Wicked Intentions

by Linda Verji

  “Who is he?”

  Shakira’s voice was strained. “Excuse me?”

  “The man that got you crying on the side of the road,” the woman asked as she propped her arm on the roof of Nathan’s car, the soft breeze fluttering her checkered flannel shirt. “I know these things. Before I started riding them trucks I used to be a woman too.”

  “There’s no man,” Shakira insisted on a reluctant chuckle as her glance relief briefly shifted from the woman to the hulking sixteen-wheeler parked in front of her.

  The woman shrugged. “He ain’t worth it.” As if that was the sum of her thoughts on the matter, the woman straightened and tipped her hat. “You take care of yourself now.”

  “You too,” Shakira called out. “Thank you.”

  Once the woman and her truck were gone, Shakira pulled back into traffic. The crying and the truck-driver’s interruption seemed to have dulled much of her pain. Resolve replaced it.

  Buck up, Shakira. You’ve been through worse than this. He’s just another person in the long line of people who disappoint you. He won’t break you.

  The closer she got to the city the stronger her resolve got. She’d been surviving just fine before Nathan barged into her life with his PIs. So what if she was still broke? So what if the FBI were still after her? So what if the only two men she’d dated both turned out to be sneaky, conniving assholes? So what if her heart ached? She’d survive - just as she always did.

  She sped up on the highway, strategizing as she went.

  By the time she parked the car in front of their building it was already dark and she had a plan firmly in place. Some part of her worried about Nathan and what he could’ve done after she’d left him at their estate. The other part asked ‘why the hell do you care’. He was a big boy. He could find his way home and when he did, he wouldn’t find her there.

  Lugging their suitcase, she climbed the stairs leading up to their floor. At this time of the night, the hallway was deserted. She rolled the suitcase behind her as she walked towards their door while sorting through Nathan’s keys for the house-key. They jingled as she pressed the key into the keyhole. She started to turn it but the door slipped open all on its own.

  What the hell?

  Shakira backed away as instant fear eclipsed her senses. Tilting her body slightly she peered into the apartment just in time to catch a light from the bedroom flicker off, plunging the house into complete darkness.

  There was someone in there.

  Dropping the suitcase on the floor and heart pounding like a mad disco drum, Shakira raced back the way she’d come. She only realized that she had nowhere to go when she got to the ground floor. She’d left the keys in the key-hole. Trembling, she fumbled with her bag as she searched it and came up with her phone.

  Her eyes on the landing of the stairs, she dialed.

  “911,” the operator picked up almost immediately. “How may we help you?”

  “I’d like to report a…”

  She never finished the sentence. Her jaw fell when Agent Gates emerged on the landing. His eyes narrowed on her as he methodically advanced down the stairs.

  Shakira wanted to run, she could even imagine doing it but her legs seemed plastered to the floor in abject terror. The closer Gates got to her, the more visible the fury on his face became. His eyes were hard glassy orbs glaring at her with something akin to hate. His mouth was drawn in a thin strained line and his jaw ticked with the force of his anger.

  He looked almost…crazy.

  It was only when he got to the bottom step that he spoke. “Where’s the thumb-drive?”

  CHAPTER 22

  Shakira took a step back, then another.

  “Where’s the thumb-drive?” Gates repeated stalking her step for step.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She was surprised her voice sounded so serene and deliberate considering that her mind was alternating between racing out of control and calculating her chances of outrunning the FBI Agent. Her mind came up with a result.

  No chance.

  There was no way she could outrun a man as fit as Gates and a veteran at chasing down suspects unless she somehow incapacitated him. Shakira subtly dropped her phone in her purse and her grip on the purse’s straps tightened as she gathered her strength and nerves. A few more steps back and she could act.

  “Don’t lie to me. I saw you and your friend talking about it.” Breathing hard, Gates stared at her wildly and prowled another step closer. “Where is it?” His gaze panned in on the purse. “Is it in there?”

