Semblance

by Chris E. Saros

  Go, Adam mouthed, gesturing with his gun for him to run, but Drake shook his head, taking a step closer.

  “Get out of here!” Adam yelled. “Find cover!”

  Drake bit his lip, hesitating. He almost didn’t listen, his entire being now fully yearning to run back, to do anything it took to keep the only man who had ever gotten to know him, the real him, out of danger.

  A bullet struck the ground at his feet, flinging up bits of debris, triggering him into action. In a single dive, he flung himself off the road and into the shallow ditch. It wasn’t much cover, but he would take what he could get. In a low crouch, he ran until he was behind the power box.

  More gunshots were fired as another black SUV careened down the service drive, an arm stretched out the window shooting blindly. Drake watched as Adam hugged the car door to him and Craig pulled himself up from the pavement to crouch next to him, and Drake was surprised about the relief he felt for that man.

  But the relief was short-lived as the injured man from the damaged car jumped out of the wreckage and opened fired on the agents. As they kept their heads down, the SUV slid to a stop, doors opening with more men with guns coming out.

  Drake’s breathing faltered as he watched the swarm of men descend on the crouching, outnumbered agents. Banging his head against the metal box, he cursed his helplessness. He didn’t have a weapon, and he didn’t have cover outside of the stupid metal box that would do him absolutely no good once those men finished the agents, then came after him. He couldn’t do anything. He was going to have to watch.

  He was going to have to watch while Adam was shot right in front of him, and he couldn’t do a damn thing to stop it.

  Rage engulfed him even as his throat closed and tears filled his eyes.

  He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t let this happen. He had to do something.

  Just as he was about to scream “fuck it!” at the world and run to Adam and hold him until they were both shot down in a blaze of glory, he heard the sound of salvation.

  Sirens blared in the near distance. Help was on the way. Finally, they were getting that backup they desperately needed.

  The men who had just exited their car glanced around, searching for the direction of the sirens. The spinning reds, whites, and blues sped toward them. The men, seeing the cavalry, hopped back into their SUV and peeled out, tearing down the road in a flurry of burnt rubber and thrown pebbles.

  Drake collapsed against the cool metal, letting the box hold him for moment. He let the entire situation sink in and come together. The new “Scotty,” Adam with a gun, continued to check over his partner now that the immediate danger was gone. Drake watched him and swallowed the bile in his throat. The man could handle himself, he was good under pressure, and he did not need Drake to protect him. Unfortunately, Drake couldn’t protect anyone anymore. At least, he couldn’t protect them by being around them.

  Drake watched the agents until he couldn’t watch anymore. It was now or never. The police vehicles were almost upon them, and Drake knew that once they arrived, his chance was gone. If he was going to leave, he needed to do it now. Drake hoped Adam would understand. Hoped the man would let him do what he needed to do so it could be over. At least over for Drake. He had spent his life working toward this, and he couldn’t allow himself to be taken down before he could at least put a dent in the cartel.

  Setting his jaw, Drake pushed away from the metal box. Shoving the threatening guilt aside, he took two steps back, then with one last parting glance, he turned and ran as fast as he could, heading toward the trees, making his grand getaway.

  Chapter 26

  THE JOURNEY back to his condo was a long one. By the time he reached the parking lot of his small community, it was dark. He pulled his stolen car into a spot a building over and watched the shadows play across the sitting vehicles.

  It was stupid to return to his condo. It was a bad move; he should have taken the car as far as he dared before ditching it, then disappeared. But he never claimed to be a smart man. Shady as fuck, but smart? No, he’d never claimed that.

  If he was being honest with himself, he knew that leaving had never really even been a possibility. Leaving at this point would only consist of him running from the cartel and from the law, and Drake knew he wasn’t strong enough to live through both of those encounters. Even if the cartel didn’t kill him, his resolve would crumble when met with Adam. If Adam asked him to testify, he would do it. He would do anything for him. Against every fiber of his being, he would do anything for him, even if it meant dying for him. That’s why he had to do this, because Adam was his weakness, his Achilles’ heel. If he stayed, they would both be in danger, and he wouldn’t be any closer to taking down the cartel than he was at the moment.

