Mr. CEO

by Willow Winters

  “Yeah, she's by the Miami Dade North Campus, close to Opa Locka,” Nathan says. “I'm uploading you a GPS location of where I am now.”

  My phone buzzes and a map pulls up. I didn't even know the thing did that. I look, and realize I can get there in about twenty minutes. “Okay, I see it. I'm at the U, I'll jump on 95 up to there. Keep her in sight, Nathan.”

  “Will do,” Nathan says. “She's been talking to some people, but I'm out of her direct sight. Don't worry Jackson, I know what I'm doing.”

  “No doubt. I'll be there ASAP.” I start my engine and rush to the interstate, jumping on and driving north as quickly as I can. The traffic isn't bad, it's midday and the rush hour isn't for quite a while, so I make good time, getting off at Opa Locka in only fifteen minutes. I find Nathan's signal, and see his Tahoe parked in the parking lot of a flight school and what the sign says is a pilot supply store.

  “Nathan,” I say when he rolls the window down. “Where is she?”

  “Parking lot over there,” Nathan says, pointing across the street. I look, and see nothing. When I turn to look at him, he smirks. “Seriously. She went inside the tan building over there just five minutes ago. I think it's a small airline, maybe a puddle jumper type place.”

  “What for?” I ask, and Nathan shrugs.

  “Most likely she's close to being tapped out financially, and those sorts of guys can sometimes work deals.”

  The door to the building opens, and I see Katrina step out, her backpack over her shoulder. She's changed shirts, wearing something almost normal, but there's no mistaking that angel's face or the short hair. “There. Come on Nathan, I can't let her go.”

  Nathan nods and I get into his Tahoe, seeing Maverick in the back taking a nap. “Rough day for him?”

  “He'll get a walk later,” Nathan says nonchalantly, starting the engine. “You ready to do some groveling?”

  “Damn right,” I say with a laugh, feeling lighter than ever. I'm eager to talk to her, to tell her it doesn't matter about the money, that I need her in my life.

  We're just about to cross the street when my phone buzzes again, and I pull it out, wondering who's texting me now. My heart jumps into my throat when I see that the text is from Peter.

  Never, ever lie to me again. You're next.

  “What the fuck?” I ask, but before I can show the text to Nathan, a red sports sedan pulls into the parking lot, the side windows rolling down. “No... NO!”

  The shooter fires four times, the shots loud in the muggy Miami air, one of them catching Katrina in the forehead, where a giant fountain of blood goes flying. She crumples to the ground, and I'm trying to jerk the handle on my door, but Nathan's already slammed his foot to the gas, throwing me into my seat. “What are you doing? She's hurt!”

  “She's dead!” Nathan yells, following the red sports car. “But we can get this bastard!”

  His words sink in, and I look out the front window, nodding. “Get him.”

  Nathan's Tahoe is big, and he's kept it in good shape, but the sports sedan is thousands of pounds lighter, lower to the ground, and more agile as it weaves through the traffic in front of us. We chase for over a mile, and in the distance, I can hear police sirens approaching. The car whips around a corner, and Nathan tries to follow, but his Tahoe is too big, and we spin out, nearly tipping over.

  “No... no, NO!” Nathan yells, getting out of the driver's side and reaching to his hip, but his gun isn't there, and he realizes it. I'm out too, but the red car is gone, out of sight turning another corner, and I sink to my knees, going into shock. Nathan comes up and grabs me, dragging me to my feet. “Come on, Jackson. There's nothing we can do here. Let's go.”

  “Go?” I ask, stupefied. “Go where?”

  “Out of here for one,” he says, pulling me toward the Tahoe where Maverick is up and barking loudly. “You can't get whoever did this if the cops find us. Let's go.”

  Chapter 25

  Jackson

  It takes Nathan eighteen hours to get us back to New Orleans, mainly because we couldn't just get on the road and go. First, he drove me quickly back to the hotel, where I spent ten minutes grabbing my shit before we peeled out. In the panhandle, at around one in the morning, he pulled into a rest stop to crash for a few hours, power-napping.