  It was.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking ab…” Shakira’s words faltered as her back hit the door.

  Now or never.

  “Is it in there?” Gates repeated again, all his attention on the bag. “Is it in there?”

  He lunged for Shakira just as she swung her purse with all her might.

  Gates staggered back with the force of the blow giving Shakira just the lead she needed. She shoved her back against the door, sending it flying outwards and stumbled out of the building. The moment the cold draft hit her face she started running. Panic pulsed through her blood like liquid power, accelerating her pulse and pumping additional speed into her limbs as she took off down the pavement. She ran as hard as she could, her purse flapping against her side.

  But it wasn’t enough.

  His heavy footfalls pounded fast after her. She ran faster than she had since her high school track days. It still wasn’t enough. The harder she ran, the closer they came until she could hear his breathe practically raising the hairs at the nape of her neck. Still she ran. It was only when her t-shirt bit into her neck and upper back as he roughly hauled her back that Shakira realized it was over.

  She turned to Gates swinging the bag again in terrified defense. This time he grabbed it and didn’t let go.

  “Give it to me.” His face was a furious mask as he tried to wrench the bag away from her. “Give it to me.”

  Shakira should’ve let it go. She really should’ve. But her fear had mingled with uncontrollable fury and rationality flew out the window. She was not giving him that thumb-drive. Screw him. He was not getting her thumb-drive. She clawed for a solid grip on the black leather as she pulled just as hard.

  “Give it to me,” Gates barked almost ripping her arms out of their sockets with the force of his yanks. Shakira didn’t give. She struggled just as hard, glaring at him with eyes almost as wild as his.

  “Step away from the lady.” The words came from somewhere beside Shakira but somehow seemed so far off that they weren’t enough to break her concentration. She pulled harder on her purse as did Gates.

  “Step away from the lady,” the man repeated and then added, “or I’ll shoot.”

  It was the ‘I’ll shoot’ part that popped the tense bubble surrounding the two people fighting for possession of the purse. Gates jerked his head sharply towards the voice as did Shakira. Her gaze zeroed in on the gleaming muzzle that hovered barely ten feet away from them and her heart lurched in immediate fear. Gates must’ve been in shock too because his grip on her purse slackened.

  “Nice and slow, move away from her!” The words drew her attention away from the gun to the man brandishing it. There was something familiar about the hulking silver-haired man with a blade of grass tucked between his teeth but right now her mind was too befuddled to wade through its database and figure out where she knew him from. His eyes bore into Gates, unflinching and determined

  “This is an FBI matter,” Gates said, recovering from his suspended shock in record time. He ordered, “Put the gun down…” and then produced a revolver of his own to reinforce the request. “…or I’ll shoot.”

  “That’s the problem with you cops.” There was relish in the man’s crooked smile as he taunted, “You think your badges and your guns make you strong but you’re not strong. You’re just a weak little dog who can’t shoot to save his life.”

  Later when asked, Shakira coul
d detail what happened next with vivid clarity. Two loud bangs crashed into the silence and seared into her memory. They were swiftly followed by Gates’ groan as he jolted backwards from the bullet’s impact. His gun fell to the ground with a clatter and he followed it down, dropping to his knees while clutching his right shoulder.

  Shakira’s eyes widened and she opened her mouth to scream but somehow the sound seemed stuck in her throat. Her vision blurred as she watched the blood seep through Gates’ white shirt and between his fingers staining them red.

  “Shakira,” the shooter called out to her. “Are you okay?”

  She turned to nod at him but instead her world tilted on its axis and a dark haze fogged up her vision. She crumpled to the ground in a dead faint.

  She was floating on her back in some kind of weightless vacuum. Darkness surrounded her but it wasn’t a bone-chilling kind darkness. It cocooned her in its soft warm embrace, soothing her with its peaceful silence.

  “Shakira, Shakira,” a deep voice floated by her. “Wake up, Kira.”

  Why? I like it in here.

