Against the Dark

by Carolyn Crane

It’s all Angel had ever wanted, but this was the closest she’d ever gotten—helping others find it. That was what a good designer did.

  Beauty is only skin deep; ugly cuts clear to the bone.

  She shook her dad’s words out of her head. He loved her, and he never meant for the ugly part to apply to her, but she felt so guilty for her choices and all the people she’d hurt. Her folks worked long hours to pull themselves up by their bootstraps, their chanclas, and she’d thrown it in their faces. Thank goodness for her brother, Hector, a star lawyer. One kid for them to be proud of, one kid not ugly clear to the bone.

  Lisa rearranged the items to look at them in a new way. They discussed how the mood of the lighting would affect the choices, and Angel pulled up some images on her notebook.

  She nodded and smiled while Lisa looked them over and commented, but really she was thinking about the man from the night before. The insistent force with which he pulled her up to him lived in her body even now, along with the luscious feel of his lips against hers. He’d treated her as if he knew her already, as if he had her already. Arrogant, presumptuous, reckless.

  And it had excited the hell out of her. It was because he was off limits, that’s all. Bad boyfriend radar pointing the way toward pure forbidden pleasure.

  Even the ragged sound of his inhale as he broke away from their kiss had a sexy, masculine desperation. In thirty seconds he’d taken over her body, turned her on, and stripped her of her gun.

  Lisa went back to the swatches and chose the green, as Angel knew she would. It was time to go to the lighting showroom. Angel picked up her white purse, which popped against her fire-engine red suit. She’d put on her most elegant outfit this morning, as if that would erase what she’d been the night before. It had felt so natural to melt into the shadows, cracking a safe in the dark. Really, decorating homes was a background business, too—setting the stage for somebody else’s life.

  They left in her red BMW convertible and headed up the surface streets to a lighting outlet. She’d bought the car with design money—she’d gotten rid of all the diamonds and accounts.

  Too little, too late.

  She still remembered the look her parents and brother had given her when she drove into Parker Gables for that Thanksgiving in such a nice car. Like she couldn’t have gotten it honestly.

  They’d forgiven her with their heads, but not with their hearts.

  She could hardly blame them. She felt the exact same way.

  Angel thought about the diamonds, the way they’d shone when Macy spilled them out into her palm, and how she had burned to hold them, too, to feel their cool weight.

  If Angel could trace their jewel thievery career to one formative event, it was them finding the InStyle magazine that showed the woman wearing the Contessa Herron sapphires.

  And not just any woman—this was a photo spread about European royalty. She and Macy and White Jenny would take turns checking it out of the juvie hall library. They’d stare at it endlessly, the image of those blue jewels on a lady’s creamy pale neck. You couldn’t see her face, just the bodice of her blue gown, the blurred chandeliers, and people dancing in the background. The lady in the photo had brought a gloved hand to her neck, showing off the sapphire necklace, bracelet, and ring all in one shot. Everything in the photo was dreamy, really, except the jewels, like knives of brilliance cutting through the world.

  Angel remembered staring at it, dreaming of those jewels, though it wasn’t just the jewels, it was the whole thing, that scene of light and elegance and beauty. If she let herself, she could still connect to the fierceness of the longing she felt when she looked at the photo. She could still remember crying angry tears into her pillow. The dream of having such beauty for her own wasn’t a dream of hope; it was a dream of rage.

  She and Lisa arrived at the lighting showroom. Angel suggested modern, simple pendant lighting above the island.

  Lisa liked that idea. “I would love to see your place,” she said. “I bet it’s amazing.”

  “It’s actually very practical,” Angel confessed. “And I’m always changing it and trying new stuff out for clients.”

  “I wouldn’t be able see your inner beauty there?”

  “I’m afraid you’d have to settle for fresh baked cookies,” Angel joked.

  “Mmm,” Lisa said.