  I'd like to say I was helpful during the drive, or at least coherent. Instead, I was sitting in a state of shock, sleeping some of the time, staring blankly out the window the rest. I ate when Nathan passed me a cheeseburger, and I drank from a straw, but that was it.

  About an hour outside New Orleans, Nathan pulls into another rest stop, and shuts off the engine. “Jackson, we need to talk.”

  “About what?” I ask listlessly. I just saw the woman that I wanted to make a future with catch a bullet to the brain, and now you want to talk? What the fuck is your problem?

  “About what we're going to do when we get back to New Orleans. I was thinking... I'd like to drop you off at Katrina's place for a few days. I know it's going to have painful memories, but you don’t need to be at the plantation right now.”

  “Why not?” I ask, turning my dead eyes to Nathan. “I just need five minutes. Go in, you lend me your 1911, and I put five rounds in Peter. Last one in the brain, just like he had the shooter do to Katrina. Balances out.”

  Nathan shakes his head slowly and clears his throat. “Do that, and you'll be dead before you even reach the front door. You know I'm not the only person working security at the house, and I am sure that he's got someone else watching his back now at all times.”

  “Who gives a fuck?” I protest, anger at least somewhat burning the lethargy of the past hours away. “She got her fucking brains blown out, Nathan. He deserves to die simply because of that.”

  “Is that what she'd want you to do?” Nathan asks quietly. “She was willing to die, I know that. But did she want you to die, too? Or did she do everything she could to make sure that you stayed safe and protected as well? I know what I saw, even if it was from a distance.”

  I think about it and shake my head. “It doesn't matter. She deserves justice.”

  “That may be, but I'm going to say something else, and you may not like it, but I'm doing this because I've come to respect you, Jackson,” Nathan says quietly. “Katrina trained for what, nearly a decade, and she was still caught dead by Peter's men and money? You're pissed off and untrained. You need time to let this soak in, and to plan what to do next.”

  I think about it, and nod. “Fine. Take me to the loft. But keep me up to date with what's happening at the house. If things calm down, or if I think I can tolerate it, I'll come back for a bit.”

  Nathan nods, and gets back on the interstate. “I'll pitch Peter a bullshit story, although I guess not completely. You're angry, upset, and are taking some time off to live on your own. He'll probably be happy, and it'll give you space as well.”

  We get to the loft, and Nathan leads me upstairs, carrying my backpack for me. He has to jimmy the lock, but it doesn't take him long. He looks around, nodding in appreciation. “Not a lot, but I've lived in worse. You gonna be okay?”

  “I'll live,” I reply, going over to Katrina's bed and lying down. “Maybe later...maybe I'll give you a call.”

  “I'll be in touch. And don't worry about the landlord, I'm sure we can work something out with him, too,” Nathan tells me. He leaves, shutting the door behind him. I can smell her on the pillow underneath my head, and as I fall asleep again, I cling to her essence, treasuring it.

  “Jackson...”

  I sit up, hearing her voice, surprised. “Katrina?”

  She comes in from out of the darkness, a little smile on her face and wearing her skirt, but without her sandals, her bare feet whispering on the wood flooring of the loft. “Yes, it's me. How'd you sleep?”

  “I had the most horrible dream,” I say, getting off the bed and moving over to hug her. “You wouldn't believe how terrible it was.”

  “Well, that doesn't matter n
ow. So are you ready?”

  “Ready for what?” I ask, confused. Katrina laughs softly and ruffles my hair, smiling.

  “For our big day tomorrow, silly,” she says, holding up her finger with the glittering diamond ring on it. “You know, we're getting married?”

  I feel a stupid grin break out on my face, and I shake my head. “I must have slept harder than I thought. Or maybe I'm still sleeping.”

  Katrina laughs and kisses me, her lips so soft and perfect. “Don't worry, I'll always be with you.”

  I step back, and look into Katrina's eyes. “I love you, Katrina. From the time I was twelve, you’ve been the one. I want...”

  A knock at the door interrupts me, and Katrina steps back, fading into the darkness of the loft. I want to follow her, but for some reason, my feet won't move. Just before the shadows swallow her, she raises her hand, palm up to me. “I'll always be with you...”

