by S. Ann Cole
Reuben yanks open the passenger door and jumps in, grousing, “You said ten.”
I hit the gas. “I said nine.”
He curses under his breath. “You understand I’m on vacation, right?”
“You rest when I rest.”
“Jules thinks I should ask for a demotion.”
“What, she won’t miss the comfortable life you can afford her?”
“We’ve got more than enough saved.”
“Wait ‘til the baby’s born before you ask for that demotion,” I say dryly. “Something tells me Jules isn’t the type to stop at one, and those little shits aren’t cheap.”
“You’re an assfuck.”
“I know.”
Reuben Wright is the closest living thing to me aside from my brothers, and I don’t trust them half as much as I do him. Bastard son of a New York senator, we fought side-by-side in Afghanistan together. Survived together. And have had each other’s backs ever since.
He knows more than my brothers know, and is probably even more capable than I am, which is why he’s the one I take with me on every mission. He’s patient where I’m not. A soother where I’m an abrasive dick. But underneath, he’s wickedly calculated, cold, and deadly in the way one’ll never see it coming.
He could bitch until the cows come home, he’s never getting demoted from being my right hand. Fucker’s stuck with me.
“Are we driving out or taking the copter?” he asks.
“You wanna spend two hours in a car with me?” I rib. “Aw, didn’t know you craved my attention that much.”
“Copter it is.”
“Trent’s flying.”
He chuckles. “Training him to be you, huh?”
“Someone’s gotta take over when I’m inevitably taken out.”
Reuben snorts. “If you think that person’s Trent then you really haven’t been paying attention like you used to.”
“You don’t think it’s him?”
“Let’s put it this way, in a year or two, he’s gonna be asking for a demotion,” he says. “Trent’s not in it for the long haul, trust me.”
“Who then, you?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
“Fuck no,” he returns without a breath’s hesitation. “When you’re out, I’m out. There ain’t another soul I’d trust with my life.”
As we hit a stoplight, I drum my fingers on the steering wheel in thought. In the last three or so years, I haven’t spent much time with my brothers. After the Russia job, Reuben and I were back for less than a week before we embarked on another six-month-long international job.
We came off that one with the intention of taking a six-week vacation, to rest and catch up with family. But less than two days in, Henderson came knocking.
So, yeah, I haven’t had much time to catch up, spend one-on-one time with each brother to evaluate where their heads are at.
Before I left for Russia, Trent Garza was inked in my will to take over if something happened. It’s always been a no-brainer. Focused, calculated, cold and mean enough that he never makes decisions based off emotions or attachment. He’s dependable, a born leader, and takes every part of the job seriously, no matter how menial.
But, I suppose his trajectory has changed now that he has Lexi. Not that I blame him. He deserves a good, long life with the woman he spent his entire life waiting for.
The light changes to green. “Can I ask you something, Ben?”
“Shoot.”
“How did you...” I stop, think about my question, and rearrange it. “With Jules, in the beginning, did you feel...I dunno—you ever felt...”
“Guilty for wanting her?” he fills in for me. “Like I should’ve been helping her heal instead of thinking ‘bout fucking her six ways from Sunday? Like it was wrong and I was morally reprehensible?”
Agitation itches under my skin. “Fuck. Yeah. Exactly like that.”
“You’re also gonna feel like you’re taking advantage of her the first time you lose all self-control and kiss her.”
Nail on the fucking head. “When did those feelings stop?”
“When I stopped seeing her as a victim,” he answers. “When I stopped thinking about what she went through and started seeing her for who she is now. When I pushed past the sadness in her eyes and saw that what she wanted from me wasn’t to be treated with kid gloves, but to be loved flaws and all. And then...”
“And then?”
“And then I started to fall.” He rolls his head to me and grins like he knows something I don’t. “But you’ve already fallen, haven’t you?”
~
TRENT LANDS THE copter in Chula Vista, and Reuben, True, and I jump out and into the waiting vehicles.
Over the years, I’ve curated a small, on-call team in Mexicali for non-sensitive cross-the-border jobs. They’re discreet and effective and I can always count on them to get shit done. For the past couple of days, I’ve had them do surveillance of the location we’re headed to now.
The target’s name is Parry. Some call him “Soul,” since taking them is what he does for a living.
Except he doesn’t—at least not anymore.
His reputation was built back in the day, the sharpest assassin in the industry. But he’s an old cat now, so he outsources high-paying jobs for cheap, to inexperienced goons like the Skullaz kid who ran over Lyra. After some deep digging and bribing, we found out he operates out of an old motel here in Chula Vista.
True’s phone rings as we drive off the lot. After answering and talking for a few minutes, he hangs up and tells me, “One of the men turned themselves in.”
“That was quick,” I mumble, adjusting my bulletproof vest.
“What a bunch of idiots,” True says through a laugh. “How do they not know of the ‘Castello Pact’?”
The men who kidnapped Lyra are from Skullaz Motorcycle Club. Under duress, they confessed that they kidnapped her because they thought she was connected to the Castellos, and they planned to use her as leverage to get their guy—the one who ran Lyra over—back from Stefano. Provided he was still alive.
