The Hunter

by Shen, L. J.

  I closed my eyes and breathed deeply through my nose.

  “Can you say nail again, please? Specifically, nail me, Hunter. You practically already said all the words, just not in sequence.”

  She burst out laughing as I hooked a finger into her jacket and pulled her in, not giving a fuck about being broke and unemployed and neck-deep in trouble.

  “What’d you get?” I threw my arm over her shoulder, kissing the crown of her head as we walked toward the living room. And just like that, it felt like she was never gone. Just another blissful night with my girl.

  “I thought we’d try the new Cypriot place. It got rad reviews.”

  I bit my fist again. I’d made the right choice.

  Fuck the money.

  I knew, in a subconscious way, that the only shot I had at catching Syllie was if he made a mistake. But Syllie was a careful bastard, so when I found out I’d been the one to throw him off-kilter, I nearly jizzed my pants.

  It was right after Sailor and I polished off our souvlaki and halloumi cheese wraps. We listened to him as he got the call in which he was informed that I hadn’t boarded the commercial plane to Maine with my father and brother.

  “What do you mean he is not on the plane?” he seethed to the person on the other line. I couldn’t listen to what the other party was saying. Sylvester had used another burner phone. “How could he not be on the plane?”

  Sailor and I exchanged glances, our backs hunched over the laptop, listening to the live recording.

  “The whole plan is pointless without him there! No, don’t tell me to calm down. Months of planning, all down the drain. You might as well cancel the entire operation if he’s not there. The idiot will take over once they’re done and dealt with, and my troubles will triple.”

  “Done and dealt with?” Sailor whisper-shouted, her eyes widening. “Did he just say that?”

  A few things happened in that moment. Maybe because Sailor looked at me like I was an intelligent, capable human being and not a moneyed gigolo. She looked at me like I could crack this riddle.

  And I realized…well, that I could.

  I did a quick math:

  Syllie sent my father and brother to a refinery that’d been dealing with health and safety issues.

  The machinery was faulty. Three of them, at least. That’s why we were scheduled to visit there in the first place.

  Syllie could and probably planned to stage an accident in which all three of us—Da, Cillian and I—would die. All he needed was one orchestrated explosion. Mom and Aisling, while they’d inherit the majority of shares, wouldn’t run the company in a million years. Which put the position in Syllie’s capable hands.

  Holy shit. He wanted to kill us. And I’d just fucked up his plan big time. Now the question was—would he go through with it still, or was he postponing because my ass wasn’t en route to Maine?

  Sailor seemed to read my mind, shoving my phone into my hand. “You have to call them.”

  I called Cillian five times. I tried another three times to reach my father. I also texted them a thousand times. They were either on the plane or somewhere with zero reception. I remembered Cillian complaining about the lack of reception in that part of Maine. I was sure Syllie took this into consideration when he’d planned all this.

  “What do I do now?” I stood, pacing back and forth. “What do I do to save my asshole family?”

  “Now,” Sailor said simply, “you do what Fitzpatricks do best: you go to war, and you win.”

  I borrowed Sailor’s car, drove her back to her parents’ house (I didn’t take any chances in case Syllie had hired muscle to come to my apartment and finish me off), then drove straight to his house, hoping he was still there. I was glad for Knox’s investigative skills. He knew where Syllie lived, worked out, took shits, and all his favorite call girls.

  The entire drive there, I tried calling Da and Cillian. Finally, I called Mom and told her to try to reach them and not stop until she found them and told them not to go to the refinery.

  “But why?” she asked for the millionth time.

  “Because fucking stop asking questions, Mom. Just do it!”

  I parked in front of Syllie’s place in Charlestown, a ten-bedroom Jacobian-style mansion, stark white over black windows, with a lush front yard I currently wanted to set on fire. I slammed the driver’s door shut and tromped my way to the entrance, banging on the door, then punching the bell five times for good measure. It was way past visiting hours, but if I wasn’t going to get some sleep tonight, fuck if anyone in his family would.

