“The hell you will! You’re not a SWAT team, Sam. Shooting at the gun range with your dad is not the same as shooting people.”
Sam gives Tyler a meaningful look, and Tyler wraps a hand around my arm.
“If we don’t cover you, you’ll never make it out of here,” Sam shouts above the noise.
“We could just wait. The FBI will be here any minute,” I shout back.
Sam grabs my chin so I can’t look away, so I’ll take what he’s saying seriously.
“No one can get in as long as we’re in a firefight. And unless Dani has some kind of miracle up her sleeve, our side is running out of bullets. If there’s any hope for any of us getting out, you have to go now.”
I try to shake my jaw loose from his grip. “I’m not leaving without y—”
He kisses me hard, cutting me off.
“Go,” he says, nodding at Tyler. Then, despite my struggling, Tyler hauls me behind the next row of crates before stopping long enough to shake me.
“They’ll follow us out. But they can’t leave until we’re out of their way.”
“What makes you think I’m going anywhere with you?”
“I came here to save you, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”
I yank my arm out of his grip. “I came here to save Sam, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”
“By getting shot?” He backs me against the crate, his nose an inch from mine. “Because that’s all you’ll accomplish by going back.”
“Why are you even here? You could have just left it alone! I know I mean nothing to you, but you could have kept out of my way.”
“You mean everything to me. And that means I do whatever it takes to save you. Even if saving you means losing you.”
I stop arguing, but I’m breathing hard and glaring at him.
Tyler’s gaze softens. “Sam is not the only one who loves you,” he says.
Should I believe him? Does it even matter now? I can’t go back to the Julep I was before I found out he was double-crossing me.
“Fine, I’ll go,” I say, straightening. “But if you betray me again, I will demolish you.”
“Deal,” he says, relieved.
I didn’t plan for things to get this dire. Sam was supposed to leave. He was supposed to be safe. And Dani. She didn’t ask for any of this. What if she dies tonight? How do I deal with that? She saved my life.
Tyler’s solid presence ahead of me is the only anchor I have at the moment, and despite my faith in him being shaken to its foundation, I reach out to touch his back. He looks over his shoulder and gives me a reassuring smile. Then he takes my hand gently and leads me through the door.
As soon as we step into the frigid night, I hear a crack and feel the wet on my face. For a split second, I think it’s tears I didn’t notice I was leaking. But then Tyler seems to hang suspended midstep for an interminable moment before dropping boneless to the ground. I wipe my face with sudden dread and, as I feared, my hand is stained red. I look down at Tyler’s too-still body. His eyes are open and vacant, and blood is pooling under his head.
I blink, unable to process at first what my eyes are telling me. It takes several moments for Tyler’s death to sink in. Tyler’s death. And when it does, a tsunami of anguish slams into me. I collapse next to him, tugging his arm and shouting his name, my voice sounding to my own ears as if it were coming from down a well. I don’t know what I expect. That he’ll get up and shake it off? That the movement will wake me up from a nightmare?
My vision starts to speckle and I feel light-headed. But before I can tumble into oblivion, I am yanked up and away from where Tyler is lying, staring vacantly from a puddle of his blood. I can’t seem to tear my gaze away from him, even as my captor jerks my arm painfully.
“Do you have any idea how hard it is to find corruptible officials?” Petrov spits at me.
“You … you killed him.” Get it together, Julep, or you’re next. “Why did you kill him?”
“I only need one body shield, and you were the smaller, easier-to-maneuver option.”
I hammer through my nauseated, terrified haze enough to notice unmarked black SUVs filling the side parking lot. He’s noticed them, too, of course, and he digs the business end of his silencer between my shoulder blades.
I follow his prompting, blind and stumbling, trying to gather my wits before I lose my life. I have only one shot left now, my nuclear option, and there’s pretty much no chance I’ll survive it. But if he makes it where I think he’s headed, he’ll have no further need of me, and I’m dead just the same. So if I have to go down, I’m damn well taking the murdering bastard with me.
