by Juno Rushdan
Hard work at the lumber mill had satiated the animal inside during the day. Drinking whiskey and cage fighting had lulled the beast into submission at night, till even that wasn’t enough.
“If you had a boyfriend,” he said in a low voice, “or husband who put his hands on you one too many times and you wanted him in the emergency room instead of getting stitched up again yourself, I was your guy for hire.”
Looking at him with hooded eyes, she seemed to measure each word on a scale of belief.
“Everything I tried to make myself feel better made me feel worse. So I told myself no more bloodshed. No drinking.” If he continued, she might want to cut off his dick, but he needed it out on the table. “No boning chicks whose faces blurred together and names I didn’t care to ask.” Women interested in fucking the mysterious guy with the ghastly scar who’d helped them out of a jam. He never spent the night, never bought them dinner. Heck, they bought him drinks.
He’d been something awful back then.
Her gaze fell, face twisting into something painful that hurt his heart.
“Did you ever fall in love?” she asked, not looking at him.
“You’re the only one who has ever gotten in. You were my first thought every morning. The only thing on my mind as I tried to sleep. Not being with you tore me apart.”
“Not enough for you to come back for me.”
“I’m not going anywhere.” He drew closer. “I’m here, Maddox.”
“For how long before you bail? What if there’s another shitstorm? Are you going to cut and run? Leave me behind again?”
“We’re in a shitstorm right now, and I’m here. Fighting for you. Fighting beside you.”
He was risking his life for her. If that wasn’t proof he loved her, what was?
A crestfallen shadow fell across her face. “Nine years ago, I would’ve followed you through that violent hell. And to the wilderness. But you were able to leave me. You were able to stay away, when nothing would’ve kept me from you. And if it wasn’t for my job as a scum-sucking spook, I still wouldn’t know you were alive.”
The words hit him like shrapnel. His mouth went bone-dry, and any response withered on his tongue.
“What I know for certain,” she said low, “is you want closure. To be free of me.”
Shit. “I didn’t mean it.”
Her watery eyes narrowed. “When you looked me in the face and said it, you meant it. I felt it. In my gut. In my heart. Because you wanted to hurt me, and you did.”
Double shit. He had meant it, had let stupid spite color his words. “I was an angry idiot for saying it. I don’t mean it now. I don’t want to hurt you.” He’d rather tear out his own heart.
“You used to be reliable, steadfast. True as a compass. Now you’re this messy seesaw. And I don’t know which way the wind is going to blow with you.”
There was nothing he could say; no words would convince her. He had to show her, after this thing with Novak was done.
He put his hand on her shoulder. She cringed, and it was a kick to the chest.
“It’s late.” The words were like broken glass in his throat. “I’ll go, let you rest.” He dropped his hand. Sleep deprivation dulled the mind, slowed reflexes. Going up against Novak, they needed their faculties sharp. Space for her to breathe and process everything wouldn’t hurt either.
“No need for you to go to a hotel. You can sleep on the pullout sofa.”
His gut burned. “No.” He lowered his head. “I don’t need your pity pullout.”
He went to the bathroom for a quick clean up, dressed, and gathered his things.
When he reemerged, she was still sitting on the floor, resting her head on the sofa. One word summed up how she looked: drained. He hoped she’d ask him to stay, in the bed. Knowing it was better for her if he left.
He grabbed the blanket draped on the sofa, covered her, and went to the door. “You didn’t fail me. I failed us. I was young and foolish, and I made a lot of bad decisions. Being angry at you, never coming back for you was the biggest mistake. I forgive you, Mads, for the things you set in motion all those years ago, for the death of my father. None of it would’ve happened if I’d had better judgment. I only hope one day, you can forgive me.”
Not that he was worthy of absolution after the cruel penance he’d forced them both to pay, but to free her heart from the burden of the past, so she could move on, love again, find happiness, and really be with someone.
Even if that someone wasn’t him.