  Mmm? Did Lisa actually want to hang out as friends, or was this just a client thing? Angel had been so tight with Macy and White Jenny for so long, she almost didn’t know how to make girlfriends. In the past five years since she’d gone straight she’d felt awfully lonely. She’d tried to socialize with Macy and White Jenny at first, but it was awkward and difficult, especially after Angel took her name off the joint bank accounts they were holding for old age. Her friends became like distant satellites, orbiting around, but rarely seen. Until last night.

  She checked her phone while Lisa checked the prices on the lighting. No messages. Macy was supposed to call when they made the trade to free Aggie.

  Five hours later, Angel stepped out of the elevator on the fourth floor of her building, all loaded up with groceries. She’d hit the supermarket after she’d dropped Lisa off. She deserved to indulge for once, and tonight she was making an elaborate caramelized onion and brie cheese pizza. Lisa had given her the recipe.

  She still hadn’t heard from Macy, which was annoying and upsetting. Was everything okay? Was Aggie out? Was she hurt? Did she need medical attention?

  She walked into her condo and slid the groceries onto the kitchen counter. She threw off her red jacket, kicked off her heels, and grabbed her slippers from the cubby by the door.

  Her place was full of colorful lighting and jewel-toned rugs. The wallpaper was her own design—wildly enlarged photographs of flowers in a pale duotone. The seating was bright and plush and comfy—a neo-island look. She was thinking about putting some of the pieces together for a model home job.

  She opened the curtains to take in her ocean view, squinting at the sudden brightness. It was April; the sun would set after dinner—in a blaze of reds and oranges, from the looks of the sky.

  And then she froze.

  She could feel eyes burning into her back. She wasn’t alone.

  She took a deep breath. It could only be one thing: she hadn’t gotten all the blood from the scene. Borgola had run her DNA. He’d cracked her records and sent one of his notorious thugs.

  She enjoyed the sky a moment longer, with the thought that everything might be taken from her now. Her family. Sunsets. Pizzas for one.

  Ironic. It was always that one last job that got you in the movies, too.

  “Angel Ramirez.”

  She recognized the voice. Him. In the old days she would’ve had her gun in her ankle holster beneath her pants leg and moved to pull it. Not anymore.

  She stood there for a second longer. Then she turned.

  He lounged in her velvet wingback chair, exuding confidence and danger, long legs crossed casually. He just sat there, all hot and luscious with honey-colored hair and cheekbones that models would die for. She had the thought that if he wasn’t holding a Glock—tipped sideways on the armrest for the moment—you might think he’d stepped out of the pages of GQ. He shifted the angle of his head minutely and his eyeglasses reflected the light outside, making it look like he had bright squares for eyes for a second. Though even with the sun in his eyes, she was sure he could shoot straight if he had to, and the big gun could do a lot of damage.

  “Sitting in the target’s home with a gun,” she said. “Cliché on, my friend.” She’d go down fighting. And she wouldn’t give up her girls no matter what. She’d die whether she cooperated or not—she was under no illusions about how Borgola’s guys worked.

  He flicked his eyes down at her right ankle. “You armed?”

  “I’m in my own place, why would I be armed?”

  “For occasions like this?”

  “Well, I’m not.”

  “Come here.”

  The co
mmand brought her back to the night before. That kiss. She wished she could take it back.

  He sighed and stood. “You’ll excuse me if I don’t believe you. I just want to see if you’re armed, and then we’re going to have a conversation.” He closed the distance between them.

  “Frisk me, then.” She held her arms forward and slightly up, positioning herself to give him an eye jab, a highly disabling blow few expected.

  He smiled. “You know, in some martial arts systems that’s the opening fighting stance.” He grabbed a hand, placed it on her head, then her other. “Fingers locked.”

  She was aware suddenly of how translucent her white shirt was—it wasn’t designed to be seen without her jacket on. You could see her lacy bra underneath. He didn’t seem to notice. He walked behind her, patted her thighs, her ankles.

  “Where’s your pistol?” He used her word for it sarcastically. Because they both knew it wasn’t a pistol.

  “Desk drawer.” She signaled with her eyes.