  “Katrina, don't go!”

  “Don't go!” I yell, sitting up, sweat pouring off my body. I'm alone, but the knocking continues, and I realize someone's trying to get me to open the door. “Go away!”

  “Oniichan, it's me,” I hear, and I get off the bed, going over and opening the door. Andrea is there, and I notice that it's raining, hard. “Can I come in?”

  “Of course,” I tell her, sort of ushering her inside. She's dripping wet, and I wonder where her umbrella is. Then I realize knowing Andrea, who tends to be her own woman no matter what, she probably rode over here on the Honda scooter she bought a year ago. I glance outside, and my suspicions are confirmed, the distinctive funky tubular frame and dual headlights making it stand out in the downpour. “Why'd you bring the scooter?”

  “It didn't start raining until I was halfway here,” Andrea explains, twisting out her long hair over the sink in the kitchen area. “When Nathan told me where you were, I didn't take the time to read the weather report.”

  “Why'd he tell you where I am?” I ask, instantly suspicious.

  Andrea sighs and gives me a look before finishing twisting out her hair and then whipping it back. “I'm dripping wet, soaked to the skin, and to be honest, cold as hell since I had a whipping case of wind chill from riding over here as fast as I could. You mind if I at least dry off a little bit and maybe get something to prevent hypothermia before you start the interrogation?”

  That's my Andrea, sweet and supporting one minute, sarcastic and bitchy the next. I nod and look around, realizing that I have no idea where Katrina even kept her towels. I go over to the cheap dresser and open the top drawer, trying not to cry again as I see the single sports bra inside, and a pair of red panties that I for some reason know were from the night we got together in the limo. There's nothing else, she packed and took it all with her in that backpack. I close the drawer quickly and pull open the next one, and can't take anymore. Inside is the pair of black drawstring martial arts pants that she wore when she was relaxing or working out, and I walk away, leaving the drawer open.

  The lights deeper in the loft aren't on, but I can see the post in the middle that Katrina had wrapped in padding and tires, and I punch, letting my rage and sadness out. It's not enough, and I punch again, the pain of my knuckle smashing against the unforgiving tire rubber helping a little. Another punch, and another punch, each blow letting me vent my emotions. I feel something split on my hand, and it helps more, so I punch harder and harder. I'm gasping, crying, sobbing maybe, but I keep hitting the tires until I can't anymore, and then I punch a few more times before I drop to my knees. The lights overhead turn on, I guess Andrea's found a light switch somewhere, and I see that the tires in front of me are glistening, dark with my blood, and I drop my head, puking at the horror of the image in my mind of Katrina's head exploding as the last bullet blew out the back of her skull.

  Andrea comes over, kneeling next to me, and rests a tiny hand on my back. “It's okay, Jackson. I'm here for you, too.”

  “Why?” I sob, my stomach turning again before I retch. There's nothing inside anymore, just hot, burning stomach juices that barely splatter out. “Why, Andrea?”

  “Because Peter DeLaCoeur is a snake who deserves to spend the rest of his life in jail,” Andrea says softly, but with steely intensity. “That's why she died, and why I'm here.”

  I sit back, and look at my half-sister, who's spent most of her life in a sort of uneasy rivalry with me, but in this instant, there's no taunting, there's not even the sort of dismissive mentor look she had when lending me books on business. Instead I see a supportive, caring person, and in her blue eyes, I see something that I've missed and overlooked for too long. Peter and Margaret might be my parents, but they're sure as hell not my family. Andrea is. “What can we do?”

  Andrea stands up and offers her hand. She takes my hand, and there's a deceptive strength in that grip and steel in her eyes as she helps me to my feet. “The first thing we do is get you cleaned and bandaged up. You busted the hell out of your hands, and we need to bandage them. Then... then we’ll discuss what I've been doing for the past six years.”

  “What do you know of my childhood, Jackson?”