She deserved a full, rich life with all the things she desired.
He wanted to be the man to give it to her, but maybe that wasn’t possible. Maybe his apologies were years too late and not nearly enough.
Maybe what they shared was toxic, damaging, too unhealthy to continue, and they’d both be better off with a fresh start.
But one thing would never change.
“I love you, Maddox. Always have, and I’ll keep on loving you. With every last breath.”
Whether it was enough was a question yet to be answered.
He ducked into the empty hall, feeling hollowed out and raw, pressed the top button on the smartcode lock to activate it, and gave the knob a last twist to be sure she was safe.
Chapter 25
Vienna, Virginia
Saturday, D-day, 12:25 a.m. EDT
Aleksander sat hunkered low in the van, staring at the black Kawasaki Ninja motorcycle. The same one had been at the Hotel Monaco.
Now it sat outside Agent Maddox Kinkade’s apartment building like a harbinger of death.
The one-page file he’d received on her stated she was unmarried. The bike could be hers, but intuition told him it belonged to the man with the scar.
Not surprising to find him here, but Aleksander’s current contingency plan didn’t involve Scarface. Not in this phase.
Aleksander might need to determine a new how.
The front door of the apartment building closed with a heavy thud. Scarface descended the steps and strolled to the sports bike. Aleksander smiled as he watched the man put on a helmet, swing his leg over the bike, and rev up the engine.
Adjustments to his plan wouldn’t be necessary after all.
A resounding roar pierced the night air, and Scarface zoomed down the road, out of Aleksander’s way. Aleksander gave Val a knowing glance and climbed from the van. In a hushed click, he shut the door. He tugged the leather gloves tighter and brushed hair from the new blond wig over the top rim of his glasses.
Crossing the street, he did a quick three-sixty scan of the area and slipped into the darkness alongside the building. The shadows beyond the pools of streetlight concealed him, directing his steps.
He took up a position by a tree beside the pond separating him from the apartment building and stroked the device in the pocket of his smoke-gray coveralls.
Her apartment was on the second story, third in from the corner.
Light filtering through the vertical blinds shifted and flickered. A television. Balconies with iron railings and no screened patios provided the best-case scenario. Now, he waited for the right moment to strike.
* * *
Vienna, Virginia
4:40 a.m. EDT
No air. Tightness around her throat. A chilling darkness rushed up.
Maddox jackknifed awake, clutching her chest, raking in shaky breaths. She was alive. Safe. Her racing heartbeat steadied.
She looked at the television in her living room. An infomercial for an omelet maker. She must’ve fallen asleep on the sofa, dreading a cold, empty bed.
Cole had been so impassioned last night. Almost convinced her. She wanted to believe him. Believe in his love. Trust he wanted to stay, for her, with her. Could they really have a second chance?
It terrified her to hope. One thing about him hadn’t chan
ged—he was still an all or nothing sort of man. He would press and knead until she gave him everything. If she opened up, fully gave herself to him, and lost him again, would she be able to recover?
No sense dwelling on it. She glanced at her smartwatch. 4:45. Time for a quick run, nothing lengthy, and then she’d hit the Gray Box. If their assumptions were right, this was probably their last day to find and stop Novak.
The Ghost wasn’t going to make it easy. If anything, he’d up his game. Big time.
She turned off the TV and got dressed. Lacing up her sneakers, she couldn’t get Cole out of her mind. The sex had been better than she remembered. Red hot.
Wasn’t it supposed to be the other way around?
Time erased any negatives, sharpening the memory of the good to a ridiculous standard. So when you slept with your presumed-dead ex, you were disappointed.
Except their connection had been seamless, like they’d been one again. Raw, primal, off-the-charts good. Probably the lust-induced hormones muddling her mind.
At least they’d cleared the air. She knew about his dark exploits in Alaska, and he knew about their baby. If they didn’t have any secrets, learned to forgive, maybe a future was possible.
