The Price of Grace

by Diana Muñoz Stewart

  The man’s eyes strayed to the spot. “You’ve got it, boss.”

  He walked away. Gracie watched him go. She exhaled a breath full of tension. Reason told her he was just what he seemed, but reason took a backseat to precaution after being shot at the other night.

  Someone was watching her. Someone who had known about Sunday night dinners with her family.

  John knew.

  She needed to update her security. Especially the back door and parking area. The front door to the club had a walk-through metal detector, facial recognition software—hooked up to the League’s servers and huge database of bad guys. And at night that door was manned by trained bouncers with military experience.

  A few weeks ago, heck, a few nights ago, all of that had seemed overkill. Now, it didn’t seem enough.

  A loud bam resounded through the club, and Gracie shot to her feet. Her hand snaked under her shirt to her side holster.

  Her heart pounding, she spun to face the noise. The worker who’d dropped the metal Statue of Liberty sculpture waved at her and apologized. She must’ve looked pissed off, because his boss started to berate him.

  Pulling her hand from her gun, Gracie waved away her contractor’s concern, then jumped out of her skin when her cell rang.

  Yikes. Tense much? She unhooked her phone from the belt looped through her jeans, looked at the screen, and thumbed Accept. “Hey, Victor.”

  “How’s my favorite red-headed vigilante?”

  A nervous, paranoid, worried wreck. “Thanks for returning my call. I need a favor.”

  “Uh-oh, that sounds serious. Like you’re going to ask me to put on a G-string and dance in public. You know I’ll only do that if it’s private. Me and you.”

  Victor flirted as much with women as he did with men. Normally she didn’t mind the harmless flirting. Not today. “I sent you an email through our secure site. Can you check it out?”

  After Mexico, they’d kept in contact. More than kept in contact. They’d become friends. And because they’d each had something to offer the other—he contacts, she cyber skills—they’d set up a secure communication site.

  “Give me a sec.”

  She waited while she heard keys being tapped. He murmured noises as he worked and then, “Got it.” A few more moments and then, “Fuck. Someone took a shot at you?”

  No kidding. “Keep reading.”

  He did, here and there saying a word aloud. He stopped abruptly. “So John texted you, threatened you, right before someone shot at you?”

  “Yeah.” It could be coincidence. It could be. “It gets worse.”

  She was glad he already knew about John and Tyler. Since returning from Mexico, they’d gotten drunk together and shared some mind-blowing secrets. Victor’s life had not been predictable. And this coming from her, who’d been raised by a super-wealthy woman to be a vigilante.

  The shrill whine of a drill cut through the club and Gracie’s last nerve. She had to bite her lip to keep from yelling at the guy. She pressed the phone closer to her ear as Victor started talking. “First, I’m in. Whatever you need. No one messes with you. Second, you’re not telling your crazy-ass family?”

  Here we go. “Don’t call them crazy.”

  “Twenty-eight adopted kids from all over the globe. All with some horror story. Oh—and they all happen to be secret vigilantes. Yeah, I’m sticking with the crazy part.”

  Well, couldn’t argue with that. Maybe they should’ve erased his memory. “Did you read the whole thing? I can’t tell them.”

  “I read it. FBI guy in town. Do you think it’s that email you sent?”

  Another confession her drunken self had given him. “Yeah. I do.”

  “Fuck, Red. That’s not good. The International Peace Team is tied to your family now.”

  She couldn’t see him, but she heard him moving, probably pacing with that slight limp he still had from the injury he’d suffered in Mexico.

  He had reason to pace. Victor had started a global charity, the International Peace Team, with her sister’s now-husband Sandesh, and it was heavily dependent on Parish philanthropy. If the FBI discovered the illegal things her family did, the good work his charity did would suffer.

  And if Momma discovered Gracie had sent the letter, she’d suffer. Rightfully so. But, among other things, Momma would begin to monitor her. That would ruin her attempt to be part of Tyler’s life. She couldn’t have that. “I know. I wish I could go back in time and not send the letter, but I can’t.”