  He went over, grabbed it, and returned to his seat, holding both guns now, one in each hand. “You played it well, I’ll give you that. I even felt sorry for you.” This last he spat out.

  He didn’t feel sorry for her anymore.

  With his right hand he lifted his shirt a few inches, flashing a swath of six-pack, complete with a honey-colored arrow of hair heading downward. He slid her piece into his belt, adjusting it just so.

  Both hands occupied, gun not pointed at her, attention away.

  This was her chance—she flew at him.

  He was up like a flash and had her arm twisted behind her.

  Okay, he was paying attention. The way he held her killed her shoulder.

  “I know my washboard abs are hard to resist,” he said.

  “I’m not going alive,” she said.

  “You’ll go however I say.” He bent her arm harder, ensuring it would break if she pulled away. His steely strength surprised her—immovable as a mountain, this guy.

  “Screw that.” She tried a backwards head butt that didn’t connect, then she rammed her foot into his knee.

  That did connect.

  He grunted and suddenly she was face first on the ground and he was handcuffing her.

  Crap.

  She had to warn Macy and White Jenny. She’d been found in less than a day—they had seriously underestimated Borgola’s resources. And what about Aunt Aggie?

  He yanked her up. “On your knees.”

  She complied, glaring. He sat back down in the chair. Kneeling in front of some Rambo—this was never how she wanted to go. And she’d kissed him and liked it. It was almost the kiss she regretted most.

  And how had she missed blood?

  “I just have one question—”

  “Cole’s the name. Cole Hawkins.”

  “That’s not what I wanted to know.”

  He grinned. “A spot on the wallpaper,” he said.

  A torrent of anger flooded her. She should’ve thought to look for blood there. She had to get word to the girls. A simple text—Get out. But they wouldn’t, not without her. Their old connection transcended everything. She wanted to hit something. “You will not take any of us alive,” she said. “And that’s all I have to say.”

  “You’re alive now, aren’t you? And I’d say this qualifies as taking you.” He strolled casually over to her bookshelf and lifted up her safecracking tool. “Quite a playlist you have on here. I didn’t find any ABBA, though.”

  “Screw off.”

  “Is this sonar based? How much storage do you have in this thing?”

  She glared.

  He put it down. “The good news is that you have a choice right now. I’m offering you a deal where you get to choose what happens to you. A choice of two doors, just like in the game shows.”

  She said nothing. She wouldn’t like the choices.

  “Behind door number one, I bring you and your cohorts to Borgola and let him deal with you.”

  She snorted. “You think I’ll help you find my girlfriends?”

  “My guys already have them. Once I had your records, it wasn’t hard to put the three of you together. Now, I’m not finished describing door number one. I bring you to Borgola. You’ll all go down bad. He only wants your hands, but I think he’d be pleased for me to subvert that order when he meets you all.”

  Her heart lurched but she refused to look away.

  “You’ll all have a bad time with Borgola,” he said.

  “I’ll say you were in on it.”

  He flicked his hair aside, all the better to see her through his burning gray eyes. “You do that. That’ll be effective when I’m the guy who brings you in with the stones.”

  “A guy like Borgola is paranoid. And here you are giving me choices. It means you’ve got an angle. You think Borgola doesn’t sense something like that?”

  He gave her a new look. He didn’t expect that, maybe.

  For some odd reason she thought about what Lisa would say if she heard her talking like this. She’d worked so hard to build that life. She’d actually made a few people feel good. “So you have the stones,” she said.

  “Your friends were helpful in that respect. With some cajoling.”

  Angel sat, crushing onto her feet. “You better not have hurt those girls.”

  “They’re fine. Now, you want to hear the alternative to me turning you all over or not?”

  “Can’t wait,” she said.

  “Door number two, you help me.”

  She snorted. “And then you’ll turn me into the perv?”

  “No,” he said. “I’m going to return the diamonds. Then you’ll steal them back. Along with a few other things.”

  “He’ll have doubled down on security.”

