She’d thought she could walk away from him, but until this very moment, she didn’t realize how wrong she’d been.
Justice had never meant much to anyone, including herself, but she meant a lot to Ronan.
He needed her, needed her blood. Because of that, she had to find a way to fight.
She kept her gaze on Grandma, then let Reba dangle from her forefinger and thumb. “I don’t want to hurt you,” she said.
The old woman’s voice was deep, raspy, and overly loud, as if she could barely hear herself speak. “You don’t think stealing from me hurts?”
“I left you cash. In your refrigerator.”
The woman grunted. “Sure, you did. Let me just go down and check while you slip away.” Her rheumy gaze hardened. “I’m within my rights to kill you where you stand.”
“Please, don’t. I really don’t want to be here any more than you want me.”
“Show me what you’ve stolen.”
Justice reached into her pocket and pulled out the metal shaft with its looped end.
Frown lines creased her pale forehead. “That bit of old junk? It’s been in my family for generations, though heaven knows why. It’s not even real silver. What the hell do you want with that?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“So, you broke into my home and rifled through my things to steal a piece of junk you have no use for?”
There was no way to explain. “It’s not for me.”
“Who is it for, then?”
“I don’t know that either.”
The woman scoffed. “Liar. You’re a little punk liar. What else did you take?”
Justice had to leave. The compulsion to move was tickling her brain, and the longer she stood here talking to this woman, the worse it was going to get.
“I’m going to go now,” Justice said.
“No, you’re going to wait right here while I call the police. Kids like you need to be taught a lesson.”
Only someone as old as this woman would see Justice as a kid. Or maybe she couldn’t see any better than she could hear.
“So, you’re not going to shoot me?” Justice asked.
“Still might. I’d rather see you suffer in prison for a while, though.”
“For stealing a piece of junk, as you called it?”
“You still broke in. Trespassed. With a gun. When I turn on the waterworks for the jury—sweet, little, traumatized, old lady—you’ll be facing more than a slap on the wrist. Besides, punk like you probably has done this before. I bet this isn’t your first time. If I don’t stop you, it won’t be your last, either.”
Grandma had her there. Justice had never been caught, but she’d been close a couple of times. She was certain her prints were on file with the authorities for crimes in at least seven states.
“What can I do to walk out of here without any police involvement? Is it cash you want?”
“All I want is justice.”
Justice laughed. She couldn’t help it. She’d spent her whole life being used as a pawn in a game she didn’t understand. Who was going to pay for those crimes—the crimes against her? “You and me both.”
Tires screeched outside. Car doors thudded and heavy footsteps pounded on the pavement.
Justice leaned over and parted the pale pink sheers to see four suited thugs racing up to Grandma’s house.
“Friends of yours?” Justice asked.
“My friends are all dead.”
One of the men looked up. His beady eyes were set deep in his skull, and his nose listed off to the side as if it had been broken more than once.
She knew that man. He was one of Chester Gale’s hired thugs.
Shock trickled through her, leaving an icy trail down her spine. Were these men also after the worthless junk Justice had been sent here by the fates to collect? That didn’t seem right somehow, but she didn’t have time to puzzle it out.
The man who’d looked up had seen her. He’d seen her and hadn’t been surprised.
He’d known she was here. How could they have known?
Before she was able to figure out that riddle, she realized what this meant.
“You need to hide,” she told the old woman as she put Reba back in her hand where she belonged. “Don’t let these men see you.”
“Like hell I’ll hide in my own home. I’ll send them all to jail right alongside you.”
There was a deep crash as the front door was knocked in.
“You don’t understand. They’ll kill you.”
Justice rushed toward the woman, planning to gather her up and shove her in a closet. Instead, Grandma’s revolver fired.
Fire streaked across Justice’s shoulder as the bullet grazed her flesh.
Before the woman could fire again, Justice jerked the revolver out of her hands.
Grandma’s face paled to the color of skim milk.
Footsteps drummed on the stairs as at least two men approached.
“Hide,” Justice whispered as she pushed the old woman away from the door. “Hide or die.”
But it was too late. The first of Chester’s thugs was here. His pistol cleared the railing, and before he could even see what he was aiming at, he began to fire.
Justice took a hit to the leg. Behind her, Grandma gasped.
Reba barked in her hand and took off the top of the head of the first guy in line. The second hesitated on the stairs, giving Justice time to step forward and fire again.
She didn’t fuck around with these men. They were armed and deadly, and under orders from Chester that were not going to make Justice happy.
Whatever that child-stealing asshole wanted with her, it couldn’t be good. The best she could hope for was a clean kill-shot. The worst, he’d make her death last for weeks before he finally gave it to her.
Assuming the fates didn’t take care of her first.
As soon as she saw the sandy hair of the suited next thug in line, she aimed and fired.
Reba was as accurate as ever, but this man’s skull was thicker than the last. The bullet sliced through his scalp but didn’t break through bone. He was still alive.