  After a moment’s consideration, Victor said, “Only five people?”

  Her email included a list of five people she thought might want her dead. John and his wife, a hacktivist she’d unveiled as a corporate shill, a teacher and sexual predator she’d chemically castrated in her wilder days, and a macho pilot she’d dated for two-and-a-half seconds. Was that all? Could she be missing someone? “Yeah. Five. Just them.”

  Someone came through the front door of the club. Her heart jumped. What the heck? Why wasn’t that door locked? All the equipment had come in the back way. She hadn’t unlocked it. Had a worker?

  That was the problem with having the alarm off during the day. And with being recently shot at.

  Anxiety restrained her mood like a heavy coat, or a straitjacket. Though as she recognized the man walking toward her, she knew she had no reason to worry about him. Well, she did, just not that he would hurt her. Not physically, anyway.

  Dusty skirted tables, the gold chaise lounges, workers, and ladders. That was one good looking man. It felt as if his easy gait had connected paddles to her chest and unleashed current. Her heart ba-boom, ba-boomed in time to his long-legged stride.

  “Red?”

  Yikes. Victor. She needed to get control. “He’s here,” she whispered, though Dusty was too far away to hear her. “FBI.”

  “Careful, girl. I might’ve been out of it after being shot, but I remember the hot chemistry between you two.”

  He didn’t know the half of it. The kiss that had immolated her soul and all previous records for sexual heat, burnt to unrecognizable ash. So not what she needed right now.

  “Red? You there? Or did you melt into a puddle?”

  “Uhm, can you handle the first two people on the list?” John and Ellen. “I don’t have the objectivity.”

  “Yeah.” He made a sound like regret or worry. “And there might be more people to add to that list.”

  That sounded ominous. “Who? How would you—”

  “Take care of FBI. Handle your side of the list. We’ll talk.”

  He hung up. With a shake of her head, she hooked her phone to her belt, and scowled. Dusty was carrying. Fudge.

  She’d have to start leaving her metal detectors on during the day.

  Though to be honest, that man was hot enough to set off alarms without the gun. Casual jeans, a short-sleeved gray button-down over a gray T-shirt stretched over his wide chest attested to this fact. As did the sun-brushed skin covering biceps large enough to make her wonder how many pushups he could do.

  Probably a lot.

  She swallowed, wiped sweaty palms on her jeans.

  Agent Leif “Dusty” McAllister stopped feet from her. His seductive honey-colored eyes rolled over her. Despite being dressed like a schlub, he made her feel like she wore a negligee.

  “Hey, Gracie. Came to see how you’re holding up after that robbery attempt.”

  Oh, that Southern accent. Even sarcasm sounded good. And as for holding up, she wasn’t. “Didn’t know you cared.”

  His gaze locked on her so intently she could not look away. “Is that eagerness or wariness in your voice?”

  Eagerness? She couldn’t deny it. After eighteen months without sex, a mummy could light her spark, and someone as hot as him… Best not to think about that. Way too much on her plate right now. She
needed to be cold as ice. “Suspicion. What are you up to?”

  He released a full breath, like she’d punched the casual right out of him. “Honestly, I was worried about you. Not just about the other night, but how you’ve been since Mexico.”

  The sincere concern in his eyes took her by surprise, reached out and acknowledged the pain that she’d hidden from the rest of the world. Except for the family, the party line was that Tony had run away. Anything else simply wasn’t talked about in public.

  To have Dusty recognize her grief, along with all the tension and worry of the past few days, was almost too much. Sorrow rose up and filled her throat. She swallowed. “I’m managing. Thanks for asking.”

  Nerves still on edge and needing to see beyond him, she moved a step to her left—he was so big, he blocked her line of sight to the front door, to any approaching threat.

  He noticed and shifted too. His eyes swept the club as he spoke. “Don’t blame you for being freaked out. Okay if we talk? Maybe we could go somewhere, have a drink?”