  No, he wasn’t in the business of making smart moves any longer. No more undercover stealth, no more faking it. It was time to give that last sudden burst of speed because he could finally see the finish line.

  After exiting the vehicle, Drake closed the door softly and hunkered down. Sticking to the shadows, he moved as quietly as possible. Ducking from car to car, he crouched low, scuttling through the grass, and pulled himself to his feet behind a tree.

  From his new vantage point, he eyed the parking lot, searching for anything out of the ordinary. Not that he had been home that often—he worked long and unusual hours—but he had some idea of what was normal. Even though nothing stood out as an obvious tip-off, it didn’t mean they weren’t out there.

  They would be waiting for him. The cops and Boredega’s crew both would be looking for him. It was simply a matter of who found him first.

  Not seeing any unusual movement or blatant surveillance vehicles, Drake made his move, creeping along the building and reaching a small decorative garden that ran along the edge, supposedly giving the condo a homier aesthetic. He ducked under windows, keeping his body tight to the wall. He followed the path until he came underneath the fourth window. Stopping, he cautiously peeked up over the sill, keeping his head down and to the side, not wanting to become an easy target if someone was inside waiting for him.

  It was dark, the outside lighting reflecting in the glass and making it hard to see. Squinting, he tried to decipher any movement from inside. He moved his head from side to side, trying to look through the dim glare. No movement that he could tell. Definitely no lights on inside to help him see. Confident that the room was clear, he hefted a rock and took another watchful peek through his window.

  Still nothing.

  Using his shirt as protection and as a tool to help buffer the sound, he gripped the cloth-clad rock and then thrust it hard and quick against the windowpane. The glass splintered with a sharp crack. He hit the rock against the glass again, harder this time. Success. A few pieces of glass fell away into the room. Carefully, Drake used his shirtsleeve to dislodge a few more pieces, and then, mindful of the sharp edges, he reached inside and pulled the latch to unlock the window. Quietly and efficiently, he pushed the window up and hauled himself onto the ledge and through the opening. He twisted, landing lightly on his feet next to his bed. Dropping into a crouch, he listened in the darkness for any signs that he wasn’t alone.

  Keeping low and alert, he surveyed the room. He wasn’t a cleanly man when it came to household chores, but even he hadn’t left his room as trashed as it currently was. The floor was littered with clothes, books, papers…. Anything that had once been on any of his furniture was now strewn across the room. He hadn’t had much decoration on his walls, some posters that came with the bed set he had purchased, and those were torn off the walls and now resided on the floor.

  The nightstand was toppled to the side, drawer open, contents spilled carelessly. The lamp next to his bed lay broken next to it. His mattress was pushed to the side and looked like it had even been cut to search inside. Feeling his heart pulse as he took in the destruction around him, Drake felt under his bed. He searched blindly, fingers walking along the wood until he found what he was lookin
g for. Sucking in a breath of celebratory relief, he pulled his Glock 26 from where he had taped it. For the amount of damage they caused, and searching as they did, Drake was surprised that they hadn’t found the gun. Of course, it was possible that they had found it and they hadn’t cared, since they obviously weren’t looking for his weapon.

  Releasing the clip, Drake checked his rounds before sliding it back home. Making sure the safety was on, he tucked the weapon into the waistline of his jeans. Once the gun was secure, he pulled his shirt over his head, hissing as the cloth tore away from his skin. Shit. He hadn’t realized how torn up he had been. He winced as the shirt pulled newly scabbed flesh and coagulated blood along with it. His back stung, particularly where his shirt and his skin had been ground together enough to feel like they were fused. Since removing his shirt appeared to be in line with picking off a scab, Drake wasn’t surprised when he felt a new tingle of blood as it dripped down his skin. Sucking breath in through his teeth, he threw the shirt to the floor and inspected his wounds with tentative fingers.

