response. Then I take a chance, one that I know I shouldn’t. “I have a friend I found out does something that most people would find reprehensible. But I know why my friend needs to do it and I accept it about them. Love them anyway.”
“Reprehensible, like, selling people into human trafficking for money?”
“Not exactly, no,” I admit. “But kind of close depending on how you look at it.” I lean my head on his shoulder, with my face tilted toward his neck. He smells so good, like pine and spice and the outdoors.
“I can’t forgive him for this, Quinn. I can’t forgive him, I can’t understand it, and fuck me if I won’t have to arrest him for it.” I watch the skin of his neck move as he talks. The smooth ivory color dotted with tiny specks of black, the whiskers that will grow anew tomorrow but remain mostly hidden for now. I want to drag my tongue up it, like I did earlier, but I don’t think it’s appropriate.
Of all times for me to be responsible and monitor my actions.
“That can’t be easy—” The more mature me says, before I’m interrupted by a loud knock.
“Reed? Need you out here,” Mack says gruffly through the closed door.
Reed stands, knocking me from my position on his thigh. “Sorry,” he pats my shoulder distractedly as he opens the door and exits the small room.
I should have enjoyed our brief interlude more while it lasted.
Damn.
I take a quick second to sniff at Reed’s jacket one more time before following him to the other room.
21
Daria
When Mack tells me he wants to let David Tremblay go, I tell him he’s crazy. To me, that’s the worst possible plan. You don’t just let the bad guys go free. Especially not bad guys who hurt innocent women.
“It’s not a good plan, Mack. And then what, you’ve gone through all this tonight for nothing?”
Instead of answering me, Mack heads down the hall and knocks on the bathroom door, calling Reed to come out, before returning to stand next to me.
“I think we should let him go,” Mack tells Reed once he reaches us. I see the relief blanket Reed’s face before he masks it. I know Reed just wants this all to go away. I can’t blame him. It’s never easy to realize that someone you love is guilty of anything, let alone something as horrific as this.
My family in Russia does not do things above board, as Mack would say. So, I’ve been in Reed’s same position multiple times. My father punishes first and asks questions later. He rules our family with an iron fist. If it wasn’t for my great-grandmother’s wishes, my sister and I never could have come to America, and they almost forced me to return to Russia after my sister died.
When I admitted to my father what I’d done to the men who had captured my sister, he applauded my actions. He believes wholeheartedly in the vengeance that I carry out, it’s the only reason I’ve been able to stay and continue to receive the financial reward. My father is an Oligarch, as was his father before him. That is where the real money in our family has come from.
I have my money, left to me by my great-grandmother, Lidya Limonov, the original femme fatale in WWII. She was one of the top military snipers of all time, credited with over 300 kills. But it did something to her conscience, and she found it easy to slip into contract killing after the war. Which turned out to be very profitable, and my great-grandfather was good with money. This gave my grandfather a considerable advantage during the privatization of state companies after the fall of the Soviet Union.
Hence the first of the Limonov Oligarchs was born. And the money just keeps coming.
Besides the obscene amounts of money handed down through the years, is a near-obscene lack of regard for human life. They taught my siblings and me to shoot at an early age and shoot to kill shortly thereafter. I’m the one who forced my code of conduct on myself. Killing only those who deserve to die. No one else in my family follows such a creed. They allow me to carry on since people are still dying. It’s what we do. The Limonovs are cold-hearted killers, and we’re exceptionally good at it.
Mack doesn’t know all of that, and neither does Quinn. In Russia, my family name is akin to some of the greatest gangsters in American history. Not exactly something that comes up over cocktails or after sex. And even though both can understand my need for retribution in my sister’s death, no way could they grasp the craving for causing death embedded in me since birth.
I shake my head to clear it and return my attention to Mack and Reed’s conversation, in time to hear Reed agree to all Mack’s ideas. I scoff in my head. Reed agreed to let David go. They think he’s the small fish who will lead them to the bigger fish. A common crime fighting device used in America that I don’t understand. Rarely does it work that way. It reminds me of a Russian proverb my grandmother used to recite incessantly, bez truda ne vylovish' i rybku iz pruda, which loosely translates to mean, “without work, [one] cannot pull a fish out of a pond.”