A strangled sound of pain came from the stairwell. Behind her, another similar cry rose from the old woman.
Justice ducked inside the bedroom doorway before she risked glancing behind her.
Grandma’s faded housecoat was soaked with blood. Her bony fingers clutched at the chest wound, but they did no good. A river of blood flowed from her body, too fast to be anything but fatal.
Justice rushed to her side and grabbed up the edge of the pink floral bedding to staunch the flow of blood. Even before she could press the makeshift bandage against the wound, she knew it was a lost cause.
Her rheumy eyes met Justice’s and in them was a deep kindness and fierce spirit of a life well-lived.
“Just hang on,” Justice said, even though she knew there was no point.
“I’m not afraid,” the woman rasped. Blood bubbled across her dentures, painting them red.
Something in Justice cracked as if it were about to break. She was both furious and sad. What right did she have to drag this poor woman into her fucked-up world? What right did she have to drag her problems into this woman’s home? “I’m sorry I got you involved in this.”
Grandma’s gaze zoomed out, growing distant as if she were seeing something beyond the dingy ceiling and sagging roof. Something good. Something clean.
“I forgive you.” The words were faint, but unmistakable.
In that moment, Justice felt a weight lift from her body and give her room to breathe. She’d never been forgiven before. She had no idea how good those three little words could feel. She was free. Saved.
The woman’s arms went slack. Her hands fell to her sides. Her eyes lost focus.
One pulse of blood. Two. Then no more. Only a steady ooze with no force behind it. Her heart had stopped pumping.
Grandma was dead. Her last act on this planet had been to save Justice from th
e guilt that would doubtlessly have eaten her alive. The woman was dead because of Justice, but she’d forgiven her all the same.
Rage burned through Justice until she thought her skin would ignite. Red flooded her vision and a cold searing pain washed through her veins.
This woman had died because of her. Justice hadn’t pulled the trigger, but she’d come here. Chester’s men had followed her. She’d led them right to the frail, old lady who’d outlived so much, but couldn’t survive one visit from Justice.
Still, she’d forgiven her. How was that even possible?
Justice jerked to her feet and stalked out of the room. There were three men left by her estimation, and she wasn’t leaving until every one of them was dead.
The stairwell was empty except for a trail of blood the men she’d shot had left behind. There were two red splatters on the floral wallpaper, one far more satisfying than the other.
She tucked Grandma’s revolver in the back of her jeans, barely feeling the sting of broken flesh along her shoulder as she moved. There’d be time for pain later. Now was only for revenge.
Justice heard someone breathing. Not far. At the base of the stairs.
She pressed her weight in the center of one of the steps hard enough to make it creak.
The man leaned out slightly to fire, but Justice was waiting for him. Before he had time to aim his gun, Reba lashed out and sank a round right through the man’s eye.
He dropped like a rock.
There was a hushed whisper from below. A deeper voice responded.
Outside, dogs were barking and any minute, sirens would start to howl their warning.
“I’m right here,” she said. “Fifth step up. Center of the stairwell. Come get me.”
She braced her feet and held steady, gun raised and ready.
“Mr. Gale just wants to talk,” said one of the thugs. His voice was muffled. He was in the living room, somewhere near the now-silent TV.
“If your boss wanted me alive, you wouldn’t have come in firing. My guess is he doesn’t care if I’m alive or dead.”
“That was a mistake. He cares. He just wants to talk.”
She eased down the stairs as the man spoke to limit his ability to hear her move. A shadow on her right told her that one of the attackers was in the kitchen, waiting for her to step out into sight.
She grabbed one of the framed photos on the wall and tossed it out at eye level.
A bullet ripped through the edge of the frame, sending the smiling toddler spinning.
So, they just wanted to talk, did they?
“Shit,” said the man in the living room as he realized his lies no longer had a chance to work.
Plaster exploded next to Justice’s head. Something sliced across her forehead, but she didn’t know if it was a bullet or part of the wall that had cut her. Either way it stung like hell.
She let out a pained noise and fell into a crouch.
The shadow shifted as the man in the kitchen charged. He was fast. She’d barely managed to raise her gun to fire when he appeared. His aim was off. He’d thought she was higher up than she was, and that second it took to adjust his aim was the one that cost him his life.
Justice fired twice in quick succession—one through his chest, the other through his throat. Her shots must have severed something vital, because he went slack and crumpled to the floor. He wasn’t dead, but that wasn’t going to last for long the way he was bleeding.
The sound of footsteps in retreat came from the living room. A car engine started and tires squealed again as he drove off.
Distant sirens began to sing—a chorus of them. Police, ambulance, maybe even fire trucks. She couldn’t tell because there were too many to separate.
Blood ran into her eye as she hurried down the last two steps to get the hell out of the crime scene before the authorities arrived. She’d just cleared the corner into the living room when she realized that her count had been wrong.
There had been five men, not four. And the one left behind was ready for her.
The first bullet plowed into her left arm and the second was screaming toward her. In her experience, when it came to professional killers, the aim of the second shot was always better.