  Adrenaline, the masked mistress. It always proved a double-edged sword. Sure, the hormones raged enough to keep you alive, or pull a car off a kid, or whatever it was they did. But the hormones also masked the pain and the fatigue. It kept them at bay until suddenly it wore off, slinking back into the night and leaving behind only the devastation in its wake.

  Seeing his wounds made everything more real, and now that the adrenaline was wearing off, Drake began to feel the pain, the throb of his skin and the ache in his abused muscles.

  Grabbing another shirt randomly from the floor, he managed to pull it on, very aware of each movement, feeling every ache and pain. Grunting softly, he settled the fabric into place over the gun still wedged in at his waist. Darting another look around, Drake longed for a drink. He searched the floor hoping that one of the items flung to the floor was a bottle of scotch. Unfortunately for him, he made it a point not to leave the bottle in his bedroom because once the bottle was next to the bed, the ability to deny being an alcoholic diminished.

  Giving up on that dream, Drake turned to his closet. The door was open, the clothes pulled from the hangers and strewn around his feet on the floor. Boxes of keepsakes, not that he had much, just clutter he’d managed to pick up through the years, were littered along the floor. Holding his breath, Drake stepped into the small room and looked toward the wall that housed his family. The wall was bare; only the nail that had held the frame was there. Drake’s breath hitched and he dropped to his knees, feeling along the piles on the floor for the frame.

  A light flared to life inside the room and Drake’s heart almost burst out of his chest. He spun on his knees and faced the doorway of the closet.

  “Come out, come out, wherever you are,” Natasha sang with a childish lilt from inside his bedroom. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

  Closing his eyes in frustration, Drake slowly stood. He couldn’t see Natasha since he was in the closet, but he could almost feel the weight of the crosshairs on him. Setting his shoulders, Drake clenched his jaw and moved toward the door, hands raised to shoulder level. He should have known that they would have still been in the house. Once he had seen the wreck of his room, he should have turned and left the same way he had come in. But he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t just leave. No, he refused to leave them behind.

  Sucking in a gulp of air and with the comfort of cold steel pressing against his back, Drake stepped out of the closet.

  Natasha stood waiting, shoulder resting casually on the doorframe, her leather-clad legs crossed, the propped foot tapping against the floor impatiently. In one hand, she held a dark pistol, a silencer attached, and in the other, she held a picture frame. Drake glared at her from just outside the closet.

  “Ah,” she said, her red lips curling into a smile. “There you are.”

  When she spoke, a man, also clad in all black, moved to stand next to her. He too had a weapon, and it pointed steadily at Drake. Drake stopped his approach when the other man appeared, wary of the gun.

  Natasha’s smile widened and she gestured at Drake with the pistol to come closer. “Now, don’t be shy,” she said, waving him closer. “Ryan here isn’t going to hurt you. Er, at least not yet. I won’t make promises I can’t keep.”

  “That’s big of you,” Drake quipped.

  Natasha’s laugh filled the room, causing Drake to grind his teeth as he continued his slow approach. Drake’s eyes shifted between the two figures in front of him. He quickly calculated his odds if he tried to run, and though he wasn’t much for math, even he could tell those odds were not in his favor. Even if he could duck behind his bed, or fling himself back out his window, he couldn’t guarantee they wouldn’t be able to get a shot off or two. If he tried to rush them, he would only be able to disarm one of them—that was also assuming that there weren’t any other goons in the hall. For the time being, Drake was stuck.

  “Natasha,” Drake said, his voice steady, belying his nerves. He nodded in mock greeting. “What brings you to my humble abode?”

  “Oh, Drakey, Drakey, such a handsome, brooding man. It’s almost too bad that it has to go down this way.” She clucked her tongue at him, leering. “We could have had such a great time.”

  Drake shrugged, his hands still palms up, facing outward. “Yeah, well,” he said, “I just didn’t see it working out between us.”