It is purely ironic that both sayings involve fish. What I will avoid reminding Mack of is that the only way he will get the bigger fish, is to get the bigger fish. Because in the real world the small fish always die, the big fish eat them.
“If we make him wear a wire, and they find it, they’ll kill him,” Reed argues.
“Then we’ll just have to pay attention and make sure that doesn’t happen,” Mack responds.
The two walk over to the chair where we’ve restrained David.
“When’s the next time you have a pickup?” Mack asks.
“A pickup?” David plays dumb.
“A date? A girl you plan to grab?”
“Not until a couple days before New Year’s Eve.”
“Move it up,” Mack says.
“I can’t just move it up. Plus, tomorrow is Christmas.”
“Move it up or go to jail. Your choice.”
“Okay, okay. I’ll see what I can do,” David says.
“Now.” Mack tosses him a burner phone and Reed moves to cut one of David’s hands free.
“It’s not like I just have a phone number I can call,” David argues.
Mack just stares at him. David picks up the phone and makes a call. Mack grabs the phone from him and puts it on speaker.
It rings ten times before someone answers. “The fuck you calling me for?” The voice is harsh and low. “It’s Christmas fucking Eve.”
“I know, man. Sorry. Did you hear what happened tonight?”
“What?”
“At my engagement party, man. Someone tried to kill me.”
“Pity for you. What’s that got to do with me?”
“I need to move up the next girl.”
“Why?”
“Security is getting tight around the family. With the holidays and the wedding right around the corner. I get married in like a week, man.”
“Not my problem. We stick to the schedule.”
“Make it your problem.”
“What did you just say?” the voice growls.
“Look, I’m stressed the fuck out. If you want this from me, move it up.”
“Fuck. Lemme see what I can do. I’ll call you back.”
“Okay, on the other phone though, not this one.”
The line disconnects before anything more is said.
“Thanks,” Mack grunts before moving off to the side of the room to take a call on one of his other phones, returning after a moment. “We gotta get him back.” He gestures toward David and nods to Reed, some sort of non-verbal communication happening between them. Then he comes over to me.
He puts his hands on my shoulders and squeezes them lightly. “I gotta go. You okay driving you and Quinn back?”
I nod.
“Thank you for tonight.” His words are casual, his expression is anything but, gripping my heart in my chest and squeezing tightly. He pulls me in for a quick hug, before he and Reed are out the door, half drag
ging-half carrying David between them.
I hear the SUV start and peel out of the drive, then turn to Quinn. She looks at me, eyes big, mouth agape. “What just happened?”
“They’ll use him as bait to get the other guy.”
“Will that work?”
I shrug in response. “I don’t know.”
“What do we do now?”
I want to say, “Good question.” But instead, I take her hand and lead her outside to the other SUV so we can leave. “Now? We wait and hope their plan works.”
22
Reed
I can’t even force myself to look at David right now. To hear him admit that he’s involved, regardless of his reasons, makes me sick. He’s cuffed and sitting next to me in the back seat of the SUV. His left eye is puffy and closed over, the skin over his right cheekbone is split, and the blood under his nose and on the side of his chin is dry and crusty. He groans in pain whenever the truck rolls over a pothole or uneven wear in the road. I don’t feel sorry for him. Not at all.
I watch the varying holiday light displays blur as we speed past them. It’s always amazing to me just how much effort people will put into decorating their homes for Christmas. It’s not something my parents ever did. A string of lights along the eaves of the front, but that was about it.
These houses have inflatable snowmen and reindeer looming large on rooftops, Santa statues with picturesque backlighting, and strings of lights on every surface—some blinking, some white, some colored. Holiday light and decor viewing has become an annual event for families. Homeowners’ associations give awards for the best presentation. Entire streets shut down and join to partake in this universal greater good.
And then, of course, you have assholes like David who embody the exact opposite of coming together for the greater good. He makes me sick.
I turn away from the window to face him. “You remember the cover story, right?”
He nods in response.
“Use your words, David,” I instruct.