  That made her smile. She gestured at the club. “You do realize I own a bar, right?”

  His eyebrows rose as if just noticing. He brightened. “Excellent suggestion, Gracie. We can catch up now. Never too early. And you can even make me one of those famous drinks.”

  “Famous drinks?”

  “Now, don’t hold back on me. I’m absolutely certain a girl who spent her teen years in a bar knows a thing or two about inventing drinks. And you’ve probably named them too. Something like Fuzzy Panda or Starry Night.”

  She laughed, a laugh so spontaneous she had zero control over it. It felt good. Like something inside her had woken from a very bad dream and was stretching its back and purring.

  Not good. She squelched her reaction. Forget the fact that someone was after her. Forget the fact that she needed to be on her guard at all times. This guy was investigating her family. And her. “It’s called Blood and Guts. But you need some to drink it.”

  Ugh. She’d meant that to sound like a dismissal, not a challenge and an invitation. Her face heated. She bit her lip, tried to think of how to get rid of him. Safely.

  Dusty smiled. “That’s an awful long pause, Gracie. What could you be considerin’? State of the Union? Temperature in Budapest? Last three deposits into your bank account?”

  She laugh-snorted.

  Obviously, she wasn’t going to get rid of him that easily. So maybe she should turn the tables, find out about his investigation, what he had on her family, and if his being around could have anything to do with whoever had shot at her.

  All solid reasons that had zero to do with how cute he was.

  The cute thing didn’t hurt, though.

  She shrugged. “The club opens again to the public on Wednesday. I’m usually around.”

  He shivered. “Brrr. That’s a climate-fixing invitation if ever I’ve heard one.” He put on his aviator glasses. Shields up. Game on. “But I’ll take it.”

  Chapter 12

  Dusty was a man used to hardship. He’d spent months living his own version of hell at that sex-slaver compound. So being in this ancient house, renting a room from a gentleman simultaneously the oldest, neatest, and most flamboyant person he’d ever met, wasn’t a big deal.

  It wasn’t even a big deal that the room had a double bed with an iron headboard that rattled every time he breathed too heavily. Or that the table he sat at smelled like compressed gypsum aged to dust. None of that bothered him as much as the mural on the bedroom ceiling.

  Ducks.

  Not graceful, realistic ducks, ducks he could dream of hunting. No. Happy, comic book ducks like Daffy, Scrooge, and Donald. The ducks, like the walls, had a glossy shine and were painted with every color in God’s maniac rainbow.

  Couldn’t shake their happy gazes. No wonder he kept having nightmares.

  Or maybe the nightmares had nothing to do with the ducks. Maybe it was the fact that he’d felt more like a hero before he’d met Gracie. When he’d had only the email to go on.

  He pulled out his wallet and found the creased and worn printout. He smoothed the paper on the table and read, “When you’re adopted into a family whose sole purpose is to train you to fight in their covert war, you lose all sense of yourself. You lose who you could have been. And have to spend most of your life fighting who they told you you were.”

  That had really struck him. Reminded him of his own messed-up upbringing, sheltered from outside influences, being told and taught to believe without question. It was why—years after he’d gotten free from his father and his so-called ministry—he’d become an FBI agent.

  He could see how Gracie’s upbringing in itself might’ve been a reason for writing the letter, but now he knew she had another. Or at least a potential one. Ms. Gracie Divine Parish had a son and a secret identity.

  After looking into the True family, he’d come across Tyler’s birth certificate. Mother’s name was listed as Theresa Sylvia Hall. Trying to find her had caused him a little bit of consternation. But he’d recognized the last name. Hall. It was the same as Gracie’s bio-mom. A little research, and he’d discovered Gracie had been christened as Theresa Sylvia Hall before being adopted.

  Probably a sin to break into church records, but it surely wasn’t his first.

  That christened name didn’t carry any real weight, wasn’t recorded any place legally, but Gracie had used it on her son’s birth certificate.