I wipe Tyler’s blood from my cheek and wish like hell he had never interfered, that I had never met him, that he’d never talked to me that day in the hallway. I gather my anger at him for betraying me, for fooling me, for dying, and fuse it into a ball of rage I can focus on to get myself through this.
We’ve passed the trees and reached the docks. An unassuming motorboat bobs serenely in its mooring. Petrov points me toward it and I slow my steps, searching for something to delay us.
“A boat’s a good idea,” I croak past the knives in my chest. If I want even a chance at taking him down, I’ll need to grift for all I’m worth. “It’ll take them time to rally the resources to chase you. It’s not how I’d do it—”
“Shut up,” he says, digging the .45 deeper into my back. “Whatever trick you’re planning isn’t going to work.”
“No trick,” I say, my mouth dry. “I admire your preparedness, that’s all.”
“You knew, didn’t you? That I’d have an escape plan.”
“Well, it makes sense. Picking property on the edge of a canal is a tell.”
Petrov considers this, allowing me to restrict our pace to a crawl. “You set some kind of trap.”
I keep silent, letting him process the seeds I’ve planted. I put a hand in my pocket, moving my arm as imperceptibly as possible. With luck, the shadows will help obscure the shift. My fingers bypass Sam’s pocketknife and close on the small kitchen timer Murphy gave me, harmless-looking enough to leave during a pat-down. But with slight modifications—
“No, you just want me to think there’s a trap. Like the evidence.”
We slow to a stop and my grip tightens on the timer. I’ll only have one shot at this, and it’s not going to be a very good shot.
He hesitates, eyeing the boat with suspicion. Spotlights click on in the parking lot, lighting up the night like it’s noon. They’re all pointed at the warehouse, but it’s enough to spook Petrov into action.
He sets foot on the boat just as the engine explodes into a fireball. The blast knocks Petrov back several feet, but alas, safely onto the dock rather than into the water or a wooden stake. Murphy was right—the timer’s delay was too unpredictable. I should have risked the cell phone.
Plan C it is, then.
Petrov jumps up, leveling his gun at me before I can run. My hands are trembling so much I can barely pull the knife out of my pocket.
“Bitch!” he screams at me.
There are shouts behind me. No doubt the feds have noticed Murphy’s light show. Whether they can get to me before Petrov pulls the trigger is doubtful.
“You, me, and sixty-three,” I whisper, and whip the knife out of my pocket, aiming for an eye. But not having any experience in any kind of martial art, I only manage to jab his shoulder.
He howls in pain and knocks me down. My elbow hits the deck hard as I land, which sends the knife flying. With a plop, my only hope of self-preservation falls into the water.
Petrov stanches the blood with one hand while taking aim at me with the other. I close my eyes and think of my dad, of Sam, of Tyler.
“Freeze!” Mike shouts from too far away. He won’t make it in time.
Then Dani leaps onto the dock, the boat fire behind her casting her in shadow. She lands between me and Petrov, her gun pointed at his heart.
Neve
r taking her eyes off him, she bends down just enough to help me to my feet.
“Are you hurt, milaya?” she asks softly.
“No, I’m not hurt,” I say, the trembling in my hands infecting the rest of me. I’m destroyed.
Petrov snarls a few guttural words at Dani. But instead of answering, Dani shoots him in the chest. He collapses to the ground, dropping his gun, his fingers curled into claws. She steps a pace closer and kicks his gun into the canal. Then she aims the barrel of her gun at his head.
“Dani, don’t!” I hear myself say.
She stands still, not acknowledging that she’s heard me, though the stiffness in her shoulders suggests that she has. She shifts the gun slightly and fires again, its roar followed by the sound of wood splintering. Petrov cowers away from the shrapnel, and I breathe a sigh of relief. Dani lowers her gun but doesn’t holster it. Her expression is calm, but her eyes are an ocean of loathing.
I sink to my knees and grab the edge of the dock, losing what’s left of the diner eggs over the side of it. When I pull myself back up to sitting, Dani is gone.