“Probably fresh in the game,” I say.
Those fools couldn’t have concocted a more futile and harebrained plot. The Castellos have a pact: no rescues or ransoms. Anyone—whether family, friend, or lover—who got nabbed by enemies of the Castellos should consider themselves dead.
Kidnapping for leverage or ransom is a tried-and-true tactic that works well in crime rings, so the Castellos unanimously made the decision to neutralize it. A pact their enemies realized wasn’t a bluff when they kidnapped a Castello and found their threats and demands ignored. When the relative was inevitably murdered, the Castellos had a funeral and then it was business as usual the following day.
“Or tryin’ to climb up the ranks,” True says, “impress the leader.”
We’d sent out a rumor that the men were plotting an assassination on Lorenzo Castello, then we let them go. At the end of the day, Red Cage isn’t the law. We break the law more than we obey it. Sometimes that means making deals with the small fish to get to the big fish. Or we manipulate reality to get the result we want. Other times we are straight-up coldblooded.
The men will either turn themselves in or flee the state to escape the Castellos. Jail won’t protect them, though. In the end, one or all of those three men will be dead, and I’ll not have lost a moment sleep over it. Not when they were dumb enough to put a gun to my sister’s head and put their hands on Lyra.
“Forgot to tell you,” True goes on, “one of them had an interesting question for your girl.”
Your girl.
She is, isn’t she?
My girl.
Mine.
I feel it with everything in me. Like animal instinct. Possessiveness roaring inside me like a lion. “Who the fuck are you?” I think every time I look at her. “What gives you the right to mark me the way you do?”
“What’s that?”
“He begged us to ask her if she really b
elieved he had a shot at acting.”
“The fuck?”
True laughs heartily. “Apparently she told him he had an ‘awesome villain voice’ and that he should consider acting.”
A smile presses forward but I beat it back. Of course she told her goddamn kidnapper that he should consider acting. Wouldn’t be Lyra Henderson if she didn’t. That woman is her own brand of human. Never met anyone like her. And I’m so fucking drawn to her it’s becoming increasingly impossible to pull myself out of her spell.
Or, maybe…maybe I just don’t want to resist her anymore.
~
WE ARRIVE ON location eight minutes later.
The faded, busted sign across the street reads, “CariRest Motel.”
I hop out of the vehicle and shake hands with Howie, the head of our Mexicali team.
“Anything new?” I ask.
“Nothing since his old girl stayed the night two days ago,” he replies. “I’m starting to wonder if he’s dead in there.”
Or gone. “Get your men in position,” I tell him. “We’re going in.”
In the next couple of minutes, we have every door of the motel kicked in and every room upturned. The fucker’s clearly slipped us, but I’m after information, not the man, so I instruct my men to search every crevice. If he knew I’d be coming after him, then he’ll have left something for me to find.
“Found something, boss.”
Abandoning the stack of papers I’m rifling through, I straighten up from behind the reception desk and find Howie, True, and Reuben standing on the other side.
True drops a manila envelope on the counter and slides it across to me.
Scrawled on the front of it in red, are the words “For the Garzas.”
I upend it and pick up the first sheet of paper.
More scrawling.
If you’re holding this, then damn, you’re really as good as they say you are. But I’m called Soul for a reason. Not because I take them, but because I’m damn good at slipping away like one.
That said, I’m getting too old for this shit, so it’s time for me to retire. But I know you won’t stop hunting me until you get the information you’re really after. So here it is. All of it. Including the cash paid for the second job that amateur botched. I never keep payments for jobs undone, so feel free to refund it for me.
Now let me retire in peace.
See you in hell, motherfuckers.
Soul
As we peruse the rest of the contents from the envelope, the only thing I feel is disappointment. In situations like these, being right is like a gut punch.
I’d hoped for a surprise instead of an I knew it.
“Looks like your hunch was on the head all along,” Reuben comments as he scans the black and white images on the counter.
I rub my jaw and blow out a breath. “Was really hoping I wasn’t.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
“Trouble it is.”
Lyra
I’M EATING CASHEWS ON THE KITCHEN floor when I hear the front door open and shut. I don’t have to look to know it’s him. My body thrums like a plucked string whenever he’s near.
I listen to his footfalls.
Keys hit a surface somewhere.
Something rustles.
A crinkle of plastic.
The closer the thuds of his boots get, the wilder my heart beats.
More rustling and crinkling as he deposits something on the kitchen island. When he rounds it and sees me on the floor, he halts.
Resting my head back against the cupboard, I lilt, “Honey, I’m home.”
He regards me for several beats. “You good?”
“I’m sick…” I say through a groan. “Sick of people always asking me if I’m okay.”
He gets a bottle of coconut water from the fridge. “Well, are you?”
“Yes,” I stress. “I’m thinking.”
He pops the cap off the bottle. “About?”
“A corner I’ve written myself into.”
“And the floor’s helping with that?”
“Yes.”
He takes a drink of coconut water then shrugs. “Okay.”
As I stuff cashews into my mouth, I drag my eyes over him. His denims are soiled, his boots scuffed and dusty. But from the waist up, he’s as usual—a tall glass of flamed whiskey.