  Money. Can’t buy you love. Can buy you a secret identity.

  Guess when your family was kind of a big deal, and into revenge, you needed to do all you could to secure some semblance of security. Not just for her, but for her kid and her ex.

  He had no idea how things had fallen apart with the guy, John. Gracie didn’t have contact with him now, but she stalked her son. So something had gone wrong. How pissed had he been when he’d seen Gracie stalking their kid? If he had to guess, pretty pissed off.

  Could John be behind that shooting?

  Maybe. The better money was on her family and their activities. Still, he’d keep looking into John. Had to admit, he was worried about Gracie. Didn’t sit well with him at all that someone had it out for her. He wished she’d trust him enough to let him help with that.

  Fuck. He stretched back, and his chair cracked like it was about to give way. The problem with being a big guy in a world designed for average guys, even furniture didn’t fit.

  He stood up, gave the chair a break. What he needed to find was a deeper way in with Gracie. Not just so he could help her out, but because she was his way into her family. She was the weak link.

  Or, to his mind, the strongest one.

  Strong enough to leave her family to take care of her dying mother—a woman who’d given her up for adoption. Strong enough to give up her own son, which, judging by her trip to see him, had been a deep and difficult act of love. Strong enough to see past the culture of her family and reach out to the FBI.

  She’d sent the letter. Had to have.

  But she didn’t seem to be reaching out now. Nope. She’d closed up for sure. He’d thought it would be easier. More like her brother, Tony. He’d been pretty easy to befriend, but Gracie was a bit suspicious. And though she’d accepted his invite for a drink, he had no doubt she had ulterior motives. Like feeling him out.

  To earn enough trust to get an invitation into the inner circle, he’d need more than one drink. He’d need to become a regular at Club When?

  Maybe if he got close enough to get an invite to the family, he’d work on getting her to drop that question mark in her club name. Irrational, but it annoyed the heck out of him.

  He stretched his shoulders, neck, dropped his head back. Damn ducks. Hadn’t seen such glassy eyes since he’d worked as a bartender in college.

  That’s an idea. If he needed to spend time at the club, why not get paid?<
br />
  He took his cell from the table and hit the speed dial. Mack picked up with a “Yup.”

  “Mack, do you remember that sweepstakes promo we ran in Philly to get that guy in the Knowles case out of town?”

  “The one where we gave him a free trip, so we could set you up as a temp in his job? What does that…” Mack laughed. “You want a way into the club. You’re going to make it hard for the lady.”

  Yeah. That was the plan. He’d feel guilty except for the hope that he could spare kids the shit he’d had to deprogram from his own head.

  Now, if he could just cultivate Gracie into the helpful asset he knew she could be.

  Chapter 13

  The rapid click of Tyler True’s keyboard filled his darkened bedroom. His focus on the online game was absolute. His virtual reality headset vibrated against his ears. The VR mask made every hastily fired shot and unexpected explosion seem real.

  Real enough that he reflexively jerked his head at a shot to the left of his character. More bullets whizzed by, and he crouched his character by a truck, scoped the area, and dashed forward.

  They’d hunted this group through the jungle of Brazil and had fought their way to the drug cartel’s remote stronghold. Now he and his team raced across the compound to the rundown building where the hostages were being held.

  An enemy combatant jumped out from behind a wall of stacked wooden crates.

  Tyler shot. The bam, bam, bam rumbling in his ears. His heart rate picked up. He noted the fear but boxed it, put it off to the side so he could remain calm. The key was to feel all of it—the nerves, the pressure from his team, the overwhelming desire to free the hostages—but not let it take over.

  He played with his team, implemented the planned strategy, and moved through the compound. If they failed, the group of stolen women would never be rescued.

  When the message slid across his vision, he spared it barely a glance. Until he read who it was from, then his fingers froze. He missed a target, got shot, and died. Four angry voices, his teammates, yelled at him through his headset.