THE FINAL SCORE
Sam is sitting on the back bumper of an ambulance, a gray wool blanket wrapped around his shoulders, when Mike leads me back to the parking lot. A tidal wave of relief crashes against the flood of pain and terror filling me, and I throw myself at him, bawling like a baby.
He drops the blanket and pushes me back to arm’s length, his face filled with worry.
“My god, Julep, you look like you’ve been through the Texas Chainsaw Massacre.”
I tell him about Tyler through hiccupping sobs, punctuated by a confessional litany of apologies.
He pulls me close, warming my hair with shushing noises. “There was nothing you could do.”
“I could have forced him to go back,” I say.
“Then we’d all be dead,” Sam says. “When Petrov left the fight to follow you, his thugs lost interest and took off. The FBI caught them, of course, but if they hadn’t run, they’d have won.”
“Still,” I whisper, my sobs quieting but the tears still streaming.
I close my eyes and Tyler’s there. A slideshow of smiles, touches, and blood. No sound track, just sirens. And guilt—an everglade of guilt.
“When I heard the explosion, I was so afraid you’d …”
I press my face into his chest and feel him flinch.
“What is it?” I ask, exploring his chest with my fingers, searching for wounds.
“It’s nothing,” he says. “I’m just banged up. No permanent damage.”
“I’m so sorry, Sam. I should have gone to the police when you told me to.”
“You had your reasons,” he says. “I’m just glad the feds are here now.”
I shudder at how close I came to losing him, too.
“Listen, Julep—about your dad …”
The look on his face sends what’s left of my adrenaline surging.
“Where is he?” I whisper.
But before Sam can answer, a team of paramedics rolls an occupied gurney out of the warehouse. The IV bag and oxygen mask obscure the patient’s identity from this distance, so I rush over to see for myself.
“Miss, step back,” says the medic closest to me. But I burst past him, bumping him out of the way as I scoop up my dad’s hand. I squeeze it hard and he turns his head, opening his eyes and smiling at me. With his other hand, he pulls off the mask.
“You’re … grounded,” he says, wheezing.
In my head, I’m saying I love you and How could you? over and over, but nothing comes out of my mouth.
“I’m going to be fine, Jules. It’s all going to be okay,” he says, returning my squeeze. We’ve reached the ambulance without my noticing. They’re lifting the gurney into the back, and our hands are coming apart. I try to climb up after him, but the medics push me back.
“I’m family,” I manage to croak, but they don’t listen.
“Let us do our jobs,” says the EMT who told me to step back. “We’re taking him to Mercy. You can meet us there.”
“But—”
Then they’re closing the doors, and Sam’s pulling me away. I sag into him again. My dad’s alive. Dani must have seen Petrov shoot him and assumed he was dead.
Dad’s alive. Tyler’s dead. My brain is short-circuiting with too many conflicting emotions. I have no idea how much time has passed when I finally realize I’m sniveling all over Sam, and I start pressing myself back together into some semblance of a human being. Sam hands me a tissue he got from who knows where.
“You okay?” he asks.
I nod, gripping the tissue like a lifeline. “Yeah, I’ll be all right. I just need to”—I make a gesture like a ball rolling down a hill—“you know, process. You okay?”
“Not even remotely,” he says. “But I’ll manage as long as I know you’re all right.”
I lean my head against his shoulder, exhausted.
“Agent Ramirez isn’t disclosing much. You cut a deal with him?” Sam asks.
I nod again.
“What about St. Agatha’s? Foster care?”
I don’t answer directly, not wanting to face my future now that I actually have one. I didn’t dwell on the consequences of my crazy plan when I was crafting it, because my coming out alive wasn’t likely. But I’d already lost everything when Mike ratted me out to the dean anyway. I just didn’t know it at the time.
“There’s more to Mike,” I say, feeling compelled to get it off my chest while I still can. So I tell him everything—about Mike the PI, how he claimed Sam had hired him, how I stupidly kept his secret out of misplaced loyalty and a grievous lapse in judgment. I apologize again, and Sam responds with a heavy sigh and silence. Then Mike makes his way over to us as if his ears have been burning.