  Syllie opened the door with a scowl, wearing a purple burgundy house robe. I swear my libido bled to death the second I saw him.

  His face turned from deadly to pleasant in an instant.

  “Hunter, what a lovely surprise. I thought you were supposed to be on your way to Maine?” he asked innocently.

  “God, terrible acting. I’m talking Harrison Ford in The Frisco Kid. Just terrible. We need to talk.”

  “Something happened?” He grimaced.

  I wanted to punch his teeth in. I smiled instead. I’d asked Aisling to work on Mom and convince her to give me the private plane to get to Maine—not that my mother wouldn’t give me a limb if I asked for it, but I didn’t want to talk to her if I could help it.

  “Just playing catch-up.” I shrugged.

  “At midnight?” His eyes nearly bulged.

  I inclined my head, buying time. “What can I say? I missed you so.”

  He invited me in, hesitantly, and motioned for me to follow him to his office on the third floor. He opened the door to the balcony after pouring us two timbers of whiskey. I knew better than to put my lips to any drink Syllie gave me, but swirled the golden liquid in its tumbler for show.

  “I know about your plan.” I let the drink slosh over the rim. “And I know who’s helping you execute it.”

  That part was a lie, but if there was one thing I was good at, it was having a poker face. It had saved my ass countless times.

  “Of course I studied for the test.”

  “Of course you’re the only girl I thought about this week.”

  “Of course I’m not too intoxicated to operate this heavy machinery.”

  “I have no idea what you mean.” He leaned on the bannister, taking a sip of his drink. It was the little things that gave him away: the beads of sweat gathering at his temples, the way his lips twitched, how deeply he leaned against a high balcony. He was nervous.

  I leaned against the doorframe, far from the bannister, studying him. “I hope you have a better line of defense when you get arrested, Mr. Lewis. Because trying to blow up a refinery with dozens of people inside, including the three major shareholders of Royal Pipelines, is no kiddie game.”

  None of those things were confirmed, but his face twisted in horror as the words left my mouth, and I knew I was spot-on. He quickly rearranged his features, placing his timber of whiskey on the marble railing.

  “Who fed you this nonsense, Sonny-boy?”

  “Your partner in crime,” I replied. Another lie.

  “I have no such thing.”

  “Would you continue singing this tune if I told you every single time you used burner phones to call him, he recorded both of you?” I quirked an eyebrow.

  Lies, lies, lies.

  His face fell.

  He thought I had something I wasn’t in possession of.

  “Boris should know better,” he gritted out.

  Boris, huh? I was sure Sailor’s dad knew who he was, and made a mental note to check.

  Syllie continued, “But you have one thing wrong. I knew you weren’t going to be there. I never wished you harm.”

  “Please don’t take offense when I call all the bullshits in the world on that.”

  He shook his head, rushing to me. I raised a hand, motioning for him to stop where he was. He did.

  “Look, I knew this thing with your father and brother was going to blow up sooner or later.
I knew you wouldn’t accompany them to Maine. And you didn’t. The truth is, Sonny-boy, I would never wish you harm because…”

  God, not this.

  “Because I’m your father.” His throat worked around the admission, the words spilling out between us, toxic.

  “My father is some Eastern European underwear model,” I countered.

  “That’s what Gerald told everyone so he could keep me on his payroll, because he knew I was too important to let go of. And it’s what your mother unfortunately went along with to keep the peace in the Fitzpatrick household. But think about it, Sonny-boy. Who took care of you over the years? Who did you rush to when you needed help? Who cleaned up the mess for you? Me. Always me. I was practically a father to you without being a father to you. I took care of you. And now, I’m telling you, this is the beginning of a new era. We can take this company and run it together. We can do great things. Be a team. They will never respect you, Hunter. You are not a blue-blooded Fitzpatrick, a true heir. Your father put Cillian on the pedestal, and you will never reach his level—not because you’re not as good, but because Gerald would never allow it. You are looked down upon. They are not your family.”