  “Wake up, sweetheart,” he insisted. The voice wasn’t floating by her anymore. It was a hand pulling her from below and trying to drag her from the darkness. His touch flitted over her jaw, cheek and forehead as he called out, “Kira, Kira, Kira.”

  Leave me alone. Shakira tried to keep herself suspended in the dark but it was so hard when he was calling her name so persistently. Sighing deeply, she stopped struggling and let him pull her down. The vacuum melted away replaced by something soft and cushiony cradling the length of her body. Her eyes fluttered open.

  A blurry face peered above her. It cleared up as her pupils adjusted to the light.

  “There you are.” His lips turned up on one side in a smile didn’t quite reach his worried eyes. But the smile was still enough to set her heart hopping around like it’d just popped some magical pills.

  She returned his smile. “Nathan.”

  His smile fell, replaced by a frown as he stroked her face. “How do you feel?”

  “Gre-”She tried to sit up but collapsed on the couch like a ragdoll as a sharp pain caroused through her head to center of her forehead. “Ow.”

  “Don’t move.” He eased his hand beneath her neck soothing the muscles there as he said, “You hit your hard pretty hard when you went down.”

  She closed her eyes as she tried to ward off the pain. Meanwhile her mind sorted through his words trying to figure out what they meant. Went down? The meaning came crushing in – she’d fainted – as did the memories of the events that had pushed her into unconsciousness.

  Gates!

  The chase!

  The man with the gun.

  Shakira’s eyes flew open as gasped, “Gates?”

  Nathan started, “He’s-”

  “Is she awake?” a male voice called out from someone where beyond her. Shakira turned with the sound, wincing as her head protested the movement. A uniformed cop stood at the door leading to the bedrooms. “We’re going to need her to look at the room and see if there’s anything missing.”

  Looking over at him, Nathan said, “Give her a couple more minutes.”

  “Okay.” The cop nodded in agreement before he turned on his heels headed for the bedroom.

  Once the cop was gone, Shakira sat up on the couch. This time the pain was just a dull throb and even if it was more, she had worse things to worry about her. Turning panicked eyes towards Nathan and gripping his fingers, she whispered, “Is Gates dead?”

  “I don’t know,” Nathan threw a glance towards the hallway. “Randall says he only clipped him on the shoulder before carrying you home. By the time nine-one-one sent in people to check on you, Gates was gone and the cops can’t find him anywhere.”

  Instantly an image of Gates bleeding out in a ditch darted through Shakira’s mind. Instead of elation, a bolt of nausea hit her hard. What if he was dead? What if he was not dead and just waiting to attack her again? Oh, God! It was all she could do not to fall back into another faint. Nathan gathered her into his arms before she could.

  “You’re safe now,” he said into her hair stroking his hands over her back.

  Shakira clung to him, winding her arms around his waist and burying her face in his neck. She took deep breaths of his comfortingly masculine scent to calm her stomach and nerves. She shut her eyes in a bid to block out the image Gates. His face shimmered at the back of her eyes before it gradually faded as her pulse calmed down. It was replaced by the face of her savior. Randall, Nathan had called him. The name didn’t ring a bell but she was sure that she’d seen him before.

  Somewhere. Somewhere. Somewhere…in this building.

  Her head snapped back away from Nathan as she asked, “Does he live here?”

  “Who?”

  “Randall,” she clarified. “Does he live here?” If he did, it would make it so much easier to thank him.

  Nathan’s head dropped and his gaze darted away from hers as he said, “No, he doesn’t live here. He’s my private investigator.”

  His words were like an icy bucket of water on a cold day. They splashed some more hard reality in her life, like the fact that she shouldn’t be cuddling up to him after what he’d done…what he’d been doing. Shakira completely drew away from him as she stared at him with accusing eyes. Nathan’s eyes met hers shame and guilt shining brilliantly in their blue depths. The emotions there looked so real.

  Don’t be a fool. He’d fooled her once, twice, thrice…she wasn’t falling for it this time.