It was almost nine when he left this morning, and it’s minutes past nine now. “Where were you all day?”
He arches a brow at me. It’s a wordless, What right do you have to question me?
I jut my chin up. “You’re supposed to be on vacation, meaning here, with me.”
“Missed me?” he asks as he reaches into one of the bags he’d deposited on the counter.
“What’s there to miss?” I toss a cashew into my mouth. “You’re surly, mercurial, and a total snooze.”
“Why do you care if I’m gone all day then?”
“Because...” Because you’re my surly, mercurial, snoozefest.
“Because…?”
I trace the pad of my thumb around the bowl of nuts in my lap. “Because you’re supposed to be protecting me. And you can’t be protecting me if you’re not here.”
I wait for him to give me the spiel about this entire “nook of the neighborhood” being safe, though he knows I know that. He also knows I care zero about being protected.
But he doesn’t. Probably because he knows I’m full of shit.
Instead, he unloads the items from the bags onto the counter. Two label-less half-gallon bottles, and a bunch of foreign produce.
“These are for you,” he tells me. “From Monica.”
“Monica?” I peel myself up from the floor. “I thought she wanted nothing to do with me.”
He picks up one of the produce and washes it at the sink before biting into it. “This is her way of apologizing.”
I scan the items. Written with black marker on one of the half-gallon bottles is “Soursop.” And on the other, “June Plum & Passionfruit.”
“Fruit juices. She makes them herself,” Torin says, then gestures to the produce on the counter. “And these are all tropical fruits that you’d be hard-pressed to find here. She imports them monthly, though some are seasonal. If Monica’s sending you her precious tropical delicacies, then trust me, she’s really sorry.”
Sure, Monica had been a little harsh with me, but she doesn’t have anything to be sorry about. I deserved it. “The only things I recognize here are the papayas and the mangoes.”
After taking another bite of whatever the hell he’s eating, he touches each fruit one by one and tells me their names. “Sweet Sop...Star Apple...Sapodilla or Neese Berry...Custard Apple...Guava...June Plum…and this”—he waves his half-eaten fruit—“Otaheite Apple, or Rose Apple. My favorite.”
“In that case...” I take one of the Otaheite apples and wash it at the sink, then bite into it. It’s juicy, fleshy, my teeth sliding right through it, freshness bursting on my tongue. Hmm. “Oh wow, this is really good,” I say after swallowing.
When I shift my gaze to Torin, his eyes are on my mouth.
On purpose, I glide my tongue along my bottom lip, collecting the sweet juices left behind from the fruit. Then I take another bite, chewing slower this time.
Torin sets down his half-eaten fruit and shrugs out of his jacket. Hmm. Look who’s hot all of a sudden?
Feeling as if I’ve won somehow, I dip my head and smile to myself. “I have something for you, too.”
He picks up his fruit and resumes eating, leaning back against the counter. “Trouble?”
“Be right back,” I tell him with an eye-roll.
With my delicious rose apple, I jog up to my room to fetch the sanded wood I stole from his basement this afternoon. I’d had a bitch of a time cutting it down to card size, but in the end I got a semi-decent rectangle.
By the time I make it back downstairs, Torin has stored away the goods and is leaned over on the island munching from my bowl of cashews wit
h one hand while texting on his phone with the other.
As I move to the opposite side of the island, his eyes drift up from his phone to me. I place the card on the counter and slide it across to him.
Frowning, he sets his phone aside, then picks up the thin cut of wood and examines it.
From a label maker I found among his tools, I’d printed the word “YES” and pasted it on one side of the card, then “ALL ACCESS” on the other side.
“So, you did some crafting with my tools today...” He arches a quizzical brow at me. “What, am I supposed to grade it?”
I narrow my eyes at him. “You’re a jerk.”
“You’ve said.”
“It’s a permission card.”
“Permission?”
“To me,” I clarify. “As long as you have it, you don’t need to ask to...hold me...kiss me... If I take it back, permission is revoked.”
He stares at me. One beat, two beats, three beats... Then he blinks and looks down at the card again. Flips it over. “What’s the ‘all access’?”
“Complete access...” I swallow. “To every part of me...if you want...”
For the longest time, he just stares down at the card as if it offends him.
The silence between us is resounding.
Nerves bite into my skin and I gnaw at my lip, wondering if I’ve just made a huge mistake. If I’ve just ruined what little interest he has in me. It had seemed like a good idea earlier today, but now…I’m not so sure.
My heart sinks when he drops it to the counter as if it burned him. With two fingers, he begins sliding it across the counter back to me. But halfway across, he halts.
I stop breathing, butterflies flapping with broken wings in my chest.
He runs his tongue across his teeth, flicks his gaze up to me. And his eyes...God, how they burn.
All that can be heard over the tension-heavy silence between us is the low hum of the refrigerator and the dull tick of a clock.
You want me. You want me. You want me.
After what feels like forever, he drags the card back to his side, picks it up, and tucks it into his back pocket. “Trouble it is.”
Without another word, he leaves the kitchen.