  Her smile seemed to brighten as Drake stopped mere feet away. She blinked at him innocently, her old act firmly in place. She sashayed around him to sit down on the bed. Drake turned with her, aware that the man hadn’t moved, and now he had one in front and one behind. He watched Natasha as she crossed her legs seductively, eyeing him suggestively. Then curling her tongue around her top lip, she winked at Drake before tilting her head to indicate the frame. Drake’s hackles rose as Natasha caressed her pistol along the edge of the picture. That photo was all he had left of his family from before they were ripped from him, and her filthy hands gripping even the frame was enough to ignite flames in the deepest part of him.

  “Look at you!” Her gaze returned to his face, the innocent wide eyes replaced with a pitch darkness that contradicted her melodic tone. “Such a cute little boy. You were so happy! Look at that smile.”

  Drake’s jaw clenched and unclenched as she continued to speak. It took all the willpower he possessed to keep from lunging at her. Instead he watched the gun as it traveled from family member to family member, before settling on Drake’s father.

  “Too bad Daddy hadn’t been able to mind his own business, huh?” She laughed, then with a flick of her wrist, tossed the frame at Drake’s feet. The glass cracked on impact, and Drake couldn’t control his flinch. The twists of the fractures ran along his family’s faces, distorting their image.

  “Your father took everything from me,” Drake managed through a jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached from the pressure. “Everything! Everyone I ever loved.”

  Drake started to bend down to pick up his shattered memory, but Natasha clicked her tongue at him and waved her gun to motion him to standing.

  “Huh-uh,” Natasha, still perched peacefully on the bed, showing teeth. “No, he hasn’t, not yet.” Her laugh sent a shiver down Drake’s spine. “Your little cop is still breathing. At least he still was the last time I checked. Of course, after that little ‘accident’ on the road, that could have changed by now.”

  “You leave Scotty out of this!” Drake snarled taking a menacing step forward.

  “Please.” Natasha gave a derisive snort. “We’ve had our eye on Special Agent Adam Graft since he stepped foot in this city.”

  Drake breathed through a skip in his heartbeat. “You knew?”

  Rolling her eyes, Natasha let her head fall back to stare at the ceiling. “Not much happens in the city that we don’t know about.”

  A Cheshire grin split her face, and she brought her sharp gaze back to Drake. “Except for you.”

  Her gun, seemingly forgotten in her ha
nd, very suddenly had him in its sights. Uncrossing her legs, Natasha sat up, elbows on knees steadying her aim. The lyrical quality of her words was gone, replaced with razor-sharp tones.

  “Daddy had his suspicions, but I could never figure you out. I thought maybe you were just stupid enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, but then that cop came around.” She stood up, her pistol never wavering. “What a shock it must have been for you two to learn about each other.” Her voice returned to its teasing lilt.

  “I have watched you two dance around each other for months. It was fun really, watching you, you totally unaware that he was working you while you drooled all over him.”

  Drake licked dry lips. “You’ll have to forgive me if I don’t see the humor.”

  “I don’t have to do anything,” Natasha snarled, razor blades back in place. “This isn’t what I thought I would find when I came to your place.” She pointed to the closet with her free hand. “I thought the cops had gotten to you. Sure. I thought that they’d used their little slut cop to make you work against us. But you didn’t need their help, did you? You’ve been working against us on your own all of this time.”

  “I’ve been doing everything I could to learn about Boredega and this fucking monstrosity of an organization since I was fourteen years old. My entire life has been devoted to bringing him down and everyone around him.”

  “Aw.” Natasha frowned mockingly, batting her eyelashes. “And you’ve only gotten this far?” Her smile resembled one of a spider as it watched a fly struggle against its web. “How very disappointing for you.”

  As the words hit him, Drake’s chest deflated. Neck rubber, his chin fell to his chest. As much as he’d learned and as much as he’d seen, he knew even less. He wasn’t the Punisher like he had thought himself to be.

  Drake’s gaze dropped to the floor, and he stared at his happy family smiling innocently back up at him. He closed his eyes, trying to rid himself of the disappointment. He didn’t do it. He didn’t avenge them; he wasn’t going to be able to avenge them. He had failed.