  If Randall was Nathan’s investigator then…“Where’s my purse?” she suddenly asked. “Where’s my purse?”

  Silent, Nathan reached behind him and turned back with the black leather receptacle in his hands. Shakira snatched it quickly. With an unsteady hand, she unzipped it. Nathan stared at her as she raked shaky fingers through its contents, probing for her target.

  Wallet. Phone. Makeup pouch. Keys.

  Where the hell is it?

  Her pulse began to beat an unsteady tune as she explored the corners. When her fingers finally touched the small rectangular piece of plastic, her breath collapsed in her lungs as if she’d just raced a marathon and won it. It was still there. She barely had enough time to savor her victory because right then the same cop called out, “You ready, Miss Dalton?”

  “Ready for what?”

  “We’d like you to check your room to see if anything is missing,” the cop explained. “Maybe we can figure out what Gates was looking for and why he attacked you.”

  She wanted to tell them that Gates hadn’t found what he was looking for because it was safe in her purse. But something told her to keep her peace – at least until she’d talked to Wayne. Shakira scooted higher up the couch and then swung her feet from it to the floor. Standing, she followed the cop to her bedroom, her purse clutched tightly in her hands and Nathan on her heels.

  There was another uniformed cop in the room but Shakira didn’t even notice him. Her room absorbed all her attention.

  It was in a shambles.

  It looked like a cyclone had thrashed through it. The bed was upturned and her beddings were on the floor. Her clothes, some still on her hangers, had been tossed haphazardly into the mess. Drawers had been pulled from their spaces in the closet and upended on the floor, their contents littering the beige carpet. A tube of foundation lay broken over her favorite shirt, its brown contents defacing the fabric, while the rest of her makeup, among other things, lay discarded all around her room.

  It was horrible.

  Shakira stared at the mess, distress jostling for space with her anger. The bastard had ruined her favorite shirt. If Randall hadn’t already shot him, she would’ve shot him just for that. Nathan must have misinterpreted her expression because he pressed a comforting palm at the base of her spine. Shakira stepped away from him.

  “Is anything missing?” the cop interrupted her murderous thoughts.

  “There nothing missing,” she s
aid, her voice clipped.

  “Are you sure?” the cop stared at her for a long moment. “You haven’t even looked through your things.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Well, we’re still going to need to pick through your things and see if we can get his prints.” The cop said, “You’re filing charges, right?”

  “Ye…” She paused and struggled through her thoughts. “I need to talk to my lawyer first.”

  She walked into the bathroom for some privacy. Slinging the strap of her bag around the tap, Shakira stared at her own image in the mirror. Apart from the vague haunted look in her eyes, she looked almost…normal. But she didn’t feel normal. It felt like her body, mind and emotions had been battered thoroughly by the events of the day. She sagged against the sink, propping her hands on its edge as she took deep breaths.

  “Shakira…” Nathan’s concerned voice and knock pierced the door. “…are you okay.”

  She didn’t answer. Instead she turned on the tap and the sound of rushing water filled the confined space. She cupped her palm under the tap, splashing some of the cold water over her face until its sting began to calm her shaky nerves. Finally when she was sure she could conduct a conversation without having a nervous breakdown she called Wayne.

  “Of course, we’re filing charges!” Wayne shrieked after she’d briefed him on the most pertinent details. He sounded so angry, Shakira was half afraid he was going to hop on a plane from Boston right then and come give Gates his own brand of justice. “The bastard just bought his admission ticket to SingSing. I bet he’s the one who killed Charlie – so he could get his hands on the thumb drive.”

  “You think so?” Shakira’s mind hadn’t even skipped that far head. But now that she thought about it…it was completely possible. Gates, Fenton and Charlie were probably in league in the match-fixing scam and the thumb-drive had some kind of evidence. She collapsed onto the toilet seat with the weight of her suppositions.

  “Very likely,” Wayne said. “You need to get that thumb-drive to the cops.”