* * *
Vienna, Virginia
5:15 a.m. EDT
Aleksander received Val’s text.
Agent K on a run with a dog.
According to the information in the dossier, she jogged every day. Clockwork, predictable. Not even 6:00 a.m., and she was out on a run.
Aleksander jumped atop the railing of the lower-level patio. The duffel bag on his back rustled like tissue paper crumpling. He hopped, grasping the second-story wrought iron balusters, and hoisted himself up.
His arm muscles didn’t shake, not a quiver. A twinge tickled the bicep Kinkade had stabbed. He’d taken pharmaceutical-grade painkillers to mute the biting ache, along with amphetamines. The theft had garnered him enough medicine to propel him through tomorrow when this would be finished.
He landed on her balcony with a harsh crunching underfoot. A layer of pea gravel covered the floor. The loud sound would’ve alerted her to his presence. If she’d been home.
Clever, Kinkade.
The lock on the sliding door was a keyless double bolt system. Speed bump.
He was prepared for such hiccups. Using the glass cutter, he set to work. In two minutes, he squeezed his hand through the small hole and unlocked the door. He yanked open the slider and dipped inside. Silencing the light clatter of the vertical blinds, he locked the door. He spread a thin layer of odorless Loctite glue around the edges of the hole and replaced the cut glass. With the blinds concealing evidence of the breach, she wouldn’t notice unless she came close enough for inspection.
There had been no mention of her owning a dog in the single sheet of information. If the canine was hers, Aleksander was ready. He set three poisoned doggie treats behind the club chair. In the event a pooch didn’t go for the planted bait, he had more in his pocket wrapped in cotton pads. Delicious smelling, quick-acting, and potent.
Light as air, he crept into the bedroom. Her bed was perfectly made as if she hadn’t slept in it, drawers to her bureau half open. Yesterday’s clothing scattered on the floor.
He tucked the duffel bag away under the bed, dropped down into push-up formation, and squeezed out a steady fifty.
Moving up into cobra pose, he stretched in the yoga position, keeping his shoulders low and away from his ears. Downward facing dog. He pushed through his hands, elongating his spine and legs. Vertebrae popped. He held the pose, breathing, focusing.
Then he relaxed on the floor and slid underneath the bed.
He played out the scenario. Not once, not twice, but over and over. He had to see it sharply, precisely, and it’d be reality. Clean. Fluid.
The burner phone in his pocket hummed. Without looking, he knew it was Val texting. Kinkade was on her way up.
A faint conversation in the hall. Female voices. One older. The apartment door clicked open and slammed shut. Footsteps. Light. Only hers. The kitchen faucet ran.
Silence. Glass tapped granite.
Footsteps approached the bedroom. Sneakers and bare calves crossed the threshold in front of the bed. She hesitated and turned, standing still.
He controlled every movement, every breath, didn’t blink.
She drifted into the living room and didn’t move. Seconds later, she checked the closet.
Good senses.
Lowering his eyes to the carpet, he slowed his heartbeat, reeled in his energy to a level as stagnant as moss. Deflecting her intuition with his stillness.
She spun on her heel and went into the bathroom, leaving the door ajar. A toilet flushed and water from the shower started.
Taking a breath, he slid out from under the bed and darted into the corner across from the nightstand. He eased the device from his pocket and switched it on.
The bathroom door opened wide. “Cole?” She stepped into the bedroom in her bra and skimpy panties, looking toward the living room. “You can’t keep breaking in like this.”
Aleksander swooped in as she pivoted. Her head didn’t make it over her shoulder for a glance behind her. A blue arc of electricity crackled across the metal prongs, buzzing like a trapped wasp.
He jammed the stun gun into her ribs.
One hundred thousand volts of electricity flooded her body.
A scream strangled in her throat, her face contorted in agony. The way she shook, rapid and violent, unsettled him. Suffering was unnecessary. She was only an annoyance he needed to contain. A pest.