  He took another step, and I let him. He put his hand on my shoulder. I let him do that, too.

  “Thrown around from one private school to the other, then exiled to your uncle and aunt on the West Coast—you never stood a chance. I tried telling your father, Hunter. I begged…”

  He took a ragged breath, looking away from me and shaking his head, like it all pained him too much. “Look, I know I haven’t been the best father to you so far by not coming clean about this. I had my own family to think of. I have three daughters. But I promise, from now on, I’ll be there.”

  “Will you take me to softball games?” I croaked, my voice rough with emotion.

  He paused, regarding me with wariness, before agreeing. “Yes, Sonny-boy. Yes, I will, if that’s what you want.”

  “And will we have family dinners?” I continued.

  “Of course.” His eyes widened, and he embraced me in a half-hug, relieved. “Of course. Weekly. I’ll tell Dianne you are always welcome.”

  Dianne was his wife. The next part I said after pretending to wipe an imaginary tear from the corner of my eye. “And will you teach me about the birds and the bees? I heard rumors, Daddy, but really, do boys do that to girls? It sounds so…painful.”

  He disconnected from me, examining my face.

  I started laughing. “Damn.” I pushed him away. “Get the fuck out. I’m not your son. I may be dumb and pretty, but for fuck’s sake, I am pretty. You look like Gargamel.”

  As I said that, I realized I’d stopped believing it. Well, some of it. I wasn’t stupid. I wasn’t a dumbass. I was just an asshole with no one to hold him accountable for anything. Until now.

  “You little piece of—”

  The front door three floors under us was kicked open before Syllie finished his thought. Shouts of “FBI” rang from the first floor.

  I sighed at him exaggeratedly, lifting my timber of whiskey and using my hand to pry his jaw open by squeezing his cheeks. I poured the contents of my glass into his mouth.

  “Here. I’ve a feeling you’ll need some liquid courage for this next part.”

  I knew the police had been sent to the Lewis residence. That type of courtesy I expected, seeing as I’d called them with my story, but had no hard proof to give them. The fact that the FBI was here made me think someone else was involved.

  Troy Brennan, to be exact. Sailor had asked him for help, knowing I might not be able to pull it off myself. She’d asked her father for help, even though she hated everything he did and represented. For me.

  Syllie’s face contorted in fury. “They’re dead men walking. There’s no way you can reach them, you little idiot. They don’t have any reception where they are.”

  “Why did you do this?” I asked.

  Footfalls raced up the stairs. Dozens of them, it sounded like. It was happening.

  “I was always mistreated. I gave Royal Pipelines my best years and didn’t even get a raise. The truth is, your father has a lot of blood on his hands, which is why he hired Troy Brennan and his son to work on retainer for him. Cillian is a well-suited terrorist, a devil waiting to unleash hell at any moment. And you? You’re a simple idiot. I tried to save this company from itself, from awful, unjust succession.” Syllie grabbed me by the shirt and tried to fling me over the bannister.

  He’d been calling me an idiot the entire six months I was in Boston, but somehow thought he could fling a two-hundred-pound, six-foot-four-inch ex-polo player made of sheer muscle and pheromones. I stumbled two steps before throwing him toward the bannister, bending him so half his body was hanging in the air, between life and death.

  It was a tall fucking house. The air felt thin and chilly, like breathing icicles.

  “You’re dead, Fitzpatrick!” he spat, his face red.

  The boys in black kicked the office door open (I loved when they did that; door handles were for pussies) and rushed over to grab him by the robe.

  I waved goodbye with my fingertips. “We’ll always have our little league softball,” I called.

  “Fuck you!” he yelled back, rather impolitely. “I want to call my lawyer. Let me speak to my lawyer.”

  I stayed half an hour to give two investigators my side of things, then asked if I could start making my way to Maine. They said yes. When I exited the Lewis household, I got a text message.

  Ash: Mom said you’re not getting anything before you talk to her face to face. Sorry.