“All right, Julep,” Mike says, flipping open a black FBI notebook. “Bad guys have been dealt with. Time for your statement.”
I pull the pen from my hair and hand it to Mike. “Will Petrov live?”
“Hard to say. Chest wounds are dicey,” he says, taking the pen from me. “But if he does make it, we’re going to need more than the testimony of a con man and a couple of teenage reprobates to put him away. Where’s your dad’s evidence? You said it would be here.”
“There isn’t any,” I say, my head as heavy as a boulder. Exhaustion settles into my every sinew, muscle, and bone.
“What?” Mike says.
So I tell Mike about the rose, about the spectacular lack of anything useful my dad left me.
Mike tucks his notebook under his arm and rubs his forehead. “What are you doing here, Seward?” he asks.
“I posed as a computer technician so I could get a look at their files, see if there was anything useful.”
“And was there?”
“Petrov figured it out before I could get anywhere. I can look at the computers now, though.”
“We have analysts for that. And you’d better pray they find something, or I’m handing each of you over to the prosecuting attorney, and probably the Witness Protection Program.” He turns a baleful eye on me. “If you think foster care is bad, wait till they assign you a marshal.”
I shrug, taking Sam’s hand and leading him away from the ambulance.
“Hey, I’m not finished with you. I still need your statement.”
“You’re holding it,” I say.
Mike’s expression morphs from confused to shocked to excited. We leave him holding the pen with a goofy smile on his face as he barks for one of his analysts over the walkie.
“You recorded the whole thing on a spy pen?” Sam says.
“Sometimes the most obvious method is the one they least expect,” I say. “I took a chance.”
“If there were a standardized test for wicked genius, you’d score in the ninety-ninth percentile. You know that, right?”
I swallow against an upwelling of guilt. “All the evidence in the world doesn’t undo what I did to Tyler.”
I lead
Sam over to a knot of police officers, nurses, social workers, and bewildered Ukrainians. The social workers are trying to calm the girls, a couple of translators flitting from group to group to help with communication. The nurses are examining them, handing out blankets and writing on clipboards, while the officers make notes in small notebooks and occasionally jabber into their walkies.
A familiar brown figure detaches from a group of girls babbling anxiously to a translator. “When you asked me all those questions about how we choose foster families, I assumed you were asking me for yourself—not ninety-three illegal aliens.”
“Ninety-three survivors,” I correct her. “Are there really ninety-three?”
“Yes,” Ms. Fairchild confirms. “None of whom speak English, by the way. You could have warned me, so I’d have been more prepared.”
“I figured Agent Ramirez would fill you in when he called you.”
“He did. But do you have any idea how hard it is to track down multiple Ukrainian translators in the middle of the night?”
“You said I could suggest housing for them,” I say.
“I said you could suggest a family for yourself—Wait, you have ninety-three homes already lined up?” She raises her brown eyebrows in disbelief.
“I have a hundred and twenty, give or take,” I say. “And some could probably take more than one.”
“How could you possibly—?”
“I’m calling in a few favors,” I say. “Have you got a place for them all till I can arrange it? A day at most.”
“Yes.” She’s looking at me like I’ve grown a second head.
“I’ll be in touch,” I say and pull Sam in the direction of the SUVs.
Sam turns to me as soon as we’re out of earshot. “How could you possibly have a hundred and twenty families that owe you favors? I’ve known you since fourth grade. I’d remember if you had that many people on the hook. Are you conning her?”
“Not a con. I actually tried the truth this time. Seems to be working so far, but it’ll cost me.”
“What do you mean? Cost you how?”
I pull open the door to one of the SUVs and climb in. It’s cold and I want out of this wind. If the suits have a problem with it, they can arrest me. After a moment’s hesitation, Sam follows me in and shuts the door. The SUV smells like old cigarettes and aftershave.
Trust Me, I'm Lying Page 22