Turning Point Club Box Set

by JA Huss

  The senator stays silent.

  “And there was a standoff between two federal agents. Both named Murphy.”

  No, no, no. This asshole does not get to tell my fucking story.

  “And they drew on each other.” He leans down to grab my hair the same way he was grabbing Issy. “Isn’t that right, Finn? But you, being younger, got there first and pulled that trigger.”

  I close my eyes, wanting to make this all go away.

  “At least you thought you did. Maybe.” He stops to lean over to look me in the eyes. “Did you really think you killed him?”

  “What?” I croak.

  “That wasn’t a trick question, son. Did you really think he died?”

  “Of course he fuckin’ died!” I say. “I went to his goddamned funeral!”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “I’m—” But I stop. Think about that day. I caught him taking bribes. I confronted him. He pleaded with me to see it his way. Tried to give me some of the money. And I said no, and I said a lot of other shit too, and then we drew. Him first, but really, me first. And we fired.

  I shot him in the chest, but he didn’t have armor on. He shot me in the chest too, but I did have armor on.

  Then there were sirens and flashing lights, and I was in the ambulance, and he was in another ambulance, and a few hours later, his boss, Deputy Assistant Director Kenner, came into my hospital room—I had two broken ribs because his bullet didn’t hit me center mass—and he broke the news.

  “Your father didn’t die, Finn. They all lied to you. They’ve been lying to you your whole life and you ate it up. And so when they pulled you aside after he died”—Caleb does air quotes for that—“they offered you a deal, right? ‘Go spy on someone for us. Go get those bad guys. Go bring them in, Finnegan. And we will forgive you for killing one of our own. For killing your father? No. Just one of our own.’”

  “What?” Issy whispers. “This is all about you?” she asks.

  “And then I found this,” Caleb continues. Out of the corner of my eye, I see that he’s holding up my burner phone.

  He throws it at me, hitting me in the head. It bounces off me, then it bounces off Issy’s cheek, leaving a red mark. Just like it left a red mark on mine when she threw it at my cheek in the car.

  It spins, like a top, between us.

  Caleb and the senator argue back and forth about who is about to go down, walking into the kitchen to look for a drink.

  I realize this is the fucking safe house Declan sent me to with Issy. And just as that thought manifests in my head, he’s there. Standing in the doorway, looking down at me with pure malice.

  He looks at me, then Issy, and I close my eyes and pray, Don’t, please don’t… please don’t…

  Then he says, “Go get rid of that fuckin’ car,” to the group of thugs waiting around for Caleb to give them orders. “Take it somewhere remote and drive it over a cliff.”

  The goons leave. Even the giant who started this little party fighting a girl. Someone helps him up and he stumbles through the door, probably hoping he can get dropped off at a hospital.

  Declan joins Caleb and the senator in the kitchen while I take my attention back to Issy.

  Get the phone! I mouth.

  Her eyes dart to it, then to me. How?

  Scoot, I mouth. Grab. Pass.

  She nods, understanding, as she scoots her body down, turns on her side, grabs the phone between the palms of her bound hands, and then maneuvers herself almost on top of my back to hand it off to me.

  My fingertips find all the buttons. Because this is an old phone. It’s not a smartphone. Hell, that little bit of clear plastic hardly even counts as a screen. So I find the right button. The one I programmed for my contact when I took this deal and left DC to go undercover in Denver to pay the Bureau back because I killed my father.

  As I press it, I wonder if he’s gonna be the guy to pick it up on the other end.

  “Hello?”

  The voice is so loud in this small house.

  “Hello?” it says again.

  And then the phone is kicked out of my hands. I am kicked, repeatedly. In the ribs, in the face, in the chest…

  Issy is screaming as Declan pulls her up from the floor, and drags her down a hallway into a bedroom.

  The senator follows Declan, unbuckling his belt as he walks.

  And then Caleb grabs my hair once more, forces my head back, and says, “She’s gonna pay for that. We’re gonna make sure her little sex fantasy comes true.”

  My heart races, thumping inside my chest as he stands back up, walks down the hallway, and stops. Turning to look at me.

  “Don’t worry,” Caleb says. “I’ll leave the door open for ya.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR - ISSY

  Like I said. I have two God-given talents. Martial arts and an ability to make people believe what I tell them. I’m holding on to those two things right now. Because three men are now crowding me. Declan, Finn’s partner, the fucking FBI. Senator Walcott, Chella’s father, the fucking voice of Washington. And Caleb, my one-time stepfather, the man in my nightmares.

  Their hands on my body. Their mouths talking, saying things that don’t even register in my brain because they are dark, sick, evil, and none of what they say matters. That’s one thing I learned about being a public speaker. My words are only words. It’s the people listening who give them power.

  I refuse to give these men my power. I refuse to hear their disgusting threats. I refuse to let them crawl inside me and turn me back into the small, scared girl I used to be.

  I just stare at them. Face blank. Body motionless. Eyes focused.

  Because they have a little problem.

  My ankles are bound.

  I want to smile, but I force it down and I wait.

  They don’t need my legs open, Declan is saying. They could rape me any number of ways, Caleb adds. But where’s the fun in that? Walcott replies.