  I've taken off my shirt, washing it out in the sink before hanging it from the end of Katrina's bed frame, while Andrea's changed as well, pulling on one of the t-shirts that Katrina kept in her dresser. Despite Katrina being slender and liking shorter shirts, she was still a lot taller than Andrea, and the shirt hangs past her waist, looking almost oversized on my half-sister. I'm sitting on the bed, my hands stinging from the disinfectant and half dozen bandages that we borrowed from downstairs. Andrea is in one of the chairs, the blanket from the bed wrapped around her shoulders to let her stay warm.

  “You came to us when you were still really young. I can't remember exactly when, but I was young myself, I couldn't have been more than three or four.”

  Andrea nods. “I was brought here from Osaka when I was eighteen months old. The Japanese government was pissed, but since I was brought over on an American passport by agents of my biological father, there was little they could do. I'm an American citizen after all, with a birth certificate from the State of Louisiana even. But that's beside the point. What do you remember about my mother?”

  I shake my head. I was so little. “Nothing. I mean, I know some rumors, but I personally remember almost nothing. I know she had an affair with Peter, obviously, but other than rumors, I can't say.”

  Andrea nods. “I remember almost nothing, too. My grandmother got to send me a few packages when I was smaller, and before my grandparents died, I got a few things. In my room at the house, I have a picture of my mother, back in '94 before she had me, maybe before she met Peter, I'm not sure. She's wearing her student chef's whites, and posing in front of Emeril Legasse's restaurant. In the photo she's throwing up a peace sign of course, since that's something Japanese people often do when they get their pictures taken. She looked so excited and happy, and it was from wanting to read the letters from my grandmother about my mother that led to my own studies of Japanese. But what really drove me was trying to figure out who she was, and why she died.”

  “What happened?” I asked. “I mean, I heard she committed suicide.”

  “That's what the official story is, and after the arguments that she had with my grandmother and grandfather, it's a pretty reasonable story,” Andrea says painfully. “My grandmother wrote about her eternal shame and regret that she and my mother argued about her affair with Peter the night before she died, and that she said that I shamed the family. Then there was the note that they found in my mother's dress, tucked into the belt, where she said that she could no longer live with the same.”

  “You said official story. There's something more?” I ask, and Andrea nods. “Tell me, please.”

  “Peter was involved. I mean, besides the fact that I was kidnapped out of Japan and brought here, he was involved. I've never been able to prove that he had a direct hand in my mother's suicide beyond a phone call where he basically told her that she was o
utta luck, but I have my suspicions. What I do know is that my mother's death wasn't a suicide.”

  “How?” I ask, and realize I may sound like I'm doubting her. “I mean, how'd it happen?”

  “Security camera footage showed two men visiting the apartment building where my mother and I lived. It took me a very long time and a lot of connections to obtain it. Later, both men were busted by the cops on an unrelated charge, but what was interesting was that the handwriting of one of the men perfectly matched the handwriting used in my mother's suicide note. Even the grammar and word choice was the same. My mother spoke and wrote in the Kanto-style dialect of Japanese, and from some of her earlier school writings that my grandmother sent me, she had pretty, almost dainty writing. The note was written in a heavy, sloppy hand, and was written in Kansai-ben, the Osaka style of Japanese. The differences are small to foreigners, like using ore instead of watakushi to refer to herself, but I really applied myself with my language studies... there's no way that Aiko Mori wrote that note.”

  I gawk, and Andrea nods. “Yeah. So you see why I've got a sword to grind against Peter DeLaCoeur as well. For the past six years, I've been pretty much doing the same thing Katrina was, gathering information. I was just looking to finish my MBA before taking him down. When I heard about what you were up to, I approached Nathan when he came back by himself today. He told me where to find you.”

  I should be pissed that she's kept this secret from me for so long, but I'm not. Instead, another question comes to mind. “So why have you called me oniichan for most of my life, if you hate the family so much?” The Japanese term for older brother is probably only one of maybe five Japanese words I know. However, I know I'm the only person Andrea uses familial Japanese terms with. Peter hates it when she speaks Japanese since he doesn't understand it and never bothered to learn any, and Andrea would never call Margaret her mother in any language.