Justice dropped to the floor and rolled.
Everything hurt, but she didn’t have time to dwell on that. She had less than a second to live if she didn’t make it count.
The man trying to kill her was a beefy blond with no neck and a double helping of shoulders. The extra muscles and the pull of his suit over his bulging frame made him slow enough to save Justice’s life.
She rolled toward him fast. He didn’t have time to adjust his shot before she was literally at his feet. Still dizzy and with blood stinging and blinding her left eye, Justice used his body as a guide to tell her where to shoot.
Her first bullet hit his chin, barely nicking it. His hands flew up instinctively to protect his face, and by the time he’d realized his mistake, she’d fired twice more, right between his legs.
The wicked, flesh-tearing bullets she used exited his back and left two bright splatters of blood on the white ceiling. The red spray patterns were so close, they looked like morbid butterfly wings from her position on the floor.
Sirens grew louder. There were voices outside now. Witnesses.
Justice grabbed a crocheted throw from the back of a chair and flung it over her head. She could easily see through the loops of colorful yarn, but they obscured her and Reba from being easily described by onlookers.
At least she hoped.
Half a dozen elderly people had gathered outside, gaping from their porches. One wizened old woman had a pair of binoculars to her eyes, as if she always kept them handy, just in case of neighborhood shootings.
Blood smeared Justice’s vision on one side. Her injured leg was weak and slow but she managed to fast-limp her way to the van parked around the corner. She climbed inside before any brave witnesses gathered the courage to stop her.
Perhaps these aging onlookers had lived so long because they weren’t overly brave. Or perhaps they were just wise enough to know a killer when the saw one.
Justice sped off in a squeal of abused tires.
When she was a few blocks away, she ripped the blanket off her head and used it to wipe away the blood leaking from her forehead. A cop passed her going fast, but she was just a woman driving a van, not a gun-toting old lady killer.
Another two blocks and she saw an ambulance and a second cop. She covered the trickle of blood with her hand and gaped like any normal person would as she kept driving.
Her leg was the worst of her injuries, but even that wasn’t fatal. She’d been injured worse—just a few days ago, in fact.
Only this time, Ronan wasn’t coming to her rescue. Not only was it daylight, she’d stolen his ride and left him a note that made sure he knew they were done.
As the adrenaline wore off and pain settled in for a little quality time with her nerve endings, she almost wished she hadn’t been so hasty to send him packing. But none of her physical pain could even hold a candle to her guilt.
The image of that old lady, dead in her own home, glared in Justice’s mind. Violent. Accusing.
That was what happened to the people she got too close to. Even though she hadn’t pulled the trigger, that woman’s death was on her head as heavily as if she had.
Wherever Justice went, death followed. The idea of it finding Ronan was too much for her to stand. It was just as well she’d cut things off.
He’d find someone else with blood like hers. He didn’t need her.
She’d been on her own for ten years before ever meeting him. She’d be fine on her own again. She knew how to stitch up wounds and how to treat gunshots. She didn’t need magical healing or the hungry pull of his mouth at her throat. She didn’t need his kiss or his touch. She didn’t need him.
At least that’s what she told herself and would continue to tell herself every second of every day until
it was true.
One day it would be, and she couldn’t wait for that day to come.
After putting a few miles between her and the bodies she’d left behind in Grandma’s house, she pulled into a parking garage of an aging shopping mall and drove to the deepest bowels of the structure.
There were few cars down here, and the ones that were parked looked as though they hadn’t been moved in weeks. Maybe longer.
Dust coated them, giving their windshields a foggy quality.
She moved to the back of the van and closed the heavy curtains. She had to flip on the dome light to see.
Her injuries needed tending, but there was something else that was even more important.
Those goons had found her in a place they never could have known she’d go. Even she didn’t know that’s where she’d end up today. That meant only one thing.
They had a way to track her.
Justice had thrown away all the bloody clothes and shoes she’d been wearing the day she’d met Chester Gale in the empty doctors’ office. The cash and ring she’d earned were at Dabyr. She hadn’t bothered to collect them when she’d left. It wasn’t like she needed more money. She had stacks of the stuff in all her warehouses—payment for past jobs.
She wasn’t in her beloved Maserati, and she hadn’t been so much as touched when she was with Chester or his thugs. Nor had she consumed any food or drink. None of them could have planted any trackers in or on her body.
But there was one thing she had that was in their possession, out of her sight. One thing she never went anywhere without.
Reba.
Justice unloaded and disassembled her Glock but found nothing. She emptied the last two rounds from the magazine to look for trackers hidden inside, but it was also clean. So were the bullets.
She studied the weapon she knew as well as her own hands. There was only one other place she could think to look.
On the back side of the grip was a hollow cavity that rounded out the backstrap. She’d inserted a plug in it years ago to keep dirt and debris out, but there was plenty of space in there for some kind of tracking device. Anyone who knew the weapon would know the open space was there.
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