  I wanted to kill someone.

  “You do realize your husband and son are mere hours from being blown to pieces in a remote place with zero reception?” I moved down the corridor toward my mother’s office.

  She led me briskly to her private room—not the bedroom she sometimes shared with Da. She nodded. “I do. But you are just as important as they are, sweetie.”

  I said nothing to that, because I still didn’t believe it. After we got in, she closed the door and took a seat behind her desk. I didn’t even know why she had an office. It’s not like she’d worked a day in her life.

  I remained standing. I didn’t have time. “Get it over with and give me the keys to the private jet.”

  “Private jets don’t have a k—”

  “It’s a figure of speech.” I smiled. “Talk, Mother.”

  She shook her head, looking down at her fingers, which were splashed on the table.

  “I know you’re mad at me, Hunter, and for good reason. I had you illegitimately to get back at your father, then sent you away when you were six. You have every right in the world to despise me. But honey, you must understand. I wasn’t a terrible mother to you. I was a terrible mother, period. When I found out I was pregnant with you…” She sucked in a breath and looked the other way, shaking her head, like the memory was too much.

  If this was her plan to make shit better, she was doing a terrible job.

  “It was the happiest moment of my life. Would you like to know why?”

  Not really. “Sure,” I groaned instead. Anything to make her give me the goddamn Gulfstreamer.

  She looked up at me, her eyes shining. “Because you, I knew I’d love the most. I was crazy in love with your father—your real father—but Filip never loved me back. In fact, he ran back to Croatia when he realized I was going to leave Gerald for him. Your father paid him handsomely to disappear, I assume. But you were my lovechild, Hunter. Still are. You were the only one of my children I breastfed, that I nurtured until you were three.”

  “Wow. I’m humbled,” I said sarcastically. I didn’t understand where she was going with this.

  “But…” She held up a hand. “I struggled with a lot of things, severe depression among them. I stayed in bed for weeks at a time. Sometimes your father would drag me out, and we’d have violent fights. I tore out his hair one time. Another, I broke his rib. I wasn’t fit to b
e a mother, so sending you away before you saw all that seemed like the only option.”

  “And bring Aisling into the world,” I reminded her. “That was important, too. Fuck up one more kid.”

  “Aisling was my apology for Filip.”

  “Damn, that sounds bad.” I sucked my teeth.

  She jumped from her seat, running to me. Every bone in my body turned to ice. Even when she stopped a few inches away. Even when she began to lower herself to her knees.

  “Dammit, Hunter, I cannot tolerate this anymore. You have to forgive me.”

  “Or else?” I asked, shoving my hands into my pockets. I forgot, momentarily, that I had my asshole family to save. I was so immersed in my mother’s attempt to patch things up.

  She looked up, on her knees in front of me. “Or I’m not giving you the Gulfstreamer.”

  “Your husband and son will die,” I said slowly, examining her.

  She really was insane. She smiled at me, her eyes full of tears. It was a sad, broken smile, that of a person who has nothing left to lose.

  “You’re killing me every day you don’t take my calls. Please.” She lowered her face to my sneakers. Jesus Christ. Was she going to…oh, fuck. She was. She was going to kiss my feet. I couldn’t take it. Couldn’t see the person who’d purged me out into the world losing the remainder of her pride.

  “Get up,” I roared, yanking her by the shoulder. “I forgive you.”

  “Really?” She was bawling now.

  “Yes, really. The apology was a fucking mess, but it is obvious it’s important to you. Now, please, for the love of God, Mom, send the Gulfstreamer.”

  “It’s already warmed up and waiting for you in the gang hanger. Oh, I love you, Hunt.”

  I couldn’t help but wrap my arms around her, patting her head awkwardly. “Yeah, Mom. Love you, too.”

  My last stop before boarding the plane to Maine was the Brennan residence. Sailor lived in a high-rise with her parents, so honking for her to come down wasn’t in the cards. I had to drag my ass to her door.