  “Exactly.” He went back to the chair and sat again in that loose, elegant way that masked the strength she’d felt.

  “It seems foolish. I can’t think of a worse time to rip him off than right now.”

  “That’s for me to worry about.”

  Angel narrowed her eyes.

  “Look, you want to know why a thing is, or you can’t quite get behind it. I’m that way, too,” he began. He would explain it to her; he wasn’t completely unreasonable. This heartened her. “Here’s the deal. Borgola’s bedroom safe isn’t his only one. There’s another safe in that place, a secret main safe that I haven’t been able to locate, and that’s where the stuff I want is. Now that you’ve broken his bedroom safe, what in the world will he do with the diamonds when he gets them back?”

  “He’ll put them in the secret safe,” Angel said.

  “That’s right, he’ll put them in the secret safe. And I’ll track them there. I get you in and you crack it.”

  She squinted. “What makes you think I did the cracking?”

  “Come on.” He flicked his eyes at the table where her tool sat. “And you’re the type.”

  “Safecrackers have a type?”

  “Mild mannered. A regular life. Your life looks pretty legit compared to your partners, but that’s crackers for you. They’re never the head bangers, the leaders. Crackers are all about the layers. They’re the consummate observers who hang back and look and listen. It’s what you’re trying with me. You’re looking for your way out, but I’m a fucking Chinese finger trap—the more you resist, the tighter I squeeze and the more unpleasant things get for you.”

  “Why don’t you just crack it?” she said. “You and your people are so powerful as to crack juvie records and you can’t crack a safe?”

  “You know why.”

  Yes, she knew why. Her awesome Fenton Furst-given abilities. For the second time in 24 hours she wished she didn’t have them.

  “Decide.” He came to stand in front of where she kneeled, letting her feel his height, his power over her. She was nearly eye-level with his cock—a sexual position in most any circumstance. “I’m just looking for you to open the safe,” he added, showing her he’d thought it, too, maybe wanting to show
his gentlemanly stripes. “Me or Borgola? Who do you take your chances with? And before you decide, I should tell you that, as an added bonus to door number two, we’re handling Aunt Aggie. We’re handling that as a courtesy for you helping us.”

  “Handling it.”

  “Freeing her. Your friendly hoods were raising their demands, you know. They wanted more. But they won’t once we’re through.”

  “Who is we?”

  “Decide. You and your friends and beloved Aunt Aggie, who I’m picturing as an African American Aunt May, by the way, get to live if you say yes. Or you all get to meet Mr. Funpants.”

  “And I just believe you on all this?”

  “Yes, Ms. Ramirez. We’re two professionals trading favors. If all goes well, you get to come home.”

  He was clearly the best of two bad options, but there was something she didn’t quite trust.

  “Look, I don’t have time to fuck around.” It was there she heard an edge of desperation in his words. A man up against something bigger than him.

  “Are you his competition or something?”

  “Decide,” he said.

  It was then that the craziest thought hit her—her radar hadn’t been off after all. He was self-destructive just as she’d thought, a rival living under Borgola’s nose. Which made him less dangerous than the typical Borgola security guard.

  But more dangerous to her.

  “How are you getting me in?”

  “Good. Questions. Shows interest. You’re my new girlfriend. We’re allowed to keep girls and dogs in the barracks. This female thing really is convenient. As you know.”

  “And what do you think Borgola does when you show up with the rocks? Oh, look what I found. He wants hands? You won’t have hands.”

  “It’s handled, honey.”

  A chill went over her. “Seriously?”

  “Are we a go?”

  “If I talk to Macy and Jenny and they’re okay.”

  He uncuffed her hands and gave her a phone. “This is a limited time offer.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Cole wasn’t easy to fool, and the fact that she’d succeeded in doing just that the night before bothered him to no end. Okay, maybe bothered wasn’t the word—more needled him. Perhaps even whipped him into a lather. He’d taken her gun, held her listening device in his hand, questioned her. ABBA indeed.