  Where is the fun in that?

  These are some sick, sick people.

  There are hands on me. Sliding up my shirt like those hands belong there.

  Caleb says something like, “You’re about to get your fantasy.”

  And I’m thinking, No, you asshole. My fantasy never involved anything nonconsensual. I won’t apologize for a fantasy. I refuse to buy into the notion that my private fantasy gives them permission to do this to me right now.

  I don’t say that. I say this instead. “There is no traffic jam on the extra mile.”

  The senator stops fondling me and says, “What?”

  “If you aim at nothing you’ll hit it every time.”

  Caleb is holding my legs down as Declan cuts the zip ties around my ankles. He doesn’t hear my remarks, he’s too busy picturing what he’ll be doing next. So by the time it registers in his stupid, pea-sized brain, the tension is gone from my ankles, the senator is looking confused, and Declan is standing up at the foot of the bed, folding knife in hand, right next to Caleb.

  Your legs are powerful. When someone is on top of you and you don’t want them there, your legs are your best weapon.

  The moment that tension releases I kick, thrusting the heel of my foot up, right under Declan’s chin. The force is hard enough to break his jaw and the sickening crack that happens simultaneously coincides with Caleb moving forward to grab my bound arms like he’s about to take control.

  Big mistake, asshole.

  Because I’ve been waiting for this moment my entire adult life.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE - FINN

  The second Caleb disappears into the bedroom, I’m on my knees. FBI tip number one—zip-tied hands are useless if you don’t tie their feet too.

  And I’m lucky, I guess. Because Declan knows this. If he was the one in charge of me, my ankles would be bound. But he wasn’t. And once I’m on my knees I can get to my feet. And once I’m on my feet it’s over, assholes.

  Because there are many ways to break out of zip ties. Both
with hands in front and hands in back. Some of them easy enough for children, given enough time alone.

  But this method is quick.

  Thumbs facing each other, bend over, throw your shoulders wide and—snap!

  It doesn’t work the first time, every time. But it does this time. And this time is the only one that matters.

  My wrists are burning, the pain in my shoulders searing. But my hands are free.

  And that’s when I hear Issy say, “If you aim at nothing you’ll hit it every time.”

  Which makes me smile.

  I’m down the hall, standing in the doorway, watching as the tiny woman—this little control freak, this crazy cute demon, this woman who feels like my soulmate in a small package—breaks Declan’s jaw with a heel to his chin.

  Her aim is true and she hits it hard.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX - ISSY

  My other knee is already pressed into Caleb’s stomach, giving me enough time to reposition leg number one as I squirm, bring it in underneath his chest, and kick him back so hard, he knocks Declan backwards into the wall.

  I wish my students were here. Because right now I feel like a Goddamned role model.

  A shadow off to my left makes me look. Finn is standing in the doorway, blood dripping off his wrists where he just broke free of his zip ties.

  And that one stupid second is enough time for the senator to pull out a gun from inside his jacket and point it at me.

  “Don’t move,” he snarls, backing up so he can target me, but still keep Finn in view. “I’ll fucking shoot her if you move.”

  And you know what I say back? Still lying there on that bed? My shirt all rumpled from where his disgusting sweaty hands were feeling me up just two seconds ago?

  I say, “Go fuck yourself.”

  Without the asterisk.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN - FINN

  She twists, feet flying as she flips herself into a backwards somersault, ending up crouched down on the mattress, balancing on the balls of her feet, bound hands in front of her as she leaps through the air like she’s about to choke this motherfucker to death.

  And in my head I’m thinking, No. And then I’m screaming it. “No! No! No!”

  Because the gun goes off. The bullet hits her, blood splattering in all directions. And then I’ve got that gun in my hand, the old man not quick enough to take a second shot.

  But Caleb is back, sucking in air like it’s a precious commodity. On his feet, crossing the short distance between us, reaching for me as I pivot and shoot. Hitting him dead center of the chest.

  He slams against the wall—eyes open, hands still outstretched—and blood gurgles up and out of his mouth as he crumples to the floor.

  I swing the gun back to the senator, hear the door open out in the main room of the safe house, voices shouting—“FBI! FBI!”—while I force myself not to look at Issy lying in a silent heap near his feet.

  It’s typical shit after that.

  “Drop your weapon! Hands in the air! Drop your weapon!”

  But I don’t drop it. I point it right at the senator.

  I have never wanted to kill someone so much in my entire fucking life.

  So I shake my head and say, “There’s no traffic jam on the extra mile.” Because it’s the only thing that makes any sense at the moment.

  My finger presses against the trigger, squeezing.

  “Finn!” a voice calls from behind me. “Don’t do it, son.” The voice is low now. Somber. Almost soft. “He’s not worth it.”

  And then a hand reaches for my gun as I turn to find my father staring back at me.

  “She’s still alive.” He nods his head to Issy, where two people are already bent over her body, asking her questions and shining lights into her eyes. “Don’t let one bad decision take away your entire life, Finn. I already made that mistake enough for both of us.”

  I watch, feeling helpless, as my father takes the gun from me and hands it over to someone else.