He shut off the stun gun and caught her shuddering body.
Soft. Shocking how soft a woman could be. The memory of softness had long evaporated.
Gently, he laid her on the bed. Scantily clothed wouldn’t do. He wasn’t a sadist. Peering into the open bureau drawers, he found stretchy pants and a T-shirt. He took the syringe from his other pocket and flicked off the green cap at the foot of the bed. That breadcrumb would be the first thing Scarface would see when entering the room later. The stun gun would be the second.
Aleksander found a delicate blue vein in her arm and depressed a mix of ketamine and midazolam, two powerful sedatives that when combined reduced the risk of unfortunate respiratory effects. An elementary score from a local veterinary clinic.
Noting the time, he dressed her down to socks. A small kindness where she was going. Although they were adversaries, he bore her no ill will.
In fact, this was goodwill. He snickered at his joke.
This was merely a means to securing his vengeance. She was Scarface’s weakness. The weakness of the men around her, if they cared for her. He’d scratch their weakness, make it bleed. While her men scoured the city in desperate search of her, chasing his planted clues, spinning their wheels away from Aleksander, he’d be free to do what was needed.
The time of retribution was at hand.
He lifted her warm, limp body into his arms. Her head lolled toward his stomach, and he wanted to brush her hair from her face. He tucked her in a folded embryo position inside the extra-large duffel bag—the perfect size for her slim frame—and zipped it closed.
Kneeling, he slipped his arms through the straps, rolled to his hands and knees, and stood. He adjusted the weight of her on his back, gaining his balance. As he shut the apartment door, the one directly across the hall opened.
An elderly black lady with a rust-colored mutt stood in the threshold. The dog yipped at him, and the woman glared. “Who are you?”
“Picking up a donation of old clothes for Goodwill.”
“Oh, I’m surprised that sweet girl didn’t tell me. I could’ve given her some stuff.” The dog barked and jerked at the leash.
He kicked a warning at the animal.
The old woman tugged the fleabag
inside the apartment. “Come on, Herman, let the man go. We’ll run our errands later.”
Aleksander headed for the stairs.
“Isn’t it a little early in the morning for a pickup?” The elderly woman’s voice faded behind him.
He trudged down the quiet steps into the sticky air.
Val had moved the van, parking on the same side as her building but not directly in front. After opening the rear doors, Aleksander eased the bag off, setting it inside.
The grumbling thunder of a motorcycle rent the air. He didn’t need to see the bike to know it was Scarface.
Didn’t these people sleep?
No. How could they if they hoped to catch someone like him?
Sure enough, Scarface rolled the rumbling motorcycle ten yards behind the van as Aleksander shut the door. The metallic clink of the kickstand struck the ground.
Aleksander reached into the top of his coveralls, grasping the handle of his silenced SIG P320 subcompact.
Limping to the driver’s door as if hobbled, he vectored his senses in on Scarface. Not simply his gaze from the corner of his eye or his hearing. He tuned in that sixth sense anyone in his business—or theirs, for that matter—needed to stay alive.
He’d prefer to use Scarface as the firebrand. Nothing like a distraught lover telling an impassioned story to churn the others up, reel in the focus and emotions of Maddox Kinkade’s fellow agents. But there was a fine line between success and failure. They needed to be incensed and distracted, but if Scarface so much as hesitated going inside, dared look in Aleksander’s direction with brows drawn, Aleksander would have to kill him.
Scarface’s heavy footfall hit the steps, bounding to the front door of the apartment building none the wiser. Aleksander hopped inside the van. Val started the engine and pulled off.
Satisfaction spread in a slow, sweet smile.
Chapter 26
Vienna, Virginia
6:07 a.m. EDT
Cole strode down the hall to Maddox’s apartment. Three days ago, he’d been the most miserable son of a gun on the planet. Had a gaping hole where his heart should’ve been.