  I feel insignificant and small as a medical kit is opened and they lean in closer, blocking Issy from my view, and I wait. I wait for her to say something. Shoot off some smartass remark. Some Zig Ziglar quote like, Success isn’t a destination, it’s a journey.

  But she doesn’t.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT - ISSY

  Some people have out-of-body experiences when they’re hanging on to life by a thread.

  I’m not one of those hippy fuckers. I didn’t see a bright light. There was no tunnel to walk through. And there sure as fuck was no sense of peace and wellbeing.

  I am in pain.

  That’s all I think about. The impact of the bullet. The hot blood that splattered across my face as I was thrown backward. Someone slapped me and asked me if I knew my name.

  I tried to tell them to go fuck themselves too, but I don’t remember actually getting those words out, so… no fun.

  Waking up with ceiling lights passing by above in a rush was not what I’d call a welcome interlude, either. Doctors, nurses, all kinds of faces hovering over me.

  But one was missing.

  Finn.

  I’m pretty sure I got that word out, because one nurse, the one holding an IV bag as she jogged alongside the gurney, looked me in the eyes and started to say something, but right now I can’t remember any of it.

  It could be noon or it could be midnight. I’m not sure. I just know that when I open my eyes, Suzanne is slumped down in a chair at the side of my bed.

  There’s a lot of beeping machines and lots of plastic tubes. I can’t move my right arm because it’s secured to my body somehow, and I’m dying of thirst.

  “Suzanne,” I croak out past cracked lips. But it’s barely a whisper and she doesn’t wake up. I try again, but breathing hurts right now, and I don’t seem to have any extra air to make sounds.

  The next time I wake up, she’s staring down at me, eyes wide, mouth open as she says my name.

  My eyelids flutter. They don’t want to stay open, but dropping back into the darkness seems like a bad idea, so I raise my eyebrows as I blink rapidly, hoping that my eyelids will follow the same trajectory, and succeed for about two seconds.

  “She’s awake!” Suzanne yells.

  Which is not quite true, but I think she can tell I’m going the extra mile on that empty highway and optimism is in order.

  Then there’s nurses—lots of nurses. Lots of questions. A doctor who talks mostly to the nurses, and then everything calms down and they all just look at me.

  “Water,” I say. Which is probably bad manners because these people did just save my life. But I’m thirsty.

  They don’t let me drink. There’s just a whole lot of medical talk and then I’m pronounced “stable”.

  Suzanne sighs out a long breath of relief. She holds my hand, the one that’s not all bound up in some kind of sling or bandage and won’t move, no matter how hard I try.

  I’m not in pain and I don’t think this is normal, but when I ask, Suzanne points to a bag of liquid attached to a pump, that’s feeding me morphine in little drips.

  And then exhaustion from looking around the room and trying to make sense of what is actually happening takes over and I fade away, wondering what the hell happened to Finn Murphy.

  The next time I wake up I’m in a different room. There’s only a few tubes running through my body now, a few beeping noises coming from the machines, and I’m still thirsty.

  I’m also alone. Which you wouldn’t think would be the one thing I’d fixate on after being shot in the—I look down at my body—upper right chest, but it is.

  I think it’s night now. The room is dark, my door is open, and there’s not much noise in the hallway.

  I feel the urge to move, or sit up, or something, and immediately regret my slight position change because the pain… holy fucking shit, the pain is overwhelming. I think I might actually pass out for a little bit because when I open my eyes again, there’s a nurse in the room with me.

  “Go
od morning,” she says brightly. “Are you hungry?”

  “Water,” I croak.

  She holds a cup with one of those bendy straws in it. The straw is yellow and the cup is pink, and I’m thinking this is a nice combination, and that’s when I realize I’m fuckin’ high as a kite.

  But the pain’s gone, so I just sip my water and be happy.

  “You’re not on the TV,” the nurse says. Like I should know what this means. She must read the expression on my face as confusion, because once she sets the water down on the little table beside my bed, she clicks a remote and the flatscreen on the wall lights up. “We’ve all been checking. Mr. Wells asked us to keep an eye on it and so far, so good.”

  I don’t know what that means either. But I don’t really care. “Finn?” I ask, my voice stronger now that I’ve had some water.

  She frowns at me. “I’m sorry.”

  “Oh, my God. Is he dead?”

  “No,” she says quickly. “No. But the news is saying he was arrested. And now no one is talking about him at all. Well, except for the newscasters.”

  “Arrested,” I repeat. “But what about—”

  “Just rest,” the nurse says, cutting me off. “There’s time to figure everything out later. We’re holding all your visitors until you’re ready.”

  “Even Suzanne?”

  “Is she the pushy one who keeps telling me about Go Fuck Yourself classes?”

  Gotta love Suzanne. “That would be her.”

  “She stepped out for lunch, but she should be back soon. Would you like to try to use the bathroom?”

  I would, so I do. She helps me and then turns her back while I pee with the door open because I might fall over and knock myself out on the sink.

  After that I shuffle myself and the IV pole the ten steps back to the bed and decide… I’m not really in the mood to go that extra mile today. But I do need to know what the fuck is happening.